Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No. 12 Grimmauld Place creaked in the wind. Harry lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He was trying not to dwell on tomorrow, which (of course) meant that it was all he could think about.

Ron snored softly in the conjured second bed next to him, a sound Harry hadn't heard in a while but found he had missed.

It was strange to think about all that had happened in the past few months. Everything seemed surreal, especially going back to Hogwarts the following day after months of wondering if he ever would. He hoped that it wouldn’t be too hard to fit in after his time away, but had a twisting feeling in his gut that said otherwise.

Harry turned over, tucking his arm under his chin and glancing at Ron. His friends, at least, would stand by him. He knew that.

So why was he so afraid of things going back to the way they were?

With a huff, he turned over on his other side and shut his eyes with determination. In, 2, 3, 4… out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. In, out. Breathe. Focus on the breaths. Focus on the calm…

As he drifted from meditation into sleep, the ghost of a hand from a memory rested on his shoulder. That was it; despite regaining Hogwarts and his old life, he had more to lose now than ever before.

The next morning, he could barely remember his restless night. He jumped out of bed, reaching for his bagpipes and warming up behind thorough silencing charms. He was halfway through his morning practice when Ron stirred and looked over.

“What are you doing, mate?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

Harry shrugged at him, face red from lack of oxygen. Ron, unable to hear the music, sat up and stared at him in confusion.

When the song was over, he set the bagpipes aside and lifted the charm. “Morning.”

Ron blinked, then decided it was too early to ask and merely mumbled “Mornin’,” back. Harry grinned and jumped up.

“C’mon! Bet your mum’s got breakfast ready.”

Ron stuffed his head under a pillow. Harry grabbed his ankle and pulled him out of bed. He gave a startled squawk and hurled the pillow at Harry, who caught it with a laugh.

“Dunno what you’re so excited for,” Ron yawned, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Trying not to be terrified, Ron. Keep up!”

“Oh, yeah. Hogwarts today.”

“Hogwarts today, Hogwarts tomorrow, Hogwarts the next.”

“Dunno what you’re so excited for,” Ron repeated. “Professors have been brutal this year about OWLs. You’re better off living in a treehouse or wherever you were.”

“Nah, Snape’s afraid of heights.”

“Is he really?” Ron asked with sudden interest.

“Don’t tell him I said,” Harry grinned.

They met the twins at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hullo, Harry,” Fred said.

“Hope you’re ready for school,” George trilled.

“Boys! In here!” Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen.

The four of them trooped inside and sat down. Hermione was already there, but Ginny hadn’t come down yet. Hermione turned to Harry with her chin tucked in and brows lowered, a sure sign that she was determined to do something in spite of whatever they might say.

“What is it?” Ron asked warily.

“Here,” she said, sliding a thick scroll of parchment across the table towards Harry. He picked it up, but didn’t unroll it.

“Do I want to know?” Harry turned the scroll over.

“Yes,” Hermione said, at the same time as Ron half-shouted, “No!” Mrs. Weasley gave them a dirty look, and he ducked his head in embarrassment.

Harry slowly unrolled the scroll, groaning as soon as he saw what was written on it.

“You’ll need it,” she warned.

“What is it?” George asked.

“It’s a study schedule,” Harry finally finished unrolling it, staring down at the long parchment in horror.

Ron leaned over and gaped. “Hermione!”

“He needs to catch up on his missed work,” she said relentlessly.

“When am I supposed to sleep?” asked Harry slowly.

“Sleep?” she questioned, sounding genuinely puzzled.

At that moment, Mrs. Weasley placed breakfast on the table. “Ginny!” she called. Half a minute later, pounding footsteps down the stairs preceded the younger girl’s entrance into the room.

The food was as amazing as always. Harry felt horrible about not being able to eat much of it. Nerves twisted in his stomach, and as blasphemous as he felt about it, he couldn’t help himself from pushing the french toast on his plate around with his fork.

The steady background thrum of noise in the room abruptly halted, but it took Harry a moment to look up for the cause. When he did, his green eyes met the black ones of Severus Snape.

Snape didn’t say anything, nor did he bother to acknowledge anyone else in the room. He merely jerked his chin to the hallway behind him. Harry stood and followed him out of the room.

The two of them walked into the old, disused parlour. Harry, wondering what this was about, waited patiently as Snape seemed to gather his thoughts.

“As I am sure you are aware,” Snape began slowly, “things will be different at Hogwarts.”

“Will be?”

“Must be.”

Harry looked out the window, searching for words. “You’re talking about… how we act together, aren’t you?”

“It is in our best interests that no one becomes aware of the improvement in our relationship.”

An unexpected frisson of fear ran down Harry’s spine. “I thought you were done spying?”

“I am,” Snape said slowly, “but we would rather our enemies had no idea of your connection to myself.”

“Secret weapon, huh?” Harry huffed, but Snape didn’t smile back. He slumped into a nearby armchair with a sigh. “Won’t someone figure, ‘huh, they both disappeared for months at the exact same time!’ and make this pointless anyways?”

“For a week after your disappearance, Kingsley Shaklebolt used polyjuice potion to masquerade as me in public. When we returned, I went back to teaching while you stayed here. Also, to the public, you were known to be on the run, while Dumbledore told the school that I was away on a research project.”

“Research, huh? D’jou learn anything?”

“I learned that yes, you really are just annoying like that.”

Harry stuck out his tongue gracelessly. “Ha, ha.” He grew serious again. “So we have to act like we hate each other again?”

A muscle twitched in Snape’s jaw. “In public, it must appear that nothing has changed.”

“Yeah, okay.” He could tell that Snape didn’t like his attitude, but was too upset to care.

The thing was, he really didn’t want things to go back to the way they were. The last few months were important to him. Godric help him, but Snape was important to him. Having an adult to go to when things went wrong, or when he was wrong, without fear of being vulnerable… it felt like safety.

Harry didn’t want to lose safety after going without it for so long.

“In private, however,” Snape continued, and a surge of hope went through Harry, “we will continue your Occlumency lessons.”

“Good,” he breathed out, relieved.

“Yes, well,” Snape cleared his throat awkwardly and patted Harry’s shoulder, as if he wasn't quite sure how to react in the face of Harry’s obvious happiness, “this evening, after the feast, we will convene in the Headmaster’s office.”

Harry gave a sloppy salute and bounced off the armchair. “Yessir!”

Snape rolled his eyes. He tugged on Harry’s shoulder and the two of them exited the parlour. In the hallway, before Snape walked out the front door, he turned to Harry seriously.

“Be careful at school. Everyone will be watching you.

Waiting for Harry to slip up, he meant. He nodded dutifully. “I will.”

Snape turned to go, hand on the doorknob.

“Professor?” Harry said hesitantly. Snape turned expectantly. “You too.”

Snape studied his face for a moment, then nodded once. Next thing Harry knew, he was gone, and Harry was left staring down the empty hallway.

The locking charm that Hermione used on the cabin door was an impressive one. It was just her, Harry, Ron, and Ginny inside, but they had decided that the risk of encountering someone they didn’t like outweighed the happiness they’d get from finding their other friends. The twins had disappeared somewhere shortly after emerging onto the platform.

Hermione was scribbling furiously in a notebook, but wouldn’t let anyone look at it. Even when Ron tried to pin her down, she shot a mild stinging hex at him and he jumped back with a yelp. Harry smiled tightly and looked out the window, watching the city surroundings fade into countryside.

Perhaps trying to distract Harry from his thoughts, or maybe just curious, Hermione asked, “You said, before, that you came back because you couldn’t hide forever. Was that really all?”

Harry was silent for another few moments, then dragged his gaze away from the trees outside to look at her. “Do you guys know anything about Remus’ mission?” They shook their heads. “Well, while we were in hiding, a pack of werewolves attacked us.”

Everyone gasped and started asking questions. He talked over the noise. “They didn’t know we were there, or plan it, or anything. They had thought the area was deserted, and went there so they wouldn’t hurt anyone. Anyway, we fought them off.”

“Did you get bit?” Ron asked in horror.

“The full moon was two days ago, and he didn’t turn,” Hermione scoffed, although she looked worried.

“No, but I got scratched. Hey, wanna see?”

“Ooh, yeah!” Ginny said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and scoffed in exasperation, but leaned forward all the same with Ron and Ginny when he pulled the collar of his robes aside to reveal the scars on his shoulder.

“Nice,” Ron said appreciatively.

“We captured one, and the rest ran off. After dawn came, Snape talked to him and said the area was wizard protected. I’m not too sure about how, but word got around in the werewolf community about it, and Remus found out. He talked with the Order and came to find us, trying to recruit Snape for the Order.”

“Bet he got a shock, when he saw who it was,” Ginny snorted.

“He did,” Harry laughed. “Remus told the Order that it was just some random guy, not us, but it was still too late. Our location had been exposed, and even if they didn’t know wewere there, the absolute secrecy we’d been relying on for protection was nullified.”

“Nullified? Mate, you’ve been spending too much time with Snape,” Ron said.

“So you still can’t tell us where you were?” Hermione sighed.

“Sorry.”

She nodded and went back to her notebook when Harry asked about the Gryffindor quidditch team.

“Ginny’s been playing Seeker,” Ron said.

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to sound happy for her but not sure he managed it.

“Don’t worry.” she nudged his foot with hers. “I’ll let you have it back. I like Chaser better, anyways. Alicia’s out half the time for her apprenticeship, and the reserve they’ve got playing for it right now can’t tell which end of a broom goes in front.”

“We barely won the game against Hufflepuff,” Ron’s hand emerged from his pocket with several sweets in hand, and he popped one in his mouth. “Now that you’re-”

“Oh, Ron!” Hermione exclaimed. “We’re supposed to be patrolling!”

Ron cursed and dropped the sweets, wiping chocolate off his mouth. She herded him out of the cabin, calling, “Lock the door when we’re gone!” over her shoulder.

The room felt especially quiet after they’d left.

“What was that?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you wouldn’t know. Sorry, Harry. Ron and Hermione are the Gryffindor prefects.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he nodded and scooped up the sweets that Ron dropped.

“Acid pop?”

Ron and Hermione came back shortly before the train pulled into Hogsmeade station. Waiting until the very last minute to leave their cabin, the four of them were the last ones to step off the train and onto the platform. At first, no one noticed them. However, it didn’t take long for someone to look back, nudge their friend, and start whispering. Moments later, every last eye in the crowd turned to stare at Harry.

Surrounded by his friends, and not really surprised at the attention, Harry stood a little taller.

They were just returning to school for the term, but to Harry, it felt like going to war.

Chapter Text

Harry slowed outside of the closed door of Dumbledore’s office when he heard voices inside. It sounded like an argument, and as he neared, he recognized Snape’s snide tone clashing with a vaguely familiar female voice. He didn’t hear the Headmaster at all, but could imagine the older wizard sitting back in his chair with an amused smile.

He hesitated, raised fist hovering a hair’s-breadth from the door.

“...thrilling oversight, no doubt?”

“He is still convicted of a crime!”

“I hope you are not challenging Ministry word, Delores. Might be a poor career move.”

“The pardon only exists because of his reckless and irresponsible behaviour in the first place. What of his influence on the other students?”

“Opposed to your indoctrination regarding defensive theory?”

“I teach!”

“That is, I fear, up for debate.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore chided, good humour clear even through the door.

“You allow such disrespect from your staff?” The woman hissed, voice rising in octave. Harry winced sympathetically.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this discussion another time. I am expecting a visitor.”

Rapid footsteps. The door snapped open, and the pink woman Harry had seen at the feast and his trial glared up at him. He hadn’t realised he was taller than her until now. The growth spurt in the village gave him an advantage he wasn’t normally used to having over his enemies, and it was a novel experience.

Harry looked at her steadily. The colour rose in her face, blotchy and furious. She stomped past him. He turned his head to watch her go, wondering what that argument had been about.

“Harry, my boy! Please step inside,” Dumbledore said.

Snape paced in front of the fireplace, cloak snapping the way it always did when he was worked up about something. Harry waited to sit down until he caught the man’s eye, sinking deliberately into a seat. Snape huffed and strode over to another armchair. He threw himself down into it petulantly. Harry hid his grin in a question.

“What did she want?”

“She had a few concerns about your presence here,” Dumbledore remarked.

“The h–” at a stern look, Snape corrected, “she wanted to put you in detention in her office every evening to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s… not gonna happen, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Snape vowed, at the same time as Dumbledore said,

“No, Harry.” He shifted in his seat, placing his elbows on his desk and looking at him over his half-moon spectacles. “We have a much more important task for you in the evenings.”

A thrill of excitement chased a spike of curiosity through his chest in tight circles that left him giddy. Something for the war effort? Had he decided Harry was ready to take a more active part in the fight against Voldemort?

“Really? Anything. What is it?”

“Lessons.”

That was a let-down.

Snape snorted and his slump lessened. “Do not look so excited.”

“I am, of course, referring to your Occlumency lessons. Now that you have returned to the castle, Professor Snape can test your shields with Legilimency.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at Snape. “Shields?” They hadn’t really discussed anything of the sort in his lessons, and hoped he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself during this conversation.

Dumbledore raised one eyebrow slightly and turned to Snape expectantly as well.

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze drifted to the window when he spoke. “I chose to instruct Potter in the mind maze method.”

After blinking in surprise, Dumbledore’s eyes begin to crinkle at the corners and twinkle madly. Snape looked… well, not embarrassed, because he never looked embarrassed, but like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“What is it?” Harry asked, feeling like he had missed something.

Dumbeldore turned to face Harry fully, but not before giving Snape a proud smile that left the other man momentarily stunned. “When properly constructed, a mind maze is more powerful than a wall; shield; or other, more common forms of Occlumency. It is much harder to achieve, but those few who manage it are at a distinct advantage during any mental confrontation. You see, Harry, most Occlumens form a barrier between themselves and an intrusion. When attacked by a Legillimens, they enforce this barrier and block the Legillimens from entering their mind, hopefully keeping the intruder at the very edges of their psyche. An Occlumens utilising a mind maze, however, moves that confrontation from the edges of their mind to inside their mind, where they have the control. Instead of fighting off the Legillimens, they lead their opponent to wherever the Occlumens wants them to be.

“In this way, they are able to conceal their skill if they so wish, or even set up traps within their own thoughts and memories to attack the Legillimens.” He looked again at Snape, a contemplative look on his face. “While more powerful, it is far more difficult to achieve, and many have tried without success.”

“I had a good teacher,” Harry flushed, although neither man was paying him any attention at the moment.

“I wonder that you should have even attempted to teach that discipline, Severus.”

Snape crossed his arms, face blank. “He is not incompetent.”

Harry looked at Snape curiously. He hadn’t known that the man had chosen a more difficult route in teaching him. Once, he would have thought it was done to make him fail. Now, however, he felt a warm glow, knowing that Snape had thought he was worth the effort to work with him to learn a more difficult technique because it was more effective.

“Just so,” Dumbledore said, giving Snape a nod, and Harry wondered what kind of layers he was missing in the conversation.

“So when are they gonna be?” he asked, deciding it didn’t really matter. Snape gave him a chastising look. Harry grinned back.

“Whenever the two of you decide,” Dumbledore said.

“We have Quidditch practice,” Harry was quick to say before Snape scheduled any sweeping plans that got in the way of his having a life.

Snape scowled. “One would think that protecting your mind from intrusion is more important than flying around on a stick of wood.”

“Don’t say that about my Firebolt,” Harry gasped in mock offence.

“Would it like a formal apology?” Snape scoffed, then looked to the side. “There is no need to smile like that, Headmaster.”

“Angelina said we have the pitch on Saturday mornings, Monday and Tuesday afternoons, and Thursday evenings,” Harry pressed, uncharacteristically able to stay focused on the task at hand when Quidditch was involved.

“Then I will see you on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday evenings at six.”

“Only four days a week?” Harry said, surprised.

“You still have to catch up on your schoolwork,” Snape reminded him.

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore smiled. “I have spoken with your teachers, Harry, and they have agreed to give you assessments to gauge where you are in the fifth year curriculum.”

“You mean I don’t just have to redo everything I missed?” Harry sat up, envisioning Hermione’s study schedule curling into black ash in the fireplace.

“Perhaps not, if you do well in their assessments.”

“When are they?”

“That will be up to the teachers in question.”

“Mine is tomorrow,” Snape said mildly.

“What?” Harry squawked.

“Better study,” Snape said, somehow both malicious and not.

Dumbledore stood and clasped his hands together. “Now that everything has been settled, I will see you later, Harry. Professor Snape and I have some things to discuss.”

Harry resisted the urge to ask what about, standing as well. “Okay. Goodbye, Professors. See you tomorrow,” he added to Snape, who nodded without looking at him. He was staring at Dumbledore with a small crease between his brows, the corners of his mouth turned down more than usual.

Snape looked so much older. With his strict teaching clothes and a guarded expression that Harry hadn’t noticed fading away at the village until it came back all at once, Snape seemed to age prematurely. The outside matched up with all the dark secrets within.

He wondered if that was why Snape wore the old-fashioned robes that he did. It was like armour, covering as much skin as possible. He looked unapproachable and hardened.

That image suited the jaded spy, but it hid the younger, kinder man Harry had gotten to know in the village. As he softly shut the door behind him, an unexpected twist of grief made him sigh.

“Severus–”

“I know.”

Harry quickly left, not entirely sure he wanted to hear what they were going to talk about after all.

The walk back to the Gryffindor common room was a quiet one. Most students were busy settling into their dorms, and he didn’t encounter anyone for most of it. Once, he passed two girls who stared at him with wide eyes before whispering furiously when they thought he was out of earshot. He set his jaw and kept going.

Where the hallway split towards the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers, he found a small boy in red robes looking around with a pinched look of confusion. Harry didn’t recognize him at all and figured he must be first year.

“Hey, there. D’jou need help?”

The boy jumped wildly and whirled around to face him, growing even more frightened when he saw who Harry was. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but nothing came out.

Starting to feel a little annoyed, but trying not to show it, Harry waited.

“I– well– er, I don’t– that is–”

“Are you lost?” he asked, wincing when it sounded more belligerent than he’d intended.

The first year shook his head frantically and took a step back.

“Hello, Gavin,” a dreamy voice floated over, and a willowy blond girl stepped out of the shadows draping the hallway to Ravenclaw tower. The boy squeaked in relief and practically ran to her. She set a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think tonight’s a good night to go chasing after sprites. There are… things about.”

Harry was offended when that creepy statement scared the boy—Gavin—less than Harry’s mere presence did. He scampered off in the way that kids do, there and then gone.

“You seem distracted,” the girl noted.

Harry blinked at her owlishly, still trying to understand what had just happened.

“I’ve never scared anyone like that before,” he said, then thought of second year. “I mean, I have, but I haven’t actually done anything this time.” Once he’d said it, he wondered what had made him admit that to a stranger.

She was stranger than any other stranger he’d ever met, however, and considering how his introduction to the wizarding word had gone, that was saying something. She wore no shoes, and her socks were wildly mismatched. She had standard Ravenclaw robes on, but a few colourful pins dotted her tie. Bright strands of some type of chord had been braided into her hair, and her earrings were a weird sort of vegetable. Large blue eyes looked up at him, and although they were disconcerting, he was relieved to see no fear in them.

“Haven’t you?” She smiled faintly. “I’m Luna.”

“Harry,” he replied automatically, as if she didn’t clearly already know that.

“I know. Ginny told me about you.”

Ginny was not usually the first thing people mentioned when it came to recognising Harry. He didn’t mind hearing it now. “Ginny’s cool.”

They stood there in the hallway for an awkward moment, although Luna didn’t seem bothered by the silence.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Harry cleared his throat before escaping to Gryffindor tower.

As always, there were still several people lingering downstairs. The steady thrum of sound instantly died down, but Harry ignored it in favour of heading straight for his dorm.

Neville, Ron, Seamus, and Dean had finished unpacking their things from Christmas break and were talking when he stepped into the room. Another shocked silence, which he was getting really sick of hearing (or not hearing, he supposed,) by now.

“Glad to see they haven’t dismantled my bed,” he joked without humour.

“I’m not,” Seamus said darkly.

Harry stared at him for a heartbeat, then decided he was too tired to unpack that right then.

“Well, if you decide to let me live through the night, I’ll see you in the morning,” he said sarcastically. Without waiting for an answer, he climbed onto his bed and yanked the curtains closed.

Sitting there, in his dark little haven, Harry allowed the proud set of his shoulders to collapse for the first time in several hours.

When’s the school year over, again?

Chapter Text

Gavin wasn’t the only younger student to be clearly and openly terrified of him. A pair of second year girls that he had given homework advice to the year before actually screamed when he came downstairs the next morning. One first year even fainted when he stared at them for too long. The only people willing to sit near him at breakfast were his friends and older students who wanted a look at him. If non-fish cuisine weren’t such a novelty to him still, he might have even lost his appetite. As it was, the sausage gravy sat heavy in his stomach when he rose to leave and what felt like every eye in the hall immediately turned to watch him.

He was relieved to go to class, because most of his own peers were either wary or judgemental rather than scared. He sat sullenly in his chair, watching all of the seats furthest away from him get filled first. He wondered oddly if this was what it felt like to be Dudley.

When McGonagall called out his name before the lesson, Harry had to resist the urge to sink lower in his chair. Maybe he could turn boneless and just slide all the way down to the floor into a puddle that everyone else would rather jump over than step through. Where was Lockheart when you needed him?

“Mr. Potter!” she called again. Harry shuffled up to the front. McGonagall gave him a look and a thick scroll. “This is your assessment. I trust the Headmaster explained it to you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take a seat at the table against the back wall. If you don’t finish by the end, you may stay after.” She hesitated, then put a hand on his shoulder. “Do your best, Harry.”

He gave her a thin smile and endured the long and arduous Walk of Stares to the back of the room. A quick silencing charm (a reverse of the kind he used when practising bagpipes) blocked out the rest of the class, and he tried to focus.

He remembered more than he thought he would. Snape had said that organising his memories would improve his ability to recall them, but that had never really been relevant until now. A few obvious gaps showed things they hadn’t really gone over, and Harry suspected that Transfiguration had never been one of Snape’s strongest classes, but he still knew things that he would have had no clue how to answer if it weren’t for the homework he’d been forced to do in the village.

After class was over, and he turned in his completed assessment, McGonagall gave him a practical exam. The nature of his lessons in the village had been theoretical by necessity, and it was clear from her face that he was still far behind in actual spell casting. She dismissed him, and he hoped that his answers on the assessment would clear the wrinkle in her brow.

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him in the hallway. He caught up to them, and they started walking to their next class.

“Why are they all so afraid of me?” he asked, frustrated.

Hermione sighed. “For months, the Prophet has been talking about how important it is that you be found,” she reminded him gently.

“They think you’re an unhinged felon,” Ron said bluntly, tactful as a trolling motor to the skull.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry huffed.

“They still believe that you’re guilty,” Hermione continued, glaring at Ron. “You were never found innocent, only pardoned. Everyone still thinks you did it.”

“Did what, exactly? Conjure a Patronus? That’s not dangerous. Stupid, maybe, if there’s no Dementors around, but it’s not dangerous.”

“There’s also your claim that Voldemort is back.”

“He is!”

“That’s not the way they see it, Harry.” Hermione grabbed his arm and spun him around to face her in the middle of the hall. Cho Chang skirted around them to get into the Advanced Runes classroom, eyeing the group nervously. Ron gave her a belligerent look. “Everyone’s too afraid to admit he’s back, so they used your apparent criminal tendencies to dismiss the truth.”

“There’s some of us what know better,” Ron added, more gently.

“Like me,” said a new voice. All three turned to see Neville giving them a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you’re back, Harry.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry sighed.

“I’m not the only one. It’s an unpopular opinion that people keep close, but I know there’s others who believe you.”

Harry could only nod, throat tight. The four of them continued walking in silence.

The others had tried to warn him, in a roundabout way, that this was what things were like at Hogwarts these days. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed them, but he hadn’t really understood what it would be like. He’d been mentally comparing it to last year, when everyone gossiped about him because he was in the Tournament. This was different. They were afraid of him. Truly, genuinely afraid. Second year had been a rough time for Harry, but he’d also been younger. Now, he was more aware of what it meant to be publicly feared. If people discredited him as an insane or delinquent teenager, then he would have no chance of getting them to understand the real danger: Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

His other classes went much the same as Transfiguration. He was amused to find that much of the Herbology lessons Snape had given him centred largely around plants’ usefulness in Potions. Charms was a bit of a wash, being so practical, but sometimes the theories he’d studied made it possible for him to get the spells right on a first attempt. Harry had never really grasped magical theory until Snape had sat him down and talked him through it. He’d never really tried. Before Hogwarts, he’d always been good at maths, so Snape had realised that relating certain theories to maths helped make it easier for him to understand. Snape would never be a world-class teacher, but the relaxed atmosphere of the village had lent him the patience that he so often lacked in the classroom.

His last class of the day, and the one he was both most looking forward to and dreading, was Potions. He wanted to see Snape again, but wasn’t thrilled about getting yelled at. He thought he was prepared for the turnaround, but there was only one way to find out.

When they reached his classroom, Snape was uncharacteristically holding the door open. Harry gave him a small smile, and winced when he got a savage scowl in return.

Here we go.

When he was seated, he struggled to ignore Malfoy laughing with Crabbe and Goyle in the corner about how Snape was going to eat him alive. Harry hoped, without much conviction, that knowing what Snape looked like at half five in the morning before coffee would make him less intimidating.

The door slammed shut. He winced in spite of himself. Sharp footsteps echoed down the aisle, stopping right behind him. Harry determinedly kept his eyes trained on his work bench. The noise level in the room dropped to sub zero.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape finally murmured sibilantly. “What a… pleasure… to have you with us again.”

Harry glanced up at him, searching for some sliver of the man he knew in those cold eyes. He found none.

His mind changed track with jarring speed. During his Occlumency lessons, he had learned to organise his memories according to emotional connections. It had been hard to do this for Snape, as the difference between Professor Snape and the Snape who had become a de facto guardian was like knowing two different people. Now, he’d been actively Occluding his forming memories as Snape had taught him to do, adding them onto those of the village Snape. The callous man before him in this moment, however, was not the person who’d bought a Gryffindor red hoodie for him all those months ago. This was the cruel professor from his younger years. Harry found himself diving headfirst in the separate tunnel of those older memories. This battle of tempers attached with disturbing ease to that collection.

Harry felt his own stare hardening as his mind associated this moment with the Old Snape. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said back, distantly surprised at the venom in his own voice.

A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitched, and he swept past him. At the front of the room, he made eye contact with Harry again and pointed at a desk that had been set close to his own. “If I had my way, you would be forced to redo your entire fifth year. The Headmaster, however, has decided to give you a chance to prove whether or not you deserve the disgusting licence that has been given you in allowing you to return to Hogwarts.” He pulled out the chair behind the desk. “Let us see if whatever hole you crawled into had a library.”

Harry grabbed his quill and marched up to the front, hating that everyone would be able to watch him.

Snape left his hand on the back of the chair, and Harry had no choice but to throw himself into the seat. It brought him close to the professor, who leaned down and said in a voice that was obviously meant to carry, “This school is not meant for criminals like you.”

“Then I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Harry snapped back.

A choked laugh that sounded suspiciously like Ron came from the students looking on in horror. Snape jerked back. “30 points from Gryffindor!” he growled, eyes blazing. The laughing quickly stopped. “You will stay after,” Snape continued dangerously, staring down at Harry from his full height.

Harry gave a tight nod and turned to his assessment without another word.

“What did old Snape want?” Dean asked, tossing a football up and catching it as he laid on his bed.

Harry had been relieved to discover that Seamus was the only one in their dorm who really had a grudge against him. Dean had been cautiously withholding judgement, remembering from the last four years of living with Harry that the “felon” had always hated attention rather than sought it out. Apparently Harry’s story (and the shouting match with Seamus that had followed) had done enough to convince him that whatever Harry had become, it wasn’t dangerous.

“He’s forcing me to come to his office four times a week to torture me under the excuse that he’s letting me brew all of the potions I missed while I was gone.” That would be their cover for the Occlumency lessons, at least. As soon as the door had shut behind the last student, Snape had shot a silencing charm at it and turned to Harry with a wry smile as he outlined his plan (and wasn’t that a one-eighty. He’d gotten a headache from switching his Occlumency track again). “And I have to keep brewing them over and over until I get every last one right.”

Seamus twitched but didn’t say anything.

“Tough luck,” Neville shuddered. “I think I’d rather fail.” He smiled slightly. “Might fail anyways.”

“I’m sure he’ll get his written test back with a nice big ‘T’ on it,” Dean snorted, then fumbled his catch and hit himself in the nose with the football in his haste to correct himself. “Not that I think you bombed it, I mean, just that Snape’s gonna fail you either way.”

Harry snorted and leaned back on his pillow. “Nah, you’re right, I probably missed every question.” He rubbed at his temple, trying to ease the pain from his fading headache. Maybe Snape would give him a draught for it?

Seamus snapped his curtains shut. Ron rolled his eyes and Dean chucked his football at them. It bounced harmlessly off the scarlet hangings and rolled under Neville’s bed. Seamus didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said grumpily, “If Harry doesn’t come back, we’ll know he’s probably in a bottle in Snape’s office.”

It was hardly a declaration of friendship, but Harry grinned all the same.

Chapter Text

Severus checked the clock again. Harry wasn’t supposed to be down for another ten minutes, but he couldn’t help anticipating the coming lesson with some trepidation. He’d prepared Harry for the inevitabile return of their public animosity. The moment the boy had given him a smile at Potions, Severus had known that he would have to squash it. Immediately. Several Death Eaters’ children were in that same class, and if word got out that the two of them were getting along, it would inspire a lot of unwanted questions. It seemed ridiculous that they had to maintain a charade despite Severus’ abandoning of his spy position, but Dumbledore had been insistent that as few people become aware of their newfound trust as possible. Therefore, the necessary snarling performance. The way Harry’s face had closed off had still hurt, despite being the very thing he had been trying to achieve.

Their short conversation afterwards had eased his half-defined anxieties somewhat. Harry had seemed confused and disoriented, which he supposed was only to be expected, but had given one of the genuine smiles that Severus had grown used to at the village. He spared a thought to wonder at how good of an actor Harry could be when needed.

Probably the result of a problematic childhood, he mentally groused, scratching an especially cutting remark on the essay he was grading.

Did Harry resent him for it?

Another glance at the clock showed eight minutes left. He found himself drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair and forced them to still. 

Lily had always known what to do when he fell into the habit of nervous twitching. She’d take his hand in one of hers and lead him somewhere else, chattering the whole way about something he couldn’t care less about otherwise but paid the utmost attention to when she spoke of.

Come to think of it, Harry had developed the habit of doing much the same. Whenever Severus felt restless in the village, the teen would say something snarky and absurd that distracted Severus so much that he forgot to be antsy while getting pulled into some ridiculous banter. He wondered if it had been done on purpose, Harry again showing his perceptiveness to the moods of those around him, or simply part of his nature. Perhaps a bit of both.

There was a knock at the door. Snape flicked his wand at it, and it swung open to show Harry’s startled face.

“I’m here for my remedial potions lesson,” he said with a grimace.

Severus resisted the urge to smirk and stood. “I hope you brought gloves. We have a difficult potion to go over. The effects may be quite caustic on skin.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shut the door. Snape cast Muffliato. “Okay, what are we actually doing?”

Allowing the smirk through, Snape pointed at the open door of his classroom. “Mr. Potter, I do believe you may be labouring under a misapprehension.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I have no intention of letting you fall behind academically, war or no.”

“You mean we’re actually brewing?” Harry asked, aghast.

“Among other things.” A cauldron and ingredients had already been set out. Harry gaped at them, and Severus wondered if he wasn’t enjoying the boy’s look of betrayal just a little too much.

“I don’t really have gloves,” Harry said desperately.

“Good thing I set a pair out then, is it not?”

“Isn’t Occlumency more important than missed homework?”

“I do hope you have not said so in front of Miss Granger.”

“You’re too excited about this,” Harry accused, pulling on the dragonhide gloves.

Severus generously ignored that. “The two disciplines need not be mutually exclusive.”

Harry gave him a curious look at that. Severus set the instructions on the board and turned to his student. “Your previous lessons have focused on achieving calm and constructing your mind maze. Before we may begin covering how to block or misdirect an opponent with Occlumency, you must be able to better manipulate that maze. Doing so while distracted with another task will form an instinctual habit. Multitasking in general is a crucial element to a successful mental misdirection.”

With a huff, Harry started chopping up ingredients. “Alright. So what am I supposed to do?”

“You have been actively Occluding everything since completing the organisation of your memories, correct?”

Harry suddenly looked a bit shifty, which made Severus suspicious. When he said, “Yes, sir,” however, Severus could detect no lie in his voice. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he continued,

“I want you to review those memories and their placements, adjusting and tightening things up as you go. This must be done while actively Occluding the potion as you brew it.”

A furrow appeared between Harry’s brow, and his knife slowed in chopping ingredients. “That's three things at once. I’ve never done anything like that before. Isn’t this potion dangerous? What if I lose concentration?”

“That is why I am here, Harry.”

“I still think I could do the same thing while flying my broom or something.”

Such persistent disobedience would have resulted in a significant loss of house points only a few months ago. Severus wondered if he was losing his edge. As it was, he gave Harry a stern look that clearly said get to it, and the boy ducked his head with no more protests.

Twice, Severus had to step in to stop Harry from putting a wrong ingredient in. The next time they did this, he wouldn’t get involved unless such mistakes would prove dangerous, but he grudgingly supposed that allowances could be given on a first attempt. 

Harry never spoke, lips pursed and brow furrowed in concentration. His too-long hair kept getting in his face, and he hastily pulled it back halfway through the lesson. Severus debated the value of trying to coerce him into cutting it again. Something about seeing him in a hairstyle similar to his own was unnerving, even if it did lessen his similarity to James Potter.

When he reached a period of waiting while the potion simmered, Harry leaned back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked up at Severus, aggrieved. “That was really difficult.”

“Were you successful?”

Harry frowned. “Mostly. It was really slow going, I was nervous about screwing up the potion.”

Severus nodded, gesturing for him to continue. He removed the gloves and sat on a stool in a comfortable slump.

“But I reviewed all the memories. I realised that I had to reinforce stuff and re-sort some.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not a whole lot, only one or two, into a new cloister. It’s just, I’m anticipating having to add a bunch of new ones to it,” he said darkly.

“Oh?”

“Umbridge.”

Severus pursed his lips. “You had her class today, did you not?”

“She doesn’t like me. Like, really doesn’t like me. And she’s not trying to hide it. She tried to give me detention tonight for… well, doesn’t matter, but it was all I could do to convince her that I wouldn’t be able to ‘get out of’ this. Now I’ve got to show up tomorrow instead, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she hunted you down to talk about it.” His eyes glazed over as he went into some reverie or daydream. Severus wondered what he was imagining. 

“And I assume the feeling is mutual?” was all Severus had to say to inspire a rant about how awful the new DADA professor was. He listened intently, sifting through the emotional venting to piece together the story of that afternoon. Everything he heard, while disturbing, was not unexpected. He had, after all, briefly flipped through her assigned textbook long enough to dismiss it as banal and harmfully inaccurate.

“...and apparently she’s been terrorising my friends all fall,” he finished, throwing his hands in the air.

“Your potion is bubbling over,” Severus said calmly.

“Oh, shi-” Harry jumped up, quickly dumping in the clump of knarl spines and stirring. The cauldron ceased its ominous quaking and settled. He anxiously looked over the ingredients list, relaxing when he saw that he was close to finished.

“Still Occluding?” Severus asked. Harry shot him a look and nodded as he gathered the last ingredients together.

As composed as Severus was acting, his thoughts were racing. He didn’t want to show it on his face and further upset the already worked-up boy, but the possibility of her creating major obstacles to both their lessons at the war was a serious concern that worried him.

“There. I think it’s done.”

Severus walked over and peered into the cauldron. It wasn’t perfect, but would serve its purpose if it had to. “Acceptable.”

Harry looked up hopefully. “Does that mean I don’t have to brew it again?”

“Not this one,” he said knowingly. Harry despaired.

Severus moved to vanish the potion, then hesitated. Before he could think better of it, he bottled a sample first.

“What do you need with a stone corrosion solution?”

Snape thought of a hasty lie given before Christmas and Umbridge’s office floor. “Nothing in particular.”

Harry cocked his head like he didn’t believe Severus, which was ironic coming from the boy who helped make a highly illegal potion in the girls’ restroom at twelve.

“Clean this up and we will talk in my office.”

The clink of bottles faded as he walked through the door and to his desk. He was just finishing the paper he had left off when Harry returned.

“Am I going to do potions in my Friday lesson?” he asked as he flopped into a chair. It was the most comfortable visitor chair Severus had in the office, which wasn’t really saying much. Anything that served to discourage people from staying long was something he was in favour of. Watching Harry shift to get situated, he briefly contemplated casting a cushioning charm before some deeply ingrained principle killed the impulse.

“No.” He saw Harry give him a curious look, but refused to elaborate.

“Will I need to bring anything else?” he tried again.

“No.”

“Good talk,” Harry muttered.

“I am not here to be a thrilling conversational partner,” Snape said dryly. “What you will do in Friday’s lessons is Friday’s business. Right now, let us discuss the results of today’s efforts.”

Harry sat up a little straighter. “I thought we already did.”

Snape inclined his head. “Then the past.” He placed his elbows on his desk, lacing his fingers together in front of him. “As you reviewed the memories you had actively Occluded, what did you notice?”

Harry smoothed his fringe in thought. “That they were, er, sorted?”

Severus gave him an unimpressed look.

Harry let out a long breath. “I remembered them better? I mean, little details you usually forget. Like, who remembers that their breakfast plate had a chip two weeks ago? But deliberately sorting them while they happened kind of preserved them more, I guess. When I first started going through old memories in the village, especially ones from when I was really little, the edges were all fuzzy. The ones I actively sorted are more crisp. It actually helped me remember some questions on the assessments my teachers gave me.”

“We may make a tolerable student out of you yet.”

“Very funny. Speaking of, did you grade my assessment?”

Severus sized him up for a moment, then pulled a thick scroll out of his desk. Handing it across the desk to him, he waited for Harry to look back up with wide eyes before speaking. “That is the copy you may whinge about with your friends.” The large ‘D’ at the top was clear from here. “In truth, I gave you an E.”

A glowing smile of pride started across Harry’s face, followed quickly by a quip. “Not an O? I’m hurt.”

“As I have repeatedly reprimanded you for, you consistently forget to mention how the interactions between the ingredients and their elements result in the final potion’s properties.”

Harry winced, as that had indeed been the topic of multiple discussions in the village. 

“But,” Severus finished with a put-upon sigh, “you show enough promise that I see no need to rehash old theories.”

“Just brewing,” Harry said glumly. Severus raised an eyebrow at him, having been more than fair, then shook his head slightly. How the teen always managed to get him off topic was beyond him.

“What of the emotional ties attached to memories you actively Occluded?”

Harry shrugged, nonplussed. “I haven’t really thought to look.”

Severus blinked slowly at him. Harry grinned and shut his eyes. He began breathing deliberately in and out, muscles steadily draining of tension as Severus had seen dozens of times when observing him meditate. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again. They had gained a new gleam of curiosity.

“I can notice the ties to other memories much better. For—oh, I don’t know, Quidditch—the old memories just sort of all felt ‘happy’, but with new Quidditch memories I can tell that getting a particular manoeuvre right in one memory made me happy because I’d been working really hard on it in another. The different memories link together more clearly, see? And all together, that collection of memories is more strong as a whole.”

Severus nodded, feeling rather pleased. “That is a sign that the active Occlusion has been done properly. It seems you may be able to get by after all.”

He’d never been good at compliments, had never heard enough directed his way to give them back out. Harry always seemed to understand what he couldn’t say, however. He gave Severus another wide smile and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair like it was made of pillows.

“Incorrigible,” he muttered. Harry’s smile grew. “That will be all for today’s lesson.”

Harry’s smile lingered, and then he grew more serious. “Could… could I stay?”

Severus gave him a curious look.

“Just for a little bit,” Harry rushed to say. He gestured to the book bag that he had dumped in the corner, eyes avoiding his. “I’ve brought work to do. It’s just… a bit loud in the tower, s’all.”

“Gryffindor tower, anything but a haven of peace?” Severus said in mock wonder. “Well, I suppose.” He pulled out another essay and pretended not to notice the way Harry’s shoulders slumped in relief.

As he listened to the quiet rustle of book pages, Severus felt a tightness that he’d been resolutely ignoring in his chest loosen somewhat.

It seemed that some things were easier to get used to than to let go of.

Chapter Text

Harry’s cheeks were flaming as he made his way up from the dungeons. Staying “just for a little bit” had turned into lingering the rest of the evening, only becoming aware of the time when Snape’s voice broke his concentration by reminding him that curfew was in fifteen minutes.

That wasn't the embarrassing part, however. The embarrassing part was how he'd stumbled over his parting goodbye, nearly calling Snape “Dad” instead of “Professor.” Then he'd flapped his hand in some strange, overenthusiastic parody of a wave and bolted from the room.

The torches along the dungeon walls sputtered, casting exaggerated shadows on the wall as he passed.

They weren't in the village anymore. Their cover of blood relation didn't apply here. There was no reason Harry should—could—call Snape “Dad”. It was a vocal habit he'd have to kick, no matter how little he wanted to.

No matter how hard it would be.

At least he'd evaded the questions Snape sprung on him halfway through the visit about his hair. He wasn't quite sure why he didn't want to cut his hair, but he did know that he always enjoyed the mock arguments he and Snape got into over it. It probably helped that Snape had no leg to stand on, his hair being even longer than Harry’s.

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry just barely held in a groan. The embarrassment still tinging his cheeks turned into a flush of annoyance. Still, he threw on a politely blank face that he had learned at the Durselys’ and turned around. “Professor Umbridge.”

“It is rather late in the evening to be wandering the halls, is it not?”

“I just got out of my potions lesson with Snape,” Harry said tightly.

“Ah, yes, Severus. May I presume he is in his office, then? I wish to speak with him regarding these… lessons.”

“No, er,” Harry thought quickly, “that's why he let me go, he had to do something. I think he's gone to Professor Dumbledore’s office?”

He felt bad for throwing Dumbledore under the Knight Bus like that, but he still remembered the look on Snape's face when he had bottled up some stone corrosion solution and didn’t want another adult figure in his life to end up in Azkaban. Dumbledore could handle her. Right?

“I’m just glad to be out,” Harry babbled, vague thoughts of convincing Umbridge that he and Snape didn’t get along floating around in his head. “He proper hates me.”

Umbridge watched him ramble with a little smile on her face. It probably gave her a warm, tingly feeling to imagine someone else hating Harry as much as she did. “How refreshing to hear that someone else sees through you.” She lifted her chin. “Perhaps tomorrow’s detention will teach you how to better respect your elders.”

Then she just stood there, staring at him, clearly waiting for him to walk away. Harry resisted the urge to walk backwards despite the awful feeling it gave him to have her at his back. In spite of his best efforts, his feet carried him away closer to a run than was probably appropriate.

His first coherent thought, after rounding the corner and finally getting out of her sight, was: bloody hell.

Bloody hell was a sentiment he felt deeply in his soul as he walked back up to Gryffindor tower. His hand hurt something fierce, and he didn’t want to imagine Ron and Hermione’s faces when he showed them. Although, knowing his friends (Ron, really,) he wouldn’t be surprised if one or both of them had already become intimately acquainted with Umbridge’s particular brand of detention.

Seeing them waiting up for him in the common room wasn’t unexpected, but made him happy all the same.

“Alright, give it ‘ere,” Ron said gruffly when he crawled through the portrait.

“What?”

“Your hand.”

Harry realised that he and Hermione were sitting at a table in the corner. Its entire surface was swamped in newspapers and books, one tiny corner cleared to make space for a liquid-filled bowl. A chair sat in front of it, Ron standing next to it with a grim face. Harry let himself fall into the chair with a sigh.

“What’d she make you write?”

“I must not tell lies,” Harry said with gritted teeth, lowering his hand into the bowl with a wince. It instantly soothed some of the pain, and he felt slightly boneless with the relief. “What is this stuff?”

“Essence of murtlap,” Hermione said, briefly looking up from the journal she was scribbling in again. As he watched, she rifled manically through a pile of old Witch Weeklys before scratching something else down in her notebook.

“Nectar of the gods, mate,” Ron said. He sat down across from Hermione, showing faded scars on his own hand. Harry had a hard time making out what they said in the dim light, and his friend had pulled his arm back too quickly for him to lean closer.

“That’s not what that means,” Hermione said distractedly.

“S’great stuff,” Harry agreed. “What are you doing?”

“Research,” she replied, which was what she said every time they asked about her recent obsessive behaviours.

“She’s gone off the deep end, and won’t even say what about,” Ron said in a stage whisper.

“Honestly,” she huffed, then shoved aside some books to plop a stack of Daily Prophets next to Harry. “Anyway, I’ve found something you might want to look at.”

“What about it?” Harry asked, flipping through them. He noticed that they were all dated after his trial.

“You mentioned that everyone was afraid of you. Well, I thought you might want to see why.”

“Why’d you want him to look at that rag?” Ron was horrified.

“Because he needs to know, Ron,” she said, lifting her head to give him an intense look. “It’s all lies, but he needs to know what they’ve accused him of.”

Harry, who really wasn’t looking forward to it, still wanted to see what they’d had to say about him. He ignored it when Ron and Hermione started bickering and flipped through them, reading snatches of text whenever he caught sight of his name.

Dangerous and unhinged…

...a result of harmful indulgences…

...attention-seeking…

...worst criminal threat since Sirius Black!

...shameless felon…

Harry Potter must be found to ensure the public’s safety.

...should never have been allowed to set foot in Hogwarts. His corrupting influence…

Luckily, the oversight of Hogwarts’ High Inquisitor should prevent Potter’s historically unchecked, rampant misbehaviour…

A lot of what the articles said, especially the things related to favouritism and his past actions, were mentioned in relation to Dumbledore. In fact, the papers seemed to be trying to discredit Dumbledore as much as Harry. In one or two articles by the chief editor, Harry’s “criminal tendencies” even seemed to be thrown about just to make Dumbeldore’s pet look bad, almost as if they were blaming Dumbledore for both the way Harry turned out and his subsequent disappearance. All of it made Harry glad that they hadn’t been able to get the news in the village.

“I feel so much better,” he said flatly, cutting off their argument.

Ron grimaced in sympathy and gave Hermione a look as if to say see, I told you! Luckily, he had the grace not to mention it aloud.

“I’m glad I know now, though. Thanks, Hermione.”

Hermione gave Ron a triumphant look.

Feeling incredibly tired, Harry stood. “Can I take this?” he asked, lifting the bowl. They nodded mutely, and he gave them a weak smile. “Thanks for waiting up, guys.”

“Of course,” “No problem,” they murmured as he trudged to his dorm.

Was that really what everyone thought of him? Dangerous, fame-crazed, and unhinged? No wonder the first-years all cowered from him. Still, he wondered how some of the students who really knew him and how much he hated his fame could believe this stuff.

Then he remembered how most of his yearmates were more wary than outright afraid. Maybe they at least had an idea that all wasn’t what it seemed to be? Or perhaps they were more used to being in close proximity to him, dangerous or not. They’d all gone through second year and the Parseltongue mess together, hadn’t they?

It was one thing to know, in an intellectual way, that people had been accusing him of awful things (again). It was different to see it in print like that. Some of the worst lines seemed to be burned into the back of his eyelids.

Dangerous? He didn’t feel dangerous. At the moment, he actually felt rather small.

Shutting that thought down, he laid down on his bed with the bowl of murtlap carefully resting on his stomach. Neville’s snores were the only sounds in the room, and he found them a comfort. He, at least, was another friend who didn’t blindly believe what the papers said.

The door opened, probably Ron coming up to go to bed. Harry had just closed his eyes, focusing on the cool relief of the murtlap, when he was attacked.

“Ah! Gerroff!”

Crookshanks, who must have snuck in with Ron, upset the bowl on his stomach. It spilled all over his shirt and coverlet, and he cursed. Before he could get up to take care of the mess, Hermione’s cat had walked all over him to stand on his chest and stare down at him.

“What do you want?” he groaned, trying to push him off. “I get enough of stares, I don’t need yours.”

“He’s feral,” Ron said with admiration. Ever since they found out about Scabbers, Ron had decided that Crookshanks was an absolute genius of a cat and deserved all treats. As a result, the animal practically weighed a ton. It still hadn’t slowed him down.

“A little help,” Harry wheezed. Ron chuckled and scooped the cat up while Harry waved his wand to clean himself off.

Not looking up from where he was rubbing Crookshanks’ ears, Ron said, “You know, Harry… you’re not reacting to stuff how I thought you would.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, sniffing at his shirt to see if he could still smell the murtlap.

“Well, this summer…” Ron cleared his throat, and Harry looked up to notice his friend’s nervous behaviour for the first time. “You were just angry, all the time.”

Harry felt his face shift from exasperated by Crookshanks to thoughtful. “You know, I was, wasn’t I?” He sat on the edge of his bed, and Ron sat on his own across from him. They watched each other across the cold stone floor, their conversation backdropped by the sounds of three other sleeping boys. “I can hardly explain it. I was just so full of rage, and everything seemed to make it worse. Honestly, I think it was Snape’s Occlumency lessons that did it. He taught me to separate myself from my emotions, clear my mind, stuff like that. It might have helped that he’d have never tolerated a rant like the one I shouldn’t’ve made at you. I don’t know, the past few months were just so different that I kind of forgot to be mad.”

“You were never upset about having to hide?”

“Well, yeah, of course I was. And I bickered with Snape sometimes, obviously. He could get in a right tizzy about that boat…”

“Snape? In a tizzy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry briefly grinned. “But it was… better. That constant cloud of anger was gone. I never really thought about it much, I guess, but it was kind of nice. To feel like myself again.”

“I get it,” Ron said quietly, and they both stared at their feet. Crookshanks made a low purring sound.

“So… yeah. I can’t promise it’s gone forever, and I’m definitely not happy about Umbridge and everything she’s done, but it’s not like I’ve got a bunch of rage about to burst out any minute.” He might have been ready to shout about Umbridge earlier, but papers had kind of taken the wind out of his sails.

“That’s good,” Ron said, clearly trying not to sound as relieved as he was. “Too much yelling could scare Crookshanks.”

“That old fiend probably lives off it.” Harry smiled affectionately.

“Will you two shut it already?” came Dean’s groggy voice.

“Sorry,” Ron and Harry chirped in unison.

Crookshanks wiggled out of Ron’s arms and trotted out of the dormitory. Harry smiled after him, mood much improved since he came up.

“Blimey, the cat even knows when you’re sad,” Ron said reverentially.

“Go to sleep!” Dean exclaimed.

Harry grinned and climbed into bed.

Chapter Text

“Hullo, Professor!” Harry beamed, closing the office door behind him. Looking around, he felt a little foolish to realise that Snape was nowhere to be found.

“In here!” a deep voice called. Harry walked over to an opening in the wall he’d never seen before. It led down a narrow passageway, which Harry curiously ventured down. At the end, it opened up into a private little sitting room. A small green couch and two armchairs circled around a coffee table, which had multiple stacks of books on it. Set into the left wall, a fireplace smouldered. Snape wasn’t in this area, either.

To the right, the room extended into a small kitchen with a round dining table that had one singular chair.  In the far wall, between the kitchen and sitting room, an opening led into a short hall that had two doors, one on either side. The bedroom and bathroom, if Harry had to guess.

Snape was standing at the counter in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea with one hand while simultaneously flipping through a potions book propped next to a cauldron on the stove with the other.

“Never,” Snape stressed, “brew potions on a stove.”

“But you’re doing it,” Harry said in bemusement. It wasn’t something he’d ever planned on, but the sight in front of him was incongruous enough to throw him off.

“I am hardly a shining role model,” Snape calmly stated, taking a sip of his tea before tossing a handful of some lumpy ingredient into the cauldron.

Harry decided not to address that. “I’m here for my Occlumency lesson.”

Snape spared a moment to give him a look over his shoulder. “I know that. Close the door to my office.”

Harry wandered back down the passageway and stared into the office for a moment, unsure of how to close it.

“There is a lever in the wall,” Snape called.

Harry sighed. How did Snape always know? He scanned the wall next to him and, sure enough, a short lever was pushed up. Harry pulled it down, and the stone bricks of Snape’s office wall closed in to block it off.

Harry trotted into the sitting room again and flopped onto a chair.

“Are these your private quarters?”

Snape nodded. “I will be with you in a moment. Please, begin meditating.”

It was probably harder than it should have been to block out any distraction and focus on inner calm. He was intensely curious about what had to be Snape’s private quarters, as well as amused by the sight of Snape indulging in what was apparently an inadvisable brewing habit in his own home.

What was he making? Some kind of household spell? A cleaning agent?

No. Focus.

Not too long after, Snape had settled into one of the armchairs with his cuppa. He handed another to Harry, who looked into it trepidation.

“This isn’t what you were making in that cauldron, is it?” he asked suspiciously, thinking of the lumpy substance Snape had tossed in.

“Of course not,” Snape huffed, taking a long sip of his own. “That’s too acidic for human consumption.”

“Then why were you making it in your kitchen?” Harry leaned away from his cup, less reassured than ever.

“I, unlike the average fifth year potions student, know how to properly clean my workspace,” Snape sniffed imperiously.

Harry let his silence speak for him as he hesitantly took a sip. It tasted normal, so he gave up and began drinking it in earnest.

“I thought it would be good to… talk,” Snape began, face scrunching up at the word ‘talk’ like it was a foul expletive.

“...Why?” Harry asked.

“After today’s potions class, it may be important to ensure no lingering resentment remains before beginning the lesson.”

“Oh. That’s good of you, sir, but I’m not resentful. S’just potions. Gotta keep up our covers, I know.”

Snape stared at him. “You seemed rather upset during class today.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said, “it was class.”

From the way Snape shook his head, he had clearly been expecting more teenage angst than a casual shrug. “Despite having seen them before,” he said slowly, “your acting skills always seem to catch me unawares.”

Harry, who was a terrible actor and could barely make up a good lie on the spot, shifted in his chair. He hadn’t been putting on an act in class; he’d been genuinely angry about the way Professor Snape had been treating him and his friends. But that was the potions professor. This was village Snape, who didn’t deserve Harry’s anger. It was all quite easy to switch between the two people with the separate Occlusion. By now, the transition from inside to outside class was almost second nature. “It’s alright, really.”

“And you are well?” Snape pressed.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

Perhaps sensing Harry’s desire for a shift in topic, Snape smirked. “It seemed from Wednesday’s goodbye that you had somehow ingested an improperly brewed babbling beverage.”

Harry dropped his head and groaned. Of course Snape had noticed, and of course he would bring it up. Well, it wasn’t like Harry could tell him the real reason for his weird behaviour. “I was thinking about Gobstones.”

“Gobstones.”

“Yeah. The others were, er, talking about playing a game and I didn’t want to miss it.”

“Which is why you stayed so late in my office?”

“I forgot.”

Snape rolled his eyes and apparently decided that he didn’t care enough to ask about it anymore. “If you are certain you feel up to it, then we will begin one of the most important aspects of your Occluded mind.”

Sensing the shift in Snape’s manner, Harry leaned forward. “Sir?”

Snape leaned forward to match him. “The arrangement and layout of your mind maze.”

“I’m not really sure how this is supposed to go,” Harry complained. “It feels like, as soon as I move one group of memories to a new spot, the one I just moved has already floated away.”

“There is no reason, and indeed it is better not, to have your memories too strictly arranged. A natural mind is loose and wandering. Anything too structured will give away your skill. It does not have to be perfect!” Snape was beginning to get frustrated as well.

“Trust me, it’s not!” Harry opened his eyes to find that Snape had pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You must create the actual maze part of your mind maze for the last few months to be worth it. You have sorted and organised your memories, and in doing so gained practice in controlling your own mind, but that in itself does nothing to block out an external intruder.”

“Then why have my visions stopped?” Harry challenged.

“That,” Snape said, “is something we have already discussed. Your visions were a result of your subconscious mind wandering haplessly down the connection in your sleep. The Occlumency work you already completed trained your mind enough that it stopped doing so.”

“Why bother with all of this, then, if I’m just so bad at it?”

“Because the Dark Lord can still use Legilimency on you!”

The two of them were both standing now, glaring at each other with heaving breaths. After a tense moment, Snape’s expression visibly closed off as the man sucked in a lungful of air and held it. When he let it go, the tension lines in his face relaxed. Harry would have bet anything that he was Occluding. Probably with shields, like normal people have.

“Please sit down.”

Harry collapsed in a chair and closed his eyes, following Snape’s example and taking a deep meditation breath. And then another. He’d spent the last hour trying to follow Snape’s (in his opinion, extremely unhelpful) directions without success.

“Tell me, what do you need from me?”

“Useful explanations,” Harry muttered under his breath. From the way Snape’s calm face twitched slightly, he’d heard.

“Then I will try to put it in different words.” He also sat down.

Waiting for Snape to gather his thoughts, Harry played with his long-empty teacup. There was a tiny chip in the ornate china swirl at the bottom of the handle. Maybe one of-

“Are you aware of what the ECM is?”

“That what?”

“I suppose not, then,” Snape said wryly, and Harry relaxed a little more at Snape’s tone.

“Is it something magical?”

Snape shook his head. “It is a biological term primarily employed by muggle scientists, although I believe advanced Healers are aware of its existence. It stands for the ‘Extracellular Matrix’. The ECM is a network of molecules between the cells in your body. I trust you know what a cell is? Yes, well, the ECM serves multiple roles. It connects cells together, separates different tissues, and facilitates communication between cells. A large portion of the molecules composing the ECM are produced by the very cells it unites.”

“That’s… cool,” Harry said slowly. “Er, what are you going on about, though?”

“Shut up and listen. Think of the human body as an analogy for your mind maze. Each memory is a cell. Similar memories are grouped together to form tissues. Certain memories that you want to keep hidden—war secrets, for example—are inside closed chambers like those of organs such as the heart. These vital organs are the centre and focus which all of the other tissues and cells work to protect and assist.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, beginning to understand.

“Previously, you have already sorted all of your memories into tissues. Now, you need to create a mental ECM, some kind of uniting element, to connect those tissues together into organs and shape or construct all of these organs and tissues into the final, proper arrangement they need to be in for your mind maze.”

“That makes sense,” Harry smiled, appreciating the visual. “So, how do I do that?”

“I… am not sure.”

Harry gaped at him. “You’re… not sure? What do you mean? You’re always sure!”

“Your faith in me is inspiring,” Snape said flatly.

“I mean it! How can you not be sure? Haven’t you already done it before?”

“No, I have not.” Snape’s voice was terse. “Personally, I use a different style of Occlumency that focuses on extremely compartmentalised memories and multiple layers of shields. When I wish to hide something from a Legilimens, I conceal it behind deeper shields and allow them to break through the surface shields and access sacrificial secrets to trick them into believing they have found all there is to conceal. Traditionally considered easier, this requires a level of emotional suppression that I felt you could not achieve. A mind maze uses emotion to form its connections rather than block their accessibility.”

“I can suppress my emotions!” Harry said hotly. Snape gave him an extremely dry look, and he conceded the point. “Well, maybe not as well as you.”

“I have always been skilled at repressing any real feelings,” the professor said, settling back in his chair. His tone implied that this wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“So, if you’ve never done it before, how are you teaching me?”

“I have experimented with many different styles and variations of Occlumency over the years, including a mind maze. In that particular method, I achieved about the level of proficiency that you yourself have.” He hesitated, and then admitted, “I was never able to get past the shaping of the maze itself. If I have been unhelpful in coaching you through it, it is because I have a limited understanding of it myself.”

“Oh,” Harry said, deflating. If Snape, expert at the mental arts that he was, couldn’t do it, what hope did Harry have?

“Stop,” Snape ordered. “I can tell you are beginning to question yourself. If I thought you could not succeed,  I would not have tried to teach it to you in the first place. I originally chose to instruct you in the mind maze method because I believed it best suited to your temperament and nature. Nothing since then has changed my mind. You have had greater improvements in the earlier stages than I ever did. From the beginning, I struggled to tap into my emotions and to use them rather than push them away. For you, it was instinctual.”

“But what if I can’t do it?”

“You certainly cannot if you give up after one frustrating lesson,” Snape pointed out. “Where is your Gryffindor courage and grit? If you can persist in practising those blasted bagpipes for months on end, you can keep at this until you have achieved your goal.”

“But the bagpipes are fun,” Harry pointed out, grinning and feeling bolstered.

“At least you have a talent for Occlumency,” Snape muttered.

“Oi! I’ll have you know, only three house elves came to see what was wrong this week!”

“They can probably feel the castle shuddering.” Snape tapped his knee. “Alright, go on with you. That’s enough for today’s lesson. Get some rest.”

Harry stood and made his way over to the passageway while Snape took their teacups to the sink. “Alright. Bye, sir. And… Professor? Thank you.”

Chapter Text

There was a polite little knock on Severus’ office door. He glanced up in annoyance, thinking that if it was a student, he would simply shut the door back in their face.

But Professor, it’s the middle of your office hours! I have a question about number twelve on the homework! The mock student in his head sounded like Percy Weasley, and he banished the thought as he flicked the door open with his wand.

The pink terror stood there, hands folded primly in front of her. Severus considered shutting the door anyway on principle.

“Delores,” he drawled instead. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

If she understood the sarcasm, she didn’t show it. The woman stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “Severus, I have been meaning to speak with you.”

He took great pleasure in gesturing to the most uncomfortable chair in the room. She sat down and immediately shifted, trying to find a good position. There was no good position in that chair, so Severus enjoyed watching her struggle to achieve it with what she probably thought was grace and subtlety.

“About?” he asked, sitting down in his own chair. It was several inches taller than hers, and he looked down at her blandly.

“These lessons you have been giving Mr. Potter. As much as I support not allowing the child to slack off in his studies, it is beginning to interfere with my ability to discipline him. I am sure it was not your intention, but he has been using them to undermine my ability to schedule his detentions. Why, I was going to give him one this evening, but he told me he had yet another lesson with you. I had to move it earlier in the day.”

“I do hope he won’t be too tired to brew,” Severus said, tamping down a spark of rage. “And for what heinous crime was he given this detention?” Despite their argument at the beginning of term, he was trying to play nice to delay the inevitable moment where everything came to a head. For now, he would keep his wits about him. He was no stranger to acting in the shadows when need be.

“I have him writing lines,” Umbridge dismissed, but wearing a smug little smile that sent a shiver of unease down his spine. “As to these… lessons… I was hoping we could come to an agreement.”

“Oh?” Severus said, voice dropping to a dangerous degree. Any student would be cowering in recognition by now.

Her tone, when she spoke, was sickeningly saccharine. “As I’m sure you would agree, disciplinary measures to discourage his wild and unchecked behaviour are of utmost importance. I would like it if these detentions came first. Lessons, after all, may be rescheduled.”

“And so may detentions,” Severus said, fighting the urge to spit I got there first! like a proper teenager. “My lessons, after all, were scheduled prior, and have standing approval from the Headmaster. I also possess seniority.”

Umbridge’s lips thinned. “I had hoped you would be more accomodating, Severus.”

“If you worry that my lessons are not punishments in and of themselves, I am certain that a short conversation with Potter will assure you otherwise.” Hopefully the boy’s acting skills would come in clutch before his temper did. Forcing his face to soften in sympathy, he stood. “I have no wish to undermine your authority, Delores. I just cannot allow my own to be. Certainly we may work together for both our benefits.”

She looked distinctly unsatisfied, but stood herself in response. “That is my wish, as well.”

“Good day to you.”

She gave him a false smile and hurried out of the room.

“Thank fu–”

When Harry came in at six for his lesson, his feet were dragging as he walked. Hoping that it was because of reluctance for another tough Occlumency session but worried that it was related to his detention, Severus gave up the pretence of grading essays and watched him dump his book bag in the corner.

“Er, hello,” Harry muttered, seeming flustered by all of the direct attention.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Good evening.”

“Occlumency again?” he asked, falling into the less uncomfortable chair.

“No. After yesterday, I thought it best that we do a brewing session today.”

Harry gave little negative reaction to this besides a wrinkle of the nose.

“Out with it,” Severus demanded.

“What?”

“Something is wrong. Surely Umbridge isn’t that creative in her detentions?”

Harry did not smile. “The potions professor could take a page or two from her book.”

“The- I am the potions professor, Harry,” Severus ribbed.

“I know that,” Harry said, flustered and upset. “I didn’t– never mind. Nothing’s wrong.”

“And that is why you were so kind to your book bag.” They both glanced to the corner, where textbooks were spilling out and the snapped remains of a quill had decided to make an escape attempt.

“It’s fine,” Harry said.

“Something is wrong, I can smell it.”

“You can actually smell the blood? What, are you a vampire?”

“Who said anything about blood?” Severus asked smoothly.

“Er– that time of the month?” Harry tried weakly. Severus gave him an unimpressed look. “It's really nothing. S'not even a big deal.”

“Harry,” Severus intoned, beginning to lose patience.

“Oh, alright. It really is nothing, though.” He gave up and held out his hand for inspection.

Severus leaned forward and wrapped his finger’s around Harry’s wrist, turning his hand this way and that in the dim dungeon lights. There, carved into the boy’s flesh, were the words I must not tell lies in a familiar scrawl.

“What is this?” he asked, voice a low hiss.

“She… has this quill,” Harry said, wincing when Severus gently ran the pad of his finger over the words. “When you write with it, it takes your blood for ink and cuts your hand.”

“Blood quill,” Severus identified. He let go of Harry’s hand and stood. “That is not nothing, Harry. It is dangerous and should not have been allowed to happen in the first place.”

“W-what are you gonna do?” Harry asked anxiously.

Severus took in his tense form and wondered what the teen would do if he said ‘bodily harm’. “Now? I am going to get you a salve, and then we are going to brew.”

He went into his private quarters and retrieved the bottle he had once had high hopes for but ended up shoving into the very back of his cupboard. Returning, he held out his hand for Harry’s again. When it had been given, he began rubbing the salve onto the words. “This should help with the scarring, as well.”

“What is that stuff?”

“Something I made a very long time ago,” Severus said, in a tone that indicated the subject closed.

Harry only held the silence for another minute. “And later?”

“Hm?”

“Later. What are you going to do later?”

“Who said I was going to do anything later?” Severus released Harry’s hand after giving the wrist a light squeeze and re-stoppered the bottle.

“You’ve got that look on your face, like you’re plotting something.”

Amidst the howling rage that still screamed in his chest, Severus felt a flicker of amusement at the thought of a ‘plotting’ face. “Have I.”

“Yes!” Harry cried, with more passion that Severus thought the moment really called for. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. You’re going to do something and get in trouble, and then the Ministry will arrest you, or she’ll put you on probation like she did Hagrid, and–”

“It is not your job to protect me, Harry,” Severus said, more softly, “nor to shield me from danger.”

“Maybe I want to,” Harry crossed his arms, sullen in the way that teenagers were when they felt embarrassed.

“And maybe I want to protect you. You are aware that is what adults are supposed to do, yes? This is dark magic, Harry, and that leaves a mark.”

Harry shrugged, not looking at him. “Can I have some more of that stuff? Like, to take to the tower?”

Severus reflexively reached for the bottle as if to hide it away in his robes, aborting the motion at the last moment. “Perhaps, if you brew it correctly today, you may take that to your friends.”

Harry jumped. “Who said anything about friends?” He countered, twisting Severus’ earlier words.

“Are you not asking for their sake?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Severus stood and beckoned Harry to the open classroom door. “It was not my original intention for today, but I believe this salve poses enough of a challenge to be a learning experience without being too difficult.” He listed off the ingredients, which Harry ran off to get while Severus went rooting in his notes to find the instructions.

“What’s it called?” Harry asked when he came back with arms full, reading over the recipe.

Severus blinked. “I never named it.”

“Wait, you mean you invented this? And you didn’t publish it or anything?”

“There would have been no point. It was created for a very specific purpose.”

“Did you have a teacher make you use blood quills?” Harry asked curiously, gaze darting to Severus’ hand.

“No, it was meant for something different. One of its main properties, however, includes the ability to counteract dark magic, which the average topical healing potion does not. It is also meant to heal marks upon the skin.”

“How long ago did you make it?”

“Years. The rose oil contributes to a long shelf life, although a fresher brew may very well be more potent.”

It was a quiet lesson. Harry clearly had a lot on his mind, as did Severus. The salve turned out well enough. He watched Harry bottle it up and label it “Snape Salve” before slipping it into his pocket.

“Thanks, Professor,” he said quietly, slipping his book bag over his shoulder. “Just… don’t do anything dangerous.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harry shrugged, face flushed but resolute. “You can’t get taken out of Hogwarts. You– you just can’t.”

He stared at him, then placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I know a little something about acting behind the scenes, Harry. Trust that, no matter what I do, it will not be reckless or ill-considered.”

Still, Harry’s brow was furrowed. He gave a nod, then hooked his hand around Severus’ forearm. “Ah, right. Yes, sir.” He gave Severus’ arm a pat, as if to reassure himself that he was really there, then quickly left.

Severus slumped into his chair and took a deep breath. He allowed some of the anger he’d been keeping a tight hold on in his chest to leak out, and an empty jar on a shelf shattered.

If she lays a hand on him again, she will find out just how very real the Death Eater threat can be.

He picked up the salve on his desk and slowly turned it in his hands. A small label near the bottom, on the side he had kept faced away from the boy, read simply Dark Mark in his own spidery handwriting.

It was a cold, crisp January morning. Severus took a sip of his coffee, staring out over the frozen black lake. He rarely emerged from the dungeons on weekends; mandatory meal attendance for staff was only in effect on weekdays and feasts. Today, however, he had felt the need to see the sun after a sleepless night in his quarters. Very few people would venture out onto the grounds on a day like this, so Severus had wrapped himself in a thick cloak and stood in a spot where the snow was not too deep.

“Severus!”

He closed his eyes and took a deeper drink of his coffee. To his left, Umbridge puffed and shivered as she marched through the snow towards him.

“Delores.”

You gave Mr. Potter something, didn’t you?”

“If you mean an extra reading assignment–”

“For his hand.”

“Yes.”

“How is the message supposed to sink in if he is coddled? Such mixed signals will never result in his improvement. I am trying to discipline him for his outrageous lies and actions against the Ministry, and you have shown him that he can just get away with whatever he wants to.”

Severus noticed a few thestrals wandering amongst the barren trees at the edge of the forbidden forest. “Blood and potions do not mix well.”

“You are determined to be stubborn?”

He found the best reply to this to be none at all.

“I had believed you to be on my side in this, Severus. It seems I was mistaken.” Her face was scrunched in temper and annoyance, and he couldn’t help but think that she was nothing compared to the real horrors he had faced in his life.

He huffed a humourless laugh into his mug.

“Something amusing?” she asked.

“No,” Severus finally spoke, remembering Harry’s worried face. Worried for him. “Nothing at all.” He turned to look at her, flinty black eyes meeting bulging blue ones. “This is not a joke.”

She gave a little shudder, slack mouth grimacing. He turned away from her without another word, and she stomped off.

In the forest, one of the thestrals lifted its head and looked directly at him.

Chapter Text

In the span of two and a half weeks, Hermione had graduated from one large notebook to a full satchel of newspaper clippings, books, and a new journal to go along with the entirely full first one. It was so full of wards and deterrent spells that Harry could feel the buzzing from where he walked next to her. She had warned both him and Ron that they should be careful not to touch it, on purpose or on accident, because she didn’t feel like dragging them up to the hospital wing. Harry thought that having that thing slung across her body could prove a pretty good protection against anyone, up to and including Voldemort himself. Ron had suggested she fling it at Malfoy’s face to see what new colours they could discover.

She had even insisted on teaching them a few of the spells she had used, including one to prevent Accio from working on an object. Ron had promptly used it on his old Potions books and thrown them as far as he could into the forbidden forest, to Hermione’s dismay and Harry’s amusement.

They had given up on asking or guessing what her new project (read: obsession) was. She would tell them when she was ready, which usually ended up being when she successfully finished whatever they were curious about. Considering how broad this one was shaping up to be, Harry despaired of ever finding out. 

“Now, Harry,” she said. “Remember, you need to stay calm in her class. I know she’s wrong, and her curriculum is terrible, and she clearly has no knowledge of–”

Ron cleared his throat, and she shook her head. “Sorry. You need to keep your temper though, Harry.”

“How am I supposed to stay calm in class when you can’t even stay calm thinking about her?”

“Use Occlumency?” Hermione suggested weakly.

“I’ve kept my cool for the past week, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but for the past week, The Daily Prophet headlines haven’t been… that.”

Harry scowled darkly at the floor. That morning’s news had put him off his breakfast when the owl dropped it right in the middle of his plate reading POTTER ON TRIAL: A DETAILED BREAKDOWN OF THE-BOY-WHO-LIVED’S JOURNEY FROM HERO TO FELON after his third bite.

“Must have been a slow news day, if they couldn’t mention anything new,” Ron said stoutly, and Harry was grateful for his friends’ support.

“The point is, Harry, that you can’t afford to get in detention again. Better to fly under the radar than bring even more attention to yourself.”

“I won’t lose my temper,” Harry promised with a sigh.

Harry lost his temper.

He tried to outpace his friends outside the classroom, not wanting to hear their admonishments or see Hermione’s worried face, but they easily caught up. Everyone in the hallways steered clear of Harry, leaving an open path for them to run up on either side.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Harry snapped when they both took in breath to speak.

“That hag had no right to give you a whole week’s detention!” Ron said hotly.

“Never mind, go ahead.”

“She was saying some pretty awful stuff,” Hermione admitted. 

What had really upset Harry the most were the implications she had started making about Snape. A sly reference about how he might soon have a lot more spare time in the evening for future detentions had made his heart drop. Was Snape on her hit list? She’d already booted Trelawney before Harry had come back, and it was obvious that Hagrid was on thin ice.

The difference between them and Snape, however, was a large one. Everyone knew Trelawney was a crackpot 99% of the time (and unconscious when making any kind of real prophecies), and Hagrid's teaching methods left a lot to be desired. Snape was the youngest Potions Master of the century, and while his teaching methods also left a lot to be desired, he at least had a firm hold of his class and presented accurate, age appropriate materials. The worst thing about Snape as a professor was his personality, and Harry thought that Umbridge really had no leg to stand on if she wanted to use that as an argument.

The most frustrating part was that Harry couldn’t defend Snape without sounding like a fraud. Everyone knew about the famous animosity between them, so any kind of protest he gave to her nasty remarks would seem fake at best and suspicious at worst.

“No one’s gonna be ready for Voldemort if people like her keep going around insisting it’s just a lie,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione sighed, then looked at him appraisingly. “So maybe we get the word out.”

Ron and Harry stared at her curiously, but she had that gleam in her eye. “I’ll see you two later.” She turned and sped off in the opposite direction, and Harry and Ron both gave each other perplexed shrugs.

Harry drifted through the rest of his classes in a haze of annoyance and worry. He caught himself snapping at Lavender and forced himself to take several meditation breaths. It wasn’t any of his classmates’ fault that their Defence teacher had it out for him, and despite what the Prophet said, he wasn’t a violent criminal.

He ate mechanically through dinner. Right before he stood to leave, a quaking first-year Hufflepuff stumbled up to him. Several other small Puffs stood a few feet back, watching in rapt horror.

“F-for you,” the first-year stammered, holding out a note to him.

“Thanks,” he said flatly, realising that the boy’s friends were watching to make sure he didn’t get attacked by Dangerous Harry Potter. He glared at them, but to their credit, they didn’t run away and abandon their friend. They did huddle closer together, but Harry felt bad about scaring them and didn’t judge them for it. “Who’s it from?” he asked the kid.

“Professor Snape,” he squeaked. Harry turned to the paper, and he bolted away.

“They’re like tiny minnows,” Ron said in fascination as the boy joined his friends and they made a run for it.

“Loyal ones,” Harry said, unfolding the note.

“S’blank!” Ron exclaimed, looking over his shoulder.

“No, it’s not!” Harry blinked, surprised.

“Sorry, I thought that when there’s no words on the paper, that’s called ‘blank’,” Ron snarked.

“Maybe it’s spelled, ‘cause I can read it.”

“Well, what’s it say then?”

Harry scanned it, then looked up in confusion. “It says to bring my swim trunks to my lesson.”

“What? He’s teaching you—” his voice dropped comically, even though there was no one around, “—Occlumency, not how to swim.”

“I gave up on figuring out Snape’s strange mind a long time ago, mate,” Harry laughed. “I’m sure it’ll be some weird thing that he’ll give a long speech about how it’s relevant to Occlumency, and then he’ll sit back and laugh at me while I look stupid doing it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a healthy working relationship,” Ron pointed out. Harry ignored him, folding up the paper and sticking it in his pocket.

He was actually rather relieved. It appeared as though Snape had made a change in his lesson plans for today. Harry was more than ready to take a break from sitting there unproductively; the past several lessons had been rough as Harry struggled to arrange his mind maze. He understood what he was supposed to do, but not how he was supposed to do it. He had made little progress since the concept was first introduced to him, and could tell that Snape was getting progressively more frustrated. Harry was as well, and while he would never admit to it, was also growing more and more doubtful of his own ability to complete the task at all.

When Harry made his way down to the dungeons after dinner with his swim trunks, he was surprised to find that the entryway to Snape’s private quarters was open again. He hadn’t been allowed back into those quarters since his first time inside, and he was still entirely too curious about them. Snape wasn’t in his office or classroom, so Harry took a chance and walked inside. Snape wasn’t there either. 

He settled himself on the couch after a brief moment of wondering whether he should go back into the office. If he had to wait, he decided, he might as well be comfortable. It wasn’t his fault that Snape left the door open.

He had barely settled in when a new entrance he hadn’t seen before opened up in the wall of the kitchen and Snape stepped through. He didn’t look upset about Harry’s presence, so he figured that the door must have been left open for him.

“I’ve got my trunks,” Harry said, holding them up, “although I have no idea what I’d need them for.”

“Generally, people wear a swimming costume when swimming,” Snape said calmly.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and say well, duh, but it was a close thing. “So where are we going to swim? Lake’s a bit frozen right now,” he said instead.

Snape did roll his eyes. “Obviously,” he drawled. “We will be using the hidden swimming pool.”

“I knew it!” Harry cried triumphantly. The hidden Hogwarts swimming pool was a legend, and many students had spent years of their lives looking for it. He’d personally been told about it by Fred and George, who tried to convince him that it was actually found in the middle of the forbidden forest. He’d almost checked, too, until Ron told him it was probably a lie. In his defence, that had been back in second year, and he’d been desperate for any distraction from the chamber of secrets and the school-wide rumours about him. “Where is it?”

“In the middle of the forbidden forest,” Snape said.

“Seriously?” Harry asked, aghast.

“Of course not,” Snape sighed. “Come, I will show you the way.”

The hidden Hogwarts swimming pool was in the dungeons. This, somehow, did not surprise Harry. There were many hidden levels to Hogwarts’ dungeons that hadn’t been visited since they stopped torturing students a century or two earlier. It was possible that even the twins hadn’t explored all of them. The dungeons were the Slytherins’ domain, and not always a safe place to be for any unwary Gryffindor.

The twists and turns it took to get there also made it hard to find. Harry himself did not think he would be able to find it again without Snape’s help. He hoped that he would never be told to meet him down there for a lesson. Harry was sure he’d get lost and wind up wandering the halls as a ghost after he starved to death, unable to find his way back upstairs.

It was dim at first, but then Snape flicked his wand and a series of torches around the room flared to life. The room was unexpectedly hot and muggy for a dungeon room in January, but when he trailed his fingers in the water, it was chill.

Snape pointed at a row of stalls against the far wall. Harry quickly changed.

When he came back, he found Snape standing beside a blackboard. On it, a diagram had been drawn of a person doing freestyle in the water next to a chart. At least, he thought it was a swimmer.

“Art was never your strong suit, was it, sir?”

Snape glowered at him. “Your cheek is exhausting.”

“So what’s it for?” Harry asked, beginning to sweat. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long for Snape to explain; the pool was starting to look more and more attractive.

“Do you know how to swim? I am not talking about basic survival. Do you know how to front crawl?”

Harry nodded, then shrugged. “Basically.”

Snape crossed his arms. “And what does that mean?”

“I get the basics, but… well, I was never able to breathe right in the fancy stuff.”

Melodramatically, Snape dragged a hand over his face. “I suppose everyone need start somewhere,” he said, with ill grace.

Harry fanned his face a few times, hair flapping lazily away from his face. “Okay then, how do I fix it?”

Snape gave him a narrow-eyed look for a few minutes, likely trying to decide if Harry meant any disrespect. Finally, he turned to the diagram and pointed at the stick figure’s hips with his wand. “While swimming, it is important to keep your hips up and your face directed towards the bottom of the pool. Not only will this make your kick more efficient and body streamlined, but it will also put you in a better position to breathe to the side. Depending on what–”

“Hold on,” Harry said, “you can’t teach someone to swim with a diagram!”

“Oh, can’t I?” Snape said dangerously.

“No! S’like trying to learn how to ride a bike by reading a book. It just doesn’t work!”

“This is coming from your expansive aquatic experiences, I trust.”

“I’m just saying, it’d be better if you actually showed me.”

Snape’s contemptuous face turned dour. “I will not be putting on a bathing costume to play in the water with you, Potter.”

Ten minutes later, the two of them were shivering in the pool as Harry kicked against the wall. Snape had instructed him to hold his hands against the edge and kick with his face down in the water, breathing out to the side whenever he ran out of air. Every so often he would fall back on the instinct to lift his head up and forward, and Snape would push it back down. He quickly learned not to do that when water rushed up his nose.

Eventually, after another twenty minutes of basic stroke training, Snape swam over to where the blackboard leaned against a bench near the side of the pool. Harry followed, staring curiously at the chart. At some point, Snape must have smudged out the bad drawing, because the right side of the board was now mostly chalk dust.

“This is a set of focused, deliberate kick patterns set into ‘beats’. The kick beat you choose depends on your desired speed and endurance. The slowest, a two-beat kick, would be used when swimming at a steady pace over long distance. The fastest, a six-beat kick, is for sprinting short distances. The four-beat kick rests in the middle, and the three-beat kick is a hybrid of the two- and four- beat kicks. The number of kicks is performed within two armstrokes, or one stroke cycle.”

Harry squinted up at the board, pulling off the goggles Snape had conjured. His glasses were sitting on his clothes, which were folded and resting on the bench out of reach. “I see. Well no, actually, I don’t, but I think I get it.”

“Employing a steady beat kick takes concentration and an awareness of your whole body: breaths, arms, torso, legs. You must be able to coordinate all of these to maintain the beat.”

“Ohh,” Harry nodded. “There it is.” Snape gave him a look, as if he wanted to know what Harry had meant but didn’t want to lower himself by asking. Harry explained anyway. “The point of it for Occlumency.”

“I am hoping that the mental multitasking and coordination will help you in arranging your mind maze,” Snape admitted.

“Maybe,” Harry sighed, bobbing lower in the water. Thinking about the roadblock he’d hit in Occlumency always brought his mood down.

Snape rested his elbow against the grate. “Perhaps it will also give you a physical outlet for the temper that seems to have gotten the better of you this afternoon.”

Harry groaned and plopped his face down in the water. Of course Snape found out about the detention. He blew out a stream of bubbles, face twitching when they tickled the skin of his cheeks. He felt a nudge on his shoulder and looked up. The older man’s face had little sympathy. “Begin with two-beat.”

As simple as the chart (probably, Harry just saw a neat blur) made it seem, Harry quickly found that it was not as easy as he thought. It was just so much to think about. Kicking, and breathing, and—wait, no, that was only one arm stroke—have to hold legs still for the next stroke—okay, now you can kick again… it was difficult. Snape had shown him first, and Harry tried to remember what he’d done. Surely there hadn’t been this twitchy set of two fast kicks and an awkward pause… No, Snape had done one kick per arm stroke. That made sense, he guessed. Harry tried to do that, but it wasn’t easy to resist the urge to follow one kick immediately with the other. He felt like he was overbalancing in the water.

He heard a muffled voice. Lifting his head up and trying to shake the water out of his ears, Harry asked, “What?” a little too loudly.

“You are overcompensating,” Snape repeated. “Do not kick so hard and straighten your legs. Focused, firm flutter kicks from the hip. Think of the two-beat as a way to rotate in the water as you use your arms to pull yourself through the water.”

It helped, although not as much as he would have liked. When Snape was satisfied (or bored, Harry wasn’t sure which,) he had Harry switch to the four-beat. After that was the six-beat, and by then, Harry was pretty much exhausted.

“I suppose we can skip the three-beat,” Snape allowed as Harry pulled himself out of the pool and flopped, limply, onto the damp stone floor. Harry weakly waved his hand at him.

Snape climbed out as well, but Harry was too tired to keep track of him after that until a towel hit him in the head.

“I have a meeting with the Slytherin prefects in twenty minutes. Get dried and dressed.”

Harry groaned and rolled over pathetically. He was probably being a little dramatic, but his brain felt kind of fuzzy from trying to keep track of twelve things at once. To stall, he asked, “What if someone sees me coming up from the dungeons? What’ll I say?”

Snape’s voice, when it came, was distant, and Harry realised that he had disappeared into one of the stalls. “Tell them I took you to the torture rooms in the dungeons for your detention.”

“And it wouldn’t even be a lie,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“Potter,” Snape growled warningly.

Deciding not to test his patience any further, Harry grabbed his clothes and glass and picked a stall of his own.

When Snape had extinguished the torches and the two of them walked out of the pool room, a flying paper note slapped Harry in the forehead. Harry blindly grasped at it, rubbing the spot.

“It probably could not get past the pool’s wards,” Snape mused, starting off in the direction that Harry thought they might have come from.

He unfolded the note and scanned it. “My detention with Umbridge’s been cancelled!”

“Has it really,” came the light response.

Harry glanced up and stared at the back of Snape’s head suspiciously. “What do you know about it?”

“Just what you have told me, of course.”

“Hmm.” Harry was doubtful. Snape was being shifty; his fingers were tapping a light rhythm on his thigh and his step was higher than usual. “I’m not complaining, of course. I’m just happy she’s not rescheduling it.”

“How shocking.”

They parted ways at a fork that led up to the Great Hall. Snape thought it best that Harry and the Slytherin prefects not interact. (“I have no desire to listen to a petty squabble.”) Harry concurred.

As he walked to Gryffindor tower, Harry thought about the note in his hand and the oddly cheerful professor he had just left behind. He hoped the two weren’t related. It was entirely possible, of course. Snape always enjoyed putting a student through a difficult and exhausting task, and Harry was no exception. He struggled to make himself believe it.

It didn’t work.

There was an odd sort of hubbub coming from the DADA classroom as they approached for class the next day. Harry was moving stiffly, sore from his long swim the night before.

“I wonder what’s going on,” Hermione wondered, holding her satchel closer as they slowed.

“Only one way to find out,” Ron said.

Harry stepped in first, closely followed by his two friends. There was an actual crowd near the desk, which quickly moved when they noticed the three of them walking over. Harry immediately saw what they were all frantically whispering about.

Lined up on the desk in a neat little damning row were the broken remains of several ruined Blood Quills.

Chapter Text

The whispering abruptly stopped, and Harry looked up to see Umbridge standing in the doorway.

Harry didn't think he'd ever seen her so angry. Two blotchy spots of colour high on her cheeks drew attention to her bulging, furious eyes.

Ron muttered, “Yikes,” very quietly, and Harry had to agree.

Oh, Dad. What have you done?

“When I came into my office this morning,” she said in her high, unpleasant voice, “imagine my surprise at seeing several rare, valuable magical artefacts ruined and lined up impertinently on my desk. All of you are good little students, and would never do something like this.” She turned her glare onto Harry. “Except, that isn't quite true, is it?”

Harry remained silent, standing extremely still. He felt rather like a rabbit that had been cornered by a fox. It was doubly unfair, as he hadn’t even done anything to deserve it.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge asked with sickly sweetness, “did you honestly think you would get away with this?”

His indignation saved him, then. “I didn’t think anything, because I didn’t do it.”

“Remember, Mr. Potter,” her voice dropped. “‘I must not tell lies’.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. “I’m not. I didn’t do it.”

“Why should I believe you? You have a history–”

“I was with Professor Snape all evening for Remedial Potions, and before that I was eating dinner in the Great Hall with my friends.”

“Of course your friends would lie for you,” she dismissed.

“Er, Professor Umbridge?” Pavarti spoke up. “I saw Harry at dinner too, and in class before that.”

Several other Gryffindors in the room were nodding their heads, and a couple were casting him occasional glances of admiration. Harry realised that they, too, thought he’d done it, but were more than ready to back him up for it.

Umbridge stared around at her class, sensing that she was losing control and that the moment for accusations had passed. With a final glare that promised future nasty consequences, she rounded her desk and sat down in her chair. “Everyone, take your seats.”

The students did. As if in extra punishment, the lesson that followed was even more boring than usual. He could see Hermione vibrating with frustration at the subpar teaching, but couldn’t find in himself anything but relief that she seemed to have subsided for the moment.

It would be hard to find evidence of his wrongdoing, at least, seeing as he hadn’t done it.

The moment he had seen the broken quills impertinently lined up on her desk, Harry had known that it was Snape’s doing. He could just feel it. He hoped Snape had fun destroying them, because life was about to get a lot more interesting.

It soon became obvious that the Gryffindor fifth years weren’t the only students who gave Harry the credit for Snape’s work. In the hallway, a Ravenclaw third year—a boy who had shied away from him only a week before—came up to him with a quiet “thank you”. His right hand had a glove over it, while the left was bare. Harry felt a small flare of condensed rage at the sight and its implications, and could only manage a senseless nod. Fred and George bounded up on either side and chattered back and forth about how Harry was well on his way to creating a more diverse criminal profile (“Vandalism's a solid bet-” ”-but the breaking and entering was even better. Next time-” “-a little arson could spice it up!”). Even Professor McGonagall gave him ten points for sitting at the correct desk.

It was nice not to be an object of mindless fear, but Harry knew that consequences would come soon. Umbridge really had no way to outright accuse him, but he couldn’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Three days later, it had: Draco Malfoy strutted up to him outside of Charms with a polished badge on his robes.

“Hey there, Potter. See this? Means I’m part of the High Inquisitor’s Inquisitorial Squad. At least some teachers around here can recognize a proper leader when they see one.”

“Maybe she needs glasses,” Ron mused.

Standing in their usual positions as cronies, Crabbe and Goyle also bore the same badges.

“That’s not fair,” Harry said, with mock concern. “She shouldn’t be making those two say a word like that. Inquisitorial. It’s too long for them, s’got too many syllables.”

Before Malfoy could retaliate, Flitwick opened the door and Harry strode inside with Hermione and a snickering Ron. Behind them, Crabbe could be heard muttering, “What's a syllable?” to a fuming Malfoy.

“That little swine,” Hermione muttered and glared at the blonde. Ron grinned, ecstatic as ever to hear her insult Malfoy, with whose family the Weasleys had a long-standing feud. “So, Harry. What did you need a bathing suit for yesterday?”

“I didn't think Snape had a cauldron big enough for swimming in, but I could be wrong,” Ron grinned. “He dunk you in an intelligence potion or something, then?”

Hermione swatted his arm, but Harry recognised the teasing waggle of Ron's brows and laughed. “Nah, although I'm sure he wants to.” He told them about the complicated kick beat lesson from the day before, and Hermione winced in sympathy.

“My parents made me take swim classes when I was little. Of course, I never did anything that intense, but I always thought it was frustrating to have someone bossing you around about something that's supposed to be fun.”

“Can't bring books in a pool,” Ron snorted. “You couldn't have thought it was that fun.” Hermione’s blush said it all. “Didn't even know they had classes for that! I learned to swim in the stream by my house. Bill and Charlie used to chuck us in and fish us out if we started getting too tired. Kind of had to learn on the fly!”

Hermione looked aggrieved on his behalf and began protesting with the righteous indignation of an only child. Ron only shrugged, although Harry didn't miss his relieved slump when she had to stop as Flitwick called the class to attention.

It soon became clear that Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad had few people or things to check them. Harry quickly grew tired, as did most other students, of Malfoy’s attitude about the whole thing. He’d even noticed a few Slytherins indulging in sneers of contempt behind the blond’s back. The first person to really run afoul of them was, unexpectedly, Ginny Weasley.

She’d been headed to the Quidditch pitch, broom over her shoulder, to get some extra flying practice in when she was accosted by the Slytherin team on their way to get some unofficial practice. They had summarily tried to kick her off, but she held her ground, having already checked and seen that the pitch wasn’t booked. Things got heated, and Malfoy had tried using his authority as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad to get rid of her. She hadn’t taken well to it. Apparently, as the telling went, she called him out on his bull and used her Bat Bogey Hex on him. The stories disagreed on whether he’d fainted, screamed, or cursed his own nose off trying to get rid of the creatures crawling out of it. Beyond that, everything became a confusing mass of rumour and speculation. The first Harry knew of it was when he saw five people getting dragged to the hospital wing. One of them was Ginny, and he’d tried to get to her to make sure she was okay, but McGonagall (a witness to the whole thing who had rushed to end the fight and help everyone) sent him off with a stern look.

Harry went to find Ron and told him what he’d seen. The two of them and Hermione had run back to the hospital wing, but not been allowed in. Ron argued that she was his sister, but McGonagall flat-out told him that she didn’t trust him not to curse the Slytherins in their beds. One look at the darkening hue of Ron’s face brought Harry around to her point of view, and he and Hermione had each taken an arm and dragged him down to the Great Hall.

There, gathered for dinner, everyone was already talking about what happened. By the time the three of them heard it from Dean, the story had already become twisted enough from the truth that they heard with alarm about how Ginny had been supposed to meet up with the youngest Slytherin chaser, whom she was secretly dating, and taken her rightful vengeance on the whole team when he cruelly broke up with her in front of them all.

“I somehow don’t think that’s what happened,” Hermione said, after a moment of stunned silence at the table. “Anyway, she’s dating Michael Corner in Ravenclaw.”

“She’s what?” Ron gaped.

“Honestly, Ron, if you paid the least bit of attention, you’d know that already.”

Harry was also taken by surprise to learn this, but tried his best not to show it. He nodded along seriously when Ron spluttered, then changed the subject when Hermione gave him a very knowing look. “They took five people into the hospital wing when I saw them.”

“One against seven, and getting four of her opponents in the hospital wing along with her-? Ginny’s kinda bad,” Seamus grinned.

“Kinda?” Dean said, appearing slightly dazed.

Their conversation was interrupted when Umbridge stood up at the staff table. Most students looked over in annoyance, but she smiled vindictively.

“Due to the appalling events of this afternoon, my decision to accept Quidditch as a suitable pastime for young students such as yourselves has been revoked. As of now, there will be no more of this violent and extravagant sport at Hogwarts. Accordingly, all broom privileges have been revoked.”

There was a moment of horrified silence, which threatened to explode into a roar of outrage. A simpering smile of hers, followed by a close scan of the room, killed it before it could start. Everyone shuffled in their seats. She pranced back to her chair, continuing her meal. As soon as she had apparently dismissed them, people began whispering.

The twins plunked down across from Ron and Harry looking so grave that he braced himself for a joke.

“Good thing Oliver Wood’s not here,” George shook his head.

“He’d have had a coronary,” Fred agreed.

“Banning quidditch?” Ron began, voice quiet but so highly pitched in fury that it approached the stratosphere. “I don’t care what happens, if she touches my broom, I’ll curse her stupid bow so far up her– ow!”

Hermione’s foot moved back to where it had been before she’d viciously kicked his shin. “I’d be more worried about what she’s going to do to Ginny.”

“Nothing too bad, unless she actually wants to be cursed,” George said, looking suddenly rather dangerous.

Harry glanced up at the table, where Umbridge was daintily eating her food. He glared darkly, wishing suddenly that Snape had done a lot worse than break her quills. Trailing his gaze along the rest of the table, he wondered what the other teachers thought about all of this. When he got to Snape, it was to find the man’s black eyes already fixed unwaveringly upon him.

He immediately sensed the warning. Don’t do anything rash. Harry matched his angry stare with one of his own. What am I supposed to do, then? he wanted to yell. Snape didn’t let up or look away, and Harry finally felt his own expression cave in sullenly. He got the tiniest nod in return, although it was accompanied with a narrowing of the eyes. I’m watching. Harry got the message, but wished he hadn’t.

It was going to be a lot more heated of an argument if Snape caught him.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the girls?”

“They’re going to meet us there.”

Harry and Ron clutched their brooms tighter as they hurried out of the portrait with Fred and George. As previously agreed upon, the twins went off in one direction while Ron and Harry took off in another. Harry threw his invisibility cloak over them and they ran, crouched, down to a little-known side exit.

The Quidditch supplies closet might have been spelled shut, but the changing tents were not. Inside, barely distinguishable in the gloom, sat Katie, Angelina, Alicia, and a newly-recovered Ginny.

“This is a bit exciting,” Alicia admitted. “I haven't snuck out for midnight Quidditch in a while.”

“I have,” Ginny said.

“Wot?” Fred, George, and Ron said.

“Wot?” she parroted back innocently.

“C'mon, we haven't got much time,” Angelina huffed. She was determinedly trooping through the year with a strong self-delusion that Umbridge would succumb to the DADA curse any day now, ideally right before when the Gryffidnor–Ravenclaw match was formerly scheduled to be.

Wherever they had got them from—and it was a secret they weren't sharing—the twins had found a full Quidditch set that glowed in the dark. “Not too much, ‘course, just enough for us on the pitch to see.” Harry carefully noted the bludgers’ muted green shine and committed the Snitch’s yellow light to memory.

They dragged the set out onto the pitch. It was a clear night, and the moon was new, so most of the light came from the bright winter stars. Katie pointed out that this was a good thing, as it would make them harder to see from the castle.

“Who's going to be looking out the window at half one?”

“Hopefully no one, but if they are, I'd rather not end up in detention with Umbridge.”

“Not that it'd be too awful now, with those evil quills gone, eh, Harry?” Katie nudged him. He gave a wan smile and hoped the dark hid his wince.

“Let’s go,” Angelina said, mounting her broom and kicking off.

Harry and the others quickly followed suit. Harry had never played Quidditch when it was full nighttime like this, and it was exhilarating. With the sights around him so uniform and dull, his other senses took over. The rush of wind past his ears, smelling of night air and a hint of rain, sounded like laughter and close secrets whispered in the ear of a friend. He imagined that, if he listened closely enough, the dark would unveil hidden wonders about magic and the world around him.

He disregarded the snitch for a moment, rising above the rest of the players and enjoying the simple joy of flying for a while. Eventually, however, he grew curious and looked around for the tiny yellow shimmer.

He spotted it in the distance, buzzing in tight little circles on the other side of the pitch. He leaned forward on his broom, the night lending him daring, and sped towards it. He easily ducked and weaved around the other players, who gave good-natured complaints as he zipped past them with inches to spare.

He reached out a hand, about to close his fist around the snitch, when it jerked away a few inches to the side. He made another grab, but it eluded him again. Instead of zipping away like a normal snitch would, however, it resumed its tight little circle. He tilted his head at it, confused, then looked through the circle of light its path was making in the air to see a pink figure stalking towards them.

His heart dropped all fifty feet to the grass and he swiped the snitch up, turning and racing back to the other players.

“She’s coming!” he warned hoarsely.

“Who?”

“You know who!”

“What?!”

“No, not- the other one!”

“Umbridge!” Ginny gasped.

“Go!” Angelina snapped, and they all took off. Fred and George hurried to gather up the quaffle and bludgers, while the girls all headed straight for the tent to gather up any evidence of who had been there. Ron moved to land, but Harry punched his shoulder.

“No! Come on!”

He turned his broom for the castle, and Ron followed without question. Harry stuffed the snitch into his pocket and gripped his broom with both hands, rising high into the air and zagging erratically towards Gryffindor tower. He hoped she wouldn’t notice them, but didn’t want her to see where they were headed if she did. Just in case, they did a lap around Ravenclaw tower before heading for the window into their dorm.

Harry rapped his knuckles urgently on the pane as Ron glanced back over his shoulder at the pitch.

Neville’s bemused, half-asleep face came into view. He saw them and his eyes widened comically. He hurried to unlatch the window, opening it with a rough tug.

“What are you doing?”

Harry and Ron squeezed through sideways, brooms clattering against the frame. Dean and Seamus both peeked out of their curtains and looked over.

“Trying not to get expelled,” Harry said. “Ron, go get changed, I’ll take care of these.”

Ron tossed his broom at Harry, who spelled them both to be resistant to Accio like Hermione had shown them. He then stared at them for a minute, ears straining for any sounds of Umbridge or Filch at the door. Abruptly, in a flash of inspiration, he put sticking charms on the handles and leaned out the window to wedge them under the short sill outside. He pulled the pane shut behind him, ignoring the other boys’ further questions as he practically ripped his uniform off and threw on his pyjamas.

He had just thrown himself under the covers when there was a commotion in the common room.

“Please don’t tell,” Ron begged Seamus, who hesitated before nodding curtly.

“Delores, I must protest!” McGonagall’s voice snapped. The door was thrown open, and Umbridge stood there. Her hands were on her hips. She panted heavily, figure dishevelled where it was outlined by the light in the hall. She must have ran back as soon as the players noticed her approaching and scattered.

“Students on the Quidditch pitch! Breaking curfew, the broom restriction, and the Quidditch ban! These are grounds for expulsion!”

“I don’t know who you’re going to expel. Clearly, all of these students were asleep before you forced your way in,” McGonagall said, glaring daggers at Harry and Ron over Umbridge’s trembling head. Harry apologised to her in his mind, swearing to himself that he would buy her so many cat treats in thanks for standing up for them. Actually, that might not go over well…

“All of you, up!” Umbridge snapped, ignoring the head of house. The five boys all jumped out of their beds, standing awkwardly to attention next to them.

“P’ffesor? What’s going on?” Ron slurred in a criminally convincing imitation of someone who had just been woken from a deep sleep. Umbridge marched over to him, looking him up and down for any evidence of rule breaking.

Out of her line of sight, Neville waved frantically to get Harry’s attention. He pointed at the pile of Harry’s clothes on the floor. In the pocket, the night-snitch’s glow could be seen through the fabric. He hastily used his toe to flip a nearby sleeve over it.

Umbridge whipped around to glare at him suspiciously. He tried to blink owlishly.

“If you were sleeping, Mr. Potter, why do you have your glasses on?”

Bloody hell and double-bloody hell. “I fell asleep reading.” Fortunately for him, he’d dumped his school books on his bed that evening and never bothered to pick them up in his rush to get back. One had been knocked off and had roughly landed, pages first, on the floor. He was amused to see that it was his Defence textbook. Potions, however, was still on his coverlet, and he gestured towards it.

“He does that a lot,” Dean agreed. “Too tired from Snape’s lessons and detentions to do his homework.”

Umbridge’s face grew even more squashed with displeasure. She looked from Dean, to Harry, to Ron, and finally back to Harry again. She settled her enraged look on him.

“If I get the slightest hint that you were on that Quidditch pitch tonight, Mr. Potter, detention will be the least of your worries.” She turned on her heel and marched out. McGonagall gave them one more death glare before shutting the door.

The five of them stood frozen, listening to the footsteps retreat. When they were gone, Harry and Ron exchanged glances and gave in to quiet, shaky laughter.

Chapter Text

“WERE YOU TRYING TO GET CAUGHT, OR ARE YOU JUST THAT STUPID?”

There was a throbbing in Severus’ left temple. He slammed his fist down on his desk, and it was a reflection of just how angry he was that he felt no guilt at the boy's jump of surprise.

“YOU WERE RECKLESS, IRRESPONSIBLE, AND FOOLHARDY. I DON'T SUPPOSE IT OCCURRED TO YOU THAT YOUR ACTIONS MIGHT HAVE CONSEQUENCES?”

“It's not like I broke into Voldemort's lair! It was just Quidditch!”

As his anger rose impossibly higher, Severus’ voice dropped. Harry seemed to realise his mistake, gulping audibly. In a low hiss, Severus said, “That is not a point in your favour. Perhaps, if there were some good cause for your rash impudence, it would be more forgivable than nearly destroying your future over a game. Tell me, would getting expelled and having your wand snapped in front of your face have been worth it for the sake of flying around in the dark for an hour? I was unaware that you had chosen to forgo your NEWTs in favour of a career as a professional Quidditch player. How many years do you think you’ll last until a well-aimed bludger puts you out of commission? Four? Five? As lovely as retired by twenty-two sounds, it would be difficult to enjoy the freedom of the next sixty years of your life from a standing ward in St. Mungos. At least you would not be in Ministry custody.”

“I didn’t-”

“Think? Expect to get caught? Want to get your friends in trouble as well?”

“I didn’t mean to disappoint you,” Harry said quietly.

Severus stared at him.

“It wasn’t about Quidditch, anyway. Not really.” He became more animated. “It wasn’t fair. She had no right to ban it, or to sack Trelawney, or use blood quills on kids. We couldn’t just stand by and do nothing!”

“Yes, you could, and you will! I have already warned you about Umbridge. You must stay out of her way.”

“How can I duck my head, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist? She’s destroying everything that makes Hogwarts Hogwarts! Yeah, Quidditch, but also quirky teachers, and duelling with your friends in the halls and running away when Filch shows up, and- and learning new spells, and being able to just… have opinions, even if other people don’t agree. She wants to break it and make it different, make it the way she wants it. Someone has to do something!”

Severus didn’t know if he should interrogate Harry more about “quirky teachers” and addressed the more concerning part of the tirade. “That person is not you. Let someone else carry out their little personal rebellion. Duck your head if you have to, if that’s what it takes to hide the contempt in your eyes, but never let it shine naked for all to see. That way lies conflict, and know that it is a conflict you cannot win.”

“So I just lay down and take it.”

“Yes.” Severus leaned half over his desk, bringing his face close to Harry’s defiant one. “In fact, I expect you to.”

Harry crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Then you don’t know me at all.”

The moment stretched out, tense and clashing. Harry’s hands fisted, as if he were anticipating some kind of attack. Severus abruptly withdrew, even stepped back a pace. His voice, when he next spoke, was cold. “You insist on fighting back, then.” His lip curled. “How did yesterday’s little escapade do that, precisely? Have you helped someone who has been hurt by her blood quills? Worked to expose her lies about the Dark Lord? Found a way to defend Hagrid, who every day stumbles closer to being removed from his job? No. You pulled a stunt for fun, and spiting Umbridge in the process just made it more of a lark. Do you think getting expelled and humiliated in front of the whole school would have undermined her attempt to ‘destroy Hogwarts’? It would have done naught but play into her hands.”

Harry’s stubborn look had been replaced by a stricken one. “I-”

“Failed to think. I suppose I should not find this unexpected, considering your track record, and indeed I do not. I do find it somewhat insulting that my warnings and advice have been so wholly disregarded. If you would only stop and consider the ramifications that must follow as a result of any poor decision you make, perhaps they would not have been so desperately needed. Alas, my breath and time were wasted.”

Harry looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Severus’ glower intensified.

They hadn’t had an argument this bad in a long time. Severus almost expected the threads of their new relationship to snap at the tension, unable to hold the weight of such harsh words.

“I won’t do it again,” Harry finally said sullenly.

“No, you bloody well won’t!” Severus snapped.

Harry looked away, jaw set in an angry line. “So what’s my punishment?”

Severus exhaled a long, strained breath through his nose. “That is your Head of House’s responsibility.” He sat down and picked up his quill, not looking at the boy anymore.

“But-”

“Go, Potter. Tonight’s Occlumency lesson is cancelled. I am too angry to deal with you right now.”

Harry’s laboured breathing echoed in the silence. After struggling for words, he eventually said, “So that’s it? You brought me here to yell at me, then want to send me away like that when it’s convenient for you?”

Severus dropped his quill, fighting with his temper. Anything constructive had been said, and further altercation would be unproductive at best. “If I did not know better, I would think you are requesting further detentions. It is not my duty to punish you beyond what Professor McGonagall, who caught you, deems appropriate.”

“That’s right,” Harry’s chest heaved. “Because you’re just my teacher. That’s all. Nothing more. Just someone saddled with me ’cause it’s your job.” He stomped across the room. “I won’t forget again.” He slammed the door shut behind him, causing several jars to rattle on their shelves. Severus glared, unseeing, at the essay in front of him, knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair.

His rooms were far less of a comfort than they normally were after a difficult day. Severus paced around the main room, regularly checking on the Sleeping Draught brewing on his stove and stopping once in a while to brood by the fire.

He felt a twinge of pain on his left arm and looked down to realise that he was scratching at it idly. He yanked his sleeve up and stared hatefully at the Mark. The skin around it was red and irritated from repeated clawing, a few scabbed lines echoing fingernails slicing through it. He gritted his teeth and let his sleeve fall back down, forcing his hands to rest at his sides. Ten minutes later, he was scrubbing blood out from under his nails. Again.

He was growing restless, could feel it in his twitchy glances around the room, in the now constant twinges from his left arm. It was as if his subconscious thought he could rip the Dark Mark from his skin if he tried hard enough. It was something he’d struggled with after first taking it, wondering what he’d gotten himself into in the rare moments he stopped Occluding his own deepest thoughts from even himself. The compulsive scratching had ended after he became a spy, after there was a sense of purpose to replace the horrible emptiness that had gaped inside of him after losing Lily’s friendship. 

He thought the bad habit’s resurgence might have come after losing his position as the Order’s spy. He’d only been summoned occasionally since the Dark Lord found out about his true loyalties, and Severus had not responded to any of the calls. At first, this had been a relief, but now it was beginning to make him paranoid.

In the village, he’d been able to replace his adrift purposelessness with protecting Harry. Now, even that couldn’t serve. As the boy had put it so succinctly during their argument, Severus was only his teacher, now. Of course, he would continue to protect him from the sidelines as before, but the direct responsibility for his care that had temporarily ruled Severus’ life was gone. What was left? A few tutoring sessions a week?

Severus was a driven man whose road was no longer clear. (What, was he going to find his purpose in teaching? Please.) His usefulness to the war effort had largely ended. Harry was safe at Hogwarts, and had made it abundantly clear earlier in the day that he had no use for Severus beyond the Occlumency instruction he could provide.

Unsure whether his arm or chest ached more, Severus left the potion to simmer overnight and crawled into bed.

His emotions had overpowered and finally broken through the Occlumency shields Severus kept in place from within. As his exhausted body succumbed to sleep, old memories seeped through that he had rather kept hidden away.

The muggles didn’t know what the green skull and snake in the sky meant. One teen pointed up at it and smiled in awe, nudging his friend. No doubt, they thought it was a light trick or firework display. Severus envied their ignorance.

The Dark Lord sent a blasting curse at the nearest building, and- yes, there it was. The screaming. Muggles began running in all directions, panicking. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters walked purposely forward through the street, robes blacker than the night. Several bystanders fled in the opposite direction, seeming to realise what they were, if not who.

Death.

The raid seemed to continue forever, endless and exhaustive. After causing large-scale personal destruction, the Dark Lord sent his followers off with a wave to go find victims for him to individually torment. Severus grabbed the first civilian he could get to, doing his best not to look at them. He couldn’t turn his ears away, however, and could hear the terrified pleading of a woman. He silenced her with a spell, grateful when it worked. She thrashed in his arms, but he held her fast. He resented her for not escaping him.

One by one, the Death Eaters returned to their circle around their lord.

“Very good,” he hissed, turning slowly. He pointed to Bellatrix, who shoved one of the teen boys into the centre with a cackle. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees at the sight of the dark wizard towering over him.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I just want to go home.”

The Dark Lord looked around expansively, gesturing to the destruction around them. “What home?” he inquired. He shoved his wand under the boy’s chin. He cringed back with a sob.

The teen died quickly. Some muggles did. Others clung to life, blubbering and begging and trembling with horror. Severus saw their weakness, saw their fear, and hated them for it. The woman he held gave great shuddering sobs, smearing snot and tears over his robes. He knew from experience that he’d never completely rid them of the stench of pure, unadulterated terror. He was almost glad when the Dark Lord gestured to him and he shoved her away, wishing she were already dead so that he didn’t have to watch her shaking anymore. She quickly obliged him.

The last victim, Lucius’ choice, was an old man. He was stooped with age, and fell hard to his hands and knees when his captor pushed him roughly forward. The Dark Lord watched, lips quirked in amusement, as he struggled to his feet. In the dancing light of the fires around them, Severus could make out the words WWI Vet on his hat.

Finally upright once more, the man walked slowly to the middle of the circle. He did not plea, he did not cry, and he did not beg. He said nothing at all, staring at the Dark Lord in silence.

The jeering and mocking of the assembled Death Eaters slowed and then quieted. They watched, in a little bubble of absolute stillness that seemed to supercede the chaos still raging around them.

The Dark Lord looked down at him, wand tilted away in a casual hold.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked softly.

The old man was terrified. Severus could tell. Everyone could tell. Despite that, he looked the darkest wizard of their generation in the eyes. “Just another tyrant, I suspect,” he said. His voice shook slightly, but he employed it strongly nonetheless. A tiny bud of respect flared in Severus’ heart, paired with a pang of dread that his words would cost him.

“I am your end!” the Dark Lord suddenly roared.

The old man stood his ground. “Hurry it up then.”

The ripple of astonishment that anymore, much less some helpless muggle facing their master’s wandpoint, could speak that way to the Dark Lord quickly passed from one Death Eater to the next. Severus’ dread grew, and he looked to the Dark Lord to see what he would do.

Spittle flying in his rage at the insolence, the blatant contempt, the Dark Lord hurled the killing curse into the old man’s face. He crumpled like a marionnette with cut strings. His body lay there, diminished, courage and strength ripped from it so harshly. Severus watched him fall with an unexpected surge of rage, throat dry as everyone around him laughed.

Where was the warrior’s code? The honour? His fellows cast spells at the body, defiling it, caring not for the bravery the man had shown through his terror.

This was no war. This was a terrorist campaign.

How could anyone defend against such a thing? To fight against such unethical, such ruleless, such honourless people, would take an opponent without a moral code. Dumbledore, James Potter, and the light side would never have the guts to take them out at their level. Unless someone did, this horror would never end.

He stared at the destruction around him, at the dead and dying muggles. He despised them for not being able to fight back, and despised himself more for choosing not to.

Severus Snape surged upright in bed, trembling as hard as any muggle victim of the Dark Lord’s ever had, and wept.

He had reopened the gashes on his arm—all of them—during the night. Blood dripped onto the white porcelain sink as he hunched over it, staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror. Sunken and haunted, his eyes were rimmed by dark circles. His arms trembled as they held him upright against the counter.

In his mind, his Occlumency shields were in tatters. He fought to rebuild them, and it took longer than he would have liked.

Enough was enough. He rubbed some balm onto his forearm, purposefully harsh, then wrapped a bandage around it tightly. His morning preparations were mechanical and unenthused. There was no peace in the routine, only a detached impatience at the time it took.

The walk up to the Headmaster’s office was a quiet one so early in the morning. He hesitated outside the door, wondering if he ought to be turning to the man or not. His relationship with the Headmaster had been somewhat strained lately, although he knew the unease was entirely on his own end. Once they had solved the more pressing issue of a potential spy in the Order, Severus could afford himself the luxury of addressing certain issues regarding Harry that had come to light in the village. Besides an argument when he first returned from hiding with the teen, he and Dumbledore had only skirted around the topic until more recently.

“Come in, my boy,” came a genial voice through the door, and Severus gave a silent sigh before pushing it open and stepping inside.

Dumbledore was sipping his morning tea, flipping through his daily correspondence. Severus hesitated before sitting down in one of the chairs facing his desk.

“Headmaster,” he greeted uneasily.

The ancient wizard set down the letter in his hand—a missive on Ministry paper—and regarded him frankly. “You are troubled.”

“How astute.”

“What has happened?”

Severus tried to decide which of the many things wrong was most important. The answer surprised him. “Potter and I got into an argument yesterday.”

“Alas, the woes of teenage life can often spill into many a young man’s unrelated relationships. What was the issue at hand?”

“His Quidditch escapade.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Ah, yes. I assume you were not very forgiving of his indiscretion?”

“Indiscr- Headmaster, he could have-” Severus fought down the rant that rose up in him, seeing a familiar twinkle and knowing that he would not have a sympathetic audience. “No. I was not.”

“And what was the issue that actually came to light?”

Severus looked away. “He resented my involvement, I am sure. After all, I am nothing but his professor.”

Dumbledore hummed, but it was not a sound of agreement. “That is one perspective, perhaps.”

“Surely there is no other?”

“Certainly there is. Even the most simple of scenarios has many facets, and your relationship with Harry is a complex one. Perhaps, before jumping to any conclusions, you should ask him to tell you what he meant. After all, no one else is more qualified to do so. Not I, among them.”

If he weren’t so tired, perhaps he would be more annoyed with Dumbledore’s cryptic answers. “I am no guardian to him. Our only real connection is that of teacher and student, and perhaps members of the same side in the war.”

“Not every real connection has a label, Severus.”

Regretting bringing up the topic, he gave no reply. This, of course, did not stop the Headmaster.

“I have been thinking about what you said to me last November. Harry’s living situation, as you know, involves more factors than his mere happiness. I am not pleased to send him there, but the blood wards may very well prove vital to his survival.”

Who knew my mood could drop even lower? “You insist on sending him back, then?”

“No,” Dumbledore said slowly. “I will not, however, send him from one bad situation into a worse one. At the Dursleys, no outside threat will harm him.”

“And what of those inside?”

“More acceptable than death. Another concern—” he lifted the letter he had been reading when Severus came in, “—is the Ministry. They have been angling for a probationary summer watch on Harry, despite his pardon, and I need not impress upon you what may happen if they get their hands on him. I am working to stop the bureaucratic process before it can start, but anonymity is our best defence. Any summer residence must be private; he cannot draw any kind of public or legal attention to himself until he is of age.”

“If a safe enough hideaway should be found?”

“Then I will consider it.” He leaned forward. “Believe me, Severus, nothing would make me happier than to see Harry living with those who will care for him as he deserves.”

“Sentiment means nothing without action to back it up.”

“Have you any suggestions for a housing situation that meets the requirements, then?”

Severus automatically opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated, plagued by his doubts. He warred with himself before finally muttering, “Not at this time.” 

After a disconcertingly knowing look, Dumbledore finally changed the subject. “Surely, there is more you wish to discuss.”

“The Dark Lord has called me only twice since the summons before Christmas. I do not understand what his game is.” He stood, pacing the office. “If he has learned of my true loyalties, which you say he has, then why not hunt me down and have done with me? If he has chosen to leave me be for the present, until a suitable revenge may be extracted, then why the occasional summons? If he did not fully believe I had betrayed him, then he must now after my repeated absences. What I understand least, however, is why I was never summoned at all while in hiding.”

Dumbledore watched him pace. “Voldemort has accepted your change in loyalties, and will not believe any attempts to persuade him otherwise.”

“How do you know?”

“Last October, I had a chat with young Draco.”

This was news to Severus. He sank back into a chair. “Oh?”

“He claimed to have come on the behalf of Slytherin house, wondering when their Head would return to them. I assured him of your safety, and he seemed rather disappointed to hear of it. It did not take a long conversation before I came to understand that he had been informed of your true loyalties by his father. No doubt, he was sent to fish for information. He left, I believe, rather frustrated.”

Severus leaned back in his chair, anxiety giving way to pensiveness. He traced one lip with his finger, thinking. He had not interacted one-on-one with Draco since returning to Hogwarts, and had suspected that the boy was avoiding him. He would have to find a way to talk to him, find out what he knew. “I see.”

“While, of course, it is only a theory, I may have an explanation for Voldemort’s erratic behaviour,” Dumbledore said, rising to his feet. Severus mirrored the movement reflexively. “I suspect that, while accepting that he cannot prioritise your capture at this time, he has used the Dark Mark every so often as a reminder that he has not forgotten about your betrayal.” He led the way to his door, one hand resting on Severus’ thin shoulder. “As for the village… as hard as it may be for his opponents to remember at times, Voldemort is merely human. In some ways, he is less than. Perhaps he did not call you because he did not know what to do with you.”

Severus had lived most of his life perceiving the Dark Lord as a sort of deity: first as a righteous god, then a tyrannical one. The concept of him as “merely human” seemed improbably far-fetched. He met Dumbeldore’s piercing blue eyes with doubtful black ones, and did not know whether to laugh or cry at the surety he saw in them.

Chapter Text

His friends knew something was wrong immediately. The two of them had developed some kind of super-sensor when it came to reading Harry’s mood. As soon as he flopped down on an armchair near them in the common room, Ron and Hermione’s lighthearted bickering morphed into serious looks as they turned to him.

“What’s up, mate?” Ron asked casually, but his eyes scanned Harry’s face closely.

“Nothing, really,” Harry said quietly, slumped over and staring into the fire.

Hermione edged forward. “You seem upset. Did Professor Snape give you detention?”

“No, he didn’t.” He fought the agitation creeping into his voice, but wasn’t all that successful. “He yelled at me for a while, for being stupid and risking everything for a game.” Ron looked suitably indignant, but Hermione pressed her lips together in a way that suggested she agreed with Snape but didn’t want to voice it aloud. “I told him it was about more than Quidditch, you know, like resisting Umbridge, but that didn’t seem to be good enough for him.”

“He’s a teacher,” Ron pointed out, as if that settled the matter. “You didn’t expect him to give you a pat on the head and house points, did you?”

“No, of course not. I even have to admit, he made some good points. I mean, what use was it, really? We didn’t do anything that’s going to help the situation in the long run.”

“There must be a balance between reckless rebellion and passive submission,” Hermione said bolsteringly, and perhaps a little deviously. “We’ll find it. Don’t worry, Harry.”

He gave her a shallow smile and kept talking. “And then, just like that, it was over. He sat down, cancelled tonight’s Occlumency lesson, and dismissed me.” He threw his hands up in the air at this final and worst insult.

His two best friends looked at each other as if they couldn’t see what the problem was.

“So… no detention?” Ron asked, as if to clarify. He clearly didn’t understand what about the argument was bothering him. It didn’t help Harry’s mood that he couldn’t quite tell, either.

“Nothing! He just sent me off.”

“Are you upset about… not getting a detention?” Hermione probed hesitantly.

“No, why would I-? Why are you so hung up about detention, anyway?”

“Why are you?” Hermione shot back.

“Huh?”

“It seems like you’re more hurt about getting sent away without any sort of punishment than anything else.”

“I’m not hurt,” Harry lied, then wondered why it was a lie. “That’s a stupid thing to be hurt over.”

“Feelings aren’t always sensible,” Hermione said softly, staring at her hands.

“I dunno, Harry.” Ron tilted his head. “If my parents knew I’d done something stupid and didn’t punish me for it, I’d be leaping for joy.”

“Snape’s not my parent, though,” Harry pointed out, ignoring the dull throb in his chest. Hermione gave a tiny little intake of breath, her face illuminated in the way it did whenever she had an academic breakthrough. He looked at her askance, worried about what she thought she’d figured out, but she changed the subject.

“I’m sure things will go back to normal between you two soon.”

“Yeah. Normal,” Harry said bleakly.

“I may have a way for you to fight back, however,” she suddenly grinned, subconsciously twitching her enchanted satchel closer.

The next few days were strained. After cancelling Monday’s lesson, Harry didn’t see village Snape again until Wednesday evening. When he did, things were tense. Harry had yet to find a way to permanently and deliberately arrange his mind maze, and although the recent exercises in focus and mental coordination had helped, it was obvious to him that visualising the entire thing as a whole was going to be more of a challenge than mere “focus and clear your mind” could solve. Snape gave little additional advice beyond this, and in his bad mood, Harry couldn’t help but resent his teacher for not being able to provide more concrete guidance. He was certain that Snape could sense this, which probably didn’t help their relationship any. He didn’t even acknowledge Harry when the lesson was over, but he did shout “Five points from Gryffindor!” when Harry slammed the door behind him. Harry scowled at the closed door and marched off in a fit of pique.

Friday’s lesson was no better. Frustrated by his plateaued progress and distracted about the next day, his focus was meagre at best. Snape’s coolly detached, professional demeanour irritated Harry more every time he spoke, and the teen was beginning to wonder if Snape would ever forgive him for his stupid mistake. Harry made a pointed (and probably rather rude) reference to Snape’s inability to coach him through his block, and in return had received a sarcastic comment about the man “only being a potions professor” that Harry was sure was a reference to his parting comment during the argument. After that, he completely ignored Snape and gave up on trying Occlude for the day. Instead, he contemplated tomorrow’s Hogsmeade visit with trepidation. Hermione had convinced him that an interview with Rita Skeeter about what had happened in the graveyard could really do something to fight against the wave of false information that the Prophet was churning out. He had agreed. The idea of fighting back appealed to him, but he remembered Skeeter from the Tournament and wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. Snape dismissed him not long after, and Harry sped out of the room without a second glance.

If this goes on for too much longer, I think I’ll try that “block all emotions” technique. Maybe then, the way Snape had reverted back to “Potter” even in private wouldn’t upset him so much.

Mentally recounting the ways feeling no emotions could save him a lot of detentions, Harry almost ran into Trelawney near the kitchens. She startled badly, staggering back against the wall and clutching her shawl.

“Professor?” he stammered reflexively, suddenly remembering that Dumbledore had insisted she be allowed to remain in the castle. At the title, her eyes welled up with angry tears behind her huge glasses.

“Come to rub it in my face, Potter?” she wailed, swaying. “I know you’ve heard I’m no longer a professor. They all gossip about me…”

Harry thought she was overestimating her importance to the student body. “No, Pro- er, I’d heard, but I’m not happy about it or anything. Umbridge-”

“Is coming!” Trewlaney hissed, grabbing his shoulders. He suddenly understood why she’d been running. “She wants me gone!”

“Go, I’ll cover for you,” Harry said, internally cursing his saving-people thing. She blinked at him owlishly, then fled.

No sooner had she turned the corner when the hag appeared on the other end of the hall, marching with a sick little smile on her face. Harry suddenly had a delirious vision of her torturing “blood traitors” in pink Death Eater’s robes with a blood quill, Voldemort standing behind her in delight at having such a sadistic follower.

“Potter!” she trilled, seeing him. “Have you seen anyone walking this hallway?”

“No, Professor Umbridge,” he said, eyes wide in innocence.

“Hm.” He guessed that she wanted to stay and harass him more, but having already caught the scent of easy blood, she didn’t seem eager to give up her prey. She hurried past him with no more than a chirpy admonition to get in bed before curfew. He surreptitiously checked the time, but it was only half seven. As he’d suspected, Snape let him go early.

Probably didn’t want me around anymore, he grumbled internally, making the long trek back up to the tower.

Before Harry and Hermione could slip out of the common room, needing to be at The Three Broomsticks early for the meeting with Skeeter, Fred and George cornered him.

“Harry, we were wondering if you still had a certain little contraband item. You see-”

“-not that you would, of course, as you’d never sneak out for Quidditch-”

“Can’t believe anyone would be so irresponsible-”

“-but I’m sure whoever owns the set would like it complete.”

It took Harry a few seconds of blinking stupidly to realise that they were talking about the Snitch. “Oh! I’ll just- well, yeah, I mean, whoever has it will probably give it back… like… in two seconds.” He thundered up the stairs, went digging through his trunk, and found the glowing night snitch. Clutching it in his palm and shoving his hand in the pocket of his robes, he went back down to find Hermione glaring at an unabashed set of twins.

“Here,” he said, glancing around before handing it over. They palmed it casually with the practised ease of pranksters. “You know, it was really weird; during the game, it seemed to know Umbridge was there. It was circling around her, like it was trying to warn me she was there.” He felt a bit stupid saying it, but the moment had been playing over in his mind all week.

To his surprise, they took him seriously. The two exchanged a glance, looking at the snitch curiously.

“Could be the autonomy spells,” Fred murmured.

“Paired with the extra-perception clause,” George agreed.

“Weird it reacted like that, though.”

“Maybe it was a reaction with the preservation enchantments.”

“Hold on,” Hermione said demandingly. “Are you two saying you not only invented that night Quidditch set, but you also made it sentient?”

Fred and George stared at her, then each other, then back at her again. Without warning, their faces broke out in identical, delighted grins.

“Why, Hermione, I do think you’re impressed,” Fred said, a glint in his eyes as he threw his arm around her shoulder.

“It was a nice bit of magic, if we do say so ourselves,” George added, doing the same on her other side.

“That you did by accident,” she argued, but was smiling all the same.

It took another ten minutes for Hermione to extricate herself from the twins’ joyful teasing. Finally, she and Harry were able to slip into a shadowed booth in the corner of The Three Broomsticks just as Rita Skeeter appeared. She found them immediately, weaving through the tables towards them.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hermione asked softly, despite being the one to arrange the whole thing.

“I’m sure,” Harry nodded. Snape was right. If Harry was going to fight back against Umbridge's influence, it was going to have to be something productive, something to counteract the damage she was doing.

Rita reached them, sitting down excitedly in the other side of the booth.

“Harry,” she cooed, eyes gleaming. “So lovely to see you again.” She glanced between him and Hermione speculatively, but Hermione quickly shut her down.

“Remember our arrangement,” she said.

“Of course,” Rita pursed her lips. “A bit of human interest never hurt a story’s receptibility however, dear.”

Harry eyed Hermione’s cursed bag and hoped Hermione didn’t think to nudge it into Rita’s foot under the table.

“There’s human interest in the name,” Hermione argued.

“True enough,” Rita agreed, taking in Harry’s appearance. “You seem different. Changed. I’d love to hear all about it.”

“A lot has happened,” Harry said cryptically.

“Then tell me,” Rita urged, taking out a quill and pad of paper.

Harry did.

As he and Hermione had discussed, they focused on the events in the graveyard. Skeeter knew a good story when she heard one, and this one had her practically salivating. She pursued the thread to the trial, which was a trickier subject to discuss. Most of what they knew or suspected was only speculation, such as Voldemort having enough loyal people in the Wizengamot to get a majority to declare him guilty. Harry and Hermione had already previously agreed to only state facts, and of those, only ones that were open secrets. They said nothing about where or with whom he had hid, glossing over the topic as a whole. He forced himself to say how grateful he was for the legal pardon, but soothed his wounded pride with an impassioned defence that it wouldn’t have been necessary if the trial was fair.

She listened closely, asking good questions. He wasn’t a fan of the more invasive ones about the fear he felt in the graveyard, but recognised why she was asking. He’d discussed public perception with Snape- no. Best not think about that right now.

She was clearly disappointed not to get more details about Harry’s months as a fugitive, but was too excited about what she had learned to push further.

“Now, tell me. In light of your haunting story and coming back to the present, what has it been like to see everyone call you a liar?”

Harry stammered for a moment, and she changed tacts. “Having been accused of lying yourself, how do you feel about the law currently on the floor in the Wizengamot to punish people who ‘fearmonger’?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Hermione cut in dangerously, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? It’s terrible,” Rita said, but her face betrayed her delight at getting to share such a juicy piece of information. “They’ve used public safety to justify it. They want to impose fines on people who push ideas that could cause mass hysteria. They haven’t mentioned You-Know-Who, of course, but it’s clear that your claims are what’s driving it.”

“So they want to punish anyone who dares to oppose the Ministry rhetoric?” Hermione all but hissed. Harry leaned forward, beginning to feel alarmed.

“How are they allowed to do that?”

Rita gave him a pitying look. “Your innocence almost proves your honesty, Harry.”

He scowled at the patronising. “I’m not innocent.”

“Oh, but you are,” Rita said, waving the pad of paper she’d been frantically writing on for the past hour and half in front of his face. “That’s the whole point. You’re an innocent young boy, targeted by an evil Dark Lord and abandoned by your government. A victim.” She stood, tucking her tools of trade into her purse and placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Once my story hits the press, everyone will be falling over themselves to defend you.”

Harry noticed that “your story” had become “my story”.

“When will you be able to get it to me?” Hermione asked, interrupting the monologue.

Rita cut her a look, betraying her irritation at Hermione’s restrictions for the first time. “The sooner this gets out, the better. Especially considering the law being drafted.”

“Yes, I agree,” Hermione said, with equal sharpness. “So, when will you be able to get it to me?”

Rita huffed, then mercifully released his shoulder. “Very soon. Believe me, I won’t be working on anything else until it’s finished.” She turned and left, heels clicking sharply on the floor. 

“Did you know about that law?” Harry asked as Hermione moved to sit across from him and give them both more space. He tucked his feet out of danger when she slid her bag over and reached into it, obviously searching for something.

“No…” she said distractedly, sitting up red-faced and gripping a notebook tightly in her hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t let it happen again.”

Harry decided he really, really didn’t want to know.

“Hey, mate,” Ron’s voice came from next to them, and Harry looked up with a grin. He moved over to give his friend room to sit down, and the redhead did, avoiding Hermione’s bag under the table with over-exaggeration.

“How’d your shopping go?”

“Good,” Ron said, popping a chocolate frog in his mouth and sliding one over to Harry. “How’d the interview with old Skeeter turn out?”

Harry grimaced. “About how you’d expect. Not too bad, though.”

“That’s good.” Ron checked the card in his chocolate frog box. “Ugh, Gilderoy Lockheart. He was one of the few cards I didn’t mind losing in the attack. Wouldn’t have even kept it if I wasn’t trying to get the full set. Hey, mind if I take yours? I’ve got to restart my whole collection.”

Harry choked hard on the leg of his chocolate frog. Ron thumped his back a few times. After a few minutes, Harry gasped, eyes streaming, “Er, sure?”

Ron looked at him strangely, then checked Harry’s card. “Agrippa. Not bad. Already got one, but maybe I can use it to trade.”

Harry nodded meaninglessly, a clawing creature of guilt waking in his chest. He felt incredibly selfish. In the chaos of the past few months, he’d completely forgotten about the attack on the Burrow in August. Remembering that it was because Voldemort had been looking for him made it worse.

“How are things, anyway?” he asked weakly, trying not to sound like he’d forgotten his best friend’s house being razed to the ground.

“Oh, they’ve got most of the first floor done. Mum and Dad are still living at Aunt Muriel's, though. Dumbledore himself has offered to help put up a few extra wards on the place when it’s done.”

“That’s good,” Harry smiled, relieved that Ron didn’t seem suspicious.

“Let’s go,” Hermione suddenly said, snapping her notebook shut. She swung her satchel up onto her shoulder, Harry and Ron tripping over themselves trying to scramble out of its way.

They left The Three Broomsticks, laughing as the wind picked up a drift of snow and blew it in their faces. When the white blast cleared, Harry caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he locked gazes with Lucius Malfoy.

Chapter Text

He reached out blindly and grabbed one of his friends’ arms, drawing his wand with his other hand.

“Harry, what is?” he heard distantly, but was focused on the figure leaning casually in an alley. A corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched up, and his eyes sparked at Harry. In the next moment, he had turned on the spot and disapparated.

“Was that Lucius Malfoy?” Ron asked.

Harry, mouth dry, nodded.

“What's he doing here?”

“I don't know, but I can guess.”

“You think he was watching you?” Hermione sounded worried, eying the alley.

“What else?”

“Maybe he was visiting mini Malfoy,” Ron said, not sounding very hopeful about it.

“Well then, where's dearest Draco now?”

“We better get up to the castle,” Hermione urged. “Keep to the crowds, and don't get separated.”

The three of them joined a large group of people trekking back up to the castle. Ron and Hermione were careful to flank Harry on either side. He tried not to be irritated at them for it, knowing it wasn’t worth the petty argument to bring it up. All three let out a sigh of relief when they felt the castle’s wards pass over them.

“We should tell somebody,” Hermione said as they walked into the entrance hall.

“I will,” Harry promised. “You two go on up to the tower.”

“Who-” Ron began, but Hermione grabbed his arm and began tugging him away. She looked over her shoulder and gave Harry a stern look.

“Tell him everything, Harry.”

He swallowed and nodded. He watched them go, Ron obviously asking what she’d meant and Hermione saying something about waiting to hear about it soon.

If she thinks I’m gonna give her a full report of me and Snape’s heart-to-heart, she’s wrong, Harry groused as he turned to the dungeons, knowing she was absolutely right.

The walk down the dungeons was a lot shorter when your head was spinning with worries and reservations. In what seemed like no time at all, Harry stood in front of Snape’s office door. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he hoped that the man wouldn’t be somewhere else or, worse, in the middle of a meeting with one of his Slytherins.

He knocked hesitantly. Instead of flicking the door open immediately with his wand, Snape seemed to hesitate. Harry heard the sounds of footsteps rounding the desk and approaching. Then the heavy oak door was partially opened, enough for Harry to see the man himself, but little else.

“Potter?” Snape looked closely at his face, then corrected, more gently, “Harry?”

“Professor, please,” Harry pleaded, needing something more than just to be allowed inside, not quite sure what he was asking but sensing that a part of him would break if Snape said no.

Snape only hesitated for another heartbeat before opening the door wider and stepping aside to allow Harry entrance. He walked past him into the dim room.

The distressed teen sat in his usual chair. He turned to Snape, only to see the man leaning against the closed door and staring at Harry with a crease of worry in between his brows. “What is the matter?”

Harry cleared his throat, trust in Snape and desire to confide in him clashing with their recent animosity. “I… something happened today, in Hogsmeade.”

Snape’s demeanour shifted from passive worry to immediate anxiety. He stepped forward quickly, crossing the office to Harry in three long strides. He made an aborted movement with his arm, as if about to reach out but thinking better of it. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Harry was quick to assure him. “I’m alright, so’s everyone else. It was just something I thought you should be aware of. When Ron, Hermione, and I left The Three Broomsticks this afternoon, we saw Lucius Malfoy watching us. He disappeared a moment later, and nothing else happened. It was just… strange.”

“I see. And that was all?”

“That’s all,” Harry confirmed.

Snape watched him for another moment. Apparently finding what he was looking for in Harry’s face, he nodded and sat behind his desk. As he lowered himself into his chair, his face smoothed into deliberate stoicism. “Thank you for telling me.”

Harry waited for him to say more, but it seemed that he was dismissed. Bullshit. He was done with this awkward tension.

“You don’t have anything else to say?” he burst.

“Unless there is more, I see no reason to discuss it further. I will alert the Headmaster. You may go waste time with your friends until tonight’s Occlumency lesson.”

Almost anyone else would have believed Snape’s calm act. He knew better, knew the man’s tells. Snape’s fingers tapped a frantic rhythm on his desk, an obvious sign that he was worrying about something. Harry reflexively reached out and grabbed his wrist to still them.

“Did none of it mean anything to you?” Harry demanded, meeting surprised dark eyes. “How can you sit there and act like those months never happened?”

Snape’s eyes widened further, then he pulled his hand free of Harry’s grip and cast a strong privacy ward around them. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

“Are you serious right now?” Harry’s frustration peaked. “You know exactly what I mean! So stop dancing around the issue and answer the damn question!”

Snape scowled. “Language!” Harry glared at him until he huffed out a sigh. “No.”

“‘No, it didn’t mean anything’; or ‘no, Harry, you’re right, it did happen, so sorry for ignoring you for a stupid mistake’?”

“I was not ignoring you,” Snape said, face pinched, like he was fighting to keep his temper in check.

Harry’s reply was sullen. “Sure felt like it.”

Snape slowly crossed his arms. “I was under the impression that you were tired of my interference.”

“Tired of– no.” Harry stood and started to pace back and forth. Snape’s eyes tracked him as he did. “I don’t know about you, how you felt about it all or anything–” since you’re about as good at sharing your feelings as I am at Divination, he mentally complained, even though he knew it wasn’t quite true, “–but for me, it felt like there was finally an adult I could rely on. Was I wrong?”

“I…” Snape looked away, staring at a shelf of potions ingredients with a face so flat it must have been forced. “Of course I wish for you to feel that you can come to me if you have an issue.”

“If I have an issue,” Harry repeated, disbelief colouring his voice.

“I do not know what you want from me!” He sounded distressed now, as though Harry were the unreasonable one.

This was it. Now, or never. A Hermione-like voice in his head said It’s best to just get these things out in the open, you know. It was immediately followed by something distinctly more Ron. Just get it over with.

“I want you to care.”

He cringed as soon as it was said. This was not the nature of their relationship. Even before the argument, back in the village when it seemed so much easier to be open and honest with each other, their emotional discussions tended to be more about one or other (although it was usually Harry) of their problems and worries. Their evolving feelings about each other were never on the table. The closest they had ever gotten was Snape admitting, in a very roundabout way, that he had been wrong to mistreat Harry because of his father. Saying something like this so frankly felt awkward and wrong.

Snape must have felt it too. His face blanched. Harry wished the floor would swallow him whole. He looked away, anywhere but at Snape, who had ducked his head so that a dark curtain of greasy hair swung down to hide his face.

“I do.”

It was so quiet, Harry at first thought he had imagined it with wishful thinking. He turned back to stare at his professor, but couldn’t see anything besides dark hair and white knuckles clutching the ends of armrests.

“I’m sorry about the Quidditch thing,” Harry whispered. It was the one thing he hadn’t said during their argument.

To his surprise, Snape gave a short, humourless laugh. “I do not care about your Quidditch stunt.”

“Then why–”

“It was different, in the village,” Snape mused aloud, almost as if lost in thought.

“I know.” And he did. It was hard for him to put words to it… but not, apparently, for Snape.

“Everything extra had been stripped away. No Order, no Hogwarts, no Dark Lord. No magic. Just us, alone, forced to make the best of a situation neither of us wanted to be in. And somehow, in the midst of it all, I found myself thinking that I did not mind.”

Harry felt a pang in his chest as he thought about those peaceful months. Clumsy and weird at first, as they learned to navigate living together. Both confusing and illuminating, once they had.

“It was easier there, as well. To know what I should do.” Snape lifted his head then, and Harry was taken aback at the somewhat lost expression he saw there. “There were no other teachers or students around, other than the villagers who knew nothing of the real situation and were thus fundamentally unable to step up. Here, my role is less… clear.” The adriftness was gone, much to Harry’s relief, eclipsed by frustration. “I continue the Occlumency lessons, although those have been less than productive lately. I teach you Potions. Otherwise, what am I supposed to do? Discipline is your head of house’s responsibility. Your friends are able to lighten a bad mood. The elves and castle itself fulfil your basic needs.”

“But you didn’t start acting all… professor-y until just this week.”

“‘Professor-y’?”

Harry crossed his arms.

“I am still your Professor, Harry.”

“Yeah, but you’re more, too.”

There was a pause, both considering what to say to guide the conversation towards what they each needed to talk about.

“I do care,” Snape finally repeated. “But that still does not mean I know what you want from me.”

“What do you want to do?” Maybe it was too much to hope that some sort of latent parental instincts would kick in for Snape, that he would suddenly figure out exactly how to be what Harry wanted (and what did Harry want? He wasn’t even really sure he knew) on his own. “It’s not like I have a lot of experience with this either, you know.”

A clock on the wall ticked away the seconds. Several went by before Snape sat forward slightly and answered. “I want to be the person you need.”

It was a big admission. Perhaps a huge one. They both knew it, too. Snape’s face began to flush with embarrassment, but to his credit, he didn’t look away. He seemed to have come to a resolution to be as vulnerable as Harry had made himself. It was something too valuable to waste.

“I need someone who cares,” Harry immediately said, because at his deepest level, that was most true.

A tilt of amusement lifted one of Snape’s brows. “Then I am afraid, Mr. Potter, that we are right back where we started.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled a little. “I think we actually had an argument like this, you know. You were being stubborn about something, I can’t remember- oh, yeah, the bed. I was sleeping on the coach, which you thought was a big deal for some reason, and I told you that where I slept wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that you cared enough to do something about it.” Legs getting tired, he sat back down in his chair. He pulled his feet up and rested his chin on one knee. “That was the main thing, I think. You felt like you had to actively do something to fix my problems, and I just wanted somebody to care.”

“In my experience, true proof of care comes from action. If I see something that needs to be taken care of, I am inclined to do so myself.”

“Like traumatised orphans?” Harry joked. Snape gave a pained sigh.

“Like a teacher using dark artefacts on her students.”

Harry smirked. “How did you do that, anyway?”

Snape leaned back in his chair and gave a shrug with one shoulder. “If I were to ever teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, I would have more to share with my students than theoretical knowledge.”

“You should poison her and take her job,” Harry nodded, only half joking.

Snape snorted. “That’s a fine thing for the hero of the Light to say.”

They lapsed into silence again, but it was far more comfortable than the previous one.

“You could make sure I keep up in my classes,” Harry offered, still thinking about what having a responsible adult in one’s life was supposed to be like. Then he had an image of Snape reading over his History of Magic essays and making him redo them until they were O quality and immediately backtracked. “Or, like, the studies on wards and stuff.”

Snape, evidently, had followed this whole thought process. He looked decidedly amused. “I believe one of those extra studies was on proper defence.”

Harry stared at Snape blankly until the words sank in, when his feet dropped back down to the floor and he straightened in excitement. “You would teach me defence? Like, duelling and stuff?”

Snape inclined his head, then jabbed a finger at Harry. “Do not take this as a reward for your poor decisions last weekend,” he said warningly.

“I thought you weren’t upset about that. I know it was stupid.”

“Perhaps the ‘person you need’ has to ensure that you receive a few reminders.”

“I take it back, I want to stay a neglected orphan.”

Snape ignored this. “Now that Umbridge has cancelled the league, I suppose you have your whole Saturday free?”

“Yes,” Harry said slowly.

Snape nodded. “If we restrict the Occlumency to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, then Saturday can be a practical day for Defence and brewing.”

Harry had forgotten about making up the potions he’d missed. He groaned and slumped in his seat.

“With, of course, ample breaks for you to work on your other homework. It wouldn’t do for you to fall behind.”

The automatic, sarcastic response of Yes, Dad, was one he quickly stamped down. He wasn’t sure how well it would be received after their emotionally charged conversation, and was still highly aware of the difference between the village and Hogwarts. Snape was right. Things were changed here. The dynamic felt swapped from a tentatively new rapport to something more complicated. The stakes were higher now.

Well, that wasn’t quite right. The stakes were the same as they always had been. It was just harder to forget them here than it had been in the village.

As he and Snape talked over plans for defence and duelling, Harry felt himself relaxing for the first time in a week. Strange how Lucius Malfoy’s appearance could result in the two of them getting back to friendly terms.

He was still figuring out what he needed, but had learned enough to know that he wanted this to stay.

Chapter Text

After clearing the air with Snape, Harry felt a renewed desire to prove himself to the man. Sunday, he finished his homework straight after breakfast. Hermione approved of this newfound dedication to his schoolwork, but he assured a worried Ron that he just wanted more time to work on his Occlumency. Then he went straight back to his dorm and sat cross-legged on the bed.

It was now second nature to begin by meditating. After his mind had reached a ready, calm state, he tried once more to arrange his different portions of memories into a cohesive, deliberate whole; and once more, was unsuccessful. With a frustrated groan, he stood and started pacing.

It wasn’t that he was unable to move the memory groupings around in his head. It wasn’t his ability to focus or multitask, either: he had worked on both skills with Snape through various mental exercises like the kick beat lesson and brewing session. If the problem didn’t lie there, then what was it?

He thought back on all of his previous failed attempts. The overall feeling throughout all of them was a sense of confusion, like he didn’t know what he was doing. He understood the theory and general concept, but struggled to visualise the application.

Visualise! He needed to find a way to visualise the maze as a whole. Then he would be able to have a plan to follow of how to go about making his mind maze instead of randomly moving memory clusters around and hoping they would somehow magically form a deadly trap against a snooping Voldemort.

His roaming gaze fell on his bedside table. He hurried over and opened the drawer, grinning as he caught sight of the Marauder’s Map.

“You made a… map… of your mind maze?”

“More of a blueprint, actually, ‘cause it’s not built yet, but yeah.”

Snape looked it over critically. “What do these symbols represent?”

Harry had fashioned the map to look like the plans for a castle. “Well, it’s all a bit symbolic. The corridors are long stretches of safe memories I made, like the Quidditch tunnel, that I could send a Legillimens down to guide them towards or away from certain places.” He leaned forward to point at a prominent corridor that led straight out of the castle. “This here is actually the Quidditch tunnel itself—obviously you can tell that, because I labelled it and all—and the arrow points in the direction the tunnel goes. Since it’s designed like a buffeting wind, travel down it can only go one way, so I made the tunnel an easy way for me to kick a Legillimens directly out of my mind if I had to.”

He then pointed to a different spot. “The rooms are different. Rooms shaped like circles are memories that I absolutely need to keep hidden, that I can’t afford to let anyone into. That’s why they’re so hard to get to, and close enough to the Quidditch tunnel that I can boot anyone who gets too close. Square rooms are more personal, private memories that I would rather keep hidden but could sacrifice for the sake of the circle rooms. Emotional talks with my friends, embarrassing childhood memories, that sort of thing. Not what I’d want public knowledge, but they’re not war secrets. The triangle rooms are unimportant memories that don’t really matter.”

“And the diamond rooms?”

Harry smiled grimly. “Those are trap rooms. Really bad memories, like the Dementors on the Quidditch pitch in third year, that I would force a Legillimens into to disorient and scare them. Not all of my bad memories, since some of those have sensitive information, but any that are safe for me but not for them.”

Snape nodded slowly, reading over the various rooms and corridors with an approving eye. Harry, watching him closely to see his reaction, knew immediately when Snape noticed the one thing Harry had hoped he wouldn’t.

“There is a circle room here labelled ‘S2’ and a corridor on the other side of the castle labelled ‘S1’. If they are related, as the numbering would suggest, then why are they given such opposed priority?”

“S1” was the passageway of Professor Snape memories, while “S2” was the soon-to-be carefully hidden cabin of ones with village Snape. Harry really didn’t want to explain it, so he shrugged.

“Some I can let others see, and some I can’t.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. Why could he always tell when Harry was lying, or at least hiding part of the truth? But he seemed to decide to let it be, probably deducing that it was something personal. He returned to his perusal of the map.

“Very good,” he eventually said, handing it back. “One thing to note: the layout of the castle is very similar to that of Hogwarts. Anyone familiar with the school will have an advantage if they recognize the likeness.”

Harry pursed his lips. “So I have to rewrite it?”

Snape raised an eyebrow, and he repressed a sigh. He had to rewrite it.

Using the original as a reference, Harry sat on the floor beside Snape's coffee table—they had moved into his private quarters for this lesson, as it was so cold that night and Snape seemed to have a pathological inability to build up the fire in his office. Maybe he was afraid of someone coming in and realising he was human?—and started working. 

Snape walked off to the kitchen, where yet another cauldron was bubbling on the range top. He had told Harry that he only brewed simple potions that were stable and at least non-fatal to consume at every stage in his kitchen, which was less of a comfort than it probably should have been.

“Hey, D-Professor?” Uh-oh. That was an unforeseen consequence of his relief at getting back on easy terms with Snape. His emotional control was shaky after their argument. He cleared his throat when Snape looked up expectantly from his cauldron. “Is there a music shop in Diagon Alley?”

“I believe there is,” Snape said, turning back to stir his potion. “Why?”

Harry shrugged, even though he wouldn't see it. “I'd like to get another practice chanter. Dominic Maestro’s Music Shop in Hogsmeade didn’t have one. The full pipes are cool, but it'd be nice to have a chanter to practise on sometimes.”

“You could order one by owl.”

“Owl order is a thing?”

Snape paused, then looked at Harry over his shoulder. “It is sometimes hard to recall how little you know about our world.”

“S'not my fault there was nobody to teach me,” Harry scowled.

“No,” Snape said slowly, brewing at a more ponderous pace. “You could write and inquire.”

“I don’t know the name of the shop,” Harry protested.

“Check for ads in the Daily Prophet. Many businesses advertise there.”

Harry carefully drew the outline of a triangle room labelled First-year Charms classes, lips pursed in concentration. “That’s so much work, though.”

Snape snorted. “It is entirely in your hands. Endure the gruelling task of reading the paper, or suffer without the practice aid you desire. You decide which option will be best in the long run.”

“Ideally, neither.” Harry carefully blotted the ink before moving to another section.

“Alas, first world problems.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I guess after Voldemort, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”

“Perspective, Harry. It may not change the world, but it certainly changes how we see it.”

“Was that on a greeting card?”

“No, a condolence card from your Head of House after you started attending.”

Harry’s jaw dropped open in amused affront. “You don't even have to try, do you?”

Snape’s back was to Harry, but he could feel the man's smirk deep in his soul.

Technically his lessons ended at half eight, but curfew wasn't until ten. So, when the clock on the wall marked 8:30, he completed the last finishing touch and left it rolled out to dry. He only hesitated for a second before flopping down on the couch with his Transfiguration textbook. He was about halfway done with the essays and readings McGonagall decided he would need to complete, and he was more grateful than ever that he had been allowed to take an evaluation and test out of lessons he didn't need. It made the sting of missing the first term less fierce. He didn't mind having less work to do, either.

He was still contemplating whether he valued having increased free time or less reminders of his criminal standing more when Snape began walking over. He faltered slightly when he saw the time, but didn't say anything about it, so Harry slumped deeper into the couch with a small smile.

He leant down to inspect Harry's rearranged map, hands clasped behind his back like some sort of art critic. He looked it over in silence before giving a wordless hum and settling into what Harry suspected was his usual armchair.

“Well? Good enough?”

“Sufficient,” came the bland reply.

“Admit it, it was a great idea.”

Stony black eyes met dancing green ones. “Oh?”

Harry paused. He was fairly sure that this was just Snape's dry humour, acting unaffected as usual whenever they bantered. If it had been two weeks ago, he would have proceeded as usual, but now, his confidence was somewhat shaken. He'd forgotten what it was like to have village Snape actually angry with him, and was suddenly nervous about making it happen again.

The man across from him sighed, perhaps realising why the sassy comment he must have been expecting never came. “Yes, it was.”

Harry, cheeks red with embarrassment, hid his face behind his book by pretending to read. Don't be so stupid! He wasn't even mad at you last week, you just read the situation wrong.

Yeah, but what if I read it wrong again? Another voice seemed to argue back. You learned him pretty good in the village, but this isn't the village, is it?

“Of course,” Snape said after a beat, sarcastic humour more clear in his voice now, “I could not comment on its execution. Art was never my strong suit.”

Harry recognised the quip he'd made during their swim lesson, and behind his textbook, a big grin spread across his face.

At breakfast the next morning, an owl careened wildly over to Hermione, narrowly avoiding landing in a plate of scrambled eggs. It was holding a thick scroll, and its feathers were in severe disarray. It impatiently held out a leg for Hermione to take its message, then began aggressively preening. Parvarti and Lavender squealed in disgust and pulled the dishes out of range as dust and down began to get everywhere. Ron shook fluff off his nose and leaned in, mirroring Harry on her other side.

“What is it?”

“Rita,” she said with a grim little smile. She unfurled the scroll, setting aside the attached letter, and began reading as the two boys tried to follow along. She had always been a faster reader than either of them, however, and rolled it back up before either were finished.

“It's good.” She tapped the scroll against her chin, eyes far away. “Very good. She certainly knows what she's doing. A bit too focused on the dramatics for my taste, but the average reader will love it. I'll tweak it, of course. Redirect that one bit away from such a focus on speculating where you may have been, emphasize the unfairness of being forced to hide in the first place. But overall, I think it will do exactly what we need it to.”

Ron blinked slowly, then sat up with eyes widened to exaggeration. “Yup! We understood everything you just said!”

Hermione huffed but nudged his shoulder playfully. Harry smiled and reached for the letter that had been attached to the story draft. Before he could read it, Hermione plucked it out of his hands.

“I believe the name at the top says ‘Granger,’ not ‘Potter’.” She smiled to lessen the impact of her words, but she also made sure to stuff the letter directly into the Satchel of Death.

“C'mon, I just want to know what she said.”

“I know what she said,” Hermione grumbled, standing. Ron and Harry followed suit.

“What'd she say?”

“She said she'd be happy to, but I'm going to tell her no–again.” And with that cryptic comment, she strode off, the boys exchanging perplexed looks and hurrying to catch up.

Chapter Text

Repairing a relationship wasn't something Severus had much experience in. Ruining them– allowing them to stagnate– these, he had learned, were far easier. It seemed, however, that this process was more simple when the person on the other end worked just as hard to make things right.

There were still moments over the next few lessons where Harry would randomly become unsure of himself, staggering to a halt in the middle of their more casual discussions. He hesitated more than before. Severus found himself deeply regretting his own ill-conceived choice to withdraw. After several months of allowing himself to get close with another living human, he had relapsed into old insecurities. It was all rather embarrassing. One would think that, at his age, he would not be so self-conscious about the affections of a fifteen year old boy, yet here they were. Sitting on either side of his desk, lapsed into a still-awkward silence that was all the more uncomfortable in comparison to their animated discussion moments before, the two of them had just finished another lesson.

“I… guess I should get going,” Harry said.

“I suppose you should,” Severus agreed.

Neither moved.

“Um, have you heard anything about Lucius Malfoy in Hogsmeade?”

Severus fought to keep his expression smooth at the reminder of something that had caused him several sleepless nights. “Not at present.”

“Right.”

Before another painful second could pass, there was a knock at the door. Without any chance for him to send the person away, it banged open and a seventh year Hufflepuff stumbled inside.

“Professor! I have to talk to you!”

Severus scowled deeply at seeing who it was. “Can it not wait?”

“No!” the boy’s eyes were wide, and he was obviously worked up about something. He didn’t seem to have even noticed Harry sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs. “I’ve been trying to look at my N.E.W.T. prep stuff, but the section on combinative potions in application seems to conflict with the theory! I can’t-”

Severus interrupted this panicked tirade with a fierce glower. “Speak to me after class. My office hours have ended!”

He deflated like Severus had just killed his cruppy. “I–” he looked around, then spotted Harry. “But he’s here!”

“He doesn’t have a choice.” He smirked as Harry gave a dramatic sigh.

“Remedial potions,” he muttered.

The seventh year—Daniel Pappalardo, Merlin, Severus wished he would graduate already, it was like Percy Weasley all over again—threw his hands dramatically into the air. “I'll come back tomorrow, then.”

Severus wondered if it had been meant to sound like the threat he took it as. “If you must.”

Pappalardo sighed and, with the barest minimum of a respectful nod, left.

“Was that–” Harry began.

“One of the things I missed least during our time in the village.”

Harry stared at the closed door over his shoulder, as if he could see through it to the frantic N.E.W.T. student. “I've heard gossip about him in the common room.”

“Oh?”

“Fred and George say he really puts the ‘pot’ in ‘potions’,” he snorted, then turned to Severus with the wide eyes of a teenager who had just broken the unspoken code of secrecy between students. “But, er, I'm sure it was just a joke.”

It was not a joke. Severus had been trying to find Pappalardo’s secret stash for years in order to expel the boy and get him out of his hair. “I'm sure.”

Harry gave a nervous laugh. Severus suppressed a snort.

He picked up his quill. “I will see you in Potions class tomorrow.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Severus tilted his head in bemusement. “You are a student at this venerable institution, no? A student who, to both of our regret, attends my class in a mixed lesson with Gryffindor and Slytherin thrice a week?”

Harry gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don't like the teacher,” he joked, and Severus gave a huff. He waved the teen off, wondering why the last part of their interaction had seemed off.

Severus’ sleep schedule had sufficiently recovered from McAullife’s regular wakeup call. He now arose at a lazy half six, stalking into the Great Hall at seven. He was still half-asleep over his morning coffee, although he masked it for the students’ sakes.

He blinked as he chewed a slice of bacon and, while his eyelids began the slow battle back upwards, jerked in surprise when a magazine was slammed against his chest. He coughed on his food as it went down wrong, great choking gasps that brought the attention of more than one student on him. He gave them all a watery glare and looked down at the paper Minerva had shoved at him.

“Did you know about this?” she hissed, sounding remarkably like an enraged cat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Umbridge looking over with interest and hoped she hadn’t heard. Minerva gave her a dark look. Severus ignored both of them and scanned the issue. He raised an eyebrow to see that it was The Quibbler.

Murmurs were beginning to rise from the students. They were beginning to clump up in small groups around similar magazines. Severus returned the copy in his hands with increased focus.

His eyes immediately zeroed in on a blurb in the corner with Harry’s name. Harry Potter Speaks Out About What Really Happened! He flipped to the page number listed with such haste that the corner ripped. He smoothed it over with his thumb as he scanned the article.

When he had finished, he slowly lowered the magazine down to his lap, staring blankly at the table.

“Well?” Minerva asked.

Severus stood, curling it up in one hand into a tight roll. He gave a wordless snarl and started walking towards Gryffindor table.

While much of it was a show for the students watching, Severus didn’t have to try to exude anger. It was already beginning to scream from his entire body naturally. Most students took one look at him as he passed and cowered back. He paid them no attention. His focus was solely fixed on a laughing, tousle-headed teenage boy that was about to spend the rest of his days in detention if he didn’t have a very good explanation ready.

Weasley and Granger, sitting across from Harry, noticed him first. The smiles froze on their faces, and the laughter slowly faded from their friend as he noticed.

“What?” came Harry’s gormless question, just before Severus’ hand latched onto the back of his collar. He felt the shoulders underneath it droop in realisation and fought an absurd grin. This really was not amusing. All around them, students stared in horror and morbid fascination at the murder they half-expected to witness.

“Seeing as how you are so eager to talk about your life story for the entire wizarding world to read over coffee, I am sure you will have no trouble with a chat in my office.” He said chat like the threat it was, and a universal shiver ran down the entirety of Gryffindor table. Harry swallowed visibly and looked up at him with wide eyes that still betrayed a hint of defiance. This did not help Severus’ mood.

“Up, Potter!” he snarled when a pink blob in the corner of his eye rose to her feet. Before any more protest could be made, he practically frog-marched the spluttering boy out of the hall and down towards the dungeons. He released his collar when they were out of the Great Hall, but Harry knew better than to drag his feet. They reached his office in record time, where Severus yanked his office door open as The Boy Who Lived To Torture Him slunk inside.

Severus slammed the paper down on the desk in front of Harry, who jumped in surprise. The edges of The Quibbler curled up from his tight grip on the roll, and Harry’s eyes were glued to it.

“Care to explain?” he asked neutrally.

Harry met his gaze with frank, nervous but conviction-led green eyes. “You told me that the Quidditch stunt was useless and ineffective in fighting against Umbridge. I said that I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I know you wish I would, but I also know that you’re smart enough to realise that that’s not something I'm willing to do. This was me making a stand, doing the best I could to stop what she’s doing here at Hogwarts without endangering anyone or my education. I knew going in that she wouldn’t be happy, that she’d punish me for it, but I decided it was worth it. I did think this through, Professor. I promise, I did. I thought it through, and I made my choice.”

Severus let the moment drag out after that, watching him closely for any signs of doubt or breaking. There were none. Harry stood tall, obviously meaning every last word, and willing to bear the brunt of Severus’ wrath for the sake of something he believed in. This, more than anything, made him back down. He deliberately released the tension in his muscles, leaning his hip against the desk with crossed arms. Harry obviously noticed and sighed in relief.

“You have prepared yourself for several unpleasant days, I trust?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “Ron and Hermione have already told me I’m not allowed to go off by myself until she cools down.”

“I never expected to find myself approving of anything those two reckless Gryffindors said, but in this, I must agree with them.”

“It’s not fun to be followed around all the time,” Harry pointed out weakly, obviously not expecting this argument to have any effect. In that, he was right.

“Any time alone with that interfering harridan would be less than fun,” Severus said. He picked up the crumpled magazine, flipping back to the article with his head now clearer. “I was surprised to find that you had teamed up with Rita Skeeter for this.” Harry grimaced.

“She’s got a big following, and Hermione had dirt on her. We could depend on her to write what she was told—which feels weird to say, considering who she is, but that was what we needed.”

“It is quite the emotional journey,” he snarked, scanning the alternatingly saccharine and scathing lines. At least, in this instance, the harsh criticisms were levelled at the deserving Ministry rather than the resigned boy in front of him.

“I know. It’s sort of her M.O., I think. Hermione said the public would love it.”

“It is just the sort of thing to appeal to their sense of drama.” He caught sight of the section discussing the months after the Ministry’s farce of a trial. “Your time on the run was rather glossed over.”

“That was part of the deal.”

Severus began to wonder what sort of influence Miss Granger could have over such a well-known figure as Rita Skeeter, and what kind of person it took to exert such leverage at the age of sixteen. “Ah, yes, your ‘deal’.” He left the words hanging, waiting to see if Harry would pick up the slack with more information, but got a knowing (and silent) smile in return. He dropped the issue back down onto his desk. “You had better get back up to breakfast. I will see you at Potions this afternoon.”

Harry blinked, then nodded and left. Severus turned back to stare at the thin magazine on his desk, worrying about what kind of shockwaves would result from the impact of one singular article. As always, the teen who had just left his office was in the dead centre of ground zero. Pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a heavy sigh, Severus allowed the anxiety of it all to course through his body for a few more minutes before locking it away behind Occlumency shields. He straightened his robes and donned his stern teaching face before turning to the door into his classroom and stepping through.

Chapter Text

Ministry retaliation was swift and harsh following Harry's article. In the Wizengamot, it was used as the final push needed to pass the Fearmonger Laws. At Hogwarts, Umbridge was given more power than ever before. The Quibbler was immediately banned, which only made it an object of increased curiosity to the students. Those who had managed to save a copy from her initial purge soon found themselves quite popular with their classmates. The pages with Skeeter’s article actually became valuable material on the school’s ever-thriving black market, worth even more than the illicit potions used to keep OWL and NEWT students awake during class. (Ron had once tried to get Hermione to brew potions for this thriving business to fund their adventures, but she had unsurprisingly been scandalised and refused to speak with him for three days.) Evidently frustrated with the school’s obvious failure to stamp out the article’s spread, Umbridge had decided to use her new power to get something else she wanted.

Sybil Trelawney was escorted from the school by two burly DMLE wizards one cold February morning. Everyone had turned up to see her off, and in a surprising show of solidarity, all four houses booed when Umbridge started to make a simpering little speech about the new rule banning any person or persons without a specific role within the school from remaining in permanent residence anywhere on the castle's property. Some of the professors whose families lived with them in their quarters tried to fight this rule on the grounds that it would also force out their husbands, wives, or other close relatives, but were unsurprised when the new policy was only sporadically enforced. Namely, only used to kick out Trelawney.

It had all occurred so fast, happening when Dumbledore was out of the castle, that there was no time to try and give the trembling woman any old half-baked “job” so she could stay. Parvati and Lavender desperately tried to get McGonagall to hire her as a mystical consultant to the Headmaster, but she had to regretfully inform them that she had no authority to create positions at the castle without Dumbledore’s approval.

Trelawney, looking like a shell of her former self, stumbled down the courtyard at the Ministry wizards’ none-too-gentle prodding, her trunk charmed to drag along across the ground behind her. It left marks on the cobblestones as the old leather bottom scraped off from the rough treatment. The former Divination professor was numb. Last time, she had been crying and begging to be left alone, but now, she seemed to have had all of the fight sapped out of her. They escorted her by foot all the way across the grounds and out of sight.

Three days later, she was declared missing.

The whole student body was sombre following this news. Many passed it off as a crazy woman wandering off, but some—usually those most inclined to hear Harry out, who weren’t so quick to believe the Ministry lies that all was well in magical Britain—felt uneasy. It was a widely spread, if not widely believed, rumour that she had been kidnapped by Death Eaters. Strange, inexplicable disappearances had been one of the first signs of trouble during Voldemort’s first rise to power. Still others whispered that the Ministry itself had made her disappear for daring to stand against Umbridge’s authority at Hogwarts.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to regret speaking out, but felt partly responsible for the woman’s disappearance. He didn’t think for one second that there was a benign explanation for her suddenly vanishing from her sister’s house in the middle of the night, and while he didn’t like either of the popular unsavoury theories, he couldn’t deny that they were far more plausible.

Hermione pointed out that Umbridge and the rest of the Ministry would likely feel themselves sufficiently triumphed over the poor woman in getting rid of her. As she put it, they were far more likely to focus their future energies on catching bigger fish like Dumbledore and Harry himself.

Ron, however, expressed his doubt that Voldemort would bother going after her. “She’s a useless old fraud, anyway. Why would they bother exposing themselves for the sake of capturing her? She’s not even a part of the Order. She doesn’t have any use to them.”

Harry uncomfortably remembered the very real prophecy she had made in third year about Pettigrew, but couldn’t figure out how Voldemort would even know about it. He tried to subtly ask Snape if he had told the dark wizard about it, but the man had turned whiter than a sheet before denying any connection to a prophecy about Pettigrew. Despite the man’s odd behaviour, Harry had felt the truth in his words and decided not to press. He guessed that any talk of Voldemort catching teachers would be disturbing to a man who was almost definitely near the top of the madman’s hitlist.

Several people approached Harry over the next week to confront him about the article. Many just wanted to see what he would say, and several obviously didn’t believe him, but a surprising number seemed genuinely open to his story. He wondered how much of this was a result of Skeeter’s over-embellished writing or instinctive kickback against Umbridge’s persistent denials, but he found it heartening nonetheless. He didn’t care about what made them more receptive to the possibility of Voldemort’s return, only that they would be better prepared.

Hermione basked in the glory of The Quibbler’s aftermath. She viewed the school’s reaction as proof of the shining success of her plan, and when the first letter to the editor appeared in The Prophet from an elderly witch complaining about how they were unjustly slandering Harry’s name, she had actually punched a fist into the air and exclaimed in delight. Everyone else at the breakfast table looked at her askance, but she ignored them all as she started cutting the letter out with precise little slashes of her wand. Once it was freed, she stuffed it into her bag.

The one thorn on her rose was the passage of the Fearmonger Laws. She had reassured Harry that a centuries-old ban on ex post facto laws would protect him from any punishment for the magazine article, which was published a mere three days before the new bill was signed by the Minister. Harry had no idea what she was talking about until she had explained it, after which he was extremely grateful that such a ban existed. Armed with a bit more knowledge about Wizarding Law and very little desire to learn any more, Harry walked confidently past Umbridge without paying any attention to her quivers of outrage at the sight of him.

With the increase of the High Inquisitor’s power came an uptick in irritating behaviours from her little squad of minions. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had a run-in with them in the library that Thursday evening.

The three friends had claimed a table in the corner, which the contents of Hermione’s bag quickly devoured. Holding their textbooks on their laps, Ron and Harry were getting more strategizing about Quidditch done than actual homework. Harry felt very little guilt about this, still proud of himself for finally finishing the last of his makeup work. Other than brewing all of the potions he had missed, he was finally caught up to the rest of his peers.

Hermione interrupted their debate about Parkin’s Pincer with an abrupt change in topic. “Did you know that, unless it’s a rare open session, the Ministry doesn’t release the details of a vote, only its result?”

The two boys stared at her.

“Er, no, I didn’t. Why is that relevant?” Harry asked.

Hermione started off on a heated rant about transparency and retrospective voting models when Ron cut her off. He’d craned his neck to look at the open page of her current notebook while she was distracted.

“Then how do you have every vote Lucius Malfoy has made in the last five years?”

She slammed it shut. “There are… other ways,” she said evasively.

“Hermione—and I mean this in the best way possible—you’re starting to scare me,” Ron said.

She traced the spine of her notebook with one finger, lips pursed in thought. Harry and Ron leaned in closer subconsciously, seeing that she was on the verge of telling them what her project over the last several weeks had been. After a few seconds of mentally debating it, she did.

“It started with the reporters. After seeing that Betty Braithwaite person slandering Harry in The Prophet, and knowing about Rita, I wondered if there was any dirt on the other reporters I could get. I started investigating, looking into other things the meanest ones had written in the past, wondering if there was a way to discredit them because they had previously praised Harry or something else along those lines.”

“Hermione, that’s repression.”

“What!”

“You can’t complain about the Ministry shutting down people’s free speech and then try to blackmail reporters for using theirs,” Harry said.

“How much of what they write is their own opinion, and how much is slander the Ministry is pushing them into?”

Ron and Harry still gave her doubtful looks.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” she finally allowed. “That was only how it started, though. Since then, I’ve moved past reporters, and my goals have expanded beyond simply stopping reporters who lie about everything.”

“So what are your goals, then?”

“For now, simply information gathering. I’m not quite sure I know what to do with it yet.” She blushed. “I will admit though, blackmailing Rita was so useful, I’m not sure I wouldn’t do it again if I thought it was necessary.”

“This has to be illegal,” Ron said after a very long silence.

“Politicians do it all the time. Blackmail, emotional manipulation, false promises. They use these tactics against the people and even against each other. Why shouldn’t the people use it against them?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess it’d be useful to know your enemy.”

“Exactly!” Hermione pounced on the first bit of concession either boy would give. “Now that my initial anger at The Prophet’s reporters isn’t driving my project anymore, I’ve started to think about how this could be useful to the Order. I could look into suspected Death Eaters or You-Know-Who’s sympathisers. I know—” she cut off, and Harry suspected she’d been about to name-drop Snape and his spying— “they can’t continue as they have been, but maybe this could somewhat make up for that.”

“Do you know anything about Trelawney, then?”

Hermione’s look of fervour faded to a pensive frown. “Not really. I did look into it, you know. Her sister works at Magical Menagerie, and her sister’s husband is in cauldron sales, but beyond that, I don’t know anything else.”

“Magical Menagerie? Looking to buy another weasel to go with your first one, Granger?”

All three of them whipped around to glare at Draco Malfoy, who was (as ever) flanked by his two usual cronies. Millicent Bulstrode was with them as well, snickering at Malfoy’s stupid joke.

“I was actually considering a ferret, thanks,” she sniffed.

Ron snorted, but Harry was desperately trying not to let any worry show on his face. He hoped the Inquisitorial Squad hadn’t heard too much. Hermione could get in a lot of trouble if word of her recent “research” got out.

Malfoy flushed at the words. He turned up his nose as if to dismiss her, then shifted his silver eyes to Harry. An ugly smirk took over his face, and he leaned his hip against the nearest bookshelf. “Speaking of pets, Potter, I wonder how you’ll be able to keep those two around once you’ve been expelled.”

“What makes you think I’m going to be expelled?” Harry asked, crossing his arms defiantly and glaring up at him.

“Come, now. You don’t really think they’ll let you get away with your little article stunt?”

“Ex post facto laws, Malfoy. She can’t even give me detentions, ‘cause it was before the new High Decrees were made and the interview was off of school grounds. Umbridge can’t do anything to me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Crabbe and Goyle looked bewildered. Millicent Bulstrode turned to Draco for a reaction.

“Not… officially,” the blond said, a nasty gleam in his eye. Ron jumped to his feet.

“You implying something, Malfoy?” he growled.

Harry grabbed his friend’s wrist and yanked him back down into his chair. “Don’t,” he hissed.

“No, do,” Draco taunted.

“None of us are going to give you an excuse to drag us in, Malfoy.” Hermione stood, holding her bag under one arm. The four Slytherins eyed it warily; a wise precaution, in Harry’s eyes. “You may as well go back to your boss and overlord and tell her it didn’t work. She’ll have to find some other way to get him.”

A strange expression flashed across Draco’s face, and when he spoke, his tone had developed a new, dark undercurrent that unsettled Harry. “We’ll go back to Umbridge. But, if I were you, I would remember that there is an overlord interested in Potter—and he is no Ministry lackey.”

Harry grew very still in his chair. Ron gave a wordless growl as the four of them walked off.

“Be careful, Harry,” Hermione whispered, as if he needed reminding.

Harry’s neck unfroze long enough for him to turn and regard the empty library doorway.

“I don’t know,” Ron said, kicking his chair back to balance on its rear legs, “which one is worse? Umbride, or You-Know-Who?”

Hermione gave him a scandalised look. Harry snorted. “One of them is worse to look at than the other.”

“And it’s not old snake-face.”

“Boys! Honestly.” She tried to appear stern, but a slight twitch in the corner of mouth betrayed her amusement.

“Umbridge wouldn’t be half as bad if her stupid policies weren’t making us more vulnerable to Voldemort,” Harry admitted, growing serious. “She’s leaving us practically defenceless.”

“Not you, mate.” Ron let his chair fall back onto all four legs. “You’ve stood up to him… what, four times now? You’re loads better than anyone else in the class at defence, too. Oh, don’t look like that, Hermione, we know you’re the best in everything else. But I mean it, Harry.”

“I’m not that good,” Harry said doubtfully.

Hermione accidentally knocked several books and binders off the table in a sudden hasty search for something. Ron and Harry looked at her askance. She ignored their questions, hair extra frizzy when she triumphantly pulled out a scroll. “Ron’s right, Harry. See here? This is a class ranking for our DADA class with Moody, one of our few competent teachers. Well, I suppose he was actually a Death Eater, but his lessons were still good, weren’t they?” She handed the scroll to him. It was true; his name was at the very top of the list, right above Hermione and Draco. “You are excellent at Defence. You’ve got the life experience and good marks to prove it, too.”

“How did you get this?” Ron gaped.

“Sounds like you’re building up my resume,” Harry joked uneasily. “Okay, fine, I guess I’m alright. Why the big deal, though?”

“You’re afraid of us all being unable to protect ourselves, but you already know how to.”

“Yeah? So?”

“So teach us.”

There was an unsettled, contemplative air in Harry’s manner when he walked into Severus’ office for his Friday Occlumency lesson. He let his book bag fall to the floor in the corner automatically, staring unseeing at a random spot on the wall.

“Sit down,” Severus gestured to the least uncomfortable chair in his office, casting a silent cushioning charm at it almost as an afterthought before the teen sat down. He watched closely as Harry dropped into it, then seemed to emerge from his distraction at the unusual give in the wood.

“Did you get a new chair?” he asked.

“No. What is troubling you?”

“Nothing.”

Severus stared him down until he broke with a sheepish smile.

“Okay, Hermione had an idea yesterday, but I’m not sure if I want to be involved or not.”

Severus thought about what he had recently learned about Miss Granger’s apparent hobby of blackmailing reporters and narrowed his eyes. “Is it legal?”

“Y’know, that’s probably not most people’s first question.”

“Perhaps it ought not be mine, either. I believe it is too late to save you from your disregard for Ministry policy.”

“I’m not actually a felon, Professor.”

“You would be if given half a reason,” Severus retorted, half amused and half aggravated at knowing it was true. The infuriating teen only gave an unconcerned shrug.

“Maybe. Anyway, it’s complicated. It wouldn’t necessarily be dangerous, but could get me into a lot of trouble if I were caught.”

“Trouble you certainly cannot afford,” Severus said warningly, a dislike for this plan already beginning to form. Harry only shrugged again, not meeting his eyes. This child is going to be the death of me. “Trouble with Umbridge?”

“Who else?”

“Is it worth the trouble, or just another stunt?”

“It’s not a stunt. I do know how to learn from past mistakes, you know. I actually think it’d be really helpful for a lot of people.”

“I suppose it is something similar to your interview.”

“No. Less public. We’d need a lot of planning to pull it off, especially if we don’t want to get caught, but no one would get hurt or anything, success or not. It’s a lot of risk, but also a lot of reward.”

“Are you talking me into it, or yourself?”

Harry huffed out a frustrated sigh. “I want your approval, of course, but I need to choose for myself before I can even ask.”

Severus repressed a sigh of his own. Getting answers out of the reluctant Gryffindor was like pulling teeth sometimes. “And what is this involved yet invaluable plan of Miss Granger’s?

Harry shifted in his seat. Severus knew it was from a discomfort of a different kind than that of a sore bottom. “I’d rather not share, sir, until I know what my own feelings about it are.”

“I could better advise you if I knew,” he probed, beginning to fear that this might be his one chance to dissuade Harry from a potentially risky plot before the boy had committed to it with the same stubborn conviction he gave to any other perilous path he thought was worth the trouble.

“I think this is something I have to decide on my own,” Harry said quietly, after a moment’s consideration. “Sorry.”

Severus valiantly did not press the issue. He sensed that any more pressure would only further dissuade Harry from speaking about it with him. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to isolate himself from Severus’ confidence; it would be much harder to protect the teen if kept away at arm's length. “I understand your reluctance, but do not dig yourself too deeply into a hole that you can not crawl out of.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised.

He was not reassured. He decided to change the subject before his nerves got the better of him and he demanded an answer. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” He perked up, seeming more eager than Severus to redirect their conversation. “What is it?”

Severus unlocked the top drawer of his desk with a spell and pulled out a thick envelope. “A letter arrived at my home last night from the village. It appeared here directly, per an enchantment I placed there. It is addressed to you.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, and he eagerly accepted the envelope. He ripped it open immediately, pulling out two letters. “There’s one each from Mary and Callum here!” He started reading them right away; Severus did not insist that Harry wait for later. He knew the teen missed his friends from the village, knew that he must miss the village as much as Severus did.

He had been reluctant to give out the address to Spinner’s End at first, but in the end, had given in to the urge. The Severus of before would never have entertained the thought of the security risk involved in giving out his real address to a set of muggles to whom he could be traced with only minor difficulty. Somewhere along the way, that had changed. “Something interesting?”

Harry grinned. “Callum joined the boxing team at school this winter. He said it was just in case any werewolves came back when I’m not there to defend them with expensive nautical equipment.”

Severus shook his head. “Teenagers will never cease to surprise me.” His tone implied that this was not a good thing. Harry ignored him and kept reading.

He had soon finished, folding the letters back up and carefully replacing them in the envelope. Severus suspected that he would be re-reading them later that night.

Their Occlumency lesson ran in the same vein as all of the others had since Harry had come to him with the idea to map out his mind maze. Harry sat in a meditative silence, eyes closed, rearranging his groupings of memories into the plan he had so cleverly drawn up. Severus mostly sat and waited to give any advice—if it was needed, which it rarely was.

When the time was up and Harry was preparing to leave, Severus pulled out the last item he had prepared for this lesson. “One more thing.”

Harry already had his bag halfway up his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked distractedly.

“Your textbook for defence tutoring.”

“My what?” came the aghast reply.

Severus merely held out the journal he had meticulously filled in over the past week. Harry took it reluctantly. Noticing that the cover was blank and had no title or author listed, he flipped it open and looked at the first page.

“How To Kill Your Death Eater?” he read aloud, choking on a laugh.

“Know your enemy,” Severus said seriously.

Harry’s expression lost some of its levity (but none of its shock) as he flipped through it. Each page listed a different Death Eater: their name, a picture, affiliations and alliances, roles in the Dark Lord’s hierarchy, ambitions, fighting styles and trademark spells, and more.

“You’re in here,” Harry quietly said, stopping at a certain page. Severus nodded once.

Harry looked back down at the journal, eyes lingering on the image of Severus himself. “You're not my enemy.”

“No.” Severus stood, walking around the desk to stand before Harry. The teen looked up at him with wide green eyes, obviously still thrown about seeing him in there. “But I want you to be ready for every eventuality. If nothing else, it will prepare you for our practice duels. Read that book—all of it. Do you understand me?”

Harry swallowed. “I… yes.”

“Good.” Severus gently nudged him towards the door. “Now go. I believe you have some work to do.”

Harry heaved a put-upon sigh and went, but not before giving Severus one last long, lingering look.

Chapter Text

Hermione practically salivated over Snape's—obviously the man had made it; it was in his handwriting, and who else would?—book when Harry showed it to her and Ron in a dim corner of the common room that night. He could tell she wanted it. She refrained from seizing it immediately, however, only begging to be allowed to see it once Harry had studied it so she could make a copy. He hesitated, unsure, and she let it go for the moment.

“Have you thought about Hermione’s idea?” Ron asked lowly, glancing around to make sure no one else was close by.

How could he not? “Yeah.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

Harry stared at the closed book in his hands. He ran one finger down the cloth cover, a frown creasing his brow. “I… I’m not sure. I want to, but I’m worried that I won’t be as good at it as you think I’ll be.”

“No one is saying you have to commit to this for life, Harry. You’re not choosing a career. We don’t even know if the club will work out. We could just start by asking around, seeing what kind of interest there is.”

Ron nodded along. “Besides, you don’t have to be teacher of the year, just better than Umbridge. And that can’t be too hard, eh?”

“You could ask Professor Snape for some teaching tips,” Hermione suggested. Ron blanched.

“No, don’t,” he begged Harry, who laughed.

“I remember the best lessons on my own, and what made them better. I guess I’ll try. I can’t promise it’ll be great, but I’ll try.”

“Oh, thank you!” Hermione launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He fell back under the assault as Ron snorted.

“A little help?”

“Think of it as practice for evasive manoeuvring, Professor,” Ron quipped as Hermione sat up, face flushed, obviously already starting to plan.

“We could start writing up lesson—”

“Hold on, ‘Mione, let’s start with the asking around part.”

“Oh, alright, fine.” She produced a quill and parchment from nowhere that Harry could discern, starting to scratch down some ideas. By the time the three of them had gone to bed for the night, they had arranged a meeting place and way to spread the word to those who might be interested without letting the Inquisitorial Squad get wind of it.

As Ron and Harry were getting ready to sleep, Harry sat on the edge of Ron’s bed.

“What’s up, mate?” Ron asked, getting his head stuck in the sleeve of his nightshirt momentarily.

Harry snorted at him and tugged on the shirt’s hem, righting it. “This thing Hermione’s thought up. I trust her by now, she’s had so many good ideas, but I’m worried about this one.”

Ron finally sorted himself out and half-sat, half-fell down onto the bed next to him. “Don’t worry too much about running the whole thing. She’s got it all planned out already, even if she hasn’t said. You’ll just have to teach it.”

“Just like copying homework then, huh? No, Ron, I don’t think it’s going to be that easy this time.”

“Well, maybe not. But the homework’s not easy, either. OWL year!”

Harry nudged him. “There’s not really another option, though, is there?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s awful, and needs to be stopped.”

“Hermione?”

“What? No, Umbridge!” Harry asserted, before realising that Ron was smirking. He lowered his voice, glancing around at the beds around them. “Oh, piss off. But with the way she’s teaching and the stuff she’s doing, this war’s gonna look more like a blood bath.”

Ron grew serious too. “Then it sounds like you know what you need to do.”

There was a small hole in Ron’s bed curtain from Scabbers’ in their second year. The elves had missed it over the years. Harry reached out and fingered it, rubbing his thumb over the frayed ends of thread sticking out into the irregularly-shaped gap.

“Harry, what’s worse? Embarrassing yourself in front of a bunch of our classmates, or watching them die in a war because they can’t protect themselves?”

Cedric fell to the ground, killed in a heartbeat, all because of Voldemort’s casual order. He pulled at the curtain, watching the threads snap and the hole widen. “It’s obvious, I know. Thanks, Ron.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Woah, woah, Ginny, wait. What’s wrong?”

Fred and George bracketed their sister on either side. She was fuming, hands clenched into fists, hair practically standing on end. The rest of the common room watched attentively. Hermione, Ron, and Harry hesitated at the portrait hole. By unspoken agreement, they decided breakfast could wait and cautiously approached the gathering crowd.

“Umbridge,” she spat.

“What is it this time?”

“You know she’s had it out for me since I got in that fight with the Slytherin Quidditch team, yeah? Well, she caught me ‘n Michael together and-”

“What about you and Michael?” Fred interrupted with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, you two can shove off with the ‘big older brother’ act, it makes you look like Ron when Bill’s got the last sausage.”

“It does not,” George gasped in genuine affront. Fred recoiled as if struck. Beside Harry, Ron started spluttering.

“And,” she talked over them, “her reaction was pretty extreme, considering it was over a minor infraction. Ugh, we were just holding hands, you can stop scowling like that! See, not a big deal, right? Well, she stood there with her stupid hands on her stupid hips smiling her stupid horrible smile and said that if I broke the rules one more time, I would be put on student probation.”

“What is student probation?” Hermione asked, picking up on the unfamiliar term. She shoved her way through the students so she could see Ginny properly, and Harry and Ron followed.

“That’s what I said, and she was only too happy to explain. Apparently, if you get put on student probation, you have to turn your wand in to her and she keeps it unless you absolutely need it for a class. Then the professor for that class has to sign off on it and collect the wand right back from you at the end of the period. You can’t have it in the halls, in the dorms, on weekends, practising spellwork, any of it.”

“But that’s so dangerous!” Hermione protested. “What if someone got into an unsafe situation and there was no one around to help? Without a wand, they’d be practically defenceless.”

“Making people defenceless seems to be one of her priorities,” Harry growled. Several students looked at him askance. Perhaps they were remembering that he was supposed to be a dangerous criminal. 

“She didn’t take your wand, right?” Ron asked, looking Ginny over anxiously.

“She’s gonna wish she did,” the youngest Weasley began, but the twins clamped their hands on her shoulders.

“Better be careful,” George said, not unkindly. “Never know who’s listening.”

As if on cue, almost all of the gathered students glanced around like Umbridge was going to pop out from behind a couch. Similar to a cheap Halloween jumpscare, except actually frightening.

Hermione was more focused on the topic at hand. “If Umbridge starts taking students’ wands, that’s going to cause a real security risk.”

“Maybe we can work on something for that,” Fred mused.

“Shield charms, I’m thinking?” George picked up.

“Extended from…”

“Yes, and maintained by the inherent magic…”

“Could work. Might not last long, but-”

“-better than nothing, yeah?”

“What are you two on about?” Ginny huffed, calmed down, but clearly irritated by the way they were talking over her head.

The twins returned their attention to her. Big grins spread across their faces. “Nothing you need concern yourself with, sister dear. Although, if we’re talking of going on about something, why don’t you tell us more about your Michael Corner?” Fred reached out to pinch her cheek, and she swatted his hand away.

The crowd began to disperse as they realised the drama was over. Harry grabbed Ron and Hermione, pulling them off to the side where they couldn’t be heard. He lowered his head and voice, feeling his face tense with suppressed anger.

“I was wrong, Hermione,” he said, glancing to the side where Ginny was laughing and trying to fend off Fred and George’s attempts to make her feel better. “About trying to do this defence thing.” He turned back to them. Their eyes were wide at his intensity. “Trying’s not an option anymore. She isn’t going to stop, and we have to do something. No more.”

They stared at him in shock for another minutes, before Ron grasped his forearm. “We will, mate. We will.”

Hermione wrapped both of her hands around the strap of her enchanted satchel. “No matter where this goes, we’re with you.”

“I trust you memorised the book?” Snape asked Harry as soon as he entered the office for his very first defence lesson.

“Er– I read it,” Harry stammered. Memorization in a day was something Hermione could do, but not him.

Snape gave him a very knowing look. “Work on that.”

“Alright,” Harry said begrudgingly, not thrilled but also not surprised.

“You should be able to see a Death Eater in battle and immediately recognize who they are, what their weaknesses are, and have a strategy to defeat them.”

“And if I can't?”

Snape's dour look darkened further into a glare. “Then run.”

“What if running's not an option?”

“Then I suppose you will have to rely on that cat-like luck of yours, and hope that you have not wasted all nine lives.”

“What if–”

“What if you memorised the blasted book?”

Harry sighed with mock tragedy as Snape swept past him towards an object in the corner that he hadn’t noticed when he first came in. Looking at it now, he wondered at his inattention, because it was quite conspicuous in the gloomy office. A large, ornate bowl sat upon a stool. Some kind of blue-white, shimmering liquid inside emitted a strong glow. Harry drifted towards it without realising, enthralled.

“What is it?” he whispered, as if being in its very presence demanded reverence. Even after years in this world, blatantly magical things still seemed to make him feel like a gawking first year again.

“A pensive,” Snape said lowly, eyes also locked on the swirling liquid within.

“What does it do?”

“It allows the user to view memories.”

Harry perked up at that. “Really? Whose memories?”

“In this case?” Snape tore his eyes away from the pensive and met Harry’s. “Mine.”

Harry was about to ask another question, but Snape was lowering his face to the glowing liquid, and he hurried to follow.

With a falling sensation, he landed in a thin stretch of wood next to a field. Snape was standing beside him already, staring at a figure in black kneeling behind a bush. After almost losing his balance, Harry looked at the person as well and gasped. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the young man didn’t turn around.

It was Snape. Not Harry’s Snape, but a younger version. He looked to be only a few years older than Harry, face more gaunt and form more gangly than the professor’s. He gave no reaction to their appearance.

“They cannot hear or see you. They are only memory,” his Snape said, impassive.

“‘They’?” Harry asked, looking over.

Snape gestured with his chin at the clearing his younger self was watching so intently. Harry heard a yell and whipped around to see two wizards duelling in the open space. One he recognized after a moment as Mad-Eye Moody (minus the mad eye, but already using a peg leg), but the other was unfamiliar, although clearly a Death Eater based on the robes and mask.

“Evan Rosier.”

“He wasn’t in the book,” Harry said. He might not have memorised the whole thing, but he did remember enough to know that he hadn’t come across that name.

“He did not survive this duel.”

“Oh.” Harry was quiet for a while after that, solemnly watching. Then the younger Snape shifted slightly, and his attention was drawn to him. “Why aren't you doing anything?”

A pause; he thought Snape might answer, but then—

“Keep watching the duel.”

Harry wanted to press, wanted to find out more, but could immediately tell from the look on Snape’s face that it would not be welcome. Redirecting his curiosity to the duelling wizards instead, he soon became invested in the fight.

Mad-Eye had planted his position with his back to a tree, casting spell after spell in a rapid-fire sequence. Rosier was fast, dodging and casting back, but he couldn’t keep up the pace that Mad-Eye was setting. Harry watched with bated breath as Rosier stumbled, visibly flagging, and a curse of Moody’s hit his shoulder and sent him spinning. He swore and shot a very nasty looking cutting curse at him even as he tumbled back. Moody hissed in pain as the cutting curse sliced his forearm.

Then their surroundings began to fizzle and fade out, things dissolving around them. Harry automatically panicked, but Snape—his Snape, not the younger version that seemed frozen in place—grabbed his upper arm in a firm grip and Harry felt a tug upwards.

He stood up straight, gasping for air in the office. Snape’s hand was still wrapped around his arm, lending a steady support as he fought to regain his bearings.

“Was that it?” he asked, rubbing at his face as if he could rid it of the memory of the slippery feeling it had so recently been submerged in. “Didn't you stay to watch the whole duel?”

“I did.” The man released his arm, and Harry ignored how cold it suddenly felt.

“Then why did the memory end there?”

Snape watched him with an inscrutable expression. “I did not feel it would be beneficial for you to watch a man die.”

“I'm not a child,” Harry said quietly, but he was grateful. Seeing Cedrics's death had plagued his dreams for months, and still occasionally made an appearance before Harry’s sleeping mind automatically Occluded it away. While a large part of that had certainly been guilt, there was still something inherently painful in watching the mortality of another living human catch up with them.

“Perhaps I did not wish to see it, either,” Snape said.

Harry knew it was said to get him out of his own head, but it made him suddenly wonder about Snape. He knew his mentor had seen a lot of terrible things as a Death Eater and a spy. How had they affected him? Did he ever have nightmares like Harry? Did the thought of letting someone die under his watch give him that same horrible pit of failure inside?

“Tell me what you noticed about the duel.”

Harry pushed his musings to the back of his mind for later and thought back to the memory they'd watched. “Er, they were pretty evenly matched at first, until Rosier got tired. They fought differently. Moody cast spells faster, but Rosier dodged more. They were the only two fighters, but obviously younger-you was there.” He wanted to ask about that again, but resisted the urge.

Snape leaned his hip against his desk and crossed his arms. Harry recognised it as his teaching mode (when he wasn't trying to exude the scary persona he so often cultivated). “A general overview, yes. The purpose of today's lesson is to analyse duelling styles. I am sure you noticed that the entries in your text all have notes on this topic?”

Harry nodded.

“We are studying this particular duel today because Rosier is no longer a threat, and therefore not in the book. I want you to learn how to watch an unfamiliar opponent and immediately pick up on their habits and tendencies.”

“If I can do that, why do I need to memorise the book?” Harry blinked innocently.

“Potter,” Snape growled.

He grinned.

“I will give an in-depth dissection of Alastor Moody's duelling style. Then, we will return to the memory. Using the way I approach my own analysis, you will discuss Rosier's as we watch.”

Harry nodded and settled into the least uncomfortable office chair, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as he listened attentively.

“At the time of that particular duel, Moody had already lost part of his leg in the Aurors' service. This makes it more difficult for him to move quickly, and as he did not yet have a magical eye to inform him of his surroundings, he chose a position with his back to a tree rather than open space. A potential danger: if the tree behind him had been cursed to explode, he would have had no time to dodge or bring up a shield before the debris injured him. Nonetheless, it was a preferable option to leaving his blind spot open and vulnerable to attack. Upon finding a place to make a stand, he fell into a wide and sturdy dueller’s pose, swivelling to keep up with Rosier’s changing position without shifting his feet during the exchange.

“The spells he cast, especially in the beginning, were mostly non-fatal. This is in line with both his moral code and occupation. He would cast multiple offensive spells in quick succession. These spells had swift, simple wand movements and shorter incantations, enabling him to set such a rapid pace. When possible, he would cast silently. I am not sure whether you noticed, but there were multiple times he cast a flashy spell aloud and immediately followed it with a subtle nonverbal one. The first spell would draw his opponent’s attention from the second, which was invariably more dangerous.

“When necessary, he used strong shields to deflect against Rosier’s spells, only holding them up long enough to protect himself before dropping them to go back on the offensive. He also, near the beginning of the memory, cast an extra perception spell on himself. This, I suspect, was to help him keep additional tabs on his surroundings in case of more enemies arriving. Evan Rosier was known for fighting in pairs or small groups, rarely an individual duellist. Had this been the case here, Moody would have had a much greater task in surviving. As it was, the duel was intense but relatively short.”

Harry gaped at him for a few moments, then cleared his throat. “Uh, wow. That’s more than was in the book.”

Snape rolled his eyes with exaggeration. “Obviously,” he drawled. “The book is a general summary, not a perfect encyclopaedia. That is why you must learn how to analyse style on your own.” He began pacing, a fervour in his face that Harry found it hard to look away from. It was clear to him that this was a subject Snape felt strongly about. No wonder he’d applied for the DADA position so many times. Watching him now, Harry began to wish he had gotten it. “When you assess a dueller’s style and skill, there are three things I want you to focus on. First, the subject’s offensive techniques. For Moody, that is his rapid casting and tendency to stick to simple spells that support it. Second, look at their defensive habits. Moody stood his ground in a single spot and employed shields. Third, pick out their vulnerabilities and what the subject is doing to protect them. Mobility is one of Moody’s weaknesses, so he kept a tree to his back. Keep in mind that these three disciplines are tightly interconnected. Constant casting that forces his opponents to stay on the defensive lowers the frequency of needing to dodge their offensive spells in turn, lessening the impact of that weakness in mobility. Once you can pick apart someone’s fighting style, you can look for ways to disrupt it and turn their strengths against them. If you were Rosier, how could you take advantage of Moody’s vulnerability?”

Thrown at having a question suddenly slung at him, Harry blinked several times while he thought. “Well, er, I could… cast a spell that makes the ground roll? That would throw off his balance and give me an opening to go on the offensive while he tries to get it back.”

“Precisely! That is the kind of thinking that will keep you alive, Harry Potter. Luck is all well and good until someone luckier than you comes along. Know how to turn a fight in your favour, and you will not need that luck. You will have the skill to see you through.” Harry jumped to his feet, interest in the lesson deepening into excitement at the infectious passion in Snape’s manner. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “So how do I start?”

Some of the emotion in Snape’s voice was covered by a sneer. “I believe that is what we are doing, no?” He turned and walked back to the pensieve. Harry followed close behind. “We will re-enter the memory. This time, pay close attention to Rosier’s style in particular. Dissect it aloud for me as we watch.” He lowered his face to the bowl.

Harry saluted even though the man couldn’t see it and dove into the shimmering contents once more.

The second time around, less distracted by the novelty of it all and with instructions on what to look for, Harry noticed a lot more about the duel itself. He forced himself to ignore the younger Snape and stepped forward through the treeline. He was confident that nothing now could hurt him and wanted a better look. His Snape followed easily as he emerged on the edge of the clearing.

Much less concise than his teacher had been, Harry gave a summary of what he saw after a few minutes of observation. Rosier ducked and dodged spells rather than put up shields to stop them. While it meant that he could cast more easily without switching between shields and spells, it also tired him out quickly. The advantage of not having to cast shields was lost anyway, as Rosier obviously preferred longer and more elaborate curses. He produced some no doubt very dangerous and powerful spells, but Moody could cast three quick hexes in the time it took Rosier to send just one such curse back in retaliation. Getting very few hits in and wearing himself out with the constant manoeuvring, Harry could begin to see how the Death Eater’s fate had turned out the way it did.

When Harry asked about one particular deep purple curse that Rosier sent, Snape gave more insight than just its name and function. “A repertoire such as Rosier’s is extremely helpful in the midst of a small force. Others can keep opponents occupied or their own shields up while the first casts these elaborate and hard to deflect curses. A less experienced opponent would have been unable to defend himself even in this one-on-one duel. Unfortunately for Rosier, Moody was already a highly experienced Auror at this point and had enough knowledge to deflect or cast the correct counter-curses against even the most esoteric and complex things he was confronted with. If he had not, his vulnerability in mobility would have left him in a tight position as he struggled to dodge what he could not deflect.”

Harry watched the memory come to its abrupt end. He was much less disoriented by the return to Snape’s office this time, barely needing Snape’s hand on his arm but choosing not to brush it off.

After seeing that his pupil was steady, Snape flicked his wand at a blackboard. A piece of chalk danced across its surface, creating a chart of some kind as Harry wandered back over to his chair. He plunked down into it. Snape snatched the chalk out of the air just as it began to fall, task complete.

“Here are the five major offensive styles typically taught in traditional duelling circles. Most classically trained duellists—which the majority of pureblood Death Eaters are—will have some variation or combination of these five principle styles.”

They went over the pros and cons of each together, and then Snape gave him a blank chart that looked similar with the four common defensive styles taught to the same group for him to do on his own. He set to work as Snape settled behind his desk and started grading essays.

Dodging and Evading. Pros: less potential for a curse to break through a shield, less magical energy put into casting a shield, possible to cast while dodging. Cons: physically tiring, narrows focus, dangerous in difficult terrain.

“Professor?”

“Hm.”

“What’s my duelling style? I haven’t been trained or anything, but I’ve gotten into enough fights by now that I must have developed one. What is it?”

Snape looked up from his essay to stare at Harry. A large drop of red ink fell onto the essay from his suspended quill. The man didn’t seem to care, but gave Harry a grim little smile. “If you prove yourself as talented at defence as you are rumoured to be, then that is something you will be able to tell me before long.”

Chapter Text

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today.”

None of them were wondering why they had gathered. Each and every person before them had been deliberately slipped a hint about a new defence club, and none of them were blind to the stakes of what they were implicitly agreeing to by just showing up.

There was an awkward silence. Someone cleared their throat. He thought it might be Hermione, but a glance over his shoulder revealed Ron hiding a smile behind his hand. Harry’s annoyance was enough to spur him onward.

“None of us are happy about Umbridge and her awful teaching, and I think it's only fair that we want to learn how to defend ourselves. Voldemort’s back, and even if you don't believe that, there's still dragons and lethifolds and stuff out there, in the world, and we shouldn't be helpless against them!”

“‘Lethifolds and stuff.’”

“Shut up, Ginny.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Anyway, I'm no professor or anything, but I have learned some stuff over the years.” Yesterday's lesson had been very illuminating as well. Harry was already trying to figure out how he could incorporate Snape’s lesson into the defence meetings. “So I'm going to do my best to teach you what I know. I just want everybody to be able to protect themselves.”

There were murmurs of agreement. He took a deep breath and began to relax as the subject shifted to defence itself. This was something he'd always been good at. He began explaining the day's meeting while Hermione went around with a sheet of paper for everyone to sign their names. “I want to start with something pretty basic but useful. The disarming charm: Expelliarmus.”

He demonstrated on a dummy the Room had provided. Some of the people clearly thought it beneath them, but paired up to duel each other good-naturedly enough. Truth be told, with their past defence education as spotty as it had been, he didn't know where everyone's skill levels were at and wanted to start with something easy to get a good judgement.

It seemed most members knew at least how to cast it, if not well. Soon spells were flying across the room, the sound of laughter and shouted incantations filling the air. Harry walked around, helping correct technique and pronunciation. There was something distinctly satisfying in seeing someone take his suggestion and use it to improve.

After finishing up, passing out another of Hermione's ingenious inventions, and agreeing on a name (the D.A. for Dumbledore’s Army, or Defence Association if you wanted to be boring), the members all eagerly asked about when the next meet up was.

“We don't know yet. Keep your D.A. galleons on you, and we'll let you know as soon as we can figure it out.”

“What will we be doing?”

Harry glanced over to Hermione, but she only smiled as if to say you're the expert, not me. He turned back to the others.

“So, what do you all know about duelling styles?”

The three of them giggled as they ran down the hall, peeking their heads around the corner. They had checked the map before they left, but things could change fast in a place like Hogwarts.

“Do you think everyone else got ba–”

“Wait! Shh!”

“I'm sure–” Ron started before Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth.

“We should have kept the map out. Do you hear something?”

Harry and Ron looked around while Hermione gave a quiet yelp and wiped her hand on her shirt. “Ron, that's gross,” she said so quietly it was almost inaudible. Harry looked over briefly and saw his best friend smirking. Realising he had licked her hand to get her to let go, Harry rolled his eyes and returned his attention to their surroundings.

It was not down the hall they were about to enter that Harry saw something, but the one they had just passed through. Some shadow, indiscriminate in the dark, ducked out of sight just as he caught sight of it. It happened so fast, he almost doubted his own eyes, but the prickling feeling down his spine told him that they had been seen.

Ron and Hermione hadn't noticed, bickering in hushed tones now. He grabbed their arms and pulled them forward mutely, deciding it would do no good to tell them what he’d seen. He could only hope that they would get safely to Gryffindor tower before their rule breaking caught up with them.

The next day, a new Educational Decree came, along with a simpering little speech from the most hated person in Hogwarts: “All student organisations, societies, teams, groups, and clubs are henceforth disbanded on threat of suspension or expulsion. Anyone even suspected to be in contempt of this decree will be immediately placed on student probation.”

Sitting between his best friends in the Great Hall, Harry blanched.

“P’ss ov’rere, R'brt,” Dean slurred in his sleep.

Harry bit back a groan of frustration and punched his pillow instead. Sleep was eluding him, and his usual Occlumency techniques weren't working tonight. 

He sat up and reached for his wand. A quick Tempus revealed that it was 12:42 in the morning. He fell back onto the covers limply, staring up at his bed hangings. A muffled kicking sound came from Dean’s bed. Harry thought he was dreaming about football.

He laid there for what felt like hours before giving in and casting Tempus again.

12:49.

Grimacing, Harry climbed out of bed as quietly as he could to go sit down in the common room. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would drift off in his usual armchair. He reached for his winter cloak—even in a magic castle, February nights in Scotland were cold—with the full intention of spending a restless night in front of the fire when his hand hesitated inches from the heavy wool. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, not really sure what he was doing or why, he threw open the lid of his trunk and grabbed his invisibility cloak instead.

He was halfway through the school when he realised he had forgotten his socks. His bare feet slapped the flagstones with quiet thuds, and he shivered as he passed into the even chillier dungeons.

What was he doing? Sure, he’d been able to turn to Snape loads of times during the night at the village, but this was not the village. In their cottage, Snape had been there without Harry even having to ask it of him. He was already at his side by the time Harry knew he needed him.

This was different. So, so different. He wasn’t waking from a nightmare with Snape shaking his shoulder; he was actively seeking the man out when their paths would not have otherwise crossed. He'd never done that before, not quite like this.

His bare, freezing feet faltered in their step. Shouldn't Snape be asleep by now? Would he be annoyed that Harry woke him up?

He was never annoyed in the village.

Deciding he couldn't just stand here deliberating forever, he forced himself forward. He'd never find out if he didn't try, would he?

He had descended to the level of the dungeons on which Snape’s office, classroom, and quarters were located when sharp footsteps clicked down the hallway ahead of him. Cursing his bad luck—this was the second night in a row that his nighttime prowling had been intercepted. Hogwarts really was turning into a difficult place to break rules—he flattened himself against the wall and trusted his cloak to do the rest.

Umbridge pranced past him, humming tunelessly. What is she doing here? She carried a heavy bag in one hand that clanked with her movements. A smirk graced her wide, slack mouth, and he shivered. She had soon rounded the corner and was out of sight.

“What the hell?” he mouthed silently to himself, watching her go. He waited a few seconds for the sound of muffled clinking (was it metal?) to fade. As soon as it had, he turned and sped to Snape's.

He stopped at the door to his office, realising he didn't know the location of the entrance to his quarters from here. Now feeling more awkward than ever, wondering if Snape would even hear him, he knocked on the door.

There wasn't an immediate response. He didn't know why that surprised him, but somehow, it did. The longer he stood out there, beginning to shiver in earnest, the more he doubted his own resolve to remain, until…

The door swung open quickly, a ruffled-looking Snape standing there. His attentive expression began to shift into one of anger as he scanned the hallway.

Harry realised Snape couldn't see him and pulled off his invisibility cloak hurriedly, mourning its lost warmth as soon as he did.

“Harry?” Snape asked softly, glancing up and down the hallway. At least his angry expression had disappeared. He didn't know if he'd have been able to brave staying if Snape glared at him for waking him up. “What is it?”

“‘S cold,” Harry said, as that was his biggest concern at that moment.

Snape gave him a once over, a frown of disapproval shortly creasing his forehead when he saw Harry’s bare feet peeking out past his pyjamas’ trouser legs. “Well, I suppose you had better come in then.”

Harry gladly darted past him and into the office, heading straight through to where he knew the tunnel opening was and triggering its release. He rushed in and beelined for the fire. Plopping down on the floor with his feet stretched towards the blazing warmth, he gave a loud sigh of relief.

A blanket hit him in the head. Disoriented, he pulled it off and looked around to see Snape smirking at him. Sniffing with false dignity, he pulled it around his shoulders and fell into a comfortable slump.

“What has you up and wandering the halls past curfew?”

Curfew? Oh, right. Well, at least Professor Snape hadn't caught him or anything.

“Couldn't sleep,” he muttered as village Snape took a seat on the coffee table behind him. He turned his gaze to the fire and his thoughts back to what had kept him up so long.

He didn't know why he was suddenly feeling so apprehensive about the D.A. now. Their first meeting had gone really well and he didn't even have any doubts about continuing to meet up. He was filled, not with the spillover of mindless fury from Voldemort (as another Harry, in another world and another time, had been), but the righteous anger of a person who saw injustice and wanted to do something about it. Teaching his friends and classmates how to defend themselves was important and worth the risk, and the new Decree didn't change any of that. It wasn't like they wouldn't have gotten in trouble if she had found out about them before it was written.

“What is the matter?” Snape's voice was deep and rumbly in the dark. Harry leaned back so his shoulder blades were resting against Snape's knees, debating on how to respond.

“Do you remember when we snuck out for Quidditch?” he finally asked.

He could feel Snape tense behind him. “Yes…?”

“It's nothing like that.”

A hand cuffed back of his head, so lightly it was more like a ruffle to his hair. Harry grinned. “Impossible. I assume, then, it is related to this idea of Ms. Granger’s that had you so occupied on Friday?”

“Yeah. She had suggested a defence group so we can study for DADA and learn how to defend ourselves, and she asked me to be their teacher. I'm not sorry for it, either,” he added, when he glanced over and saw Snape's face. “But with this new Decree… I can't help but feel like it'll be my fault if they get into trouble over it.”

Snape sat there for a long minute and thought about that. “Did you hold them at wandpoint and force them to join?”

“What? No!”

“Precisely. You said that you personally felt the risk was one worth taking. Clearly, they also came to that conclusion on their own.”

“Yes, but–”

“People have free will, Harry. And Godric knows teenagers will take every opportunity to use theirs.” His hands fell comfortingly to Harry’s shoulders. He smiled up at Snape crookedly.

“I guess life would be boring if I weren't at risk of expulsion or death at any given moment.”

“Must you be at both, though?” Snape asked, with a falsely pained voice. Or maybe it wasn't so false.

“It's OWL year, I've got to step it up,” was Harry’s cheeky reply.

Snape nudged at Harry with his foot. Harry obligingly sat up so he could stand. “It is late. You had better get up to Gryffindor tower.”

Harry gave him the saddest eyes he could manage, but was sure they would never work on him. He was surprised, therefore, when Snape relented. Surprised, but pleased. “Oh, alright, you incorrigible brat. One more night on the couch, I suppose, for old times sake.”

Harry scrambled for the small sofa and curled up happily on it, watching through half-lidded eyes as Snape began stocking up the fire some more.

“You will have to be back up in Gryffindor tower by the time breakfast starts.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed easily.

“Until then, sleep.” He gave him a critical look. “You certainly seem to need it.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” he murmured into the couch, hiding his sincerity behind sarcasm.

A long pause followed that; Harry held his breath and pretended to be drifting off while he waited for Snape’s reaction. Finally–

“Goodnight, Harry.”

He let out his breath and smiled in the dark. “Goodnight.”

“Harry, where were you last night?”

“Oh… wandering around. Couldn't sleep.”

Ron gave him a doubtful look but didn't press. Harry appreciated that about his friend: he knew when to just let things go. He wasn't Hermione, who got like a dog with a bone when there was something she didn't know.

“Speaking of Hermione…” Harry trailed off.

“Were we speaking about Hermione?” Ron wondered aloud as the third member of their trio came up to them.

“Ready to go to breakfast?” she asked, adjusting the weight of her cursed satchel. It made him think of the book Snape had given him, and he cleared his throat.

“Say, did you still want to make a copy of that journal?”

“What? Oh, that! Yes, please,” she said eagerly. 

“I'll just go get it,” he said, running up to his dorm.

The room was empty. Everybody else had already left. Harry stared at the handwritten book. It was really useful information, and he had no doubt that his brilliant friend could make good use out of it. There was just one thing…

He flipped to the page titled Severus Snape. All of his weaknesses were there, laid out on the page. The moving illustration stared up at him with serious black eyes, slowly twirling a wand. He doubted Hermione would use the information against the man, but it still bothered him on a deep level to share the vulnerabilities of someone he cared about. Snape was important to him, and he didn't want anyone else to have a way to hurt him. Their talk last night had only reminded him of how much Snape had come to mean to Harry.

Impulsively, he grabbed the page near the book's spine and tore it out with one, swift tug.

Downstairs, again. “Here, ‘Mione. Info on all of the Death Eaters, at your disposal.”

“Is it really all of them?” She asked in glee, flipping through it quickly.

“Yes,” Harry said firmly.

Chapter Text

“Having a plan in place is the most effective, clear way to visualise a path to reach your goals. Think of our return to London. To search for a spy, we had an explicit plan to use as a guide to keep us on track. We followed that plan, and by its conclusion had learned what we needed to.”

Harry nodded. “We’re not really used to making plans,” he laughed, adding a pinch of ground beetle wings. “Me and my friends, I mean. We just sort of follow our instincts.”

“Well then, it is a good thing you are receiving these defence lessons, is it not?” Snape said irritably.

Hiding his smile by looking down at the recipe again, Harry didn’t respond. Even though their all-day Saturday sessions were supposed to be part defence and part potions, Snape had decided that there simply wasn’t enough time in the day and had taken to giving lectures on strategy while Harry brewed. The more practical defence tutoring happened when the day’s potion was finished.

Seeing that the next step was to slowly pour in Mandrake water (whatever that was), he uncapped the bottle with the correct label and concentrated on trying to keep a steady hand. Snape’s hovering was distracting, but easier to bear when he wasn’t expecting a blow-up at the slightest mistake. Professor Snape would burst a vein if he messed up this potion now, but village Snape was more understanding. He was still impatient and exacting, but—

Stop getting distracted! That’s the kind of thing that trips you up in the first place!

“What plans do we have in place now?” Snape asked once Harry had finished adding the Mandrake water and set the bottle back down. He probably hadn't wanted to startle him mid-ingredient.

“Plans? Er… well, we found out about the spy, so that's done… kill Voldemort, I guess, but that's more of a long-term sort of thing, isn’t it?” Was this one of Snape's trick questions? He did those, sometimes, just to get Harry to stop and reflect. “There aren't any, I think.”

Snape’s somewhat testy expression grew outright vexed and he snapped, “No, you self-sacrificing little idiot, I am referencing the plan we created months ago in case you are captured by Death Eaters.”

Harry blinked. His potion gave off a purple puff of tired smoke when he accidently dropped the entire bottle of nettles into it. “That’s ruined,” he sighed, staring morosely into the quickly congealing mass that had once been his potion inside.

“Do you even remember what I am talking about?”

“Of course I do,” Harry snapped back, trying not to be offended at this while fishing out the nettles’ glass bottle with his stir stick. “If something ever happens and I don't know where I am, I use the portkey to escape. It goes straight to Dumbledore’s office. It's single-passenger, so it will only take the person who says the password and leave everyone else behind. You gave me the portkey right after we settled in at the village.”

“And what is the most important part?”

“I– remember the password?”

Snape stared at him hard. “You use it immediately. You do not explore, you do not stay to fight, you do not bluff your way deeper in. You get out.”

“Yeah, that.”

Snape dragged a hand across his tired face.  Harry wondered guiltily whether he should be taking this more seriously.

“Where is it now?”

“In my jacket po…cket,” Harry began, trailing off at the end at the incredulous look Snape gave him.

“It should be on your person at all times!”

“I figured I’d be safe with you here,” Harry said, although he honestly hadn’t thought about it at all. Snape narrowed his eyes at him, obviously seeing through the weak lie.

“And your pendant?”

Harry immediately pulled the silver lily out of his shirt. “I wear this all the time.”

“Against your skin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape pursed his lips, then held out his hand palm up.

Harry’s heart gave a strange lurch. He understood why Snape would be upset about his not keeping the portkey on his person, but really didn’t want to give up the pendant. He’d always known, in the back of his head, that it was never his. Still, he had grown to think of it as a sort of gift from the man: protection against scrying, tracking, and sometimes loneliness. It had somewhat come to represent their improved relationship in a way. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached behind his neck and unclasped the chain. Harry then held the necklace in his hand, trying to push down the part of him that wanted to hold it protectively to his chest rather than return it to the one who had lent it to him for a time.

“I am not taking it from you,” Snape said softly, and Harry flushed at being so transparent. “Merely bringing it to the Headmaster. He can make an emergency portkey out of the chain so it will be easier to remember and keep on your person. Your negligence aside,” he added meaningfully with a glare, “the other portkey leads to the Headmaster’s office. That location is less desirable than previous because of certain persons within the castle.”

“Ah, er, alright.” He dropped the necklace into Snape’s waiting hand. “Where will the other one go, then?”

“Likely Headquarters.” He slipped the necklace into one of his many pockets, and Harry watched it disappear into the folds of black with a sting of loss.

Snape turned to the door to his office and beckoned to Harry.

“What about the potion?”

His teacher gave the gloop-covered stir stick a sneering look. “I am sure the fourth-year Hufflepuffs coming in for detention tonight will be grateful.”

Harry sent out a quick wish that they would never find out who left that mess for them to clean.

The two of them moved to Snape’s office.

“I will have to cut today's lesson short. There's some things I must take care of this afternoon. Use your time off to write up a theoretical plan of escape from the castle.”

“What conditions?”

“Imagine Umbridge wishes to capture you and take you to the Ministry. She has people patrolling the halls. Your starting point is Gryffindor common room, and you have an hour to get out.”

Harry grinned. That sounded fun to imagine. Like those spy movies Dudley used to watch. “Alright.”

“Come by my office this evening to get your pendant back.”

Your pendant. What an interesting way to word that.

Harry was sitting with several friends in an unused classroom on the fourth floor. Ron and Hermione were there, of course, as were some people from the D.A.: Ginny, the twins, and Luna. If anyone asked, they were doing homework. Really, Harry was working through Snape’s challenge while the others focused on personal projects. For Hemione, that might once have really been homework, but now she was scribbling away in that notebook of hers, occasionally referencing a handwritten letter she point-blank refused to let anyone else look at. The twins were doing some kind of arithmantic calculations. Harry assumed it was for their joke shop.

With no discernible prompting that Harry could make out, Luna looked up and met his eyes with an unnervingly focused expression. A distant smile spread across her face as she stood and wandered over to him.

“Is there… something you needed?”

“You want to be ready, don’t you?” She knelt behind him.

“Er–” he started awkwardly, craning his neck around to look at her.

“It’s not safe to have hair in your face during a fight,” she said, giggling as if he were being silly. “Do you want help?”

“I guess,” he said slowly.

She smiled at him again and reached her hands up to his hair. He sat staring at the rest of his friends in bemusement as she began braiding the long strands there. Everyone else looked back at him in similar states of confusion, although Ginny also seemed to be approving. He suspected that she was glad he wasn’t being mean to the girl who was so often ridiculed for her strangeness.

Eventually people went back to their work as Luna finished braiding one side into a short little tail and moved to the other side.

He tried to go back to crafting the theoretical escape plan, but didn’t want to change his head position while Luna was… being Luna. So he sat with his head up and patiently waited for her to finish.

“There you go,” she said with satisfaction.

“Thanks?” The two braids stuck out the back of his head, the very ends barely brushing his shoulders.

“You’re welcome.” She patted his shoulder and went back to her spot like nothing had happened.

“Wow, Harry!” Ron said mirthfully. “You look so pretty.”

He balled up a discarded escape plot and tossed it at his laughing friend’s head.

“No need to be jealous, Ron,” Ginny said. She sounded amused, and Harry wondered if she was defending him or Luna. “Just because you look like someone dropped you on your face as a baby.”

“Hey!” Ron began, but the door slammed open. A panting Neville stood there.

“Harry!” he gasped as everyone stood in alarm. Harry took out his wand.

“What is it, mate?”

“Umbridge… Inquisi-sitorial squad. I… I heard them talking.”

Hermione went up to him and rubbed his back, softly urging him to breathe.

“Maybe you should sit–”

“No! Listen. She wants them to bring you into her office—unofficially. Told them to catch you in some fake rule breaking and take you there. Just you, nobody else. I think… she wants to interrogate you, or something.”

“She can’t do that!” one of the twins began hotly.

“For what?” Harry interrupted the squabbling that threatened to break out behind him, grasping Neville’s left shoulder in an urgent grip. Hermione backed up a pace, staring at them with wide eyes. “What is she gonna interrogate me for?”

“I don’t know, Harry!” Neville cried. “I just know that they’re coming.” He used his right arm to grasp Harry’s left shoulder, making a little rectangle between them of hasty information and worried looks. He stopped puffing for breath and his face grew intense. “You can’t let them bring you to her alone, Harry. You can’t. I saw some metal things on her desk, things that were probably banned at Hogwarts a while ago, and even Malfoy looked a little unnerved. She’s mad.”

“Like angry?”

“Like crazy.”

The bag. Umbridge had been carrying a bag that clanked up from the dungeons that one night, hadn’t she, looking mighty pleased with herself. 

“When, Neville, when?”

“Now!”

There was a scramble as everyone began hastily packing up their bags. Harry clapped Neville’s shoulder twice in gratitude before breaking off to do the same. Cupping Neville’s cheek briefly with one hand to make sure he was alright, Hermione thanked him, and then she too was rushing to gather her scattered things.

Two minutes later, they were out of the room and looking around.

“Where do we go?” Ron asked.

“We’re too big of a group, we’ll attract too much attention.”

“Well, we can’t leave Harry alone. If they all gang up on him at once, he might not be able to fight them off.”

“Ron, Hermione, Neville, with me.” Harry took charge. (Neville mouthed wordlessly and pointed at himself, as if surprised to be included in the group that might have to fight off the Inquisitorial Squad.) Harry’s first instinct was to go to Snape, but he didn’t know where the man was, and he also didn’t want to get him in even more trouble with the toad. The four of them would go to their head of house. She was always ready to stand against Umbridge. “Fred, George, see if you can set up a distraction, yeah? Something big, away from McGonagall’s.” They saluted. “Luna, Ginny… get somewhere safe, somewhere public. If you see Malfoy and his cronies, tell them we’re headed for the Quidditch pitch.” Then they’d assume Harry really was making trouble and speed off that way.

“We can help fight, too,” Ginny said hotly. “You don’t need to shuffle us aside just ‘cause we’re a year younger.”

“You’re already on her radar, Gin. You could get into some serious trouble. Luna, you’re not, and there’s no reason to change that.”

“Good luck, and don’t let the wrackspurts distract you.” Luna took Ginny’s hand and started wandering away, even as the redheaded girl looked over her shoulder at them in obvious unhappiness.

“How do you say we make all the suits of armor in the entrance hall do a line dance, Gred?”

“Sounds like a sleepy Saturday afternoon to me, Forge.”

The twins gave Harry simultaneous winks and ran off after them.

“Right then, let’s go.”

All four teens started off in the opposite direction, taking the straightest path they could to McGonagall’s office. Neville slowed them a little bit, already tired from his run to find them, and Harry had to push back against the urge to snap at him to hurry up. It wasn’t Neville’s fault that he hadn’t grown used to running away from danger all the time. In fact, out of any of them, he was probably the most normal member of their lot.

They still reached the office in pretty good time. Neville let out a sigh of relief as they slowed to a stop at the door, and Hermione was also somewhat winded.

Harry tried the knob, but it was locked, so he pounded on it impatiently. A glance down the hall revealed an empty corridor. He could only hope it would stay that way.

After a few moments of silence, Harry knocked on the door again. Then a third time. It soon became clear that there was no one inside.

She’s never there when we really need her, he thought, then was surprised at his own resentfulness. He’d never before wished that Snape were his head of house, but–

“Now what?” Hermione asked.

“We could hide out in the room,” Neville suggested.

Ron shook his head. “Nah, someone caught us sneaking around that area and made that rule about the club. They might expect us to go there.”

“Hagrid’s?” Harry suggested, then winced and shook his head. “Nevermind, he’s on probation. Don’t want to get him in more trouble.”

“Isn’t the third floor corridor still closed up?” Ron suddenly suggested.

“Ron, you’re brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed, giving him a rapid kiss on the cheek that left him red faced and spluttering. She didn’t notice, however, having already begun running off to the third floor. Everyone else hastened to follow.

They had almost made it there to anonymity and safety when–

“Point me Harry Potter.”

Harry swallowed in dread at Malfoy’s languidly spoken spell and turned to see the blond smirking at him. He was flanked by his usual meatheads. Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson were also with them.

“Looking for me, Draco?” Harry asked, ignoring the colourful words that Ron was hissing under his breath.

“Seems so.” He looked at the door that the four of them were standing mere feet from. “I believe the third floor corridor was forbidden. Upon threat of ‘a very painful death’, was it?”

“Your memory’s going, Malfoy. Have you thought about getting it checked? That rule was made in first year.”

“It was never officially revoked, though, was it? I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring you in for that.” His silver eyes gleamed as he took a step forward.

“We haven’t done anything,” Hermione protested.

“I doubt that, but have it your way, little mudblood. Either way, Potter’s the ringleader—”

Ron reacted more strongly to the slur than Hermione did, and Neville grabbed his elbow to keep him back.

“—so he’s the only one we’ll be needing,” Malfoy finished, watching this little show with amusement.

“You’ll have to take me by force, then,” Harry said, sliding one foot back and raising his wand. “I’m not going in when I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re outnumbered, Potter. I don’t think a fight is in your best interests.”

“Since Crabbe and Goyle barely count as one put together, I’d say it’s pretty even.”

Goyle gave a little grunt at this, although it was hard to tell if he actually understood what had been said.

“It would just take me alone to beat you, Potter.”

“Really? You think I’d be bested by someone who’s family tree doesn’t fork?”

“Watch it!” Draco snarled, losing his cool for the first time. “An orphan like you doesn’t have a whole lot of room to make comments about families. You wouldn’t know what a real one looked like even if it died for you a second time.”

A red haze filled Harry’s vision. He raised his wand to shoulder level and spat, “Expelliarmus!” at the sneering blond. He ducked it easily and it hit Crabbe instead, who scrambled to get his wand from where it had fallen near the wall. In the same movement, Malfoy sent something unfamiliar but dark-sounding back. Harry deflected it with a strong Protego Maxima. With a distant sort of amusement, he realised that it really would be a lot easier to duel without his hair in the way.

The fight was on.

Harry and Malfoy mainly focused on each other. Hermione hissed a complex hex at Pansy, who deflected it with shrieking laughter. Neville barely blocked a spell from Millicent and ran towards her, limbs shaking with anger. Ron trapped Crabbe’s wand under his foot and hit Goyle with a conjunctivitis that left the bigger boy stumbling and clutching at his eyes. He knocked into Neville, who stumbled and was left wide open for a jinx from Millicent. Harry resisted the urge to go to him, knowing that he was too evenly matched with Malfoy to take his attention off the blond for too long.

He tried hard to pay attention to Malfoy’s movements, tried to analyze them the way Snape had taught him to. He wildly cast his mind back to the way Lucius Malfoy had been described in the book, willing to bet that he had taught his son at least the basics of duelling personally.

Harry was much more of an in-the-moment sort of thinker, though. He wasn’t like Hermione and Snape, who could intellectually dissect something until it was in foreign pieces on the floor. He was getting better at sitting down and logically thinking through things the way Snape wanted him to, but in a fight like this, everything was different. His thoughts came and went in harmony with his breaths, eyes locked on that of his enemy. He felt the pull and push of the duel in his chest, learned as it happened that Malfoy always breathes through his nose while circling but opens his mouth to take in a lungful of air milliseconds before every incantation. He saw the way Draco’s free hand would twitch in an odd way before he cast something darker. More importantly, he felt that his opponent preferred to keep more open space between them than Harry did. He immediately pressed forward, hoping the discomfort of a too-close enemy would fluster Malfoy.

The silver eyes widened as Harry took two broad strides toward him, and his empty left hand practically convulsed as he lifted a slightly shaky wand at him, the tip starting to glow a strange purple. Harry, quick as the lightning bolt inscribed on his forehead, snapped a simple stunner (simpler spells are faster spells, Harry) first. Malfoy got mostly out of the way, unable to switch to a shield mid-spell, but the tail end of it grazed his elbow and he stumbled in disorientation.

That could have been the end of it if Crabbe hadn’t bit—bit!—Ron’s ankle to get ahold of his wand. Ron yelped and hopped back, crashing into Harry. The two of them went tumbling to the floor, but Ron was quickly off of him again as he grabbed at Crabbe’s ear and yanked. The bigger boy howled and began indiscriminately sending curses in every direction, hitting both friend and foe. Harry himself was spared, but Malfoy, already unsteady on his feet, fell more than dodged one of them. His pointy little chin hit the flagstones first, and one flailing arm caught Harry in the nose and broke both it and his glasses. One of the girls yowled, Harry couldn’t tell if it was Hermione or one of the Slytherins, and a glance in that direction showed Neville’s arm hanging at a very unnatural angle. Crabbe was still spewing out curses with abandon, and the sounds of rapid-fire spellwork were beginning to devolve into shouts and cries of pain.

“Would you stop that, you imbecilic pile of Hippogriff waste?” Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, the first intelligible words Harry could make out in the cacophony.

“Still sore about Buckbeak, huh, Malfoy?” Harry quipped, although his voice sounded nasally and something wet was running down his face.

“You are the most infuri–”

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” boomed a deep voice down the corridor, and everyone—even Crabbe in his mindless spell-barage—froze.

“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered as Snape began running towards them, McGonagall and Sinistra at his heels. “This is it. It’s over. I’m dead. This is the end. I’m gonna die. Ron, you can have my firebolt–”

Snape’s hand closed around his upper arm in a painfully tight grip and he closed his eyes, not wanting to watch his impending doom. Malfoy squawked indignantly a moment later as both were yanked to their feet. He risked a quick peek to see what was happening and immediately regretted it when he caught sight of Snape’s livid face. The potions professor was mad. Really mad. Class couldn’t hold a candle to that kind of mad. He was going to be expelled for sure. He wished they had gone for village Snape when they first found out about Umbridge’s plan.

“I will take these two paragons of student behaviour to my office first.” Was sarcasm fatal? It kind of felt like it when Professor Snape used it in that tone of voice. “No doubt they were the leaders of this admirable display of self-control.”

“Yes, Severus. Do. I’ll take… oh, well. Sinistra, would you escort Longbottom, Weasley, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy to the hospital wing?”

“Of course. Alright, you five. Up you get.”

“Bulstrode, Granger, with me.” She cast a disapproving glare at Harry, Neville, and Ron. “The rest of my Gryffindors will be discussing this with me later.”

If Professor McGonagall was a housecat, Professor Snape was a tiger. He would have given anything to be walking left with Hermione instead of right and towards the dungeons at Snape’s tug.

“The three of us,” he hissed into both of the teens’ ears, “are going to have a very long talk.”

Chapter Text

Two teen boys stood penitent before his desk, hands clasped in front of them and heads bowed in twin poses of defeat. A trail of blood was leaking sluggishly out of the corner of Draco’s mouth, and Harry’s nose was almost certainly broken.

“Explain.”

“He started it!”

“I wasn’t the one trying to take in-!”

“He was trying to take the piss–”

“It’s not my fault he’s a…”

“Was I just supposed to go–”

“...thick-headed little…”

“–and anyway, it’s not like I had a choice!”

“... and he’s such an insufferable–”

“What a–”

“Prat!” both finished in sync. They looked at one another askance, then each seemed to notice the other's condition and wince.

Severus allowed silence to reign for several moments after that. Their faces slowly drained of colour as their mistake dawned on them.

“I dislike,” he began slowly, flatly, in one of his most dangerous half-whispers, “repeating myself.”

Draco gulped. Harry nervously flattened his fringe, accidentally trailing his sleeve in the blood running from his nose and smearing it into a bigger mess across his face.

“Therefore, this will be the last chance I give you to explain.”

Both boys began talking but quickly cut themselves off, not wanting to incur his wrath again. The office was quiet for another strained pause as they stared at each other, neither wanting to give ground to the other and allow him to go first but also afraid that one taking the initiative himself would cause the other to blow up.

Severus resisted the urge to intervene, riding out the wait in stony silence. Finally:

“We got into a fight, sir,” Harry said.

“Well put,” Severus sneered, sardonic voice so sharp it could slice up potions ingredients. “That certainly clears things up.”

Draco seemed to remember that he had multiple reasons to assume authority over Harry. He pulled himself up to his full height. “The Inquisitorial Squad and myself,” he began and then paused, as if he actually thought this would make any sort of difference to Severus, “were patrolling the halls when we saw Potter and his minions—”

“Minions? Who’s talking?” Harry muttered, but shut up at a look from Severus.

“—clearly trying to enter the forbidden third floor corridor. I told Potter to come with us, he refused. Words were exchanged, and he pulled his wand on me first.”

“Is that true?” Severus demanded, turning to Harry.

He nodded mutely, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Why?”

This seemed to surprise Harry for some reason, who blinked dumbly behind badly bent glasses and took a moment to answer. A strange look spasmed across his face. When he found his voice, he sounded uncertain, but there was truth in it as well.

“We found out that Umbridge ordered him and his possé to bring me in, alone, so she could interrogate me. We tried to hide because we wanted to avoid a confrontation,” he said pointedly, tone gaining strength as he gave a side-glare to a spooked Draco, “but he came after me and told me to come with them. I refused.”

“How did you know that?” Draco demanded, paler than usual.

“I forget.”

Draco crossed his arms and huffed. He was trying to hide his disconcertment and failing.

Severus was starting to get a headache. Of course it couldn’t be something as simple as two rivals’ hatred for one another that caused this hallway scuffle; no, it had to be a symptom of two children being pulled into a war neither of them deserved.

“And then?” he pressed.

“He insulted me,” Draco said petulantly.

“Please, like he didn’t give as good as he got!” Harry protested.

“He said my family tree doesn’t fork!” Draco burst with unnecessary force.

Severus had the insane, completely inappropriate urge to burst out laughing. He had a flashback to his early days at Hogwarts, sitting in the Slytherin common room and watching with well-disguised amusement as Lucius Malfoy paced back and forth and ranted about the Prewett twins’ making fun of his inbreeding. This is not the time.

Harry was also fighting a smirk, but far less effectively than Severus had. “Is it really an insult if it’s true?”

Severus really thought for a moment that Draco would take another swing at Harry, but he instead conquered the violent rage so clearly evident on his face and merely spat, “You talk pretty brazenly for someone hurtling ever closer towards a painful fate.”

Sensing that the two bitter enemies were ready to have a go at one another again at any moment, Severus’ presence be damned, he decided to intervene. He compared Harry’s pale, sullen expression to Draco’s frenzied, anxious one and made a snap decision. “Potter, wait in my classroom.”

“But–”

“Now. Do not touch anything, do not leave, and do not even think about eavesdropping at that door.”

Harry wavered for a moment, then kicked a chair out of his way with unneeded force and stormed out of the office. The door slammed shut behind him as he went into the potions classroom.

Severus cast a silencing charm at the door as a reasonable precaution and turned to his godson. His pale, angry, afraid, haughty, minutely trembling, and terribly young godson.

“You’re a fool,” he whispered.

“You’re the fool, Severus,” Draco spat, shaking growing more evident. Severus didn’t know if it was in rage, fear, or a combination of that and more.

They hadn’t spoken since his return from the village with Harry. He knew that Draco was aware of his exposure as a traitor to the Dark Lord, knew that this created a canyon between them.

“Am I?”

“You’re dead!” Draco stared at him with wide eyes, as if he were already a corpse and this meeting was his funeral. “You’re already dead. It just hasn’t happened yet. You think you can just leave, that he’ll let you get away with it?”

This conversation had been a long time coming. Perhaps this was Severus’ chance to get through that blond, misguided skull before it was too late.

“That is where you are wrong. This is not death. Death is bowing at the feet of a monster, knowing you will never be more than the dirt he is forcing you to kneel on as you kiss the hem of his robes. Death is feeling your soul slowly becoming tainted with that poison he secretes and being terrified that you will never, ever siphon it out before it destroys you. Death is betraying yourself.”

“So you’ve betrayed him instead?” the boy yelled. Severus heard what he really meant. So you’ve betrayed me instead?

He reached out a hand for Draco’s shoulder, but he wrenched himself out of Severus’ reach. “No. This is the truest thing I have ever done for you.”

“How?” His voice broke. “Father was so furious. He wanted me to kill you. The Dark Lord is angry. My life has been hell ever since he realised he couldn’t get a use out of your turning traitor anymore.”

“It is the truest thing, and the best thing, that I have ever done,” Severus said, “because it has allowed me to be honest with you. It has allowed me to show you that there is more than a short, violent end at the whimsy of a maniac.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Professor,” Draco hissed after a moment of intense internal conflict. He never called Severus ‘Professor’ in private. This coldness was new. It was painful. “I want to serve the Dark Lord. He will protect our ways, fix our society, and put people like Potter back in their place.”

“Aren’t you the perfect little Death Eater poster child,” Severus mocked. He placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “When years of servitude have broken you, when such platitudes you tell yourself to excuse the atrocities he makes you commit taste like ash in your mouth, when you turn around and look at the journey that has been your life and see only charred ruins and bodies, then you will wish you had chosen an honorable death over such a wasted life.”

Draco mutely shook his head. “I would never make the choices you have,” he said. “I would—I will—wear my Mark like a badge of pride.”

It was over. Draco had made his choice, at least in this conversation. That stubborn Malfoy pride, that scarring from a shredded childhood innocence, would make sure that any further attempts Severus made to reach the softer side of the boy he had once known fell on deaf ears.

“That is a pity.”

Draco crossed his arms and raised his bruised chin stiffly. “What is my punishment?”

“For what?” Severus mirrored his crossed arms. “Getting into a reckless duel in the middle of the hallway, or ignoring the talk I gave all the Slytherins about not getting involved with Delores Umbridge?”

“You don’t actually believe what Potter said about her wanting to interrogate him, do you?”

Severus gave him a flat look that spoke volumes.

“Alright, and so what if she did? What does he matter?”

The cry Severus’ heart gave of everything, don’t you know? was a meaningless and irrelevant argument now. “Slytherin house does not suffer fools. You have been here long enough to see how things work at Hogwarts. Defense professors always leave forever at the end of the year. Harry Potter always returns again the next. You have picked the losing side, and it has been inexcusably impolitic of you. Most of your housemates have been wise enough to stay clear of the situation, but you and your associates have allowed your feelings and desires for temporary power to override your better judgement.

“Therefore, while I cannot punish you for performing your duties,” he sneered the word, “as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, I can certainly use my authority as your head of house to discipline your abysmal failure to uphold house values. I will see you here tonight at eight for a very unpleasant detention, and every night after for the next two weeks.”

Draco gave a single, frigid nod. “May I be excused?”

“Not so fast. Send in Potter, then wait as he did in the lab. I have more I want to say with you both present.” This was barely acknowledged. Just before Draco left the room, fingertips about to brush the doorknob, he added one last thing. “Oh, and Mister Malfoy?”

The blond turned to him with an expectant but reserved expression. “Sir?”

“Fifty points from Slytherin.”

A fine, aristocratic nose flared its nostrils at him, and then—

“Professor Snape?” and Harry was standing in front of him instead. The door clicked softly shut. Once more, Severus cast a silencing charm on it.

Doing his best to shove the anguish of the previous conversation aside, Severus returned his attention to Harry. He could tell that the boy was just about buzzing with something to say and decided to get it over with.

“Well?”

“Just– what else was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Neville told us that he heard Umbridge telling the Squad to come get me and bring me to her, alone, and she found some old torture devices from the dungeons and is apparently ready to use them on the next person she can get her hands on, and I wasn’t about to bow my head and go with them, not when there’s so much she could learn from me—not that I would give in and tell her—but was I just supposed to let her try to–”

“Harry,” he interrupted. The rambling stopped. Severus took a moment to piece it together, then continued, “Why do you think you are here?”

“For getting into a fight?”

“Exactly. Not for trying to avoid Umbridge. Instead of trying to convince me that you had to fight because otherwise he would take you to her, explain to me that fighting was your very last resort.”

“We did try to avoid the fight, you know. We went to McGonagall’s first, thinking we could hide in her office if we explained and she’d send them off, but she wasn’t there. I couldn’t look for you because I didn’t know where you were, and Dumbledore’s was too far away. The best nearest place to hide was the abandoned third floor corridor—which isn’t even banned anymore, now that the Stone’s gone, so we can’t get in trouble for that—but he was using a Point Me spell anyway, so it wouldn’t have mattered where we hid at that point.”

Severus inwardly cursed. Of course this would happen when Harry didn’t have the pendant, which was warded against tracking spells like that. “Where were you when the news came?”

“In an abandoned classroom.”

“You did not, perhaps, think to lock and ward the door against entry?”

“Couldn’t they have just gotten a teacher to break the wards for ‘official Inquisitorial business’ or something?”

Severus conceded with a nod. “And when the confrontation did occur, did you even think about talking them down or simply running away?”

“I– well, no. I doubt it would have worked, though. Malfoy hates my guts.”

“Insulting his family lineage certainly did not help your case.”

“Maybe the insults were a little unnecessary,” Harry admitted. “But honestly, can you really see it working out either way?”

No, he couldn’t. The fight he had broken up half an hour ago was inevitable the moment Umbridge told her squad to bring in Harry. Perhaps even far sooner than that. He sighed and rubbed his temple, feeling terribly exhausted.

Severus dropped into the chair behind his desk. The only sound in the room for several heartbeats was the shuffling of Harry’s shoes as he shifted uncomfortably.

“Sir,” he started, in a changed voice. More timid. “I’m sorry for getting into a fight. If I–”

Severus raised his hand, still not looking up. Harry fell silent.

“I did not become a teacher because I care about my students. It is rather frustrating to watch one of the few exceptions driving himself ever closer to a dangerous standstill.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Getting into a fight with the Inquisitorial Squad only gives Umbridge a legitimate reason to drag you into her office. All you have done is postpone a strong danger and turn it into a definite certainty.” Most of his anger had drained out of him after the fruitless argument with Draco. The very last vestiges of it in his system now rose up to burn themselves out. His voice hardened. “You have weakened your leverage against her by getting into a violent fight in the halls. Any punishment following that will be more excusable than if it had occurred spontaneously with no prompting.”

“So I was supposed to just let them take me? And you’re saying Dumbledore’s gonna be okay with her using torture devices on me now because I bruised up Malfoy a little?”

He hated when teenagers made valid points. “I am not saying either of those things, and you know it! I am simply lamenting the fact that this is the situation we find ourselves in.” Those last traces of anger were now char on the bottom of his heart. All he felt now was a bone-deep weariness. “A reckoning will come, and when it does, something will break.”

Harry just stared at him. Severus dropped his head into his hands.

“You are lucky I spoke with Draco first,” he said.

“That’d be a first for me,” Harry joked. A humorless smile flashed across Severus’ face. He raised his eyes to the earnest teen in front of him. The sight sent a wave of helplessness through him.

“I cannot let this slide, you understand.”

Harry nodded glumly.

“Draco Malfoy will be cleaning out your cauldron this evening.”

“Really?” This idea seemed to amuse the teen. “What about the Hufflepuffs?”

“I am sure they will be grateful for the unexpected reprieve. As for you, you will be doing detention tonight and for the next two weeks with your own head of house.”

Harry’s face unexpectedly fell. Severus remembered an argument from weeks before.

“I am not dumping you on someone else,” he promised, standing again. “I simply want this whole blasted business over as soon as possible and doubt having the two of you in detention together will lead to anything except another fight.”

“Yeah, that’s probably fair.”

“I am also taking fifty points from Gryffindor.”

Harry mouthed wordlessly at him, aggrieved, then sighed and nodded. Severus watched this, then pulled out the pendant from within his pocket. The Headmaster had been more than willing to provide the enchantment Severus requested. He held it out, and Harry took it reverently.

“Put that on. The pendant still holds anti -scrying and -tracking spells, and the chain itself is now a portkey. As it hangs around your neck against bare skin, all you need to do in a dangerous situation is give the password ‘fish stew’ and it will immediately transport you, and you alone, to Grimmauld Place.”

Unlatching the chain and putting it around his neck, Harry grinned. “What if I accidentally say it in conversation?”

“When, pray tell, was the last time you voluntarily ate fish at Hogwarts?”

“Oh, that’s a hard one to remember… right, fourth year.”

“Hm, surprising. Bring in Draco, but do not leave. I have more to say before the two of you.”

Harry grimaced as he tucked the lily pendant underneath his collar and out of sight. Reluctantly, he went to the classroom door and opened it. Draco followed Harry back to the desk. At least most of his turbulent emotion seemed to have calmed.

All I have to give them is words, he thought as he stared at the two faces turned to him expectantly. When is that ever enough?

“I do not want to see this happen again. Fighting has never been an excusable offense at Hogwarts, and to have half of the fifth year class engage in it leaves a less than favorable impression on the school. It is especially detestable in prefects such as yourself, Mister Malfoy, as well as Parkinson, Granger, and Weasley. All of you should be ashamed of yourselves.” Deciding he had expounded enough on the duel itself, he got to the heart of what he really wanted to say.

“The two of you have been at one another’s throats since the very beginning of your time here. What was once a schoolboys’ rivalry now has ramifications in the real world. I will not do either of you the disservice of prevarication or minced words. A war is coming. Hogwarts is no longer a haven from the outside influence of the rest of our world. Neither of you are ignorant of what is brewing beyond these walls. It’s time for the two of you to decide if you want to bring that here. You each have much that could be of service to the other, if only you would try to see it. The two of you have spent so much time convinced you are on different sides that you have failed to grasp just how similar you really are.” They both looked at him in horror and a touch of insult at this. He looked first at Harry. “Growing older is coming to understand that, whether you deserve to be or not, you are involved in something beyond your control.” He then turned to Draco. “Growing up is deciding for yourself what you are going to do about it.”

Twin wide-eyed stares. They really were more alike than they thought. Then Harry became doubtful and eyed Draco speculatively, while the blond’s face closed off and he sneered at them both with contempt. Severus sighed.

“Get to the hospital wing. After you have been treated, Mister Potter, I believe you are expected to show yourself at Professor McGonagall’s.”

Harry nodded glumly and left. Draco lingered while trying to look like he wasn’t. When the door had closed behind Harry, he glared at Severus.

“I know what you’re trying to do with that little speech. Don’t bother. It won’t work.” Then he, too, stormed out.

Slumping back into his chair as the worsening headache rippled through his temple, Severus stared up at the ceiling.

Harry… Harry worried him. It was like watching a train headed for an inevitable crash in slow-motion, desperately trying to figure out what would stop it but already knowing that the only thing he could do was try to rescue the passengers before it was too late.

Draco frightened him. They had never been extremely close, but he was the boy’s godfather. He had tutored him in potions, watched him when his parents were out, been his teacher and head of house for years. He had sometimes imagined himself like the boy’s uncle. Emotionally distant, yes, but a constant figure that Draco could depend on. When Severus returned to teaching this year after leaving the village, he had immediately felt that something had shifted between them. It was clear months before their conversation today that he knew about Severus’ real loyalties and wasn’t happy about them. He had been meaning to talk with him about it, explain himself at the least and try to use his waning influence to get Draco to understand at best. But… he never did, until fate forced his hand.

Draco had stood before him, blond and wealthy, aristocratic and pureblooded. Nothing like Severus had been at that age. Despite that, it had been like talking to a ghost: the ghost of himself at fifteen. He imagined that if someone had bothered to sit him down for a talk when he was young, and hurting, and preparing to become one of the Dark Lord’s followers… it probably would have gone much the same. Just like Draco had, he would have lifted his chin and insisted that no, this is what I want, and you don’t know me, as if anyone could really know themself at that age.

Perhaps that was why he had never initiated the conversation. He had already known, on some level, what the result would be, and hadn’t wanted to watch one more misguided child make the same mistakes he himself had in the past.

It was too late. Not for Draco to make the right choice, but too late for Severus to be a deciding factor in that choice. If Draco were to turn away from the path laid out for him, it would take something else to do it.

He never should have become a teacher. It was the worst thing he had ever done to himself: not his terrible mistakes of the past, but forcing himself to watch others repeat them.

Chapter Text

When Harry finally slunk into the common room late that night, it was to witness a strange scene. Hermione stood with her arms crossed and lips pursed, which meant she was either furious or amused and trying to hide it. Neville was also watching awkwardly. The twins were fake-gagging in the background, eyes laughing. Several Gryffindors from various years were standing around observing. In the center of it all sat Ron, the ankle of one leg propped up on the knee of the other. He was turning the ankle this way and that, examining it with an anxiously pale face.

“...and they don't have cures for everything, you know,” he was saying.

Harry drew to a halt a few feet away, eyebrows coming together. “Uh… what's going on?”

Hermione began, “Ronald is worried that–”

“You might need a new best friend, Harry,” Ron interrupted her loudly with an overdramatic moan. “I think I'm a goner.”

“You’re not going to die,” Hermione sighed, lips compressing further. Harry was beginning to think she was both mad and amused in equal measure.

Ron ignored her and answered Harry’s questioning look.

“Crabbe BIT me! Look!” Harry obligingly leaned forward and looked at Ron's freckled ankle. It was free of blemish. “Madame Pomfrey healed it but wouldn't give me a—what'd you call it, ‘Mione? Rabies shot? Anyway, who knows what kind of diseases that one's got! I could be incurbating—”

“Incubating, Ron—”

“—something as we speak!”

“You're overreacting.”

“She could have at least given me the tetanus thing you mentioned,” Ron said stubbornly.

“I was joking!”

“I'm not!”

“She cast about four different disinfectant charms on you. Madame Pomfrey is a highly qualified Mediwitch–”

“Everyone makes mistakes, and not realising that slimy snake was going to BITE ME was probably my last.”

Hermione looked imploringly at Harry, clearly hoping he would be able to knock some sense into Ron, but the Dursleys’ closest thing to real medical care had probably been letting him eat dirt as a kid for his immune system so he didn't feel qualified to speak on the matter.

“Er,” he began, reaching out and patting Ron’s shoulder a couple of times. “There, there.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Great comfort you are.”

“What did McGonagall tell you, Harry?

“She said I was stuck spending all of tomorrow in her office serving detention.”

“Same for the rest of us Gryffindors. It'll probably be something boring but not too rank,” Ron said, finally letting his ankle go.

Everyone else began milling away, those who knew more about the situation the only ones to remain. Neville and the twins drew closer as the conversation turned more serious.

“What happened at Snape’s?”

Harry didn’t immediately respond, thinking back to that evening’s conversations. When they were first caught fighting, his fear had caused him to actively occlude the Professor Snape track. Getting dragged down to the dungeons, he’d been firmly under the impression that the dungeon bat was going to expel him for sure. Then the man had looked at him with more sternness than rage and asked for his side of things. That was when he realised he was occluding the wrong Snape and switched it to the village one instead.

“Harry?”

He snapped out of his wandering thoughts and returned his attention to his expectant friends. “He shouted, took points, the expected. He actually yelled at Malfoy, too. He wanted us to try to ‘see past our differences’ or something.”

“Right,” Ron snorted.

“I don’t expect Malfoy took well to that either?” Hermione asked.

“No, I don’t expect he did,” Harry grinned back. “Anyway, he also assigned me two weeks of further detention with McGonagall.”

“That’s all?” Neville asked in disbelief, unable to imagine the dreaded Snape giving anyone—especially Harry, with whom he still had a very contentious relationship in public—that light of a sentence.

“That’s all.” He’d also given Harry a warning, which he decided to bring up now. “I was thinking, though. Getting in a fight with the Squad is going to make it even easier for Umbridge to get to us.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it now, though, is there? She… hey, Hermione, where are you going?”

Sure enough, their bushy-haired friend was tossing her enchanted satchel over her shoulder. She had a suddenly wild, intense look on her face and was headed for the girls’ dorms.

“To do something about this,” she said ominously.

The rest of them all looked at one another, taken aback and somewhat alarmed at this total attitude shift. One minute she was laughing with them about Ron’s melodrama, the next she was storming off to… “What is she doing?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Ron muttered under his breath.

Early the next morning, a note popped into the fifth year boys dormitory. It was from McGonagall, instructing Neville, Ron, Hermione, and Harry to come to her office as soon as they were ready to begin their all-day detention. It said that she would be providing them breakfast.

Ron started complaining about it, but consolation came from an unexpected quarter when Seamus suddenly spoke up.

“She’s probably trying to keep you away from Umbridge for as long as possible. I bet the toad’s waiting for you to show up in the Great Hall for breakfast so she can pounce.”

“You make a good point, Finnegan,” Ron said, still not entirely forgiving of their dorm mate for his initial hostility to Harry.

“Yeah, well, it’s just putting off the inevitable,” Seamus said grumpily before disappearing to hide in the bathroom, probably embarrassed.

Resignedly, the three boys got dressed and went down to the common room to meet Hermione. To their surprise, however, she wasn’t there.

“She’s always up before us.” Ron sounded shaky, as if a central dogma of his life had been challenged.

“You think she got the note and went straight down there?”

“She wouldn’t leave without us.”

Lavender came down the dormitory stairs and Ron hurried over to stop her. “You haven’t seen Hermione, have you?”

“No, actually,” the blond replied, her eyebrows going up at the subject. “She didn’t spend the night in our dorm.”

“What?!” Ron gaped, oblivious to the suggestive look Lavender had given him at her last statement. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“If you don’t know where she is, I certainly wouldn’t.” Then she flounced off as Ron returned to Harry in shock.

“Hermi–”

“I heard, Ron. I was standing right here.”

“Where is she?”

“I'm gonna find Ginny and see if she knows,” Neville said, sprinting off.

Harry turned to Ron. “Let’s check the map.”

They ran back up to their dorm. Harry pulled out the Marauder’s Map. Starting to get really worried, he pressed the tip of his wand to the parchment and hastily whispered, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” Ink bloomed across the parchment, revealing everything from rooms and corridors to people and pets. They scanned Gryffindor tower first, but were unsurprised by now to see she wasn’t there. Alarmed, their next spot to check was Umbridge’s classroom and office, but she wasn’t there either.

“Look,” Ron murmured, pointing at a dot standing just inside the doors to the Great Hall. Umbridge, apparently waiting for someone to come through.

“Ten galleons says she’s there for us.”

“No way, I can't afford to lose that.”

They then turned their attention to the library, another common haunt of their friend. She wasn’t there either. Really starting to panic now, they looked over the entire castle. Twice.

“She snuck out,” Harry whispered in disbelief, no longer seeing the map in his hands. “She’s completely off grounds.”

“We’ve never snuck out in the middle of term,” Ron agreed, equally perplexed.

“Hermione snuck out. She snuck out, and she’s even missing a detention with a teacher.”

“And she didn’t tell us.” Shaking his head with admiration (tinged with betrayal), Ron turned away. Harry cleared the map and stuffed it back in its spot. They then stared at each other, feeling lost.

“I guess we just go to McGonagall’s,” Harry suggested helplessly.

“What do we tell her about Hermione?”

“What can we tell her? We don’t know anything either.”

The two of them met Neville at the foot of the stairs, who shook his head silently.

“We'd better just go,” Ron said dejectedly.

The three boys were greeted at McGonagall’s office door by the witch’s stern look and pursed lips. She asked where “the fourth member of their intrepid troupe” was, and didn’t seem pleased at their answer. She took them through her office to her classroom, where three desks well spaced apart each bore a plain brown quill and a roll of parchment. A long roll of parchment, much to Harry’s dismay. Ron sighed audibly from several feet away. Neville’s shoulders slumped.

A long sentence about controlling their tempers and applying their Gryffindor courage more judiciously was written in McGonagall’s traditional and slanted hand up on the board. Harry did what he had become so good at: lower his head and get to work. McGonagall stood at the front of the room and lectured at them endlessly about the stupidity of their actions, the shadow it cast upon Gryffindor house, and pointedly said not a word about respecting the Slytherins’ position as member of the Inquisitorial Squad.

After they had all finished—Ron took an extra twenty minutes than Harry or Neville, and seemed to be dragging it out—she softened slightly and called a house elf to bring them a simple breakfast. Harry considered that it might not be such a bad thing that Hermione wasn’t there. When they were finished eating, she set them onto grading first year essays.

It was then that a knock came at the office door. Harry looked up from Melissa Conneley’s atrocious penmanship curiously as McGonagall strode purposefully over and cracked it open.

The person on the other side of the door cleared their throat. Harry, Ron, and Neville all simultaneously sank further into their seats with silent groans. They could recognize that hem, hem anywhere.

“Delores. Is there something you require?”

“Why, yes, Minerva.” Harry couldn’t see Umbridge; McGonagall was rather obviously using her own body to block the doorway. Still, he could hear the false simper in her voice and scrunched up his nose. Neville looked like he was regretting their breakfast. “I believe you have Mr. Potter in there with you?”

“He is serving a detention with me, yes.”

“Wonderful. I will take him off your hands.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

A weighty pause.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My pardon is given.” McGonagall’s accent seemed to thicken somewhat, but her tone was steady. “I cannot excuse him early, it would be a harmful inconsistency for an attempt at discipline. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ron was mouthing some kind of cheer, pumping his fist in the air like he was at a Slytherin-Gryffindor quidditch game. Harry kicked his shin so he wouldn’t burst out laughing.

“I simply must speak with him. He has flaunted my authority by challenging the Inquisitorial Squad. The Minister–”

“Will no doubt be pleased to hear all about it after you see him in class on Tuesday. For today, however, Mr. Potter is under my authority.”

Harry had never thought he’d hear “authority” used as such a blatant synonym for “protection” before. He’d never really seen McGonagall as the outright protector and defender that Snape had recently become, but every now and again something would remind him that the Gryffindor mascot was a lion and she was one of them.

The two women sniped at each other for several more minutes until Umbridge finally got the hint and flounced off with bad grace and thinly-veiled threats. McGonagall shut the door with just enough force to show her displeasure before sucking in a forced calming breath and returning to her marking.

The boys exchanged grins and did the same.

Their first class of the day on Monday was Potions. Through the none-too-subtle maneuvering of many members of the Hogwarts staff, Harry (and by extension his friends) were constantly kept just out of Umbridge’s reach. He appreciated the effort, but wasn’t quite sure what the point was when she was going to have inevitable unrestricted access to him in their afternoon class on Tuesday. After the second evasion of the morning—a quiet invitation from Professor Flitwick to step into his office just as Harry was quickly rounding the bend, the sound of quicker high heels behind him—he couldn’t decide if was happy to stall it or not. On the one hand, he couldn’t help but remember the sound of metal clanking in a bag as Umbridge walked up from the dungeons late at night with a shiver. On the other hand, pain deferred was pain dreaded, and years at the Dursleys’ had taught him that the sooner a punishment begins, the sooner it is over. A deep instinct, however, told him that Umbridge and her vendetta against him were not something that would pass away so easily. She’d been waiting for him to slip up since Snape first busted the blood quills.

He both hoped and feared that Snape would do something again to get her off his back. If Harry had a chance to talk to him, he would figure out if he wanted to ask for help or beg his mentor to stay out of it.

Before that chance could possibly arrive, Harry had to survive another class of Potions with Professor Snape. He was sure to be extra harsh in class today after the confrontation with some of his Slytherins.

He was just finally filing into the classroom with Ron when Hermione slipped in behind them.

“What the hell, ‘Mione!” Ron blurted, uncaring of where they were or who might hear. “Where have–”

She shot him her fiercest glare, the one that always made her hair seem twice as big. He stammered to halt before glancing around at the many curious stares of their classmates. Seeing that he had realised their situation, she said, “Later, okay?” and he nodded.

The door banged open again and Professor Snape stormed a few feet inside before being stopped by the presence of the three of them in his way. They nervously scattered to their desks as he followed their movements with cold, dark eyes. When they were settled in their usual seats, he stalked to the front of the room.

“If we are all settled in,” he began with a pointed glare, “we have an entire subcategory of Accompanied Potions to cover if any of you hope to pass your OWLs, as unlikely as that may be regardless…”

The class was boring as usual, although he made an effort because he knew village Snape would expect him to do well in all of his classes. It was hard to focus with Ron constantly trying to make eye contact with Hermione, though, who was steadfastly working as if nothing were amiss.

Class finally ended. Harry and Ron’s potion wasn’t spectacular, but it wasn’t unspeakable either, which was more than Crabbe and Goyle could say. As everyone was leaving the room, Professor Snape’s (wait, no, he looked relaxed now. Was this the other Snape?) sharp voice cut through the air.

“Miss Granger, a moment.”

Ron looked mutinous as Hermione serenely nodded and walked up to the desk. Seeing that Snape was obviously waiting for them to leave, Harry grabbed his friend’s arm and tugged him out of the classroom.

“But Herm–”

“She’ll tell us, mate.” In saying it, Harry felt again his own curiosity of just where she had gotten to yesterday.

Ron sighed and leaned against the dungeons wall in the hallway outside the class. “Honestly, Harry,” he said in a confessional tone of voice, “if she says she knows how to apparate, I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach lunch.”

Harry’s face cracked into a grin. Ron sounded extremely jealous and appalled at the notion of Hermione learning a new way to break the rules and not even telling them. “That’d be a first.”

Chapter Text

The corridor was an eerie place, but Severus didn’t feel uncomfortable. There was a welcomingness to the air, completely at odds with the environs but tangible in the ambient magic around him. He flicked his wand—interesting detail, that—and conjured a bright ball of light as he continued walking.

That eeriness was mostly due to the familiarity of it all. The flagstones were identical in color and shape to those of Hogwarts, the torch brackets twisting in perfect copies of its own metal holders. Almost out of habit, he turned a corner to where long years of teaching told him there should be a staircase up to the Great Hall. He instead found himself in a dim hallway with unexpected floral wallpaper and a thickly cloying atmosphere of dread. The light on the tip of his wand puttered out pathetically, and a door slammed shut behind him.

An instinct born many years ago flared up within Severus at the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor above, and he found himself fading back into a corner before he could stop himself. Scowling at his own reaction, he shook his shoulders to ease the tension from them and tucked his wand into an inner pocket. He could already tell it would not work here.

There was a staircase to the left, and a small door to the cupboard below pulsed with the fear already in the air. He guessed it was the focal point of this particular memory and looked around critically.

The faded quality of the surroundings, paired with the almost glowing halo around the lights and the soft edges around more distant objects, all presented this as a childhood association. Twin sets of unease curled in his gut: one, his own at what he might find here; the other, Harry’s personal feelings about the place where Severus now found himself.

The closed door behind him was a plain, muggle thing with a peephole at eye level. He leaned in towards it, but before he could get a good look at the street he expected to see outside, the door to the cupboard creaked open. He turned with a pounding heart.

Inside the cupboard was a dingy cot. A single, spluttering lightbulb above illuminated the cramped space. Small details, like the broken crayons and a sign reading “Harry’s Room” made its purpose unmistakable. Severus’ rage swelled as he stepped closer, inspecting the empty hovel.

“Boy! I thought I told you to stay in there!” a blustering, self-important voice burst loudly behind him. Severus turned, vague memories of Tobias Snape haunting him, to see a man that could only be Vernon Dursley. The large man was glaring malevolently at him with beady eyes. Aggression was evident in every line (curve) of Dursely’s body, and when he took one heavy step forward, the rising tide of poignant and child-like fear that crackled in the air around the memory got the better of Severus. He stepped backwards, the back of his knees hitting the cot. Wavering, losing his balance. He began to fall. Dursley’s piggish face filled with glee and the small door slammed shut. The light above cut out with it, and Severus fell… and fell… and fell, until he hit the ground with enough force to knock all of the air out of his lungs. The sight above him was completely different, now. Blue sky, wavering with intense waves of heat that felt like the height of summer. Another face came into view, an obscenely obese child with lacklustre blond hair who was grinning cruelly at him.

“Fell, did you, freak?” he asked. His voice was nasally and unpleasant.

Severus began to get up, but the boy kicked out and hit him in the ribs. It caused more pain than it should have on the grown wizard.

The surrounding emotions pervading this specific memory were still fear and dread, but there was a hint of anger as well. Or maybe that was just Severus.

Then the boy’s face disappeared, and Severus suddenly felt light-headed and sore. He was still lying on the ground outside, but the clouds had changed and he was holding a small trowel in one hand.

“Why are you lying around? Up! Vernon will be home soon, and I don’t want to see you slacking.”

There was the third voice, the one Severus found himself hating most. Even almost twenty years later, he still recognized Petunia Dursley.

Severus painfully picked himself up, looking around a half-finished garden wearily. He needed to get out of this memory cluster. Scenes from Harry’s childhood would likely continue to follow one after the other, dragging on endlessly in a draining way that Severus suspected his childhood had often felt. The emotional associations linking them all together would create a never-ending series of dreary abuses unless he could escape.

He stared around, trying to find any imperfection in the scene around him that could indicate a place where Harry linked it with other rooms or corridors to form his mind maze.

The other child came back, taunting him about how useless and freaky he was. At the reminder of his magic, Severus pulled his wand back out and experimentally tried another lumos. As he’d expected, it didn’t work. Harry must have felt incredibly cut off from his magic here, if he was even aware of it at all during the occurrence of whatever memory was currently happening, and as a result it was functionally nonexistent here.

He slowly turned around, looking at the garden around him. Potions expert that he was, it didn’t take him long to identify the presence of an ingredient that would never be caught growing in the muggle world. He grasped it with one firm hand and pulled.

Severus was back in a hallway that looked extremely similar to those of Hogwarts. There was a window nearby. He looked out of it. Instead of the grounds, it showed a dark forest at night. A sickly green light shot into the sky above it, twisting into a snake and skull. Severus moved on.

He wandered, carefully paying attention to his surroundings and trying to orient himself with where he had last been. If the layout were true to actual Hogwarts, he should be at least a floor up from where he had been walking before stumbling upon Harry’s memories of the Dursleys, as there were no windows in any of the dungeon corridors. This was not Hogwarts, though, and the last time he had treated it as such, he had gotten into trouble.

Severus was not here in search of any particular memory or piece of information, however. He had merely wanted to see how Harry’s mind maze manifested itself to an attacker. There was no need (and he frankly had no desire, after that rattling experience) to stay any longer. To escape, he focused on the one thing present that wasn’t in some form a part of Harry’s mind: himself. He turned his attention inward, pulling away from the general sense of Harry’s current feelings and giving himself over to his own thoughts. He centered on the distant sensation of his own body and drew out of Harry’s mind with a firm tug.

The green eyes he had been staring at blinked owlishly, and Severus shook his head to reorient himself. His private quarters had grown cold in the time they spent in Harry’s mind maze, so he stood (shakily, although he hid it) and tossed another log onto the fire.

Sparks drifted up into the chimney lazily. Severus leaned his forearm against the mantle and stared into the revitalized fire. The scenes from Harry’s childhood painted a grim picture of neglect and maltreatment. Overall, it was nothing he had not already known about. The overwork, the aggression, the bullying, even the cupboard, had all been known to him. He remembered when he had first learned about how the bright, lively teen he had come to know spent ten years of his life in the cupboard under the stairs. He had been full of rage, had thought he couldn’t get angrier. He’d been wrong.

“Well? How did it go?”

With effort, Severus turned back to his student and the task at hand. “You have been successful.”

Harry looked at him in silence, long enough for the moment to become awkward, before crossing his arms and scowling. “Stop that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re looking at me like you’re feeling sorry for me.”

“I do feel sorry that you had to endure such treatment.”

“Why? It’s not your fault.”

An animal that had long been chained to the ruins of Severus’ battered heart howled in protest at this. It was his fault, and if Harry knew it, it would destroy everything between them. Externally, he forced his face into a neutral expression that was devoid of either pity or devastating guilt. “Never again, do you understand? I will never allow you to go back there again.”

“Dumbledore–”

“I do not care what the Headmaster thinks. I have already spoken to him, and he agrees that if there is a better place for you to go, it would be preferable to sending you back to that filth.”

“Any place is better than the Dursleys,” Harry said frustratedly, running a hand through his hair in agitation and making it stand on end. While the same action in James Potter used to ignite a rage in Severus, seeing it in Harry only made him feel something like… fondness.

“I agree. I have proposed multiple places. His concerns are security and secrecy.”

Harry chewed on his lip. His green eyes, suddenly full of pensive hope, flicked towards Severus’ own and then away again. “Couldn’t… couldn’t I stay with you?”

Severus was completely blindsided. While he was in his most self–indulgent moments, when completely alone and allowing himself to regretfully contemplate the things he wished for but would never have, the idea had crossed his mind. They had learned how to cohabit rather well in the village. Harry seemed to understand when Severus needed quiet and when he needed something to distract him from his spiralling thoughts. In turn, he provided the stability and reassurance that Harry’s so-called family had been criminally lacking in. They could work well together if they tried. He enjoyed teaching the teen about defense and occlumency. When seeing the quiet but bright smile that spread across his face during their lighthearted bickering, Severus felt a stirring of life inside his chest that he had thought long dead. Somehow, over the course of those months in the village, Harry had unwittingly provided more than a sense of duty to Severus. He had given him purpose.

How could he allow himself the luxury of keeping Harry close beyond their roles as mentor and student? Taking him into his home out of choice rather than necessity would almost be an insult to the penance he could never repay. Of course he would continue to do his best to train him, help him, and prepare him for the brewing war, but it must be better for Harry’s own sake that he stay with someone else. Someone who deserved his light, who didn’t hide his own darkness out of shame and a cowardly fear of rejection whenever reminded of the role he played in orphaning him. He had never found the courage to tell Harry about the prophecy at all, much less who had delivered it to the Dark Lord’s hands. If there were any other viable option, it must be in Harry’s interests to send him there instead.

“I– I do not th–”

“Please, sir! There’s nowhere else I’d rather go.”

Severus highly doubted that. He had come to accept, unbelievable as it was, that Harry had become attached to him. Still… a couple of highly sarcastic uses of the word “dad” notwithstanding, he had little reason to think that this superseded his loyalty to Black or his love for his friends. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yes,” Harry stated firmly, and to his credit, he really did sound certain. Then his posture faltered slightly. With forced casualness, he added, “But I get if you don’t want me around in your time off, though. I mean, you hate kids, so you probably want to get away from students in your summers. If you–”

“That is not it,” Severus cut him off, seeing the self-deprecating track he was headed down and not liking it. “It has nothing to do with not ‘wanting you around’. If anything, I have become rather used to your presence.” He cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed as a teenager talking to his first crush at admitting his feelings so blatantly. It was worth it, though, to see the reignited passion in Harry’s face.

“Then what’s the problem? In fact, there isn’t even another option anyway! If I could have just stayed at Headquarters, you would have already told me by now. There’s a lot of people in and out, too, so it wouldn’t be very secret. The Weasleys are still trying to rebuild their home. Hermione lives with her muggle parents and can’t use magic to defend herself or anyone else. Remus is sick half of the time because of his condition, which isn’t his fault, but would make it hard for him to be there. Besides, he’s been running around on missions for Dumbledore. Most of the Order is busy doing stuff for the war. Now that Voldemort knows you’re a spy, you’ll be in hiding from him too, and it just makes sense for us to hide together.

“Basically, you’re the only one I can really trust who won’t be gone half the time; or doing something else; or unable to fight some, if not all, of the time. So really, it’s either you or the Dursleys.”

“You are not going back there,” Severus repeated reflexively, still absorbing that rapid-fire speech. Teaching that boy how to think had been a horrible act of self-sabotage.

Harry beamed. “Great, then it’s settled!”

“Wait, no–”

“We can eat something besides fish, and you can teach me more about wards and strategy and all of the other stuff we’ve been doing. I can still practice my bagpipes without pissing everybody off, since I’ll be able to do magic—”

“Are you implying that I, a professor, would allow a student to break the Restriction for Underage Magic?”

“—and can put up silencing charms. Or I guess you could do it, since you did before. Oh, and you can take me swimming and I’ll know how to breathe right this time, and do you have a cat? You seem like a cat person. Maybe not, though. You probably wouldn't leave it alone all school year, and you don’t have one here unless it hides in your bedroom when I’m around. Hedwig gets along with cats, even Crookshanks. I can draw up Quidditch strategies for the team while you read your books and pretend you can’t hear me muttering about chaser configurations and stuff. You’ll sigh over my clothes and I’ll try to trick you into eating breakfast. It’ll be like the village, except better, because there’ll only be one power-hungry man after me instead of two!”

Severus had to admit that Harry drew a pretty tempting (if rambling) picture of what it might be like. He observed Harry’s excited, mischievous face and found that he could imagine it all himself… except maybe the cat. He could never articulate the suddenly over-full mix of longing and hope that the thought poured into his throat like molten gold. He didn’t really want to. He let the blend disperse down somewhere between his fourth and fifth ribs and settled on, “I shall speak to the Headmaster.”

Harry’s smile was so bright it was blinding. Severus looked away for the sake of his retinas and collected himself.

“We have become woefully off-topic.”

“Right, Occlumency. What was it like up in there?” Harry’s grin shifted to something less manic, and he tapped one finger against his temple.”

“Empty.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ha, ha. I could tell where you were in the maze,” and here the smile fell, to be replaced with something like shame, “and what you were seeing, but I couldn’t really control or direct where you went or anything.”

“That is something that will come with practice. As the intruder, I felt as though I were physically present and walking around. It was clear to see how memory groupings formed the structure of it, and the emotional associations between memories within the groups. I presume the place I found myself was a trap room?”

Harry nodded.

As thoughts and recollections so often work, one bringing up another, the trap room had been really effective in forming a stream of unpleasant memories. “I was not… unaffected by your own feelings, either within the memory or those of your current state.”

“You could tell what I was actively feeling?”

“When I focused, yes. In the beginning, it felt calm and welcoming. I was uneasy at the uncanny likeness to Hogwarts, but you yourself seemed content.”

“I don’t want to be content if someone’s attacking me!”

“I doubt you would be,” Severus said in amusement. “You probably did not feel threatened, as you knew it was only me.” And wasn’t that strange, considering the mutual animosity they once shared. It reminded him of the recent development again. Merlin, he was going to have a teenager in his house. He wondered if Spinner’s End would survive it. The place was already rickety enough as it was.

A part of him curled in shame at the thought of bringing Harry to such a place. He would have to try to fix it up or something beforehand and ignore the urge to burn it down and be done with it. He knew Harry would not judge him for its pervasive air of poverty, but he didn’t want to take the teen from one bad environment to another. Severus had struggled with himself enough in the village when he worried that he wasn’t providing in the way an adult was meant to provide for a child.

“Poverty’s not a vice, Sev.”

“You don’t get beat up by the kids at school, Mum. If it’s not a vice, it’s a target.”

Harry was oblivious to the way his mind had wandered. “Probably. So how do I direct somebody if they’re already in the maze?”

“It is something to experiment and work with. We will discuss it at Wednesday’s lesson.” Severus noted the way Harry’s face unexpectedly dropped at this and frowned. “What is the matter?”

“I’ve managed to evade Umbridge so far… and this is part of that, isn’t it?”

“‘This’?” Severus said airily.

“Moving the Occlumency lesson to right after school. You and all of the other teachers have made sure I don’t have a spare moment since Saturday so she can’t get at me, right?

“I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about. The staff would never sabotage the High Inquisitor.”

“...Right. But I have her class on Tuesday, so she’s gonna have her chance then, yeah? I might not be alive anymore by Wednesday.” He said it jokingly, but Severus saw the unease on his face.

There were two things Harry did not know. The first was that Dumbledore and other Order members within the Ministry had doubled their efforts to legally oust Umbridge from the castle, and the staff was aware of this. They certainly had been trying to stall for time in hopes that those attempts would succeed. These efforts had been frustratingly unsuccessful. He would personally be more concerned if it weren't for the second thing Harry didn't know: the contents of Miss Granger’s note.

“Alive or not, I expect you to be here at our usual time the day after next. Death is no excuse for slacking off.”

Harry made a face at him, which Severus generously didn’t comment on. He checked the time and saw that it was nearing the time for food to be served in the Great Hall.

“Is there anything in particular that you wish to eat for dinner?”

“What?”

“It is almost time for supper. I was going to propose we eat in my quarters.”

“You are conspiring against Umbridge!”

“Slander,” Severus smirked, moving to the door. “Chicken or meatloaf?”

“Perch.”

He gave him a dry look. “Is that so?”

“No! Just kidding. Whatever you’re having’s fine.”

“I will be back.” He slid out the door, leaving a smug teenager behind.

The kitchens were not far from his quarters. He did not actually have to go there to order food sent to his quarters; all professors were able to call the house elves to them at the slightest need. Harry, raised in a muggle environment, had luckily not questioned it. He slipped his hand into a pocket of his outer robe to check if the bottle within was secure.

“Miss Granger, a moment.”

She was not surprised. She made brief eye contact with him, nodding slightly, before smiling at her friends and walking up to the desk. He watched the two boys deliberate before leaving. Weasley clearly did not want to leave her to the tender mercies of their dreaded potions professor. He knew Harry’s friends had tempered their opinion of him somewhat after learning about their newfound amity, Granger more than Weasley, but there was still a reserve present that Severus had zero inclination to overcome.

“Sir?” she asked after the door closed.

Severus eyed her, trying to get a read on the girl. She had turned out to be far more than the rule-obsessed know-it-all he had once taken her for. He suppressed the urge to contemplate what kind of influence she might have on Harry. He was hardly one to talk. Once the silence had stretched long enough for her to fidget—Gryffindors never did have that indifferent mask his Slytherins developed—he said, “You left something behind.”

“Yes, sir.”

He lifted the scrap of paper, reading it over once more. The script was uncharacteristically messy; he would not have recognised the handwriting if he hadn’t seen just whose potions vial it had been slipped under. Delores Umbridge never received her Dragon Pox vaccine.

“How on earth do you know this?”

She flushed and broke eye contact, staring resolutely at a jar of particularly hideous grindylow kneecaps on a shelf behind him. “I’ve always been good at research.”

A Slytherin would have never admitted culpability. This was not one of his Slytherins. This was a Gryffindor, one who had given him a very valuable piece of information in a most un-Gryffindor way. He raised an eyebrow.

“The laws of wizarding Britain are terribly archaic, you know,” she said, forced to speak by his lack of answer. “There’s hardly a word about enforcing patient privacy.”

“I believe St. Mungo’s has policies regarding that matter even so.”

She only shrugged, face still coloured with embarrassment.

“Have you shared this with your friends?”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “You know how Harry is.”

“Your meaning?”

“Well, he’s… noble, isn’t he? I’m not sure he’d approve. He’d say it was underhanded.”

Severus tilted his head curiously as he looked at her. “Very well,” he finally dismissed. “Although you understand that this could never be used to harm a colleague.”

“Yes, sir. I simply found it interesting.”

“Did you.”

“May I be excused, sir?”

“I suppose you may.”

She gave a fleeting, awkward smile as she left. He watched the door shut, deep in thought, before turning and disappearing into his private lab. He had no more classes until after lunch, and there was something he had to brew.

He was startled out of his reverie when he rounded a corner and interrupted two teenagers’ amorous entanglement. They jumped apart with horrified gasps at the sight of him. Both were upper year Slytherins, but neither appeared happy to see their Head of House at this particular moment. His gaze rove over their rumpled outer clothes and blown pupils as his lips curled into a sneer. Merlin preserve him from these hormonal menaces!

“Detention.”

They looked after him mournfully as he swept past them, not saying another word.

The elves greeted him cheerfully when he stepped inside the warm kitchens, observing the busily organised preparations to feed a castle of hundreds of students and its staff. The head elf approached him and bowed low.

“Is there something I can be’s helping Master Snape with?”

Severus nodded. “Yes, Hakee. Two simple meals to be sent to my quarters, whatever you have on hand.”

Hakee bowed again. “We will takes care of it, sir.”

“By the way, have you prepared Professor Umbridge’s meal yet?”

A flash of dislike quickly passed over Hakee’s weathered face, but he disguised it with with a mask of polite professionalism. “We have, sir. She is being specifically requesting fancy meals every night, we must be making it special for her.”

Derision spiked in Severus. The self-importance of a woman with a unique title and ego to match it! “Is that so?”

“Yes, Master Snape. Tonight she is having us cook her a Dover sole fillet.” Of course she had. He showed Severus the platter, which was concealed beneath a cover charmed to retain heat. He lifted it and a waft of fishy steam drifted up. He wrinkled his nose; working all day in a fish processing shop for months had not endeared him to the scent, and it had been long enough ago for any nose blindness to have inevitably worn off.

There was a commotion behind them, the sounds of platters hitting the floor and several elfin cries of dismay. Hakee rushed over, snapping orders and fingers. Not wasting a moment, Severus poured the small bottle’s contents into the bowl of dipping sauce on the side of the platter. He shook the last drops out onto the fillet itself for good measure.

He replaced the cover and strode out of the kitchen, nodding in response to Hakee’s distracted call of “We sends you your food soon, sir!”

As he walked back to his quarters, this time fortunately not encountering any teenage trysts, he thought with grim amusement that it was almost like the old days. The only difference was that this particular target would not die of any horrible poisoning. That potion would merely infect her with the Dragon Pox virus. As the evening progressed, she would progressively feel worse and worse until convinced that the illness had been coming on for days. Maybe she would even blame it on the stress of Harry Potter. By the time she woke up the next morning, it will have set in with full force. He would be surprised if she physically made it to breakfast. Dragon Pox was an illness that varied in severity, but for someone who had never been given the standard preventative cure as a child, it would likely be much worse. At the very least, it would get her off her feet and their backs for a time, and that might just be enough. If nothing else worked, perhaps the DADA curse would.

If there were not a chance that someone could walk by and hear him, he would have started whistling.

Chapter Text

“Did you find anything out?”

Harry shook his head. Ron sighed and glared at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She seemed unrepentant as she scratched out a letter to Rita Skeeter.

“Then why are you so excited?” she asked snidely. (Harry thought writing to Skeeter was putting her in a bad mood.) She had not budged when they tried to get her to share where she’d been all Sunday, and it was eating them—Ron especially—alive. At least she had promised that she didn’t know how to apparate, which mollified the redhead slightly.

Harry smiled to himself, remembering how he had wheedled Snape into letting him stay with him over the summer. It hadn’t exactly been hard, which meant he obviously wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it made Harry wonder what had held him back in the first place. “Remedial Potions is going well.”

Parvati, who was passing him by at the time, gave him a very strange look at this. He couldn’t blame her.

“Did you eat dinner down there? Umbridge was looking for you, we said we didn’t know where you were. She’s really getting wound up. I thought she was going to curse us there and then! She gave us detention for tomorrow night, said you’ll probably be joining us.”

Of course she did. “Yeah, the potion was the kind of thing I couldn’t really walk away from. He gave me some stale bread,” he added flippantly, for the sake of the people sitting around them.

“Delicious,” Ron snarked, leaning over to peer at Hermione’s letter with what he probably thought was subtlety. She flicked her wand at him. His hands flew up to his face and he gasped. “Hermione! I can’t see!”

“That’s usually what a blindfold hex does, Ron.” Ginny had joined their group near the common room fire, passively looking over her Charms textbook.

“Then you should learn how to keep your eyes to your own business.”

“Why are you in such a mood today?” Ron exclaimed. Harry took pity on him and cancelled the hex.

Hermione jabbed her quill into the ink pot and turned to them. “Umbridge, the Squad, your pestering.”

“Pestering-!”

“Really, I can’t tell you.”

Harry got the hint; she was worried about whatever had taken her away from the castle Sunday. He nudged Ron in the ribs. “Right. You know you can talk to us if you need to, yeah?”

Her frazzled look softened slightly and she nodded. “Yeah.”

The common room began to clear as the night wound on. Harry stayed up later than most, worried about Defense tomorrow and unable to get the memory of Umbridge carrying a bag of clanking metal up from the dungeons out of his head. His friends stayed with him, silently doing their own work (or, in the case of Ron, nodding off) and allowing him the space to think.

“...a fight with the Inquisitorial Squad only gives Umbridge a legitimate reason to drag you into her office. All you have done is postpone a strong danger and turn it into a definite certainty.” Her blood quills were gone, broken by Snape. She had more power now than she had possessed back when Harry was forced to carve “I must not tell lies” into the back of his own hand. If she hadn’t gotten into any legal trouble then, what would she try now?

Not that Harry was a coward. He could take a little pain, as much as the thought of being powerless under her control bothered him. It was more to do with the implications of what she was allowed to get away with. If she did anything to him, who was to say she wouldn’t try it on other kids?

And if it was anything too bad and Snape found out, he might just do something to her that could get him sacked.

He could just… not go to Defense. Are you gonna try to dodge her for another four and a half months? Yeah, right.

Eventually Ginny stood, stretching. “Okay, I’m going to go to bed. Try to get some rest. Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Gin. I guess I’ll go too.”

She smiled at him and went up to the girls’ dorm. Hermione looked up, as if contemplating her next move, before returning to her notebook. “I’ll stay up, I’ve got more work to do.”

Harry knew better than to try to persuade her to give it up. He nudged Ron, who jumped with a snort mid-snore and blinked blearily. “Wassit?”

“Come on, killer, let’s go.”

Ron ran a hand over his face and staggered after Harry. Up in their dorm room, he fell face-first down on his bed without bothering to change out of his clothes. Harry shook his head fondly and went to bed himself, resigned to using Occlumency to force sleep.

The Great Hall was abuzz with conversation when the trio walked in for breakfast. It was the first time Harry himself had been there since the fight with the Squad, as meals were a prime gathering time and he knew Umbridge would be waiting to pounce on him the first time he showed up to one. So far, he’d been eating food provided by the professors or nabbed from the kitchens. He was tired of playing hide-and-seek with Umbridge around the castle all the time, though, and knew today was going to end up with him getting tortured in her office either way.

To his surprise, there was no pink horror waiting to assign punitive action the minute he walked in. In fact, a scan of the room showed that she was nowhere in sight.

“Maybe she thinks you’re hiding somewhere else and is trying to find you?” Hermione suggested.

“Maybe,” Harry responded helplessly, settling down on a bench at Gryffindor table.

As soon as he was sitting down, all of the students around them turned to him with blatant excitement on their faces. Even people from other house tables who were within earshot looked over.

“Was it you?” a fourth-year Gryffindor asked.

“Was what me?” he asked, completely baffled.

“We won’t tell!” Colin said, bouncing slightly in his seat. “But was it?”

“What are you going on about, Creevy?” Ron interrupted. He looked tense, like he was ready to jump to Harry’s defense at any minute.

“Umbridge!”

“What are you talking about?”

Katie Bell slid down the bench towards them from a few feet away. “She’s not here. Word’s gone around that she developed a bad case of Dragon Pox overnight. She’s in the hospital wing now, and they’re talking like it’s going to be a while before she gets released.”

Harry gaped at her, completely baffled. “She what?”

“How’d you do it?” Colin pressed.

“I didn’t do it! How would I make her sick, anyway? I don’t have Dragon Pox!”

The people around them didn’t seem to be swayed in the slightest by his protest. A younger girl with a full head of curls nodded with an infuriatingly knowing expression on her face, tapping her nose with one finger. “Ah, right. Of course not.” She then had the nerve to wink at him.

Harry looked at his friends helplessly. Hermione’s face was turned away, looking up at the staff table, but Ron met his stare with an equally shocked one of his own.

So this was what everyone was chattering about when they first walked in. Umbridge had contracted some severe illness, and they all thought he was somehow responsible.

“Guess that’s what a criminal reputation gets you, mate,” Ron said lowly, his shock wearing off to be replaced by glee. “Dragon Pox, huh!”

As he turned back to all of the watching faces around him, it dawned on Harry that there was hardly a mistrustful or wary expression among them. He had gotten used to being feared and ostracised by most of the school since his return, as they all thought he was a dangerous criminal (thank you, government-controlled media). Over time, however, that had begun ebbing away as his enmity with Umbridge became well-known and the school’s hatred of her deepened. It seemed people were siding with him on principle simply for the sake of spiting Umbridge. They still all thought he was apparently capable of poisoning someone, but they didn’t mind because it was Umbridge. House of the ‘noble’, my arse.

Even if people weren’t hating him because of these misconceptions, it still rankled him to have them spread around in the first place. He fought the rising of his temper and protested, “I really haven’t done anything. I’m not even good enough at potions to make something like that if I wanted to, which I don’t. Besides, I don’t even think a potion like that exists. Is it really so impossible that she just got sick naturally?”

A sneering voice came from a few people down, a boy Harry thought might be in the year above them. “I don’t know, Potter. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time in remedial potions with Snape lately, and we all know what kind of person he is. Maybe he’s been teaching you some old tricks.”

Before Harry could respond to that, Hermionie surprised him by whipping around and glaring at the speaker fiercely. “Shut up, McLaggen! We all know you’re not allowed within a hundred metres of the potions labs since you blew up half a classroom.”

Several people laughed at this, and McLaggen opened his mouth to retort, but Dumbledore stood at the front of the room and spoke before he had the chance. Eyes twinkling rather merrily, the Headmaster said, “To those of you who have not heard—which I suspect is none of you—Professor Umbridge has come down with an unfortunate case of Dragon Pox and will be quarantined in the Hospital Wing for the foreseeable future. As this is an infectious disease, visits will be prohibited. If any of you desire to send her your well-wishes, Madame Pomfrey will be more than happy to deliver them to her.” A ripple of clear, amused derision swept through the student body at this. Dumbledore gave them all a serene smile and twinkled at them more brightly, clearly aware of their opinions on the matter. “In the meantime, her lessons will be filled in by a guest from the Auror Department, John Dawlish.”

An unfamiliar man Harry hadn’t noticed sitting at the staff table raised his hand in acknowledgement, but unlike his predecessor, did not stand and make a simpering speech. This alone endeared him to the Umbridge-weary students. A resounding chorus of cheers and applause echoed through the room, and Dawlish blinked as if surprised. Dumbledore beamed at them all and sat back down. Hermione huffed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Harry asked under his breath as everyone finally went back to discussing the news with one another and eating.

“Nothing that I know of. He got Os on all of his NEWTs, so I suppose he won’t be incompetent.”

“‘Mione, what the hell,” Ron whispered fiercely.

“Language, Ronnikins,” Fred said as he plopped down onto the bench next to him. George appeared out of nowhere, straddling the bench on the other side of Hermione. Both were sporting their usual mischievous grins as they bracketed the trio.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any tips, Harry?”

“Wasn’t me,” Harry repeated, getting the feeling that it was something he’d be saying a lot in the near future.

“Never said it was, did we?” Fred said, blinking innocently. Harry eyed him suspiciously. “More important things on the horizon.”

“Truth is, we feel bad for the old toad—”

“—so out of the goodness of our hearts—”

“—we want to send her our well-wishes.”

“You’re taking the piss, right?” Ron asked dubiously.

“What do you think?” Fred responded quietly, soft enough that only the trio could hear him.

“She might have a thing or two in her office that we would rather our Auror friend over there didn’t get his hands on,” George continued in that same undertone.

“Figured you three might want to watch the masters at work, or at least help us out a little bit.”

Harry glanced back and forth between his two best friends. Ron seemed conflicted, torn between wanting to get at Umbridge and his ingrained distrust of anything the twins told him. Hermione, however, was looking thrilled.

“I’d love to get into her office,” she whispered.

“I bet you would,” Ron muttered.

Seeing that they appeared more willing than not, and inclined towards the idea himself, Harry nodded to the twins. “Alright.”

“Great!” George thumped the table. “Meet you in the old magical government classroom at six.” They sauntered off. The trio looked at one another before returning to their cold breakfasts.

Harry occasionally caught the sound of his name being tossed around, in tones varying from hateful to admiring, and tried not to let it show. He was afraid the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him.

He glanced up at the staff table, eyes instinctively searching for one face in particular. A smile automatically spread across his face when he found it, illuminated by a subtle but clear (to him) satisfaction. As if sensing Harry’s gaze, Snape looked over. Black met green, both sets of eyes dancing in mirth, and the smile on Harry’s face grew. Moments later, Snape broke the eye contact, probably not wanting to let any one else notice the amicable exchange. Harry went back to his eggs.

“I wonder what class will be like with Dawlish.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Hermione said, looking up at the staff table once more. “We have Defense this morning.”

It was kind of a relief to not be nervous at the thought.

John Dawlish was a very no-nonsense, abide-by-law sort of fellow. So far, he had shown none of the sadistic or patronizing tendencies of his predecessor. He was, however, clearly a subscriber to the Ministry rhetoric about Harry and the sort of instruction that students of Hogwarts should be exposed to. Ron had hopefully suggested that maybe since he was an Auror, he’d have more of an awareness of the general dangers out in the world and would want to teach them some actual defense. Unfortunately for the class, this was not the case. He simply had them turn to the next chapter in their syllabus and had them read.

At least he didn’t pick on them the way Umbridge had done, and when Hermione pulled out her Transfiguration homework with the explanation that she had already read the chapter, he made no further comment. A quiet murmur of conversation picked up near the end of the period, the sort Professor Snape would have immediately shut down but any other teacher would have no trouble with. He didn’t seem to mind, merely flipping through papers on Umbridge’s desk as if acquainting himself with her lesson plans. Considering how she had never actually taught them anything, Harry wondered if there was anything there to read.

Half of it’s probably detailed notes about me, he thought, somewhat sourly.

At the end of class, everyone filed out. A few students nodded respectfully to Dawlish, and he nodded back unsmilingly. A breath of relief passed over the group when the door shut behind the last student, and people immediately began whispering about their impressions.

Hermione met Harry and Ron’s eyes and shrugged. Nothing more about it was said between the three of them, but they all understood.

At six, when most of the castle and almost certainly Dawlish (as dinners in the Great Hall were mandatory for staff, barring extraneous circumstances) were beginning to eat, the trio met Fred and George in the old government classroom. Hermione was standing by one of the posters, chewing on her lip as she stared at a chart of the various departments in the Ministry of Magic, when the twins slipped in.

“Ah! Good to see you three made it.” Fred’s hand was fisted, and he opened it to reveal several gobstones that shone with a strange pearlescent light.

“What are these?” Hermione asked, picking one up and holding it to the light.

“They disguise your magical signature. That way, if someone realises we’ve snuck in and try to cast a detection charm on whoever was nearby, it won’t register as us.” George explained, taking one for himself. Ron and Harry followed their example.

“It’s not something we’d usually worry about, but the new bloke is an auror, so we’re sure he knows some spells like that.” Fred said. The gobstone buzzed strangely in Harry’s palm as he held it. “It should work to disguise any spells we cast or who broke any wards that might be on the place.”

“This is so clever,” Hermione said. “How did you make these?”

The twins grinned at her. “Ah, but that would be telling.”

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for the twins to break any detection wards on Umbridge’s office. They had somehow managed to nick a key ring from Filch, and after a couple of tries they found the right one. Since Filch was a squib, spells must have been placed on the keys to bring down any alarm spells or other magical preventatives to unauthorized entry. Ron, grumbling, was assigned to watch the corridor outside as the other four slipped in.

The twins wandered over to her desk, picking up papers and shuffling through them as if they hadn’t a care in the world. A brown briefcase, obvious amidst the rest of the office's bright decor, was set on the floor beside it and slightly open as if Dawlish had only just begun unpacking his stuff into the office. Hermione beelined for a filing cabinet, notebook already in her hand. Not having any clear goals in mind like the others, Harry looked around more aimlessly.

The decor was frilly, pink, and revolting as ever. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sight; the few detentions he had served with her seemed ingrained into his memory. Subconsciously rubbing the back of his hand, he walked over to the spot where he and so many other kids had been forced to write with blood quills. He caught sight of what looked like a small bloodstain on the rose-coloured rug below and scowled. Using his toe to flip up the rug, he saw that it had seemed through and dried in little crusts on the flagstones. Is she just too stupid to use magic to clean it up, or does she like having a reminder of torturing kids? It was possible she just hadn’t noticed, he supposed. It didn’t really matter either way at the moment, so he let the corner of the rug fall back down with a soft thwack and shifted his gaze to a side table below a hideous painting of two kittens on a (pink, obviously) rug.

Set on the floor beside it, pushed back against the wall and partially obscured by its shadow, was an unmistakable cloth bag. Its shape was irregular and distorted by the contents within.

“Aha!” George exclaimed from the desk. Fred murmured something and they high-fived one another. Harry ignored them and stepped closer.

Reaching out almost hesitantly, he lifted the edge of the bag’s opening and peered inside. It was hard to make out whatever was within, so he lit the tip of his wand and held it close.

The light of his Lumos glinted off of something clearly metal, and he swallowed at the sight of chains and other definitely-painful-looking devices.

“Think this is what Neville was talking about,” Harry said.

Hermione was by his side in an instant, lighting her own wand and opening the bag further. She grimaced at what she saw. “These are positively barbaric!”

“Good thing she’s in the hospital wing, eh, Harry?”

“Fred—”

“Yeah, yeah, we know. You didn’t do it.”

George chimed in. “Well, we’ve got what we need if you two are set to go.”

Hermione sighed and looked at the filing cabinet longingly before nodding. “Yes, I suppose we ought to get out of here before Ron gets bored and wanders off.”

“Hey!” came a muted voice from the door.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Harry said. Then, taken by a sudden impulse, he grasped the bag tightly in one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. “Fred, George, any idea where we can dump these and no one will be able to get their hands on them again?”

The twins looked at each other, grins spreading across their faces, before turning back to him and nodding in sync.

“We might have an idea.”

Harry took great pleasure in tossing the bag and its heavy, clanking secrets into the hole Hermione spelled in the centre of the ice covering the Black Lake. She released the spell, and the exposed water immediately began frosting over. As slush started to form, assisted by cold late-February night air, even more tension drained out of Harry’s body. He felt his back muscles go lax as the bag sunk out of sight. Soon, the hole would freeze back over. The bag would continue to sink to the bottom of what he knew, from experience, was a very deep lake. He’d placed an anti-summoning enchantment on it and the torture devices within before casting it away, and by the time the lake really melted again for the summer, he doubted anyone would think to go hunting for it.

“There’s probably more in the dungeons where that came from,” Ron pointed out as the three of them stood shivering back on the shore.

“I know,” Harry said, and he did. Still, there was something reassuring about watching that bag disappear and knowing the person who’d wanted it in the first place wasn’t able to get her hands on him or his friends for at least a few weeks yet. Hermione sighed and nodded, perhaps thinking something similar.

Ron was a bit more pragmatic about the situation. “I’m hungry. Dinner might still be out on the tables if we hurry.”

Hermione thumped his arm and laughed. Harry laughed too, and the three of them ran inside to escape the cold.

Chapter Text

“Did you truly think no one would note your absence during most of last night's dinner?”

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. The movement was made difficult by the weight of gravity already pulling his shoulders up as he hung upside-down off the couch. His heels were hooked over the sofa's back, holding him in place, and his long hair trailed on the floor below.

“No one said anything about it,” or the missing bag, “so it's not a big deal.”

Snape looked over at him, face sharpening in disapproval when he again caught sight of Harry’s unusual position. “If you were meant to be in that direction, your feet would have been on your head.”

“That would look pretty dumb, though, wouldn't it?” Harry grinned, purposely missing Snape's point and gently swaying back and forth so that his hair dragged across the ground. Snape’s disapproval deepened and he returned to his potion with mutterings about how Harry’s hair looked enough like a mop without him using it as one. Harry chuckled quietly and reached up (down?) to twist the strands into a little bun. Their evening’s Occlumency lesson had ended early, as Snape needed to return to his brewing, which was in a time-sensitive stage. Content to remain in the dungeons until kicked out for curfew, Harry had chosen to stay.

“I’ve used mops, and they’re a lot straighter than this.”

“Perhaps ‘a nest’ would be appropriate once more if you would only allow me to trim it.”

Harry’s hands clamped protectively over his head. “You’re not cutting my hair.”

Snape huffed. “It would do you good.”

“I will if you will,” Harry said, knowing that would never happen and he would thus be safe.

Snape gave him a dirty look. “Perhaps I might just hold you to that.”

Glancing over to the kitchen once more, Harry caught sight of the dining area and beamed. In all of the time he had spent here, there had only ever been the one chair at the table. It made sense, as Snape was a solitary man and Harry couldn’t imagine him inviting other professors down to his quarters for a spot of tea. When he’d eaten dinner here on Monday night, Snape had somehow acquired another chair for him to sit in. Harry saw now that the second chair was still there, and it made a warm feeling start up in his chest. Deciding to save that thought for later consideration, he brought his attention back to the conversation. “Right. Anyway, did you poison Umbridge?”

If Snape was caught off-guard by the abrupt change in topic, he did not show it. Harry watched his upside-down figure closely (he kind of looked like a hanging bat from this angle, Harry thought with amusement) for any telling signs of guilt, but the man merely hummed and began to stir his cauldron. “Dragon Pox is a highly infectious disease, especially to those who have never been vaccinated.”

“There’s a vaccine for that?” Harry asked, mildly curious.

Snape whirled around and barked, “Excuse me?” with surprising speed. Startled, Harry’s careful control slipped and he fell completely off the couch, yelping as his head made contact with the ground and his neck cricked. He toppled ungainly over, the ceiling spinning above as he found himself laying on his back.

“Do you mean to tell me that you have never received a vaccination for Dragon Pox?” Snape demanded.

“I don’t know! Don’t parents usually get their kids treated as babies? I wouldn’t remember that, and they’re not exactly around to ask.”

“They do not administer the Dragon Pox vaccine until the age of six, as the side effects can sometimes be severe and dangerous to young children. As such, it is not a pleasant experience and you ought to have remembered it at that age.”

“I was with the Durselys by then, and I can tell you right now that they never took me to any wizarding healers.” Harry clambered to his feet, swaying slightly from disorientation as the blood that had been settling in his head as he hung off the sofa slowly dissipated back into the rest of his body.

Snape was standing fully facing Harry, the stir stick in his hand dripping a puce-coloured potion onto the floor where it sizzled and left glassy patches on the flagstones. “And you were never given it upon entrance to Hogwarts? That is when muggle-born students are treated for such things.”

Harry shook his head, then winced. He reached up one hand to gingerly rub the throbbing spot he’d fallen on.

“I suppose, being a half-blood whose location was meant to be kept secret, your name was never placed on the list of muggle -born and -raised students,” Snape mused to himself, finally setting down the stir stick. He walked over to Harry, hand batting away the fingers rubbing at his head and pushing the hair aside to examine his scalp. Harry bowed his head slightly to let Snape get a better look, oddly touched by the gesture as Snape clucked his tongue. “One more thing for Madame Pomfrey to examine.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, head jerking back up to meet Snape’s uncompromising glare.

“I think a trip to the hospital wing is in order,” the man said firmly, guiding Harry towards the door.

“What about your potion?” Harry asked, fruitlessly trying to dig his heels into the floor. He did not like the hospital wing.

“You are more important. I will take care of it later. It is ruined by now regardless.”

Harry made one last desperate attempt. “How are you gonna explain this to other people who might see us in the hall?”

“Potions accident. You ingested something, and it has caused a rash.”

“Where?” Harry asked, knowing his skin looked perfectly normal.

Snape smirked. “Somewhere they cannot see. Would you really like me to tell them the location?”

Harry blanched and began to walk faster. He just managed to snatch his book bag off the floor before he was escorted out of the door and into the hallway.

“You don’t have to take me there yourself,” Harry said weakly. “I can go alone.”

“Ah, but where would the fun be in that?”

Harry resisted the urge to swing his legs back and forth like a toddler as he sat on the edge of his usual hospital bed. Snape and Madam Pomfrey were off in the corner, whispering together and occasionally glancing at him. She had been proper horrified when Snape informed her that he had been given none of the usual medical care magical children got beyond the age of one and a half, and her first step in proceeding had been to conduct a full medical examination. After taking a quick potion for his knocked head, he’d had to endure invasive and drawn-out diagnostics charms that took ages longer than the usual quick ones he normally received. Other humiliating tests ranged from tapping his knee to test his reflexes to holding an enchanted candle near various body parts to see if his magical core was stable. Apparently, if there were any leaks in his core, the outflow of magic would “blow” the flame out. He had no idea how this worked and feared the boring lecture he might get from Snape explaining it all if he asked. Madam Pomfrey had seemed more and more serious as the exam went on, which made him nervous. After she had finished, she drew Snape aside. That had been a while ago now, and they were still talking.

His fingers trailed along the bedframe, searching for the carving he knew was there. He smiled when he found it. In their third year, when Harry was convalescing from the dementor’s unexpected attack on their quidditch match, Ron had scratched the words “Harry Potter’s luck strikes again” into the wood, putting one tally mark below it. This was the same bed that Harry always seemed to end up in, and Ron had defensively explained that it would probably make the bed a valuable artifact when Hermione looked ready to blow up at him for defacing school property. Every time Harry landed back in here, he or one of his friends would add another tally mark. Even Hermione had added one once when Ron was being a prat during the Tournament. Harry glanced over at the adults once more to make sure they weren’t currently looking at him. Seeing that they were bent over Madam Pomfrey’s clipboard again, he took a broken quill nib from his book bag and added another tally mark. He looked at the depressingly long number of tallies with a sigh, knowing there were more visits from his first and second year not accounted for. On a whim, he added another two for his most memorable visits during that time: one for his convalescence after the Philosopher's Stone, and another for the night he spent regrowing all of the bones in his arm after Lockhart got ahold of him in second year.

That temporary distraction done, Harry tossed the quill nib back into his bag and resumed trying not to swing his legs.

Umbridge was apparently in here somewhere. If so, he couldn’t see her anywhere. Dumbledore had said she was quarantined, but Harry had assumed that meant the beds next to her would have been moved or something. As it was, he appeared to be the only patient. Was she in another room? There was one corner that was always sectioned off with privacy curtains, so he supposed that might be a kind of staff ward. If it were, it made sense to place her there. Harry wondered why she hadn’t just been taken to St. Mungo’s if she really were too ill to stay by herself in her own rooms.

Harry felt eyes on him again and looked up to see Snape’s furrowed brow. The man did not look to be in a very good mood, and Harry wondered if it was because he had not expected this to take so much time. He held his hands out at his sides and shrugged his shoulders at the man as if to say You’re the one who wanted to come here, not my fault. Snape closed his eyes as if pained and returned his attention to Madam Pomfrey. Harry huffed and threw himself back on the bed, stretching out along its length in a dramatic expression of teenaged ennui. In his book bag he had the latest letters from Mary and Callum, and he reread them for something to do.

After what seemed like ages, the adults walked back over. He propped himself up on his elbows to look at them.

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey began, face professional but a sad look in her eyes that made him slightly uncomfortable, “Your test results indicate that you are suffering from the lingering effects of long-term malnourishment and a couple of poorly-healed old injuries.”

“Oh,” he said dumbly. None of that surprised him, but he was pretty sure nonchalance was not a reaction that would exactly smooth either of the furrowed brows directed his way. The idea of faking surprise, frankly, seemed exhausting, so he was left with embarrassment and an unshakable awkwardness.

“I take it from Professor Snape that the circumstances of how this came to be is already fully known and that the situation is being addressed?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry had not liked discussing his life with the Dursleys with Snape in the village, and he did not like talking about it with the mediwitch now. She softened slightly at his clearly reluctant look.

“There is nothing for you to be ashamed of, Mr. Potter.”

This, of course, had the effect of making him want to childishly hide under his blankets in further shame. Snape, who had never fallen victim to soft pity in his life but understood how Harry felt because of their similar histories and a deeper knowledge of Harry’s personality, cleared his throat and began discussing their “next steps” in a business-like tone.

“Fortunately, the large dose of Skele-gro you were forced to ingest in your second year because of that incompetent twat Lockhart—”

“Severus,” Madam Pomfrey chided quietly. Whether it was because of his unexpectedly unprofessional phrasing or because he had insulted another (even if a former) professor in front of a student, Harry wasn’t sure. He had heard worse insults towards both himself and others from the man in private and merely smirked. Snape paid her no heed.

“—seems to have helped increase your bone density.” Bone density? Was that a problem? “Nutritive potions may help correct your stunted growth.”

“Stunted!” Harry squawked, affronted.

“Your height is not indicative of a genetic disposition towards short, Potter. Do not give me that glare; this may prove a boon, as malnutrition is something we can work on with due care. You already grew this fall, if you do not remember, and without yearly returns to that foul place, there is significant hope that we may continue this trend.”

Harry refrained from quipping back, hoping that silent agreement would make this go by faster.

“An appointment will be set up with a professional eye healer to check your prescription. This will probably occur some time after spring break. As for the old injuries…” Snape took a deep breath, and Harry instinctively knew he would not like what he was about to hear, “they must be reset. This will be uncomfortable, but not painful. After this is done, we will start an inoculation regimen. For today, we will begin with the Dragon Pox.” He cast a meaningful look at the curtained-off corner, confirming Harry’s suspicions as to Umbridge’s location.

“Best get it over with, then,” Harry sighed. Madam Pomfrey nodded and strode purposefully off. He turned his attention to Snape, who still looked unhappy. His face was pinched, and only knowing the man as well as he did allowed Harry to distinguish the expression as something other than annoyance. “What is it?”

Snape slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, hand falling to rest on Harry’s shin. “Can you truly not guess that I am displeased to hear unsatisfactory news about your state of health?”

“A very guardian-like attitude, you’re getting better at this already,” Harry said cheekily, but the smile fell when this only seemed to worsen Snape’s mood. “But you said you could fix it.”

“We can.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Harry, is that it never occurred to me to check any of this in the first place. If it were not for your throwaway comment about the Dragon Pox vaccine, I would never have thought of taking you to a healer.”

“You didn’t know.” Harry tried to bolster Snape’s spirits and make him less despondent, especially as he personally did not see any fault in the man’s actions. Snape had done more for him than anyone else ever had.

“I ought to have,” Snape snapped back, although he wasn’t angry with Harry. “I knew of your history, had more than enough reason to consider that a full medical check-up was necessary. It simply never crossed my mind.”

“That’s alright, then. It’s not like you purposely kept me away from medical care or whatever.”

The self-flagellation on Snape’s face twisted into something uglier and more pained. “Yes, your stellar past examples of adult behaviour truly give credit to your absolution of my failure.”

Harry was unexpectedly hurt at this. The man grimaced apologetically and his hand slipped from Harry’s shin. He missed its warmth.

“How can I, in good conscience, take you in? Become a… a guardian to you? I am ill-equipped to provide what you need.”

Sitting straight up in alarm, Harry tried not to let his voice crack with the fear that gripped him. “Don’t even say that! What about the village, and the bed, and all of the hours you’ve spent teaching me Occlumency and Defense and Potions so I can survive this bloody war and actually have a future? Who else has done that for me? I don’t need a guardian to coddle me or manage every detail of my life. Forced or not, I’ve become too self-dependent for that. You’re not changing my diapers or whatever. You’re just supposed to be there for me when I need you.”

“This is not a matter of doing your laundry, Harry! This is your health, effects upon which can impact the rest of your life!”

“Yeah? And who else is here with me right now? McGonagall? Dumbledore? Sirius? No, you are!”

“Inexcusably late!”

“A lot has been going on—”

“If I cannot manage to handle your basic needs when life gets busy, then I am not a fit caretaker.”

“So you made one mistake! You didn’t abandon me after I fuc—”

“I know you are not about to swear at me! And I am not abandoning you.”

“Well I’m not abandoning you either, so if that’s what you’re trying to make me do with this little speech, you can just give it up!”

“You two will STOP shouting at one another in my infirmary this instant!” Madam Pomfrey berated them, hurrying over to tell them off. Harry realised that both he and Snape had been yelling and flushed. Snape cleared his throat and stood. The mattress decompressed from his weight as he moved off, and Harry stared resolutely at the rumpled blankets as he fought to calm down.

“The curtains—” Snape suddenly began.

“They are warded with silencing charms,” Pomfrey said, calming down. Harry looked up to see them turned towards Umbridge’s corner and realised how close they had come to being overheard by the most disastrous person who could learn of their situation. Well, second to Voldemort, he supposed.

He didn’t have the chance to think about the conversation (he guessed it may have been more of an argument) as the two adults gave him a very potent pain preventative that made everything a little bit silly as they used charms to reset his ankle and one of his ribs. As he took the potion, Madam Pomfrey warned him that he would feel buoyed spirits. Moments after swallowing the draught, a fuzzy feeling took over his head and he wondered if this was what Daniel Papparaldo felt when he was… de-stressing… from school. He giggled and burped as Snape pulled the empty bottle out of his unresisting hand and set it on the bedside table.

Snape asked him quietly about the stories behind each injury as they worked, and Harry told him. Some distant part of him was amusedly aggrieved at being taken advantage of when he felt so floaty but the potion had him in an excellent (and sharing) mood so he didn’t bother keeping his silence.

“Ankle was Dudley. He stomped on it when we were kids, maybe eight? It hurt a lot, and I had trouble walking for a while. Hey, that tickles!”

“Does it still pain you now?”

“Only when I’m running or land on it wrong.”

“From now on, it ought not trouble you any more,” Madam Pomfrey said before asking him to take off his shirt so she could treat his rib.

“And this?”

“Fell out of a tree, hit a rock. Got rid of the rock when I was gardening the next day, though! Ha, threw it over the fence into Number Six’s garden. Her husband hit it wrong with the lawnmower the next week and I heard Aunt Petunia crowing over how much the new blades would cost them. Don’t think she knew it was my fault.”

Madam Pomfrey gave Snape a look that Harry couldn’t decipher in his present state. He merely said, “The exciting behaviours of suburbia inhabitants.”

Harry giggled again and decided to send the Dursleys a postcard titled “Dear suburbia inhabitants” with nothing on the back but a drawing of their neighbor buying lawn mower blades. Maybe Snape would help him. Not with the drawing, though. Snape was really bad at art.

The pain potion, for being so effective in the moment, did not last very long. It soon wore off, leaving Harry feeling sore but not unbearably so. His mood plummeted as its effects faded. He found himself staring forlornly at the ceiling. They had to wait until it was fully out of his system before administering the vaccine, which meant a standard wait time of half an hour.

Everything seemed gloomy and dull as the pain potion’s high wore off. If this, too, was a part of Papparaldo’s recreational routine, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be a part of it after all. A heavy sigh escaped him.

He listened to the sounds of Snape settling into the chair beside the bed and remembered their argument. It was just so dumb. All of that because of a Dragon Pox inoculation? It wasn’t worth screaming over.

Irrationally, he felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. They frustrated him, and he tried to repress them, but his efforts had the opposite effect. Soon his face was flushed with embarrassment as tear tracks ran down into his hair and Snape, obviously noticing, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.” Harry sniffed.

“Ah.”

A stretch of silence.

“Do you… want water?”

“No, thank you.”

More silence.

“It is the potion that has caused this emotional response,” Snape said, as if reassuring both Harry and himself.

“I know,” Harry whispered.

A hand reached out towards him, and thinking it was meant to comfort him and feeling uncharacteristically needy, Harry grasped it gratefully. Only then did he belatedly realise it had been intended to straighten the blanket that had been placed over him. He started to stammer, but still caught up in that overwhelming need for consolation, he did not let go. Snape did not pull his hand out of Harry’s hold, but he did inch his chair closer so that he was not bent over so much. The nearness of the man further soothed the stupid ache in his throat. Harry dashed the tears away with his free hand in the cautious hope that no more would follow.

Snape’s fingers were long and slender. Harry could feel a slight raised ridge on the palm near the base of his pinky from what felt like a scar. Running his finger over it idly, Harry wondered if Snape had gotten it from a knife when working with potions ingredients. He didn’t look over at the man. The gyroscopic range of emotion he’d felt within the last couple of hours alone had him wrung out, and he was not looking forward to the vaccine and its promise of further discomfort.

“You will likely need to stay in the infirmary overnight,” Snape said.

Harry grimaced, remembering Umbridge. “Do I have to? What if… if she gets up to use the loo or something and tries to strangle me in my sleep?”

“I doubt that is likely.”

“What if Filch or Dawlish come in to talk with or check on her and see me?”

“I am sure you could conjure some believable fiction in that teenage brain of yours. It is the vocation of people your age to mislead adults, I believe.”

“I won’t get any rest here. I hate this place.”

“Madam Pomfrey would be honoured to hear that you think so.”

“I won’t be able to do good in class ‘cause I’ll be so worn-out.”

“Do well, Potter. Did no one ever teach you basic grammar?”

Harry’s hold on Snape’s hand tightened briefly in annoyance, but nothing painful and with no real intention of retribution. “It would be easier to do well if I could sleep somewhere comfortable for the night.”

“You cannot be released to Gryffindor Tower; your peers do not have the sufficient medical knowledge to assist you in case of a bad reaction.”

“You do.”

Harry held his breath, waiting to hear what Snape would say. He had practically insisted earlier that he was an unfit guardian for him, and Harry was still afraid that whatever funk of guilt Snape had worked himself into this time would make the man take back his offer of a home for the summer. This felt like a test of that.

Snape did not immediately answer. Harry wondered if he, too, was contemplating the bigger question Harry had not asked.

“Perhaps it could be arranged,” he said slowly. Harry’s grip on his hand tightened again, but this time it was out of relief.

Madam Pomfrey soon came back. By the time she had, Harry’s emotions had stabilised. He sat up and didn’t protest when Snape’s hand slipped out of his grasp. Madam Pomfrey noticed the movement and smiled. Harry sneaked a glance up at Snape just in time to catch the blank mask falling into place. Wondering if embarrassment was the emotion Snape was trying to hide, Harry smirked to himself a little. The expression quickly fell when Madam Pomfrey approached with the vaccine.

The process was soon over. Harry didn’t feel any effects, but both adults warned him that it would take a few minutes to settle into his system. He grabbed his bag and made to get up. Madam Pomfrey began to scold him, but Snape stopped her. They spoke quietly for a minute, then she sighed and patted Harry’s shoulder.

“Alright, Mr. Potter. If you should require anything else, I am sure you know your way here.”

Harry gave her a wry nod and left with Snape. As they walked back down to the dungeons, he could sense Snape’s disquiet. Having had a glimpse into the man’s insecurities every now and then, he could guess what the black-robed wizard was thinking about.

Well that won’t do. Guilty is the last thing he should be feeling. “Thank you,” Harry said simply, looking straight ahead. He saw Snape look at him out of the corner of his eye but did not return it.

He never did get a response, but that was okay.

By the time they had returned to Snape’s quarters, Harry was starting to feel unwell. He stood off to the side, watching mutely as Snape transfigured the sofa into a bed. The man stood with his hands on his hips, staring at it with clear satisfaction, and Harry smiled as he imagined that Snape was thinking about the dilemma of trying to find a bed for him in the village.

“Bet you wished you could have done that back in the cottage, huh?” he asked. His words came out strained, and the smugness drained from Snape’s frame as he turned to Harry with a furrowed brow.

“Beginning to feel ill?”

Harry nodded and swiped a hand through his hair. He walked past Snape and collapsed onto the bed face-down. After a moment, he heard Snape move into the kitchen. He listened to the sounds of cooking and cleaning idly.

He had begun to shiver when Snape came back over with a mug in hand. He handed it to Harry, who sniffed it. Vegetable broth. He took a slow sip as Snape took out a book and sat in the armchair.

The warm broth was nice. A thought occurred to him, and he asked hopefully, “Do I have to go to class tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Snape turned a page.

Harry sighed and went back to his broth.

In the grate, the fire was crackling comfortably. He had a strong sense of deja vu, remembering moments just like this in the village. The memories were enough to make him smile and relax further into the bed despite the effects of the Dragon Pox inoculation.

Snape shifted in his armchair, crossing his ankles. Harry looked over at him speculatively, wondering if this was what the summers would be like. He hoped so.

Chapter Text

Many students complained of the lack of sunlight in the dungeons. He’d heard the mutterings himself during potions class when he was in school. Many felt that the darkness further worsened an already dreary subject. Severus cared not for these opinions; they were ignorant and childish. If any of them bothered to do more research into the field, they would learn that exposure to sunlight ruins many potions and the extra warmth can throw off careful temperature calculations.

If the rest had not been reason enough for the lack of natural light in his classroom, Severus would still have been grateful for it because the shadows helped to hide the looks of loathing Harry projected his way. He knew they were put-on now, and remembered enjoying seeing them before their improved relationship, but some part of him still cringed internally at being the cause and target of such an expression. The irritation Severus felt at the whole situation helped fuel his targeted comments. The only times he ever felt like he was not putting on a show seemed to be when he was with Harry in private. When had the bane of his existence become his solace?

“Tell me, Potter, does that potion look correct to you?”

Harry’s lips thinned. He glanced over at Weasley, who had a stubborn edge to his jaw and the conflicted expression he always got when Severus confronted Harry in class these days.

“No, sir.”

“And where, in that little Quidditch-stuffed head of yours, do you think you may have possibly gone wrong?” He looked down into the cauldron, which was certainly not supposed to be the colour it was and was far below the quality of brewing he knew the teen capable of.

Harry gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, sir. Your father may have been an entitled brat, but you hardly have the same excuse. At least he managed to die with honour.”

It had been a low blow, and he knew it. Green eyes blazed with fury and it was only Weasley’s unsubtle kick that kept the vitriol Severus could see inside them from spilling forth. Sweet Circe, I really intend to become the caretaker of a child I cause so much pain to? How can he stand to look at me? At least he seemed to have recovered well from his night spent tossing and turning with discomfort from the vaccine’s effects.

“Pay more attention, if you can manage the effort. You are brewing a volatile potion, not throwing together a tuna casserole.” It was a weak attempt to soften his earlier words, a reminder of the village and that his behaviour was an act. Harry gave no reaction at all to this, however. Severus was somewhat surprised; he knew the boy was a skilled actor, but he had expected at least a blink. It was as if the meaning of the reference had been completely lost on him. All Harry did was scowl and return to his work.

Severus stalked back up to the front of the classroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Draco glaring at him. He turned partially towards him, meeting his angry stare with an impassive one of his own. The “die with honour” remark had been geared towards him more than Harry, a reminder of their conversation. Draco was first to look away, lowering his eyes to his cauldron and scraping the contents of his chopping board into it with his knife. His anger caused him to use more force than necessary, and the potion gave a little cough of smoke. Severus made no comment and merely continued on his path to the front of the room.

Moments like this made all of the reasoning that lead to their choice to maintain the secret of his and Harry’s connection seem hollow. He no longer had to convince the Dark Lord of his loyalty. There was no spy in the order to keep in the dark, and indeed, the Order already knew. He understood why the Headmaster had chosen this path. While the Dark Lord was aware that Severus was a spy, he did not know of their closeness. If he did, it would be an added incentive to capture either one as bait for the other. Beyond his former role as a spy, there was also the Ministry to contend with. So far, no one had drawn a connection between his “research project” and the time Harry spent on the run. If the world at large found out that Severus Snape felt anything other than hatred for the teenaged felon, questions would be asked. Questions they could ill-afford at a time when a High Inquisitor, even one laid up with Dragon Pox, was residing in the castle.

This train of thought was an old one. Severus would get nowhere but further frustrated if he continued pondering it. He redirected his attention to the class before him and ignored the simmering anger with practiced ease.

When the end of class finally came, students brought up their bottled potions one at a time. Severus would normally have made some snide comment or other when Harry brought up his brew, but the complete lack of response to his fish reference had unsettled him. He refrained from saying anything and merely sneered. Harry stomped out with his friends as the class filed silently out. When the door had shut behind the last one, he rested his chin on his fist and breathed deeply.

He needed a new job.

The Headmaster had called a staff meeting between classes and dinner. Severus sat through it without bothering to hide his boredom. There were occasional moments of interest, but on the whole, it was a wasted hour.

He tuned back in when the Headmaster turned to their interim defense professor with a smile. “Auror Dawlish, how have you found your first classes?”

“The students are quiet and diligent. I have had no problems.”

“Excellent. If you require any assistance in constructing lessons, I am certain that our other professors will be more than happy to assist you.”

The response to this was mixed. His more easy-going colleagues, like Pomona and Filius, nodded sanguinely. Rolanda seemed to hide a snort, and Severus himself felt his lip curl. He did not like aurors.

Dawlish’s face took on a guarded look. “I see no need to deviate in any way from the set curriculum of High Inquisitor Umbridge,” he said primly, as if snubbing off a suggestion of treason. Severus met McGonagall’s eye and looked briefly skyward. Her face was pinched. He imagined she was suppressing a huff. Gryffindors like her never did have the patience for workplace politics.

“No one was suggesting that, my dear fellow,” Charity said, a touch anxiously. She had been one of the more careful people when it came to actions that might be viewed with suspicion by the Ministry. As a muggleborn, he imagined that she was careful to not do anything that may rock the boat or put her in their oh-so-just government’s bad graces. “We merely remember our own early teaching misadventures. Why, in my first month–”

“We meant no disrespect to the Ministry’s authority at Hogwarts,” Severus said, interrupting her babble. Dawlish looked at him closely. He wondered what, if anything, Umbridge might have said to him about Severus. Hopefully nothing that would make the man look too closely his way.

Dawlish made a noncommittal sound. The conversation shifted. Severus spoke little after that besides giving an update on his efforts to catch out Daniel Pappalardo in his… extracurricular gardening. Poppy, his biggest supporter, once more promised to alert him if she heard anything. He thought he heard a snicker from Aurora Sinistra’s end of the table and made a note to search the Astronomy tower for the smell of skunk.

Once the meeting had broken up, Severus stepped quietly to the Headmaster’s side and made eye contact. The man smiled pleasantly at him, understanding that he wanted a word in private. Severus stepped back and waited silently as Cuthbert floated up and asked the aged wizard a question. Dumbledore sent him off quickly, then motioned with his hand for Severus to speak.

He first cast silencing and privacy wards, something he could tell piqued the Headmaster’s interest. Not one for pleasantries, he immediately stated his purpose.

“I have thought on the matter of where Potter may stay over the summer and have a new suggestion.”

“Yes, my boy?”

“He could stay with me.”

There was the twinkle. It sparkled furiously in his x-ray eyes. For once, it made Severus feel rather embarrassed instead of irritated. He fought the urge to look at his shoes like a schoolboy. “What an excellent idea, Severus.”

Severus waited for more, having become accustomed to a deep discussion of pros and cons everytime a new potential home was brought forth. None came.

“It would be difficult to work the logistics,” he said to fill the gap, then wondered why he was making the argument against himself.

“Nothing we cannot handle.”

Seeing that Dumbledore really did seem perfectly content to settle the matter thus with quite literally no argument, Severus narrowed his eyes. “Have you nothing else to add?”

“Only that I am sure Harry will find the arrangement suitable.”

“It was his idea,” he grumbled before immediately regretting it as a bright smile overtook the Headmaster’s face and he placed a hand on Severus’ shoulder.

“How glad I am that the two of you have found one another.”

“You are too sentimental, Headmaster.”

“A common failing of the old, I’m afraid,” he cheerfully began, leading Severus towards the door. “We have seen too much pain throughout our lives to do anything but rejoice at the healing of others’.”

Eager to escape the twinkling and smiles, Severus merely grunted and lowered the wards before slipping out. He thought he may have heard quiet laughter before the door fully shut but decided that he did not want to know.

All throughout dinner, he imagined that he could feel the older man’s proud gaze on him. He resolutely kept his glower focused on his meal and ate quickly. After it was finished, he hurried to his quarters in the dungeon.

In passing through to the kitchen, he caught sight of a note he had written as a reminder to schedule an eye appointment for Harry. It gave him a blissful alternative to skulking around and worrying about the state of his image as the stern dungeon bat. He sat down in his chair at the dining table—and wasn’t it odd to see a second one across from it? Odd, but comforting—with a form taken from Poppy with the recommended Hogwarts vision healer. 

He filled out the fields from the bottom up, occasionally referencing a file Poppy loaned him with Harry’s medical information. Height, weight, etc. Certain things, like age and current medications, he already knew for himself.

When he reached the top section, the one on patient contact information, he hesitated. His quill hovered over the “home address” line. Ought he-?

Slowly, wondering why his handwriting was so uncharacteristically shaky, he wrote down the address to Spinner’s End.

He had not intended to seek Harry out; he was not so dependent on the teen’s smiles and lighthearted quips that he could not wait another day for their next lesson to inform him of the appointment and the Headmaster’s assent. He’d simply had business with Vector, and if his route happened to take him past Minerva, who was likely wrapping up detention with the boy… well, it was mere coincidence.

As it happened, to Severus’ complete surprise if anyone ever asked him, he passed by Harry just as he was starting his journey back to Gryffindor tower. He walked with the slump of tired shoulders. “Potter.”

Harry looked up, spooked, and blinked when he saw who it was. “Professor?”

Severus nodded towards an empty classroom nearby. No point in wasting the opportunity to share the news. Harry, dragging his feet, went inside. Severus followed and warded the door with silencing and privacy charms.

“Harry,” he began. The reserved look on the teen’s face spasmed, and then he was suddenly giving Severus a weary smile.

“Guess who just spent two hours charting out all of the mistakes in the first years’ last Transfiguration practical? I don’t think she even needed it done, was just busy work.”

“Perhaps next time you will not duel half of Slytherin in a school corridor.”

“Half? It was like four people!”

“Five.”

“We counted Crabbe and Goyle as one combined.”

Severus snorted and leaned against an old desk. He crossed his arms. “That is not what I wish to discuss.”

“Oh? Is this something I’m not gonna like?”

“No. I believe it will please you, as insensible as that is.”

Brow clearing of its worried crease, Harry hopped up to sit on a nearby desk facing him. His hair, which Severus now realised was braided into two little pigtails, swung with the movement.

“Why on earth is your hair like that?”

Harry flicked one braid with a finger, grinning. It was a very catlike motion. Severus briefly wondered what his animagus form would be like if he had one. Not that he wanted Harry experimenting with self-transformation at the age of fifteen (no matter what stories his beloved mentor had been feeding the child), however. “This? Luna did it.”

“The Lovegood girl?”

“Yeah, she’s in the D.A. We had a meeting this afternoon. We were holding them after curfew, but I’ve got detention now ‘cause of the fight and Ron pointed out that a bunch of students disappearing in the busy afternoon would be less noticeable than at night when everyone is expected to be in one place.”

“I was not aware that your Defense group included styling lessons.”

“They don’t. That’s just Luna. You know how she is.”

The Lovegood child had once added a sprig of lavender to a babbling beverage because she said its colour indicated it was feeling sad. The resulting product had worked better than ever. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Harry hummed and started swinging his legs before abruptly stopping. His face tinged slightly pink. Severus wondered why teenagers felt such an aversion to anything that they thought showed their age when the very act of worrying about such things made their youth so apparent. “Right. Uh, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

It was Severus’ turn to feel self conscious. Somewhat amused by the irony and stalling for time, he said, “I have written to schedule your eye appointment. I requested a date during the week after spring break.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Look at your eyes, likely test them for magical strain. Afterwards they will assess your prescription. You will probably require a new pair of glasses.”

“How much will it cost?”

Severus frowned at him. “Not too much, I imagine. Regardless, it is nothing you need to worry about. I will cover it.”

“I can’t ask you to–”

“As I am your official guardian, you do not have to.”

“You mean…”

“Legally, no. I have spoken to the Headmaster, however, and he completely supports the plan.”

He was not expecting the fifteen year old boy who moments ago had been so shy about swinging his legs to run over and hug him. His hands fell to Harry’s shoulders in an automatic reaction when he wrapped his arms around Severus and buried his face in his shoulder. If a surprised smile made its way briefly onto his face, it was only because the boy was too firmly pressed against him to see it.

“Thank you.” The sound was muffled by the robes of his chest. Severus huffed.

“I do not know how I ever thought you were ungrateful. You seem to do nothing but thank me.”

“I mean it, though.”

Severus’ arms tightened around Harry. “I know.”

They stayed like that for a moment until Severus reluctantly pulled back. His face was serious as he looked down at his newly approved charge. “You are alright with this?”

“Of course! I’m the one who brought it up, aren’t I?”

Severus sighed, thinking of earlier. “I cannot imagine it easy to spend time with someone who tortures you in class.”

Harry’s face became confused. “But that’s not you.”

“The act really does not bother you?”

“I– no, I get it. Class is class, is… different. Professor Snape is a git in class, but the Snape from the village kept me alive and well for months and I’m pretty sure that you’ll do it again. S’like two different people.”

“An interesting analogy.”

“Er, yeah. But I’m alright. More than alright! I’m really glad Dumbledore said it was okay.”

“Professor Dum–”

“Yeah, Professor Dumbledore, sorry. So, are you going to take me to that pool you talked about going to as a kid?”

“That is another issue we must discuss. My old… associates… were aware of my address. I intend to ward my home with unplottable spells, charms to make others who have been there forget its location, and other protections that prevent anyone not keyed into the property’s wards from even entering. These protections notwithstanding, it will still be too risky to leave the premises.”

“Oh. That’s alright, I guess. We’ve been trapped in a small area before, haven’t we?”

Severus shook his head. “Your optimism staggers me sometimes.”

“Better than sulking all the time, isn’t it? Had enough of that last summer.”

He gave in to the urge to draw Harry back into a quick one-armed hug. Initiating physical contact was still not something he was comfortable with, but it was worth it to see the bright-eyed look cast up at him in response.

Harry laughed and nudged Severus’ side. “I better go. Curfew is soon.” He slipped away, but not before throwing a wave over his shoulder.

Glancing at the time, Severus saw that it was far too late to call on another professor.

Oh well. He could speak to Vector later.

Chapter Text

Harry’s defense lessons were not as full of duelling and learning new hexes as he’d thought they would be. He supposed it made sense that a crafty, survivalist Slytherin like Snape would put more emphasis on strategy and analysis. They had spent some time on fighting styles, where he was beginning to learn that battle was a kind of dance. The person who knew the steps best would win. Not only were there different variations to each kind of dance, but there were also different genres of song. Maybe Harry’s fighting was like bagpipe music: up-front, loud, strong, but also nimble enough for grace notes and quick shields. He was more about dodging and creative solutions than aggressive shows of power, though. A hip-hop routine, like on Dudley’s music videos he watched when Aunt Petunia was out…? Alright, maybe he was taking the metaphor too far.

“Are you more ballet or salsa, sir?”

“What in Circe’s name are you dithering on about?”

Harry hid a smile. “Oh, nothing.”

“As I was saying, one important element of knowing how to duel is having the wisdom and foresight to know when not to.”

“Right, you mean run away like a coward.”

“Reckless Gryffindors! If a troll came after a first year, would you expect the child to just blast it to pieces?”

Harry opened his mouth to make a smart reply about his first year encounter with a troll when Snape saw the gleam in his eye and changed tactics.

“How about a team of Death Eaters, hm? Would it be better for a first year to fight or flee?”

Harry sighed. “Obviously it’d be better for the firstie to leave.”

“What about you?”

“If a Death Eater got into the school, I wouldn’t just duck behind a tapestry and let them wander through the halls looking for kids to terrorize.”

Snape’s mouth tightened, as if he found this answer unsatisfactory, but he knew better than to hope he might have a chance of changing Harry’s mind. Instead, he leaned forward. “Alright, imagine you are in the woods. There are no consequences to running, except perhaps to your red and gold-tinted pride. The Death Eater chasing you is bigger, faster, stronger, and will take you directly to the Dark Lord. Your choice of action?”

“Try to escape,” Harry admitted grudgingly.

“I believe we discussed your action plan of escape from Umbridge in a previous lesson. Did you complete it?”

Harry winced. He had been working on it before the big fight with the Slytherin prefects, and hadn’t ever picked it back up again. A thought then occurred to him. “Wait, we tried to avoid a confrontation with Malfoy and his Squad!”

“So you did.”

He tried not to let his face too obviously show his internal thought of see, I pay attention. Snape snorted and he knew he’d failed.

“Since you did not finish your assignment, work it out aloud for me instead. If Umbridge were to come after you in the castle and you had to escape, what would you do?”

“She’s sick now, so she can’t.”

Snape sighed. “What would you do if she were not sick?”

Harry smirked. “Sneeze on her.”

He received a scowl for his efforts. “Do try to take this seriously. Your life may very well be on the line.”

Trying his best to dampen his currently excellent mood (he was still riding on the high of getting to live with Snape for the summer confirmed), Harry forced himself to think the matter through. “Well, I would try to hide somewhere she wouldn’t look for me. Maybe the Room of Requirement, or the abandoned third floor corridor, since she can’t track me with the pendant on.”

“Not the third floor corridor. Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad will have told her you tried to go there last time; she will think to check.”

“Oh, yeah. Er, maybe I could try to sneak into the shrieking shack.”

“The shrieking shack is off of school grounds, so anyone can apparate in or out. Pettigrew knows of its location and significance, and thus so too does the Dark Lord.”

“...not the shrieking shack then, got it. There’s a bunch of nooks and crannies around the castle I could duck into in a pinch, I guess.”

“What kept you out of her reach before she fell ill, Harry.”

Snape was trying to lead him somewhere.

“Er, McGonagall… oh! The other professors! Yeah, besides hiding somewhere, I could try to find another professor who doesn’t like her.” He frowned at the thought. Handing his problems over to an adult when he couldn’t handle them had never been something he’d been able to do before, and the thought of it rarely occurred to him even now that he had Snape and others. He’d been let down too many times.

“I would be more than happy to fend her off,” Snape said, settling further into his chair with a peculiar look on his face. Harry suspected that this had more to do with the thought of spiting Umbridge than specifically helping him. He rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, but what if you’re not around and I can’t find you?”

“You may come in here.” He gestured to the private quarters they were in.

“If you’re not in your office, I won’t be able to get in through the hidden passage because your door’s locked.”

“The portrait entrance from the hallway is not.”

“Doesn’t that need a password?”

A slow nod. “It does.” Snape looked at him closely, as if assessing him. After a long moment, one in which Harry caught himself holding his breath, he leaned forward. “If you are to be staying with me over the summers, then I see no reason for you to not have access to these quarters. Do not,” he added at the big grin that began spreading across Harry’s face, “abuse this trust I am putting in you. I believe you know what is and is not acceptable-”

“I won’t! Thanks-” he physically cut off an enthusiastic Dad, not sure how well it’d be received. He had only used it aloud once since the village, hidden behind the guise of sarcasm. Snape hadn’t been annoyed then, but he didn’t want to scare off the emotionally skittish man either.

Snape gave him an odd look at the awkward end of his sentence, then shook his head. “The password is ‘Razumihin’.”

“Huh?”

Snape sounded it out phonetically (“Raz-oo-me-khin”) for him, having Harry repeat the strange word back until he had it right. There was a kind of catch on the beginning of the last syllable that was hard for him to get his tongue around.

“What language is that?”

“Russian. It is the name of a character from a novel.”

“Oh. Is it a wizarding book?”

“No,” Snape said shortly, then changed the subject. “Get out your text. I want to go over alliances and internal conflict within the Death Eaters’ ranks.”

Harry pulled out How To Kill Your Death Eater, which he’d gotten back from Hermione after she magically copied it. He flipped to the first page on a list of numbers handed to him and tried his best to focus on what the man was saying. Inside, a mooncalf was dancing with joy in the glow of knowing he was important to someone, but he couldn’t afford that distraction right now. At the moment, it was time to learn how to survive long enough to enjoy that feeling for a while to come.

And Harry hoped it would be a while, because he was starting to believe that this was something that might actually last. One last thought crossed his mind before he turned his full attention to what Snape was saying about the weird sexual tension between Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort and how the Lestrange brothers reacted to it.

Is this what it feels like to not be an orphan anymore?

When Harry came down for his Occlumency lesson almost a week later, he couldn’t help but grin as he said the strange password and watched the portrait swing silently open. The novelty of it was still fresh. He was about to call out to Snape with some nonsense about how his detentions for the fight were almost done when he heard voices. His steps immediately slowed and softened as he crept closer upon recognising Dumbledore’s voice.

“...see what is next.”

The portrait was in full view of Snape’s little sitting area, and no one was sitting there. If they had been, they would have noticed him immediately and the game would have been up. A glance to the kitchen showed it, too, was empty.

“And if the consequences are beyond our control? If the damage is permanent?” that was definitely Snape. His voice was tight, strained.

The passage to Snape’s office was open. Harry slunk towards it and pressed against the wall beside the opening on this side. The voices became more distinct, and he knew he had figured right.

“Then we will move on from there.”

Snape gave no response to this. Harry frowned, trying to puzzle out what they were talking about.

“Severus, the world does not fall on your shoulders.”

A long pause. “No. Only the most important parts.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit.”

“I will take as much credit as I deserve.”

“Severus…”

“Headmaster, I have a lesson with Harry tonight. This would be best discussed at the Order meeting this weekend.”

Dumbledore (he assumed) sighed. Harry imagined the sorrowful look those bright blue eyes were likely casting Snape’s way. He imagined too the way Snape would pretend he didn’t see them and pull his usual stoicism around him like a shield. Harry had learned how to work past that mask of indifference, but Snape still retreated behind it when he felt uncomfortable.

A door closed in the office, probably Dumbledore leaving. A quiet sigh came from the remaining occupant before footsteps started down the passageway. Harry hurriedly tossed himself into the nearest chair, trying to look nonchalant. It worked about as well as a fever reducer on hypothermia.

“How much did you hear?”

Harry looked over to see Snape’s black eyes staring at him levelly. He showed no surprise at seeing him there.

“Not enough to understand what’s going on,” Harry admitted, kicking off his shoes so he could throw his legs over the armrest.

“Excellent, as it is not your business.”

“It sounds like it’s got something to do with the war. What are you guys doing? You said there was an Order meeting?”

“There are always Order meetings. That does not mean we are doing anything,” Snape said grumpily, rolling his eyes to see that Harry was in his spot. He grabbed a half-empty mug of tea from the table nearby and lowered himself into the armchair across from him.

“You mean you’re doing nothing?”

“Feels that way,” Snape muttered, taking a sip from the mug before grimacing. He flicked his wand at it and steam began wisping gently up from its contents. He took another sip, the hard line of his lowered brows casting the planes of his face into sharp relief.

Harry started connecting the dots. “Is that what you were talking about, then? You’re frustrated that nothing’s being done?”

“You are not here to discuss the Order’s inability to anticipate the Dark Lord’s next move. I–”

“You feel bad that you’re not spying anymore, don’t you!”

Snape scowled at him. “Do not psychoanalyze me, Potter, you will not like what you find.”

Sometimes he forgot how prickly Snape could be. “Sorry. I just think that I’d rather have you alive and helping us out in the open than dead from trying to do it in the dark.” The expression Snape’s face made at this had him smiling slightly. “That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Snape echoed in disbelief. He stared at Harry for another moment longer before shaking his head slightly. “I wish to discuss your mind maze.”

“Oh? What about it?” Over the weeks, Harry and Snape had worked on Harry’s control of his mind maze. He had learned how to manifest himself in the maze as well, appearing beside Snape as they walked through the corridors and rooms of his mind together. They had practiced his strategies of manipulating an intruder by having Harry literally lead Snape through its confines to areas he thought would force the man to withdraw. Soon, they would practice with Harry not visually manifesting and simply nudging him along.

“While this has not been the intended purpose of our lessons, a potential advantage has occured to me regarding your mind maze. We were able to converse when you envisioned yourself as present. As that conversation only occurred within our minds, no one outside of the connection could hear us. Appearing in your maze along with a Legilimens may be a way for you to hold secure, private discussions with any Legillimens.”

“There aren’t many of those, though, right? Just you, Dumble–”

“Professor Du–”

“–dore, and Riddle.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange has rudimentary skills as well, although her madness and impatience prevent her from gaining the finesse to do anything but rip thoughts and memories out of people’s heads and causing irreparable damage in the process.”

“Oh, great, ’cause I’d love to have a heart-to-heart with her,” Harry said sardonically. “But I get what you’re saying. That could be useful.”

“If you do not wish to allow someone else direct entrance into your mind for a surface conversation such as I am proposing, it may be prudent to create an empty room for the purpose. Think of such a place as an entrance hall to the castle of your mind. Anyone coming inside must pass through to get further access.”

“How would I make an empty room, though? Isn’t everything in my maze supposed to be constructed out of memories?”

“Occlumency, at its core, is a magical art regarding the understanding and utilization of one’s own mind. Memories are a vital part of that skill. They are searched for by intruders, the most necessary things to protect, and more concrete than other aspects of the mind. As they are the most dependendable and long-lasting elements of the mental landscape, it is more effective and stable to use them in the construction of shields, mind mazes, and other Occlumency methods. They do not exist alone, however. Emotions, feelings, thoughts; all of these are also a part of the mind. Theoretically, you could bring an entrance room into being with the mental thought or intent of its existence.”

Harry was beginning to get a headache from following that logic. It was an approach to Occlumency that they had never discussed or read about before. “Theoretically? You mean it’s never actually been done before? Isn’t that, like, experimental magic?”

“All magic is experimental until it is understood.”

Harry stared at the man in front of him, one who he sometimes thought was a bit of a genius. “You should write a book or something about all the stuff you’ve discovered about Occlumency. Seriously. All these other books you’ve shown me are old and just give descriptions of the types. You could, I don’t know, make Occlumency approachable for people and modernize the subject.”

Snape’s eyebrow went up in skepticism, but Harry noticed a gleam in the man’s dark eyes. “I doubt there would be much interest in such a work. Few people seek to learn such an esoteric art these days.”

“There’s still swots like you out there who like to read about ‘esoteric arts’ out of academic interest or whatever.”

Snape’s other eyebrow shot up at the insult. “Speaking to a professor in such a manner is unacceptable behaviour. You have become too comfortable around me.”

“Yup,” Harry said, popping the “p”. “But I mean it. What if, a hundred years from now, someone else has to defeat a dark lord and needs these skills?”

“Hopefully, you will still be around to pass them down.”

“Just make it my problem, huh?” Harry smiled, although he was touched at the sentiment.

“Certainly,” Snape responded similarly. “You have been enough of a problem to last me a lifetime.”

“That’s me,” he said chipperly, “a problem and a half.”

“The Dark Lord is worth at least two, however, so you cancel one another out.”

“You think he’s worth more than me!”

“Allowances must be made for age and opportunity.”

“You have a point there.” Harry clapped his hands. “Right, so, entryway. How do I do it?”

“As it is a working theory, we will have to adapt on the go.”

Harry grinned. “Adapting? Our specialty.”

Snape smirked slightly in reply. Harry was relieved to see that he had been able to improve the man’s earlier gloom. He definitely needed Snape, but every once in a while, moments like this would make him suspect that Snape needed him too.

Chapter Text

For fifth year students, the weekend was a chance to catch up on studying. For Hermione, it was a chance to get ahead in studying. Either way, many students often found themselves spending hours in the library. Harry and his friends were occasionally joined by other D.A. members. Some, like Luna and the twins, would sit with them and do work of their own (although whatever Fred and George were working on, it wasn’t classwork). Often, however, they would swing by Hermione and drop off slips of paper or whisper in her ear. These were kids that Harry had noticed would come early or stay late after D.A. meetings to talk to her. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but as the weeks went by, Ron and Harry had begun to conjecture about it.

The two boys exchanged a glance when Colin Creevey, one of her most dedicated… associates? Minions? shoved an envelope at her before scampering off. She opened it, peeking inside, before smiling and slipping it into her enchanted satchel.

“Okay, what is going on?” Ron finally demanded.

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently, moving to return to her textbook.

“No,” Ron said firmly, slamming his hand down on the page with his fingers spread wide to cover the text. “We might be dumb, but we’re not stupid.”

A pair of Hufflepuff seventh years at the table closest looked up curiously at the sound.

Harry snorted. In a lower voice, he said, “What he means to say is, what is going on with you and the D.A.? It’s like there’s a whole little subsection that’s involved in something, and you’re in charge.”

“Well…” she glanced down at the hand on her book and sighed when it didn’t budge. Ron’s face was set with stubborn determination. “Oh, alright. Some of them wanted to do more to be involved than just learning defensive spells, so I gave them something productive.”

Harry thought about the notes, envelopes, and whispers. “You’re dealing in secrets, aren’t you? It’s all a part of your efforts to gather information.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed.

“You’ve turned the D.A. into a bunch of your little spies?!” Ron exclaimed in a hushed tone, an incredulous laugh choking out.

“Just the ones that wanted to do it,” she said defensively, clutching her satchel to her chest. “Honestly, you make it sound so drastic. I merely suggested that, if they hear anything relevant to the war or interesting about anyone important, they let me know. They’re the ones who turned it into this whole crusade to find stuff out about Umbridge and people’s Ministry or Death Eater parents.” She looked around the library. “This really is not the place for this conversation.”

“Unbelievable,” Ron muttered, shaking his head. He finally released Hermione’s book, much to her relief. “Harry, do you have any snacks?”

“Not on me,” he shrugged as Hermione clucked her tongue.

“You can’t eat in a library, Ronald! Besides, we just had dinner an hour ago.”

Ron propped his chin on his fist and yawned. “Yeah, yeah. It’s all this studying on a weekend. Makes me want to eat just for something more interesting to do.”

“You could sleep,” Harry suggested. The low lights of the library in the evening were rather soothing, and he found himself being plagued by drowsiness. “I might.” His defense lesson earlier that day with Snape had been exhausting as the man quizzed him endlessly about Death Eater politics and the fighting styles of the inner circle.

“OWLs are in a little over a month, boys. Unless you want to study over spring break, now and the rest of this week is the time to do it.”

“Like you’re not gonna study twice as much as you need to for both,” Ron said mildly, looking like he was about ready to take Harry’s advice.

The commotion of several people running into the library jerked them fully awake, however. About three D.A. members came sprinting over to their table. Madame Pince stood up in indignation, beginning to scold about silence in the library.

“It’s Hagrid,” one of them gasped, drawing the attention of most of the library’s occupants. “And McGonagall. The DMLE came to take him away, and she tried to stop them. She was hit in the chest by four different stunners at the same time!”

Several people gasped and started muttering. Pince, who had begun storming over to no doubt toss them out on their ears, stopped with a horrified look on her face. It was the first time the woman had ever seemed human to Harry.

“Four stunners!” Hermione exclaimed. “That can be fatal to a woman of her age!”

“She collapsed,” one of the other messengers said, sniffling and looking teary-eyed. “They’re taking her to St. Mungo’s now.”

Pince sat down hard in the nearest chair. A ravenclaw at that table began quietly murmuring comfort to her.

“Come on,” Ron said, watching this happen and noticing all of the library's other occupants fretting about what they'd learned. “Let's talk outside.”

The trio packed up swiftly and left the library, followed closely behind by the three D.A. members.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Ron asked the first to speak, grabbing her by the elbow to stop her when she started off down the corridor.

“Umbridge ordered Dawlish to use her Ministry authority to give Hagrid the sack. A bunch of them went after him, McGonagall ran over to try to stop them, and they all tossed a stunner at her at the same time. She collapsed right away. Hagrid got away though, and they’re spitting mad.”

“Where was Dumbledore?” Hermione asked.

“Gone,” Harry realised, remembering that there was an Order meeting scheduled for the weekend. That meant Snape was out too. “Why hadn't McGonagall been there?”

“One likely stays behind to look after the school,” Hermione said. The three D.A. members looked at her attentively, clearly absorbing this information from their leader even if they didn't understand the context of her words. “Why did Umbridge order them to remove Hagrid?”

“Well, you know how she’s in the hospital wing for Dragon Pox. Apparently Madam Pomfrey was tending to her, so the privacy curtains were open and she could hear what was going on, when a student came in from his class. It was Demelza Robbins,” she added, rather unnecessarily in Harry’s opinion, but Hermione was nodding and looking as though she were making a mental note of the name, “and she had a bad rash breakout in Care of Magical Creatures. It was ‘under Hagrid’s watch’, so Umbridge blamed him for endangering students. Demelza actually had an allergy to woodlice, and her class was learning about bowtruckles, so they were handling them. She hadn’t known though, so it’s not like she could have warned Hagrid. I think Umbridge just wanted to remind us all that she’s still got influence over the school.”

“That hag can't stay out of things even when she's laid up sick,” Ron said with disgust.

“She’s probably been laying there plotting with nothing else to do.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, scowling when his fingers got tangled in the long ends. He refused to admit that Snape had a point about getting it cut, however, so he shook it out and returned his attention to the matter at hand. “Thanks for letting us know.”

“What are we gonna do?” the third member, the one who had been quiet so far this whole time, spoke up.

“We keep doing what we have been doing,” Hermione said, nodding to them. They nodded seriously back, waved goodbye, and left.

Ron waited for them to turn the corner. “Okay, now that the children have gone to bed, what are we gonna do?”

“We’ll have to tell Dumbledore and Snape, but there’s nothing much else we can do. I hope Hagrid took Grawp with him.”

“There’s gotta be something, Hermione! Hagrid’s our friend, and McGonagall’s our Head of House! She can’t just get away with it.”

“What can you do without getting into more trouble and making everything worse, Harry?”

“Can only get in trouble if she knows who did it,” Ron reminded her, looping one arm through hers.

“Right,” Harry said, coming up and doing the same on her other side. “And I own an invisibility cloak.”

It was petty and entirely useless. He knew it. He also didn’t care. Sacking Hagrid over something she must have known wasn’t his fault was pettier.

“Don’t worry, mate, no one will notice the difference,” Fred said. Harry had recruited the twins to help him, knowing they would be the best equipped to help him plan and pull off his idea without getting caught. Part of that plan was that George would polyjuice as Harry and hang out with Ron and Hermione in public areas to give him an “alibi” while Fred would cast a doppelganger spell to make it look like his twin was right beside him as usual. To most people, it would appear that no one went missing for the day.

“I believe you,” Harry said, impressed at the spell work. “You say that doppelganger thing is a prototype for your shop?”

“Should be a popular one, huh?” George, who to Harry just looked like a mirror, gave him a grin that looked very Weasley-ish in Harry’s Potter face. “Now, our young apprentice, we must be off. You have what you need?”

Harry nodded solemnly and used his free arm to throw his invisibility cloak over himself. The twins (and the doppleganger) chuckled at his dramatic disappearance and sauntered off towards their predetermined locations.

Shaking his head fondly and knowing that recruiting the twins to help with his little plan was definitely the right choice, Harry took the quickest route he could to the hospital wing. It was strange moving in a kilt, but Hermione had told him it was the tartan of the McGonagall family and he thought there was nothing better to wear if going to avenge his professor. He wanted to do this for Hagrid, too, so he’d tucked the flute the man had carved for him in first year into his pocket for good luck. It rested beside one of the experimental stones the twins had made to hide magical signatures. Hopefully no one used a hominum revelium, but if they did, he could tell Fred and George whether or not they worked on that spell as well.

He hadn’t been sure if the doors had wards on them to alert Madam Pomfrey when someone entered the hospital wing, so he’d scoped the question out during his last vaccine stop. She’d informed him that they were only up at night time.

Harry checked through the glass to see if she was in the wing. He caught sight of her white hat bobbing along near the potions cabinet, so he hung back and waited. A few minutes later, she finally went into her office, so Harry pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside.

Umbridge’s corner was sequestered off with its usual curtains. Harry walked slowly over, trying not to think about how embarrassing it would be if he got caught. After a deep breath, he slipped through them and into the space. He quickly cast silencing charms around the area, ensuring that no one outside the impromptu room would hear what occurred within.

It was a simple corner of the room. A chair (one he doubted got any use) was next to a nightstand and bed. A cup of cold water sat on that stand. He guessed it was for immersing her nose; he’d heard it was a remedy to help alleviate symptoms. Umbridge was sitting partially up, back propped up with pillows. She was awake and reading some papers. Her face had an unmistakable green tint and her expression was one of pinched discomfort. As he watched, she gave a little sneeze. Sparks came out of her nose and caught one of the parchments on fire. He sat down in the chair while she was distracted putting it out, amused.

One drifted his way and he looked it over, doubling back when he skimmed the contents and realised it was important. From the short look he got, it appeared to be a missive to Dawlish detailing what she wanted done at the school. Amongst orders to ensure no one was helping Hagrid in his hideout and to put out a new Educational Decree (something about banning students who had been caught out after curfew from attending Astronomy practicals), he noticed his name written down in her awfully flowery script before she swept it back into the pile on her lap.

He shook it off, figuring it was probably a reminder of the standing order to keep tabs on him. Once she had finally finished muttering to herself and begun to read once more, Harry pulled Hagrid’s flute from his pocket and started to play.

Her head jerked up—he noticed that, for once, it was devoid of a bow—and she looked around wildly. He smiled despite himself, losing his breath support for a moment before gaining control of his expression and resuming his song. Her reactions were comical as her mouth opened and closed in confusion. She seemed to think it must be someone in the main area. He wondered if her illness hindered her spacial awareness.

“Who’s out there?” she called out. Obviously no one answered. Harry kept playing, fighting harder to maintain his composure.

After another few moments he stopped. She heaved a sigh of relief, only to go rigid and wince when Harry exchanged the flute for his full set of bagpipes.

He sat there under his invisibility cloak, merrily playing the pipes and thinking of a rumor he’d heard that the woman had once insinuated that McGonagall’s Scottish birth made her inferior to British natives. Umbridge seemed not to see the irony in the fact that she was currently teaching (although that was a strong word) in a school located in Scotland.

“POPPY!” Umbridge shrieked, hands clamped over her ears. As the silencing charms were still up, this had no effect. Clearly reaching her limit, she stumbled out of bed and wobbled unstably towards the curtains. Harry stopped playing long enough for her to poke her head out into the main area, shriek her name again, and then stumble back into the sectioned off ward. He resumed merrily playing until Madam Pompfery began her approach.

“Yes, Delores?” she asked with strained politeness.

“Tell whoever was making that infernal racket to stop, under threat of sacking or expulsion!”

Madame Pomfrey, clearly puzzled, stepped further within. “‘Infernal racket’?”

“Those… those.. bagpipes!”

“No one has been playing anything, Delores.” Madam Pomfrey stepped further within and checked the woman’s temperature. Harry had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Umbridge swatted her away irritably and Pomfrey stepped back, retreating to a noticeable distance.

A brilliant thought came to Harry then. The one-way silencing wards he put up during his morning practice sessions extended a few feet all around; if he leaned a bit closer and cast them, it was possible he could keep playing without Pomfrey being able to hear. He tried it, blasting a few strident notes before lowering the wards again as he could see Umbridge opening her mouth and knew that the sight of her yelling without making a sound would alert Pomfrey that silencing charms were in use.

“There it goes again!” Umbridge raged when he successfully executed this plan. “Can’t you hear it?”

Madam Pomfrey’s brow creased. “There are no bagpipes. Perhaps… it is not unheard of for Dragon Pox patients to experience hallucinations in the course–”

“I am not mad!” she shrieked, with such volatility that Harry found himself leaning back in his chair, taken aback and automatically just wanting to distance himself. Pomfrey’s eyes widened and she pursed her lips.

“I did not say you were,” she said, obviously striving for clinical professionalism. “Do you wish for a sleeping draught?”

“No!” Umbridge shouted. Pomfrey merely nodded and left. Harry had never seen her treat someone so coldly and was mildly impressed.

He spent a few more minutes terrorizing her, but the crazed look on her face unsettled him and he left soon after. As he walked out of the hospital wing and down the hall, the thought occurred to him that a mind maze room full of bagpipe music would be a pretty disorienting trap room. There was definitely a skip in his step as he went to the common room where they had all agreed to meet later.

The twins, now both in their normal forms and doppleganger nowhere to be seen, sat talking with Ron and Hermione. Harry dashed up to his dorm room to dump his bagpipes and cloak in his trunk and change out of the transfigured kilt before running back downstairs to them.

“How’d it go?”

“Fantastic, didn’t get caught. Bonus, Pomfrey’s convinced she’s having hallucinations now.”

“Good prank, Harry,” Ron said, high-fiving him. Hermione, who had thought the whole thing was childish from the beginning but also couldn’t hide her small smirk, rolled her eyes indulgently. “What’re you gonna call it when you write to Sirius?”

Harry grinned. “Revenge of the Scots.”

Chapter Text

With Hagrid gone, someone had to take care of Fang. The week before a break was always a hectic time around school, either from students misbehaving out of impatient anticipation or teachers getting a frenzied look in their eyes as they realised how fast OWLs and other finals were approaching. Eager to get out of the Gryffindor common room and feeling that it was too early to head down for Snape’s Occlumency lesson, Harry got some food from the kitchens and went outdoors to Hagrid’s hut.

Fang was delighted to see him. He barked, jumped up, and licked Harry’s face enthusiastically. Laughingly, Harry pushed him down and fed him.

“You’ve been all alone down here, haven’t you, boy?” He scratched the big boarhound’s back as it ate. “Missing Hagrid?”

Fang paused momentarily, lifting his head at Hagrid’s name. He looked around and gave a low whine.

“I know. I miss him too,” Harry said, giving the dog a fond old ear rub and hoping Fang didn’t recognise the sadness in his own voice.

Fang finished eating and gave a short bark up at Harry. He laughed back. “Alright, c’mon, let’s go wander around for a bit.” There was a dog flap charmed by one of the other professors to only allow Fang through, but he imagined the dog hadn’t wanted to leave the hut for long in case Hagrid came back. Poor thing was probably restless.

They walked out behind the hut and towards the forest. Fang bound ahead of him, ran back, and circled around before running ahead again. Harry grinned.

“Harry?”

He turned partially in surprise. “Luna? What are you doing out here?”

Luna, looking almost ethereal and spirit-like with her long white hair and dreamy expression, stepped towards him through the trees. She had a satchel on, and Fang ran up to it, sniffing at it with great curiosity. She patted his head with a distant smile.

“Oh, I’m just feeding the thestrals. I was going to give some to Fang too, but I figured you’d be down soon enough.”

“You… really? How’d you know that?” Harry asked, falling into step with her. She seemed unreal in this moment, like nothing and no one could touch her, but he still didn’t think it was a good idea to let her wander into the forest alone.

“The wrackspurts seemed to be getting to you. Fresh air is just the thing to help clear them away, you know.”

“...ah….”

She patted him on the bicep, much the way she had patted Fang. He smothered a smile. “They’re all over the school and have been since Umbridge came. Don’t feel embarrassed.”

“I’ll try not to,” Harry responded seriously.

Luna looped her arm through his. “You’re having fun at me, but that’s alright.” Harry started to protest that he actually hadn’t, but she kept talking. “I’m glad spring is finally on his way.” It was getting somewhat warmer; Harry was in a lighter cloak instead of his heavy winter one. She was barely wearing any protective clothing at all, but that was normal for her and she didn’t appear to be cold despite the chill that still bit in the air.

“You think spring is a guy?”

“Don’t you?”

“I mean, I think it’s just weather, but usually people talk about Mother Nature and all that.”

“Hm. No, I think he’s like a young man. Hesitant, not quite sure how to go about his business yet. Late, too,” she said, giving him a look that was unusually sly for her. He laughed, and she smiled back. He wondered how often she talked to friends that laughed at her jokes. “But eager. Full of life, making mistakes and just wanting to change the world.”

“Are you still talking about the weather?”

“Am I?” She gave a soft sigh. “A young man that comes in, grows and becomes beautiful, makes you fall in love, but doesn’t stay long.”

“I think ‘mother’ still works for someone that doesn’t stay long,” Harry griped, thinking about how both of them had lost their mothers at a young age before realising what a kind of horrible thing to say it was and clamping his hand over his mouth. He was half afraid that she would get sad or start crying, but she only gave him a compassionate look and squeezed his arm. Maybe he was the one to get sad after all.

“At least we still have our dads,” she said before slipping her arm out of his and drifting off towards a small thestral foal that had appeared from behind a trunk. He watched her offer meat to it with his mouth half-open, arm still held out in a stunned reaction.

“Sorry, what?” Did she not know what happened to his family, or had she-?

“Family comes in many forms.” She tenderly cupped the foal’s chin. It snorted in her face, blowing her hair out around her. She laughed.

Harry slowly lowered his arm. He stared at her for another long moment before deciding to just pass it off as a Luna quirk.

They spent an hour or so feeding the thestrals and running around with Fang to get him some exercise. When they made it back to Hagrid’s hut, he flopped down on Hagrid’s bed (a place Harry was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed, but he felt bad for the animal and let it stay there) with a tired whoomf. Luna hadn’t made any more references to his dad or family, and he hadn’t brought it up. She did wish him good luck when parting, which seemed strange until he remembered he had an Occlumency lesson. Of course, it just seemed strange again when he remembered that she wasn’t supposed to know about those.

On his way down to the dungeons, he passed by Draco Malfoy. The teen shoulder-checked him in the hall, sneering at him unpleasantly.

“Watch it, Potter!” he snapped with unusually vicious rancour.

“What’s got you all wound up?”

Malfoy stopped sauntering, slowly rotating on his heel. He eyed Harry up and down. His expression gave the impression that he had smelt something sour. “Everyone is looking forward to the break. It’s a chance to meet with family… and friends.”

At first, Harry thought it was just a dig at his lack of family to go with, but then the blond’s second meaning hit him and he shook his head in disgust. What fifteen year old boy looks forward to meeting Voldemort?

“‘Friends’ is an interesting word choice. What, you’re gonna sit down with him to tea? Play a round of backgammon?”

“No doubt that’s what you uncivilized Gryffindors do in your spare time. You wouldn’t know a noble cause if it hexed you.”

“Noble? You honestly think murdering people and burning down their homes is noble?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed briefly. He tossed his head like an offended Abraxan. “We are preserving our world.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned his back on him (hand ready to grab his wand just in case, of course). “Whatever, Malfoy.” He walked off, ignoring Malfoy’s shout after him.

In Snape’s quarters, he stepped through the portrait to find his mentor standing in the center of the room, arms crossed and foot tapping.

“Hey!”

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry blinked, alarmed at the stern tone. He wasn’t surprised, though; that body language meant annoyed dad at its peak.

“Is… everything alright?”

“It seems to be, despite what I suspect were your best efforts. We had an emergency staff meeting today after classes to discuss what occurred this weekend. Poppy gave us a report on Umbridge’s condition during this time. Imagine my interest in hearing that she is now hallucinating bagpipe music.”

“Wow! That sounds awful, she must be sicker than I thought.” Harry opened his eyes wide and blinked innocently.

“Work on your poker face, it is atrocious,” Snape groused, turning and walking to the kitchen.

Harry smirked and tossed himself down on the sofa. He stretched out, propping his head up on one armrest.

“Shoes off the furniture, Bill Millin!” Snape called, not even turning around. Harry toed his trainers off and reached for a blanket that had mysteriously appeared over the back of the couch a week or so ago. He threw it over himself, trying to ward off the chill that he’d gotten from being outside and then passing into the still-frigid dungeons.

“How was the Order meeting?”

Snape returned with two cups of tea, one of which he slid across the table towards Harry. He took a sip out of the other before answering. “Uneventful. Most of our current intel has come in through our people in the Ministry, where they report that division is rampant and traces of cover-ups have been found in nearly every department. This is all being kept quiet, of course; only higher-ranking personnel are in the know.”

“Hardly a surprise there, huh? Can hardly believe they’ve kept it even that quiet.”

“So cynical,” Snape murmured amusedly into his cup. Harry flushed. “Are you prepared for today’s lesson?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, setting aside his tea and sitting up straighter. Snape, still lounged back and in a relaxed pose, languidly looked up to meet his eyes.

“Legilimens.”

Whirling of colours. The foreign yet now familiar sensation of someone else’s mind in his own; it felt like breath on the back of his neck. He focused on it and his mind maze, visualising the antechamber he had started building on Friday. Snape appeared within it, looking around attentively.

Harry gave a mental jump and found himself standing within the antechamber beside Snape.

“It appears that the theory holds substance,” Snape mused. He walked over to the nearest wall, reaching out and touching it. His hand sunk partially within, as if the stone was a soft clay mould.

“Not enough, I guess,” Harry muttered, scraping his foot along the floor. The toe of his trainer (wasn't it interesting that his mental image of himself always had shoes on, even when he didn't?) dragged through it like half-dried putty.

“It may require work and experimentation.” Snape quit the wall and walked over to him. “To anyone else in the room, it would appear that we sit in silence stillness. I cannot perceive any memories or thoughts. In conclusion, while the form is not ideal, it serves its purposes.”

“So you think I can get the room to stabilize?”

“With work.”

“Yay, work.”

Hermione and Ron's low bickering was familiar white noise as Harry scratched out a letter to Sirius. He normally didn’t write often, as their post was monitored and he always felt bad asking Snape to deliver it at meetings because of the two men’s animosity. He’d given in to the urge today because the suffocation of a Ministry controlled Hogwarts was getting to him. The closer they got to break, the more crushing the isolation of the castle was starting to feel. Everything trapped within its doors seeed just that: trapped. He hadn’t gotten a letter from Mary and Callum in a while, and the lack of contact with the outside world made the tension within the school feel even more pressing. He was hoping that talking to someone unconnected with the situation would give him some perspective on how the rest of the world was doing.

“—which is absolutely atrocious, if you ask me,” Hermione finished. “What do you think, Harry?”

“Wait, what?” Harry asked, head jerking up. He hadn’t been paying attention and realised that some kind of philosophical discussion had evolved from their usual quibbling while he was brooding about things.

“The marriage laws. Weren’t you listening?”

Harry had not been. He looked helplessly at Ron, who smirked at him.

“He was thinking about bigger problems, like if he should get a date to the Hogsmeade weekend after we get back from break.”

“Hardly,” Harry muttered, face burning. He’d occasionally taken notice of Cho Chang earlier in the year, but it had been a while since he had any spare time to devote to that particular subject.

Seeing he was totally lost in the conversation, Hermione sighed and restarted. “I was doing some digging into obscure Wizarding Laws the other day—”

“Why were you doing that?”

“We have a History of Magic OWL, if you’ve forgotten,” she snipped. “Anyway, I found an old law about ancient marriage rites and saw that the age of consent for entering into a marriage was nine.”

“That’s… young, isn’t it?” Harry asked with trepidation, seeing that some response was obviously expected but not sure where Hermione was going with the subject.

Hermione rolled her eyes like he’d just said something very stupid. He supposed he had.

“I was somewhat surprised; child marriage did occur in the dark ages, but normally it was for political purposes between influential families or even other nations, hardly the common people. The wizarding world has always been smaller and more closely knit than the more populated muggle one, however, with no royal families or rivalling monarchs between kingdoms. I hadn’t imagined they would need such measures to that extent. Still, I didn’t think too much of it at first. Then I tried to find when that law had been changed—”

“Gotta follow up, you know,” Ron said smartly.

“—yes, to follow up, and I found that it never was.”

“Sorry, what??”

“Tradition and culture have looked down on any actual marriage rites taking place before age of majority for centuries now, but the law was never actually removed ‘cause purebloods often sign marriage contracts when their kids are really young to make alliances with other houses. They’re not binding or anything, and can be annulled by mutual agreement, but to take, the kids involved need to be able to consent to the contract,” Ron explained.

“Which is horrible,” Hermione stressed.

“Of course it is, ‘Mione, but the only people who use that law are the people who want to. It doesn’t affect people like us.”

“And that’s a reason to leave it in place? Don’t you see how easily that could be exploited?”

“Yeah, obviously! Ha, the summer when Fred and George got back home after their first year in school, they tried to make a marriage contract between me and the patriarch of the gnomes in our garden. It was to make a deal for them to do our outdoor chores, ‘n obviously I was too young to see what I was getting into.”

“So you’re, what, royal consort to the garden gnomes?” Harry snorted. Ron punched his shoulder.

“No, Dad caught ‘em. Oh, was he mad! Y’know, getting yelled at by Mum sort of rolls off their backs most of the time, they’re so used to it, but when Dad gets really upset, it’s scary ‘cause you know he means it.”

Hermione looked flabbergasted at this. She tried multiple times to formulate a response, but he could see her only-child brain short circuiting and decided to move on. He’d ask Ron more about what was probably a really funny story in retrospect later. “You think that’s gonna be on our OWL? Isn’t it mostly wars and goblins and stuff?”

“Who knows what’s going to be on the test? Binns… although I hate to speak ill of a professor, you know… he hasn’t given us study guides or anything.” Hermione buried her hands in her bushy hair, eyes getting a crazed look. “I’ve formulated several timelines of major events, using cross-references to cite sources, but much of the information I’ve found is very obviously written with a bias. More modern texts appear to be more fair, or at least to offer multiple perspectives, but they’re often just summary in nature and go over broad concepts without offering much in-depth discussion about specific topics.”

“Do you want a full volume on every decade of history since the early pagan rituals in Ireland?” Harry asked.

“Yes, actually, that would be nice!” she said, bordering on the edge of hysteria.

He and Ron exchanged a glance. Harry looked back to Hermione, who had clenched her fists in her hair and was staring blankly at a wall opposite.

“Do you know Daniel Pappalardo?” he asked slowly, fighting to keep his face straight.

The unexpected question seemed to take Hermione out of her daze somewhat. She released her scalp and slowly lowered her hands. “No, why?”

“You could just use a chance to relax, is all. Destress.”

“And what, may I ask, can Daniel Pappalardo give me that I can’t get from a good book?”

Harry and Ron made the mistake of making eye contact and simultaneously burst out laughing. If the irritated look on Hermione’s face at not being in on the joke was anything to go by, she’d know about Pappalardo’s gardening tendencies before the day was out.

Ron changed the subject with his normal finesse (blatant abruptness). “So Harry, what’s up with the hair?”

“What?” It was Harry’s turn to reach for his hair. He brought a strand out in front of his face, just to check it was still its usual colour and that the twins hadn't gotten him with a prank since the last time he passed a mirror.

“You have always worn it shorter than that,” Hermione mused, apparently joining in. “Why are you growing it out now?””

“Long hair, lots of wizards have it, it’s like a manly magical thing!”

Ron just looked confused. Hermione got a smug little expression that said she knew something.

“Lots of wizards, huh?”

Not wanting to hear what she thought she knew or get psychoanalysed, he said as a distraction effort, “Ron, Bill has long hair!”

“You’re growing your hair out to look more like Bill?” Ron asked, growing even more confused.

“I’m not growing my hair out to look like anyone,” Harry said, a tad flustered. Hermione sighed as if giving up.

“Okay, well, I’ve got to go post this,” Harry said, stuffing the letter he hastily signed into his bag. “See ya!”

He dipped out of the common room and breathed a sigh of relief in the hall. Once he’d oriented himself, he decided he might as well make good on his word. He was originally going to give Snape the letter at the Wednesday Occlumency lesson, but it wouldn’t hurt to give it to him a day early.

As he began walking towards the Great Staircase, Harry wondered briefly if he had been making flimsy excuses to visit Snape lately. He saw the man four times a week for Occlumency and defense lessons already. Was it normal that he felt such an instinctual need to see him every day? Maybe it was a leftover effect of the village. He’d gotten so used to seeing and talking with Snape every single day. It was only natural that he’d want to continue the habit. Didn’t most kids get homesickness at the start of terms? He just happened to have a parent within school grounds instead of hours away.

Harry tripped over absolutely nothing and sprawled across the floor when the thought he’d just had finally processed. He laid there, dazed, and wondered about how he had ended up in this situation. Parent? He’d been mentally calling the man “Dad” for several months now, but he’d also always labelled their relationship as a mentorship or guardianship. The recent conversations with Luna and Malfoy flashed through his mind again. How things could change over a few short months. He supposed it all started that August day when the Ministry found him guilty.

Picking himself up off the flagstones with a groan, Harry rubbed his sore elbow and kept walking. He succeeded in thinking of nothing the rest of the way down, only to stop in surprise when the portrait swung open to Snape’s quarters.

“Sweet Circe!”

Chapter Text

Severus stopped in the middle of the corridor and sighed. “If these are your best efforts, you had better pray he does not deem you worthy of his mark.” There was a slight shuffling sound, but his ears easily caught it. He turned. “Don’t you have an essay on the properties of moonstone dust in poisons to be getting on with?”

He counted to a minute in his head. Sure enough, just as he reached forty-seven, one of the sixth year Slytherins slowly emerged from a shadowed alcove. He was one of the Carrow nephews, neither too talented nor too inept. A perfectly average boy that ought to have been worrying about dating and grades instead of earning the favor of a sadistic killer. “How’d you know I was there?”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

The belligerent eyes staring back at him said yes. Severus was not concerned; the feeling was mutual.

“I promise you, I am not one. I know that you and your other associates have been ordered to report on me and my actions to the Dark Lord.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything to stop it, huh?”

“I fear only the wolf, not the carrion birds which follow it.”

Carrow snarled, clearly irritated and insulted. He said no more, however, merely spinning on his heel and running off down the corridor. Severus sighed again and continued walking. These poor, misguided little idiots. This was not the first time Death Eaters’ kids had followed and spied upon him, and it would not be the last. He would have to warn Harry to be more careful about sneaking down on days when he did not have the excuse of “remedial potions”.

He entered his quarters through his office, blatantly ignoring the pile of ungraded essays on his desk and closing the passage behind him. Conscious of the time, he headed directly for his spartan bedroom. As he stripped his teaching robes off and got ready, he contemplated his plan for the evening.

Severus, since long before being discovered as a spy, had semi-regularly visited various pubs around the country to get a measure of the people. Hogwarts was a very isolated place, both geographically and culturally. He found it helpful to get out and see what rumors and public opinions were really saying without the filter of the media and sobriety. Unable to spy on the Dark Lord anymore, this practice had become doubly useful.

The last couple of times he had done this, he had gone to an eclectic wizarding pub in London. He had noticed that Fudge’s receptionist seemed to be a regulagular. Upon subtle inquiry, he learned that the woman appeared there several weekdays a night. Severus could not blame her; working with Cornelius Fudge in close quarters could drive anyone to drink.

His dress robes were dusty. He rarely wore them. Taking them out of his wardrobe, he coughed and tossed them on his bed. A good charm later and they were clean. He held the navy thing up critically, looking it up and down. It was several years old, the cut long out of fashion. Sighing at his own failure to keep up his disguises, he tossed the robe back in the wardrobe without bothering to hang it again. The material puddled sadly at the bottom as he took out a black leather jacket instead. The place was varied, was it not? Although a magical establishment, muggle fashion would not attract extra attention.

He spent more time in the bathroom getting ready that night than he collectively spent during the entire rest of the week. He normally avoided the mirror. His own reflection was not a happy sight. It reminded him, at times, of the air bubble that forms at the top of an old snow globe. Year after year, as time went on, water within the glass would evaporate, or leak, or be affected by temperature changes, and what was once a perfectly full snow globe would develop that inevitable little pocket of air. A sign of age and loss, growing just a little bit every year. It is a mar on the perfect little world within, impossible to get rid of but often overlooked except when noted with annoyance for daring to exist. Trying to change or improve his appearance felt like turning the snow globe. No matter which way it faces, that air bubble will always be there. How many people’s perfect lives had been affected by his presence?

Such thoughts were hardly useful and would get him nowhere. He fought to put them out of his mind, and was glad to find that it was easier than it had once been.

When he had mercifully finished getting ready, highly irritated at the necessity of it all, he cast a disillusionment charm to ward off any curious students’ eyes and walked off castle grounds. Once free from the wards, he cancelled the disillusionment and apparated away.

In the street outside, lights and music could be heard from within the pub. Severus walked through the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they had, he immediately spotted the woman sitting in a booth off to the side.

The bartender greeted him when he perched on a stool at the bar, clearly taking in his different apparel from normal. “Special occasion?”

“Perhaps. I’d like to order a drink for the person sitting at that booth over there.”

Glancing over in the direction of Severus’ head nod, the bartender doubled back and looked sideways at Severus. “You sure?”

Severus followed the man’s gaze, perplexed at the reaction, and saw that he was looking at the bloated elderly wizard slumped over at a different table. He smirked. “No, the booth beside it.”

“Ah,” the bartender smiled, looking somewhat relieved. “Didn’t think ‘e could take anymore anyway. I’ll just let the young lady know who it’s from?”

Severus nodded, sliding the sickles across the bar towards him. A few minutes later, he was watching closely as the bartender took a drink over to the woman’s booth and set it on the table. She looked up, eyes already a bit shiny, and spoke to him. Severus couldn’t make out the words from this distance, but he did see when the bartender pointed at him over his shoulder and the woman looked over and made eye contact. She smiled at him, blushing (a reaction he was very unused to from the opposite sex) and let her eyes linger on him before looking back up at the bartender and speaking again.

The man returned to the bar.

“Well?” Severus asked.

“Seemed pleased.”

He nodded, swallowed his irrational nerves, and reminded himself of his purpose. He’d been a bachelor too long to be anything but slightly nervous and more than slightly awkward around women, but he feared war more than a conversation (he hoped).

“Hello,” he said real creative, Sev! as he slipped into the seat across from her.

“Hi there,” she said shyly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Of course. It’s Trish, isn’t it?”

“I… yes, it is. How did you know?”

“I have been through the Minister’s office once or twice.”

“Right,” she murmured, downing a long swallow of her drink.

“I’ve also seen you around here every once in a while. Thought I might introduce myself. Severus Snape.” He almost held out his hand for a shake before thinking better of it.

“Severus Snape, hm? I’ve heard your name here and there as well.”

“Oh?”

“My coworker Delores Umbridge has mentioned you a few times when she was still making visits to the Minister’s office.”

“I bet she did,” Severus muttered. Trish giggled.

“She said you were making trouble for her,” she added. “I was a little jealous. I wish I had the freedom to give her a little trouble.” She froze after saying that, looking at him askance as she clearly realised too late how such a comment might be received by her boss if it made its way to the man’s ear. Severus saw an opportunity to further win her trust and forced a smile.

“I imagine many people are.”

Trish relaxed and smiled back. “She isn’t an easy woman to work with, is she?” Her foot pressed against his under the table deliberately and he froze. His face grew hot and he suddenly wished that he too had a drink just so he could have something to do with his hands. The sudden urge to make an excuse about class in the morning so he could run away bubbled up in his chest.

“I think you deserve an Order of Merlin for managing so long,” he said valiantly instead, and was rewarded (punished?) with a blinding smile and Trish’s wave to a waitress.

“Something for my friend here,” she told the woman without looking away from Severus. When the waitress had left, she leaned forward slightly. Her breath swirled with cheap alcohol, a smell he associated with paint thinner. “So what brings you here, Severus? I can call you Severus, no?”

“No. I mean, yes. Well… Severus is my name.” Lily was laughing herself out of breath somewhere. “I thought I might seek out more pleasant company than moody teenagers.”

Trish laughed louder than this comment warranted. He wondered how many drinks she had already had.

Severus knew that no one knew more about the inner politics of an office than its receptionist. The Order’s knowledge of Ministry business was limited to common gossip and that of the departments in which members worked. The Minister’s office itself had a tight lid on any internal information, but Severus knew that even a lidded pot had a hole to let out steam somewhere. One merely had to put their hand out and feel for the spout of warm air.

The waitress brought over a drink. Severus took it without worry, knowing the sobriety potion he had already taken in preparation for his plan would keep him alert and that she would be more unreserved if she saw him drinking with her.

He gently steered the conversation away from work, not wanting to alert her suspicions about his interest in the subject. They talked mostly about her life, as he was careful to divert the topic away from himself. She wasn’t the worst person to spend an evening with; she was pretentious and clearly more than a little proud of herself, but she also had a knack for making logical connections and (he believed) good intentions. A couple hours and several drinks later, Trish’s feet were out of their heels and propped on his lap while he deliberately let his words slur somewhat to match hers.

“Oh, Sev,” (he had not given her permission to use the term, but he let it go.) “You are jus’ so funny. Where did you get such a sense of humor?”

“No’ the little monsters I work with, tha's for certain. I suppose the Minister's office is an interestin’ place to be though, yeah?” He was grateful that he had the sobriety potion and could fake the effects of drink. For one, he did not like the feeling of inebriation because of his past. Secondly, his childhood Geordie accent often slipped out. Anything that was perceived as a socioeconomic weakness—including a working-class accent—made one a target in Slytherin house, and he had worked hard as a boy to purge it.

“Tha’s one word for it,” she said darkly, taking another swig of her drink. She was as eager to complain about work as he’d suspected she’d be. “No’ as fun as it used to be, I’ll say. Minister’s bein’ real selective abou’ who he lets ‘round. Haven’ even seen that Percy Weasley kid since Decim- Decemibmer. ‘Course that Lucius Malfoy is hangin’ around more’n ever. He was even there the day you came in to talk to the Minister wi’ Dumbledore. Somethin’ to do with a pardon. Didn’ think much abou’ it for a while, but everyone’s gettin’ real antsy lately. Minister snatch’s papers off my desk ‘fore I can look at ‘em, but I still catch words here and theres. All secretive, place is. Things ‘bout that ‘Arry Potter and the Depar’men’ of Mysteries.”

Severus was on high alert, afraid to speak in case it interrupted or redirected her flow.

“An’ the press! They used to be ‘roun all the time, but now Fudge sends ‘em off to Malfoy or Umbridge til she got ill, an’ good riddance to tha’ I say. You’d thin’ there’s a war on, the way they carry on an’ whisper! Y’know Fenrir Greyback’s been more active lately?”

“What?” Severus asked, sitting up straighter and jostling her feet slightly. She blinked.

“Yeah, guess you wouldn’. Fudge insists we keep it quiet, an’ even when I tell ‘im we ought to tell the public, for their safety, ‘course, ‘e jus’ says there’s no need to alarm the public an’ threatens my job if I mention it!”

“Tha’ bastard,” he groused, making sure to soften his speech after his slip-up.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, over-annunciating her words in the manner of an inebriated person who was trying very hard to be clear.

The door opened. Severus’ back was unfortunately towards the entrance, so he could not tell who it was, but he focused on the sound. As this was a public place where he had been seen before, he had to be highly alert of his surroundings at all times. Trish could see his face, however. Her mouth opened slightly in surprise at whoever she saw.

The back of a large man, indistinguishable from where he sat because of a hood, came into his sight as the newcomer sat at the bar. He ordered a drink, drained it in a few rapid swallows, and thumped it down on the table with his payment. He then turned and made eye contact with Severus.

Corban Yaxley, one of the Death Eaters who had not been in Azkaban and could still show his face in public. His eyes widened in surprise, and he spoke a brief word to the bartender before thumping down off his stool and stalking towards them.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Trish asked. Yaxley looked her over slowly, face twitching as though making note of something. He then turned back to Severus.

“Imagine seeing you here.”

Severus sneered up at him, deciding to keep the drunk act in place for now. “I’d hoped you were jus’ the alcohol.”

Yaxley’s mouth thinned. If Severus had been actually drunk, he would have missed the punch coming until it was too late, but he was not. He decided not to act yet, however, and merely turned his head slightly so that the hammering fist skid along his eye socket instead of shattering his nose. Pain bloomed across the side of his face, but he used the motion of cringing as a way to discretely draw his wand.

Trish, predictably, screeched and then started shouting at Yaxley. Everyone’s attention was immediately drawn to them, and the burly bartender started over to the group.

“You might not be the one I came here for, but I’m sure ready to kill you, Snape,” he growled lowly.

Severus spluttered. Under the table, he wordlessly cast a speech confounding hex at the man’s leg. “Do I know you?” he finally slurred out.

The spell’s effects were immediately obvious when Yaxley incoherently babbled back at him. It was just in time for the bartender to reach and hear him.

“Got kicked out of some other bar for being too drunk and came to mine, huh?” the bartender demanded. He stuck his wand under a surprised Yaxley’s chin. The man froze and looked at him. “Out of my pub!” He marched him out at wandpoint and tossed him out the door. After slamming it shut, he stalked back over to their table. “I don’t know what problem that brute has with you, mate, but don’t let it disrupt my business. You’ve had enough for the night too. I’m closing your tab.” He left them, muttering to himself.

You might not be the one I came here for. So Yaxley had not come to eliminate Severus for being a traitor to the Death Eaters. Who had he been searching for?

Severus and Trish stared at one another. Trish’s eyes clouded with a haze of confusion, alarm, and (amusingly) haughtiness.

“We know where we’re no’ welcome,” Trish said with extreme drunken dignity. She slid out of her seat and tried to stand, wobbling severely. “Woo, too fas’!” Severus leapt up and caught her just before she fell.

“Let me take you home,” he said, recognising that any opportunity to hear more had passed and feeling guilty for getting her into such a state. He abandoned the pissed act and left several coins on the table, including a generous tip as an apology to the bartender.

“Tha’ would be nice,” she said dreamily. He wrapped an arm loosely around her waist to support her as she stumbled towards the entrance. “Sev, wanna hear a secre’?”

“Sure,” he said distractedly, still puzzling over Yaxley’s odd behaviour.

“I didn’ actually keep Fudge’s secrets. Tol’ some importan’ people.”

“Oh?”

Her giggle was interrupted halfway by a hiccup. She leaned her face close to his, eyes very unfocused, and spoke in a whisper. He grimaced at her breath; it could probably start a diesel engine.

“Ha’ you ever hear’ of the Order of the Phoenix?”

Severus froze in his steps. Already unbalanced, she tripped at the sudden change and wavered precariously. He barely noticed, too caught up in what she had just said.

My job never gets easier, does it?

When he had finally returned to his quarters after speaking with the Headmaster, Severus felt ready to pass out. He searched his pantry for something to eat, the drinks and sobriety potion chemically bound together in his system beginning to make him feel sluggish and slightly nauseous. It was like the bad effects of alcohol without any of the benefits, he mused irritatedly. He found a tin of soup, a carry-over from his yearly move back into the castle from Spinner’s End. He was looking it over for a sell-by date when his weary solitude was interrupted.

The hallway portrait swung open, Harry’s familiar footstep coming inside. Severus heaved a silent sigh and turned partially towards the teen.

“Sweet Circe!”

Severus chose not to react to hearing his own oath from Harry's mouth and just glared at him. “May I assist you?”

Harry’s shocked expression was quickly being replaced by one of incredulous delight. “You're all…” he flapped his hand at Severus. “Like that!”

“Is there a purpose to this?”

“Why? What happened?” He gave a massive, cheeky grin. “Were you on a date?”

“No, I was not on a date.”

“You totally were!” Harry said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Your hair's all styled back and you're in fine clothes! You so were! Look at your shoes, you're not in boots! They're so clean. You could eat off those!”

“I would not advise it.”

“Who was she?”

“There was no–”

“Was it Professor Sinistra?”

This blindsided Severus. The thought had never occurred to him and he wasn't sure he had ever even said her name in Harry’s presence. “What? Why do you say that?”

“She likes you. She was trying to get you to dance with her at the Yule Ball, although you didn't.”

Severus spluttered momentarily. “And you know this how?” he asked weakly, thinking that this night may have held more collective surprises than the last ten years of his life together.

“She was hovering near you the whole time and kept trying to talk to you. I didn't actually notice, but everyone was talking about it for days. But enough about that! If it wasn't her, then, who was she?”

“I did not go on a ‘date’, Potter. I have no time.”

“Then why are your trousers so tight?”

“Harry,” Severus growled.

The teen danced forward, cackling gleefully. “You're wearing aftershave! You were on a date!! Good for you!”

Severus scowled and shifted to face him more fully. Harry leaned back, excitement morphing to horror as he caught sight of the black eye. “Woah, what did you say to her?”

“She did not hit me!”

“AHA! There is a she.”

“Blast it, Harry, I have had an incredibly long day—”

A very ill-timed snore came from Severus’ open bedroom door. He had not thought it possible, but Harry’s eyes bugged out even further and his face went slack.

“You brought her here??” he whisper-shouted incredulously.

“Sit down before you have fit,” Severus said, moving to shove Harry towards the sofa. The teen ducked easily out from his hand and walked towards the snore.

“Wait, I wanna see who—” he froze, then looked over at Severus. “Is she… you know, wearing clothes?”

“Of course she is dressed!” Severus protested, feeling a wash of scandal equivalent with that a Catholic grandmother may have felt.

Harry smirked at him. “Never know, with those jeans.” He ducked again, this time avoiding the fake cuff Severus aimed at the back of his head, and mercifully walked back to the sofa. “Does Dumbledore know?”

“Yes.” Harry looked surprised at this, and Severus glared exasperatedly upwards as he realised he was going to have to tell the entire story, if only to quench the curiosity of a hormonal teenage boy. He shut the bedroom door and sat facing him. “I went to a pub this evening to scout out information. As I am sure you have gathered, the media is being very heavily censored and our post is monitored. I have done this before as a means to learn what the everyday lay people are saying about things. Fudge’s personal receptionist often frequents one establishment, so I thought to speak with her and see what she knew.” He did not go into details, but it was obvious from the look on Harry’s face that he understood. “It was not a date. Not in the way that you are imagining, at the least. I learned a little, but Corban Yaxley—and you had better recognise that name, as he is most certainly in the defense book I have given you—came in. She had been giving out information about Fudge and the Ministry to the Dark Lord through a contact she believed to be a part of the Order of the Phoenix. They lied to her, used her, and then intended to subtly kill her to get her out of the way. Clearly, I was there against their expectations. Yaxley decided he would rather go for a traitor than a poorly paid Ministry employee but was interrupted before he had the opportunity. Trish admitted to me that she had been leaking info to what she thought was the Order, but as I had never seen or heard of her there, I was suspicious. She was also… incapacitated, clearly not in a position to defend herself, and on at least one Death Eater’s kill list. I thought the best thing I could do was bring her here to speak with the Headmaster and clear the situation up.”

Harry sat there for a moment, evidently digesting this. Finally, he said, “So it wasn’t a date?”

Severus scowled and he laughed.

“Just kidding. So what happens after she sleeps it off?”

He sighed, wondering if he should chastise Harry for making assumptions, but as the assumption was correct and another loud snore came from the bedroom at that moment, he merely shook his head and settled for, “Do not be crass. An Order safehouse will be ready for her if she wishes to take it.”

“That’s good.” The moment hung heavy until he brightened, the mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes. “So how’d you get the blue keeker?”

“The… the what?”

Harry grimaced embarrassedly. “Heard Callum call it that. The black eye.”

“Yaxley.”

“Why don’t you use some bruise balm?”

“I intend to, I have only just returned from talking to the Headmaster about the whole fiasco.”

“What a mess! So what’d you learn?”

“Not much of interest or use. There is more Death Eater involvement in the Ministry than we had expected. Fenrir Greyback has allegedly been more active of late.”

“There hasn’t been a word of it in the papers!”

“Precisely.”

Harry chewed on his lip, mulling the news over. “So, we’re totally blind and have no clue what’s happening.” He looked over at Severus, eyes worried. “You were attacked. You could have died!”

Severus tried not to be insulted at this and to take it as the care it was. “Hardly. Corban Yaxley is not the sort of man I fear in a one-on-one confrontation.”

Harry didn’t look too mollified, but he said nothing more.

“Come on, off to bed with you. It is almost curfew, and I require the sofa for the night.”

Harry reluctantly dragged his feet all the way to the portrait hole only to give one last cheeky smile over his shoulder to say, “You look great, though!” before darting out.

Severus smirked at the empty room. The expression fell when Trish snored the loudest yet and he groaned.

Chapter Text

Harry was already halfway to Gryffindor tower when he remembered the letter he’d meant to give Snape. He stopped and groaned aloud, debating if he should turn around before recalling the harried look on Snape’s face. He smirked and decided it could wait. The poor man probably needed all of the sleep he could get.

Ron and Hermione had already gone up to bed when he got there. He was glad; he always felt bad on nights when he came up late because he lost track of time at Snape’s only to find they had waited up for hours. Ron didn’t seem to mind too much, though, as Hermione would occasionally fall asleep against his shoulder and he would get this smug demeanour about him. Harry wondered sometimes about that situation, but usually decided very quickly that he didn’t want to know.

He was almost to the tower when he was stopped by Dawlish.

“What are you doing out at this time?”

“I just, er, wanted to stretch out my legs. My friends were bickering and it was too hard to study,” Harry stammered, wincing internally. He had no idea how Snape could think he had good acting skills.

“It’s past curfew.” Dawlsih was impassive and spoke flatly, staring him down with a level gaze.

“I… didn’t realise. I’m sorry.” He waited, expecting every moment to be told he had a detention.

“That’s against the rules.”

“Y-yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, growing confused at Dawlish’s strange behaviour.

The auror’s face twitched, and he finally relaxed his stern posture again. Not much, but enough to seem more human and less robotic. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“No, sir!” Harry said in relief, hurrying off before Dawlish could change his mind. Weird.

The environment around the school was always restless before a break. There never seemed to be silence. A quiet backdrop of impatient murmuring had taken over and it felt like Friday would never come.

It turned out that Harry wouldn’t need to have Snape deliver his letter once they had worked out the travel arrangements for spring break. Normally Harry stayed at the school, and he’d had vague plans of maybe sneaking into Snape’s quarters for the week and kipping on the couch, but this time he and the others were going to Grimmauld Place. His feelings about this had been a bit conflicted at first, but then he realised that he would have the whole summer with Snape and he did really miss Sirius. So, to Headquarters they would all go, and Harry was glad for it.

He was jogging across the grounds from Hagrid’s after feeding Fang Thursday morning when he came across a group of fourth years.

“Hey, Harry!” one called, waving to him. He gave an awkward smile, trying to place the faces—they weren’t in the D.A., were they? No, he didn’t recognise them—and wondering if he should stop and talk or just keep going.

The thought occurred to him that if he was supposed to recognise them and stopped to talk, they would realise he didn’t know their names very quickly. He settled for a wave back and picked up his pace. A lighthearted chuckle followed him.

He felt confused for the entire walk back up to the castle at the encounter. It took a few minutes of thinking back on it for him to figure out why. He’d had strangers smile and call out to him in the halls before, back when the whole school didn’t hate or fear him, and this had been like that.

He passed by some older guys from Gryffindor who gave him cordial nods. He was already nodding back when the naturalness of the response made him realise that it had been a while since random Hogwarts kids showed open hostility to him around the school. More often than not, they were friendly or at least civil. Public opinion about him was changing again. Was it that more people were starting to believe him about Voldemort, or was it because of his known enmity with Umbridge? Perhaps the other students decided they would rather side with him than that vile Ministry control-freak. He wouldn’t put it past them. Snape sometimes said that teenagers would rather do anything than be told what to do and think. Usually that was a complaint about Harry in some way, but still. It was probably true.

At least, upon entering the Great Hall, he saw Draco Malfoy giving him his usual sneer. It was comforting to know that some things would never change.

He settled down on a bench next to Ginny and across from Ron and Hermione.

“You’ve got mud on your face,” Ginny said, elbowing him.

His hand flew up to his face, where Fang had jumped up on him and bumped his nose into Harry’s cheek affectionately after sniffing around in the dirt. “I thought I got it all!”

“And all over your clothes! Oh, Harry,” Hermione clucked disapprovingly, pulling out her wand. She started to cast cleaning charms on his robes—courtesy of Fang’s paws, no doubt—while Ginny dunked a napkin into his(!) water goblet and swiped at his face with it. He tried to duck out of the way of her ministrations, but she laughed at him and pinned him down easily. Only when she was satisfied (and Harry’s face probably red from the unnecessarily vigorous scrubbing she’d decided to victimize him with when under her mercy) did she let him up. By the smirk on her face, he was pretty sure it had more to do with teasing him than the actual dirt.

“Better,” Hermione said.

“Women,” Ron said, shaking his head. Both hands flew up in a posture of surrender when the girls turned on him angrily, Hermione with her wand and Ginny with a now-muddy napkin. “Joking!”

They were clearly not satisfied by this excuse, but he was saved when the owl post came in for the day.

While many students were getting letters and notes from family members finalising travel arrangements and pick-up plans for the hols, it was the Daily Prophet that caught people’s attention this morning. The headline, in unusually big and attention seeking letters, read: Man Under Investigstion for Violent Misconduct and Propagating Fear!

“What’s ‘propagating’?” Ron asked as Hermione snatched her copy up and started to read it quickly.

“Spreading, I think,” Harry offered when their friend merely ignored him.

“Oh. I thought i—”

“Corban Yaxley!” Hermione exclaimed aloud. Harry’s mind jumped instantly back to the night before last, when Snape said that Yaxley had tried to kill him in a pub.

“What happened?” he leaned forward to ask, wondering if it were the same incident.

“‘...two nights prior, Yaxley drunkenly attacked a Ministry employee Trish Wainwright and her date in Blueblood’s Pub, a wizarding establishment in West London. He was escorted from the premises. The owner soon after alerted the DMLE, who went searching for him. Trish and the man she was with later exited the pub. She did not report to work the next morning. There were several hours between Yaxley’s departure and when Ministry law enforcement found him and took him into custody. He has been charged a fine for drunken public misconduct. Questions are now raised as to whether he had anything to do with Trish’s disappearance.’”

“Wonder who the bloke was,” Ron mused. Harry fought valiantly to keep his mouth shut.

Hermione’s lips pursed as she scanned the rest of the front page. She made small noises of surprise or disagreement periodically.

“What is it?”

“The article is implying that Yaxley is responsible for different things You-Know-Who has done recently. He was one of the Death Eaters that avoided Azkaban the first time around by pleading Imperius. The author is suggesting that perhaps he was not so innocent and that the quiet crimes that have occured in the last year… you know, Trelawney’s disappearance, the Burrow, things like that… which we’ve been claiming were Voldemort were actually done by Yaxley trying to bring back the name. It’s basically calling him a crazed fanatic who’s trying to glorify a still-dead Dark Lord.”

“I’m surprised the Ministry let them publish that, usually they try to hush anything about Voldemort up.”

“No, it’s perfect, don’t you see?” Ginny said, taking the paper from Hermione and scanning it over herself. Harry leaned over to look too and she flicked his ear. “The rumors are spreading whether they talk about it or not, but this gives them a way to explain away people’s worries.”

“Control the narrative,” Ron nodded along. At their looks, he puffed up indignantly. “What? I used to listen to Bill and Charlie talk politics at the dinner table!”

“It makes sense,” Harry said. “They’re throwing Yaxley under the bus to appease the public and are using his arrest to make themselves look good.”

“Technically he’s just detained until they come up with further evidence, but yes. They’ll probably hold him indefinitely while they ‘investigate’ his supposed mastermind of multiple different crimes, which will buy them time to further solidify the argument that You-Know-Who could never have been involved.” 

“Can they even do that? Legally, I mean.”

“Don't be naive. The difference between what the Ministry can do and what they will do is enormous. There's no accountability in our government! No attorney is going to want to stick their neck out and challenge it on his behalf when the DMLE starts throwing around terms like Death Eater and terrorism.” Hermione pushed her plate back. She looked around for anyone listening before lowering her voice. “We have a D.A. meeting tonight. Why don’t we talk about Yaxley more then?”

“Sounds good,” Ginny said, finally giving the paper to Harry. She got up from the bench and tapped the table smartly before going to join her friends.

Neville slipped into her place. “Did I hear something about a D.A. meeting?”

“Gee, Hermione, just announce our super secret group to the whole country, why don't you?” Ron griped quietly. She looked equal parts annoyed and distressed.

“Oh, I was quiet! I mean, wasn't I?” She turned to Neville.

“I'm the only one who heard,” he assured her.

“Who else heard about the meeting?!” Harry shouted urgently as several members cast defensive spells on the shaking door.

“We saw Cormac McLaggen going into Dawlish’s office on our way up,” one of the twins said.

“Oh, great!”

“How’d he find out?”

“Who knows! What are we gonna do now?”

The door rattled again ominously. Clearly whoever came looking for them had paced past three times and manifested it; all they could do now was hold it shut with spells. Dawlish, and possibly more people, ultimately had more experience and would get through. Even if they didn’t, this wasn’t a standoff they could win.

The younger kids looked nervous while the older ones were grim. Hermione was running around like a madwoman, collecting up papers and stuffing them into her satchel. Luna was straightening the room up after her like they were expecting visitors. Everyone was looking to him for answers.

Harry made a split decision. “We’ve got to give it up.”

“What? No!”

“Do you think he’s just gonna fall asleep out there? We can’t just barricade and stay in here forever. Do you wanna miss spring break just to fight a pointless battle?”

Ron, as always, was dependable in a crisis. “They’re still throwing curses and hexes at the door. If we try to go through now, we’ll get hit.”

“I’ll send out a patronus.”

Ron stepped up to him and spoke in a low voice. “Mate, you know that’ll remind him and Umbridge of this summer. They’re gonna get even more mad and probably focus on you.”

“We can’t just walk into spellfire. It’ll be okay, Ron.” And if Harry was hoping it would draw the punishment more towards himself and away from the others… well, that wasn’t theirs to know.

Hermione ran up to them breathlessly. “Wait!” She beckoned little Colin Creevy over and addressed him. “Take Harry’s invisibility cloak. When we all leave, sneak off and go tell the Headmaster. The password to his office is ‘jelly babies’.”

Ron stared in disbelief. “How do you even—”

“If he’s not there, find Professor Snape.”

“Snape??” Colin asked.

Harry pulled the cloak, which he always carried on him to D.A. meetings, out of his pocket and shoved it at Colin. “Here! There’s no time to explain.”

“Okay.” Colin swung the fabric over himself and disappeared.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The stag burst forth. It pranced around in a restless circle for a moment, snorting a mist of ghostly blue-white and stamping. Harry reached out to it with his free hand, and it leaned its head into his palm.

“We’re coming out,” Harry told it simply.

The stag looked at him with ethereal eyes for a long moment before raising its head, shaking itself, and bounding out through the door. After a tense few seconds, the attack stopped.

Everyone stared at each other, knowing that once they stepped outside the room, massive trouble was going to fall on their heads.

Harry finally took a step forward. Once he’d moved, everyone quickly fell into place behind him. He felt their supportive presences at his back as he determinedly walked up to the door and pulled it open.

The sight that met him was Dawlish, foot tapping and wand out, surrounded by several members of the Inquisitorial Squad. He looked around for Malfoy, expecting some heckling at the least, but the blond was not there. Crabbe and Goyle were, however, as well as some kids who had been on the Slytherin quidditch team.

“Potter. It’s no surprise you’re involved in this, is it?”

Harry swallowed and straightened his posture. “What happens now?”

“Now, kid? I will inform the High Inquisitor and the Ministry of what has happened here, and we will see how they take your recent act of rebellion.” He nodded to one of the Squad, who darted into the room. Harry took a moment to be grateful that Hermione had immediately rushed to put all of the papers they had around like the member list in her scary satchel.

“Come along.”

The D.A. trooped along in a line behind him like sad ducklings, the Squad members at the back and along the sides as if escorting prisoners of war.

Over the next several hours, the entire group (minus Colin) sat lined up along the wall outside Dawlish’s office. They were watched by the Inquisitorial Squad, who were obviously beginning to get bored and irritated at being relegated to guard duty, while people were called in one by one. Some wouldn’t meet his eye after their meeting. Harry had expected to be first, but as one after another of the other students went before him, he started to suspect that they were trying to build as comprehensive of a case against him as possible. He tapped his foot anxiously, wondering if and when Dumbledore or Snape would show up.

Ron was the second to last person to be called out. He hadn’t been expecting his name to be barked out and jumped, as there had never been more than one person there at a time and Hermione hadn’t come back out yet. After what seemed like ages, both of his best friends came out together.

“What happened?” Harry asked, ignoring a harsh order for silence from one of the Squad.

“He tried to make me take off the satchel since she wouldn’t and he couldn’t get close enough,” Ron said proudly, shoving a thumb at Hermione over his shoulder. Sure enough, she still had it determinedly thrown across her body and was smirking triumphantly. “Obviously I knew better than to touch that thing. Finally he gave up and asked me questions. I didn’t tell him anything, mate.”

“I know,” Harry said dejectedly as Dawlish shouted for him.

“Potter, you’re up!”

Harry gave his friends the ‘wish me luck’ shrug that was universal to all teenagers who were about to get into trouble and knew it. They murmured supportively after him as he walked past a row of his clubmates. He had taught or helped all of them at some point or other. Most were staring up at him anxiously, and a couple cheered. A few wouldn’t look at him, and he knew they had admitted something under pressure. He wished he could reassure them all, but Dawlish was waiting impatiently. He forced himself to ignore all of it, both the support and the guilt, as he went past.

Dawlish held open the door for him as he walked in. That door was slammed shut behind the two of them, leaving the corridor silent except for the echoes and several teenagers’ nervous breathing.

Chapter Text

“Student probation, Harry?” Severus asked exhaustedly.

“I'm sorry,” the teen said again, voice strained. His eyebrows were drawn together and his face tight. He looked minutes away from having a breakdown.

“You knew the consequences before this began. Do you regret it now?”

“No,” Harry protested.

“Then do not be so despondent. You made a choice.”

Harry didn't respond to that, staring down at his shoes as they walked. Severus suspected that his attempts at putting things into perspective hadn’t helped much. He wasn’t exactly in a compassionate mood himself.

He had been sequestered off in his own quarters with the Headmaster when a hesitant knock came at his office door. He had fully planned on ignoring it, as they were discussing security plans for taking the Weasleys, Granger, and Harry to Headquarters, but Dumbledore had cheerfully pointed out that the students knew his reputation and opinion on being disturbed and would likely not be seeking entrance unless it was important. There had certainly been a hidden tease in there that no one would be down for a casual chat with him, which Severus took with zero offense because it was completely true. The only student who ever would was Harry, and he had the password to get in.

Grousing halfheartedly at being told to actually fulfill his responsibilities, Severus had made his way to the office and been sure to put on his most inconvenienced expression when he opened the door.

On the other side, he was met with the sight of fourth year Gryffindor Colin Creevey. The boy was looking about himself anxiously and jumped when Severus appeared.

“What do you want?” he asked abruptly, wanting to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“I– sir– I'm trying to find Professor Dumbledore…”

“Do I look like a private investigator? Go ask someone else.” He started to close the door, completely aware that no one knew Dumbledore was down in his own quarters besides himself, when the boy rushed forward and jammed his foot in the door.

“Please, sir! I... I was also told to come tell you if I couldn't find Dumbledore.”

“Told? Who told you?”

“It's Harry Potter, sir. He's—they're all—in trouble, sir,” he said, eyes begging not to be thrown out without help. 

Severus’ blood ran cold.

He came out of the memory and looked down at the teen walking beside him. The Headmaster and himself had rushed to Umbridge/Dawlish's office when they finally got the story out of Creevey, interrupting a standoff between the Auror and Harry. It had taken over an hour to get the situation to come to any close, and it was merely a temporary solution until after spring break. For now, as leader, Harry was placed on student probation. The others were also on thin ice and would probably be on the list as well if they even looked at someone wrong. All of the other students had been sent to bed soon after the Headmaster's arrival, and now that Harry’s fate had been put on hold until after break, Severus was to escort him to Gryffindor tower.

Harry had a nervous hunch to his shoulders. Severus looked down at him critically and decided a little detour wouldn't be amiss.

“Come,” he said, locating an empty classroom. Harry trudged inside, not looking up to meet his eyes.

He closed the door softly and spelled a few lights to float near the ceiling.

“You need not be so despairing. We have a week to figure things out. Considering how close he came to outright arresting you, this is a far better arrangement.”

Harry exhaled a long, shaky breath from his nose. He moved closer to Severus and, after a slight pause to make sure he wasn't going to be pushed away, rested his forehead against Severus’ upper arm.

“He took my wand, Dad.”

Severus froze, a flood of doubt and confusion washing over him. Dad? Was it sarcastic as always? It didn't seem to fit.

Occluding the overwhelming feelings behind a thick shield to think about later, Severus rested a hand on the teen’s head. Harry breathed deeply, but he didn't think he was crying.

“I know.”

“I don't feel safe without it.”

“I know.” He had always been opposed to the concept of student probation, as one of its biggest tenets was that those under it would have their wands confiscated and only be allowed access to them for specifically approved class practicals. No way to practice things from class, defend themselves, or even set an alarm in the morning without help from a friend.

“Am I ever gonna get it back?”

“We will find a way. If it is any consolation, you will likely not have had cause or opportunity to use it much over break. There will be plenty of adults around at all times.”

“Still.”

“Still.”

Harry reluctantly lifted his head and stepped back a pace or two. “I know that I brought it on myself.”

“Try not to worry about it too much, Harry. There is nothing to be done at the moment.”

“Yeah. Thanks, sir,” Harry said. Severus wondered if he even realised what he'd called him before. Perhaps he was going to pretend it never happened.

“Umbridge has ordered that all floo access, even emergency floo, to the school be closed starting tonight. She wants no one sneaking in or off grounds during break without her knowledge. Your friends will have to take the train to King's Cross, where Arthur and Molly—that is Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to you—along with their two eldest will pick you up and apparate you to Headquarters. Keep to public places, stay together, and move quickly. Give no one the opportunity to get a hold of any of you, but you in particular must be careful.”

“Right.” Harry gave a little salute, mood lightening.

“Let us get you to your dorm.” He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and guided him out of the room. “It is past your bedtime, and there is still a day of classes left.”

Harry cringed. “I'm fifteen, I don't really need a bedtime, don't you think?”

“Oh, I think,” Severus smirked, “that you need all the help you can get.”

Harry huffed but didn't move away from the hand on his shoulder.

The train rattled along as it picked up speed. Hogsmeade station gave way to Scottish countryside. The world was just beginning to warm up and nature was waking from winter’s slumber. The mountains were still topped with snow, but the deciduous trees were beginning to gain some colour and flowers were popping up in the grasses. Harry was watching out the window as the car sat in silence.

Despite everyone’s advice to stick closely together, the twins had bounded off somewhere. Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville had filled up one car. Everyone seemed to be afraid to look at him, and he knew they were feeling guilty for the night before.

“It’s really the best that could have happened,” he said when their averted eyes became unbearable.

“What was that, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Student probation. Honestly, the way the Ministry feels about me, it’s a shock it’s taken this long to happen. I could have been expelled or arrested.”

“They might still do those things,” Ron said.

“Thank you, Ronald,” Hermione sighed.

“But it’s a good sign they haven’t yet, yeah?”

“What even happened after you went in, Harry?” Ginny inquired.

“Dawlish started at me about causing trouble, being a rule breaker, having no respect for the Ministry, that sort of thing. I was thinking about being an Auror, you know, but I’m not so sure after that little example. Anyway, he tried to get me to admit to a bunch of stuff, but I wouldn’t. Most of it wasn’t true, like if I was plotting with Dumbledore to overthrow Fudge or if I joined a criminal group when I was on the run last fall.”

“Harry Potter, brutal member of the crime syndicate,” Ron snorted. Ginny threw a candy wrapper at him. Hermione shook her head and muttered about not letting him borrow her novels anymore.

“Just when I thought he was gonna threaten to keep me there all night, Dumbledore and Snape barged in. The three of them argued in circles for ages until finally coming to an agreement that I would be put on student probation for break and they would figure out if any further punishment would happen when we get back. Then Snape took me back to Gryffindor tower while Dumbledore spoke a little more to Dawlish. Wonder what they said.”

“No detentions?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll be a part of the ‘reassessment’ next Monday,” Harry said wryly.

“And the rest of us?” Neville asked hesitatingly. “Dumbledore just told us to go to bed and dismissed the Squad as soon as he showed up. No one’s told us anything.”

“I think they’re gonna assign some group detentions, but Dawlish and Umbridge’s focus is on me since they’ve been looking for an excuse to get at me for months.”

“Sounds like you really were lucky then.”

“He also asked if I was sending people around to spy on others,” he mentioned, giving Hermione a pointed look. She shrugged sheepishly.

“I guess they might not have been totally discreet all the time,” she admitted.

“Did you even learn anything useful from the kids who were investigating for you?”

She perked up. “Oh, yes. Several students’ parents attended Hogwarts with Umbridge and remember her as a classmate. Apparently, she was almost expelled for Dark Magic. She started working in the Ministry despite having grades that normally don’t qualify because she had an uncle with a high position in the Wizengamot years ago. When information came out that he had committed several crimes against other sentient classes, like goblins and centaurs, she immediately turned on him to save her career. She gave enough evidence against him that she ‘found out’ to land him in Azkaban for ten years. He died a few months ago, just before he was set to be released. It was actually only a few days before those Dementors came after you, Harry.”

“D.A. people found all this out?”

“Bits and pieces. Enough rumor for me to look into it myself and put together the narratives. I’ve been trying to figure out if there’s a way I could expose her for it, but technically it’s all public information.”

Everyone stared at her. Crookshanks gave a quiet hiss as he stretched on the carpet. Ron finally broke the silence.

“Y’know Hermione… for someone who hates reporters so much, you’d make a really good one.”

“You take that back right now!” she protested.

“Daddy would love to have you write for us,” Luna said dreamily from the corner, surprising everybody.

“The Quibbler?” Hermione said skeptically, trying and failing to keep the derision out of her voice. “What would I write there? Unconfirmed rare animal sightings?”

“Political expositions,” Luna smiled, not seeming offended by the ill-disguised contempt.

“That's a thought,” Ron said softly.

“A thought? How is that a thought?” Hermione demanded.

“You've found all this info out about people so you could blackmail them or whatever, right?”

Neville looked blessedly confused. Harry felt sorry for him.

“Well, I wouldn't put it so blatantly, but yes.”

“But you're just an underage student. I guess you could do it by mail, but not a lot of the people you've got dirt on would take you seriously. Instead of directly contacting people to get them to stop harmful behaviours, just skip the middle part and go straight to exposing them. You practically rewrote Rita Skeeter's article on Harry. You get how the media works.”

“But… the Quibbler.” Hermione never had been able to forgive the thing for its often outrageous claims and theories.

“Is more reputable than the Daily Prophet these days,” Harry said.

“We've had many more subscribers since Harry's story came out,” Luna said. “A lot of them have asked for more ‘substantive’ reporting, and Daddy is trying to find topics for that. You'd be perfect.”

Hermione had a constipated look on her face, probably at the source of the offer. After a moment, her bias against the Quibbler seemed to lose to her quick mind and the expression fell into one of more contemplation. “You know, Rita was trying to take me under her wing and get me to learn journalism from her for weeks after the article came out. Obviously I wouldn’t trust her and said no, but I always wondered why she would ask in the first place.” She clicked her tongue at Crookshanks. He leapt up on her lap. “It's a thought,” she repeated to herself softly, sinking back into her seat and petting him absently.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to keep teasing her about it and bringing the topic up until she started to seriously consider it.

As the train passed over a bridge, he smiled at the thought that they had a whole week to do it.

Severus approached his house from an out-of-the-way side alley, hyper aware that the Dark Lord and several of his followers knew about the place. As he got nearer, he cast countless spells ranging from homenum revelio to curse detectors. He soon concluded that no one was inside (probably not expecting him as he never returned to Spinner's End before summer break forced him to). There were a multitude of detection and trap spells however, ones he easily dismantled. He was somewhat offended at how easy it was. Had the Dark Lord not bothered to send someone competent? He detected the magical signature of Macnair, a man who had always had more raw brutality than finesse.

It was possible they intended to come back and place more sophisticated entrapments closer to summer, leaving these as a mere precaution. Perhaps they never expected him to try to come back here at all after everything. Either way, Severus stepped inside Spinner’s End uncontested.

The first thing he did was weave a complex ward around the property. He’d had basic ones up, simple wards maintained only for the sake of appearance that had easily broken under assault. The new ones would be far more stable and selective. The only people who could enter the property at all without being painfully dispelled would be those he had specifically keyed into them. He himself, the Headmaster, and Harry would be the only three magical people in the world who could step foot on the premises. As he lived in a muggle neighbourhood, he left a loophole in to allow those with no magical core to pass through, although he did place silent alarms to alert him when they did.

Other protections included making the place unplottable, additional alarm spells to detect anyone approaching with ill-intent for a half-mile radius, and even something to keep out house elves. Every protection short of the Fidelius itself.

All of this took several hours. When he had finished, he collapsed into a sagging old armchair and ran his hands over his face. Prowling about the rooms and corners of the house had reminded him of how run-down the place was. His whole purpose in coming here early was to clean it up before Harry came for the summer.

That could start tomorrow, he decided. He'd spent a miserable day teaching classes to antsy students that only wanted the school day to be over so they could take the afternoon train home and start their break. It had been a hectic week overall, from hiding Trish in an Order safehouse to saving that defense group from expulsion.

He checked the clock. It was late evening. The train should have arrived at the station by now. Harry was probably at Grimmauld Place that very moment, enjoying the mutt's jokes and attention.

A rumble of thunder came outside. Rain began pit-pattering against the windows. Severus stood and wandered upstairs to check on what would soon be Harry's room.

The walls were bare and stained, the bed sagging in the middle, dust building empires in the corners. He opened the wardrobe door, finding some of his old school robes mouldering on their hangers.

He mentally mapped out the changes he had planned. His old desk had been dragged down into the lab and then later destroyed when a leg snapped years ago. A new one would fit in the corner, or perhaps in the centre of one wall if he changed the way the bed faced and moved the wardrobe.

“It’s perfect just the way it is,” Harry said. Well, Harry was not there, but Severus could imagine the humble reaction the boy would give if he saw its present state.

“At least I'm trying,” Severus muttered to himself.

He walked out of the room and stood in the hallway, staring at it through the doorway. Tried picturing Harry sitting at a desk inside, hiding a notebook with Quidditch maneuvers inside a Transfiguration textbook like he thought Severus wouldn't notice. The image somehow morphed into an eleven year old Harry looking at his new school trunk. Then eight years old, reading an adventure novel on the bed. Six, sitting on a carpet with a toy potions kit.

Did the room need a carpet?

Severus tore himself away from the doorway, stumbling slightly. What was wrong with him? He wasn't the sentimental type. Only thoughts of Lily had ever made him wistful like this.

He walked down the stairs slowly, trying to get musings about what Harry’s childhood could have been like if spent here at Spinner’s End with Severus instead of with those abusive muggles out of his head.

The house was haunted by the laughter of a child who had never once stepped inside.

I'm turning into a damned old fool.

Suddenly the last thing he wanted to do was rattle around the empty house for an entire week. He resettled into the chair feeling worse than when he'd arisen. A book was sitting on the table beside it, so he brushed off the dust and cracked it open.

It was a boring text on the ancient practices of ingredient farming in eastern Europe.

The recently set alarms rang inside his head, letting him know that a muggle was on the property. He closed the book over his thumb, looking up warily. Perhaps they were only passing along the sidewalk–

A frantic knocking rapped against his front door. Severus pulled himself to his feet, casting the book down on the chair and walking over swiftly. That knock had put a sense of urgency in his bones.

Another knock started at the door by the time he reached it. Wand in hand, he swung it open.

A drenched Callum Duncan stood on the front step, looking more exhausted than Severus had ever seen him.

Chapter Text

One week prior:

“How is she?” Callum asked.

“The same,” Mary responded grimly.

They looked at one another for a long moment.

“I’ll go,” Mary said. “She’s my sister.”

“That’s why you should stay.” Callum shook his head. “I’ll go.”

Mary pursed her lips but finally nodded. “Hold on, I’ll grab it.” She ran upstairs.

Callum softly pushed on the door, which was partially ajar from where Mary had emerged. He stepped cautiously in, eyes immediately landing on the little girl sweating in the bed.

“Hey, Lucy,” he said, leaving the door open and coming farther inside. A chair was pulled up to the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

She only looked at him in silence, wide blue eyes bright with fever.

“We’re going to help you,” he said forcefully. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“It stings,” she faintly murmured. “On the inside.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. Callum glanced over to see Mary in the doorway, a hand covering her mouth. The other hand hung at her side, clutching an envelope that he knew contained several pound notes. Callum rose to his feet. “How much?”

“Enough,” she said, handing the notes over. He counted them quickly, mentally adding the amount he had collected. “You will be careful?”

“Me?” Callum asked. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She didn’t smile, so he grew serious again. “Yeah, I will.”

“Good,” Mary sighed. Callum slipped past her into the front hall. “And Callum?”

“Yeah?” He paused halfway through the door.

“Hurry. Please.”

He looked closely at her face, noticing the red-rimmed eyes and pale skin. The exhaustion on her face mirrored his own; he’d been unable to sleep from worry and indecision. “Of course. I’ll be back before you know it.” And hopefully, I won’t be alone.

Present:

Harry was packed tight between Sirius and Remus, a huge grin on his face as laughter and teases shot around the table. The kitchen of No. 12 Grimmauld Place was filled to the brim.

Hermione had holed herself up in her room as soon as they arrived, but it seemed like everyone else in the Order besides the Hogwarts professors was there. Even Mundungus showed up, although Sirius gave him a stern warning not to let anything valuable fall into his pockets.

“So, Harry, how are you holding up without Quidditch?”

“It's a daily battle, but we try to push through,” Harry nodded seriously. Sirius gave a barking laugh and clapped his shoulder.

Mrs. Weasley came over with a big crock of something delicious smelling in her hands. She bumped her hip against her seated husband’s shoulder as she passed and he cleared his throat to speak. “I heard a whisper around work that some students were seen playing a pickup game on the pitch at midnight.”

“They may have,” Ginny said with a fakely innocent look on her face, popping a grape into her mouth.

“You’re just lucky Umb—” Mrs. Weasley gave a shriek and dropped the food when the floo flared aggressively right behind her. She jumped aside and lifted her wand, as did most of the other adults. Everyone was watching the fire to see who would come out. Many of them made grumbling sounds when Snape appeared, but Harry grinned even wider. He was about to call out to him when Snape’s manner and expression registered and his face fell.

“What happened?” he asked, standing up and staring at his professor as the rest of the room fell silent.

Snape made eye contact with him. The intense and serious look was even more alarming when he was directly confronted with it. “I need you to come with me.”

Harry immediately made to leave, but Sirius’ hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing, thinking you can just take Harry with you with no explanation?”

Snape was around the table and in his face so quickly that many people leaned away in shock. He put on his fiercest scowl. “As it is none of your business, mutt, I have no need to give you an explanation.”

Sirius wasn’t cowed. He jumped to his feet so Snape wouldn’t be towering over him so much. “Harry is my business! You’ve been inserting yourself in his life long enough! All these Occlumency and Defense lessons? Admit it! You’re just trying to get him to trust you so we won’t throw you out on your ear now that you aren’t useful anymore!”

“I doubt your mind could grasp the implications even if I were to explain.” Snape had not responded to the personal jab itself, convincing Harry that this really was an emergency.

Sirius was about to argue back. The impromptu yelling match stopped when Harry put his hand on Snape’s shoulder and turned him around. “I’ll come. What's happened?”

Snape took a steadying breath. “It is related to last fall.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine. Remus’ head tilted as his attention sharpened.

“You need to take him away for that?” Sirius asked derisively.

“I thought he should like to help.” Snape spun and sneered in his face.

“Did you ever think that maybe he wants a week away from your slimy arse?”

Harry hauled on Snape’s shoulder again to stop the scene from devolving further. “Do I need to bring my things?”

Snape looked over at him for a moment. He seemed to think, then said, “A few changes of clothes.”

Harry nodded and twisted out of Sirius’ grip to run upstairs. Sirius started shouting again, recognising the implication that Harry would be gone for multiple days. He shook his head and went straight to his room.

He threw his trunk open and started rifling through it, pulling out muggle clothes that would blend in either world. He had just slammed the lid shut again when Remus came in.

“Don’t try to tell me I can’t go, too. If Snape needs me and this has anything to do with the village, I’m going.”

“I was not going to order you to stay, Harry. You’re old enough to make your own choices.”

Harry’s defensive stance relaxed at the honesty in Remus’ face. The sound of shattering glass came from downstairs and he sighed. “They’re gonna kill each other if we don’t leave soon.”

“I just wanted to make sure this is what you want.”

“It is, Remus.”

His former and best Defense professor nodded, accepting him at his word. Despite the hurry, Harry decided it was time to tell him something he’d been dying to tell somebody. “I’m staying with him this summer, Remus. Snape, I mean. I asked and he said I could.”

Remus looked surprised for a moment, then smiled at him sadly. Harry gave him a quick hug, the bundle of loose clothes still in one arm. A sock tumbled loose and he hastily picked it up.

They went back downstairs together. Upon entering the kitchen, they found Sirius and Snape standing away from the table and wands pointed at one another.

“He’s not going!”

“I’m going!” Harry shouted over them. Both looked over at him, Sirius in dismay and Snape in grim determination. The latter took out a folded piece of paper and pressed it into Remus’ hand. Harry assumed it was an explanation. If the emergency was related to the village, Remus was the only one who was technically supposed to know about the place. He opened it and scanned it over quickly, face paling. Sirius leaned over to get a look, but Remus folded it back up before he could see.

“You’ll need a bag.” Snape conjured a backpack and shoved it towards him. Harry stuffed his clothes into it and threw it onto his shoulder.

Sirius started to protest, but Remus laid his hands on his shoulders and spoke in a low voice.

Harry followed Snape to the floo. He took his arm with one hand, tossing a handful of floo powder into the fire with the other and speaking the address of Spinner’s End. They leapt in together. Grimmauld Place spun away to be replaced by a small and dusty muggle sitting room.

Callum Duncan was sitting on the edge of a sofa, foot tapping anxiously. When they emerged, he looked over with an open mouth.

“Callum??” Harry gasped.

“Henry,” Callum said gratefully. Brain sluggish with shock, Harry stuck out his hand. Callum used it to pull him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Harry blinked at Snape over his friend's shoulder. The heavy lines of worry in the man’s face made the churning in his gut worse. He pulled back from Callum to see his face. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Mary’s little sister, Lucy. A couple of weeks ago, another pack of werewolves attacked. We fought most of them off—”

“Just you and Mary??”

“No, we rallied the whole village! No one was killed, but Lucy…” he swallowed. “She got bit.”

Harry’s heart dropped from where it had climbed up into his throat. “Is she-?”

“She’s alive, but the wound isn't closing and she’s sick. Mary and I knew that you two were the only ones who could help, so we pooled our money and I came here to the address you gave us to mail you.” A confused look came over his face. “It disappeared off the map just as my bus got to Cokeworth, though. Had to ask around to find the street and house number.”

Harry looked at Snape curiously. He ignored the subject and turned to Callum. “Allow us to grab a few things, and then we may leave. Come, Henry.”

“Right. I, er, do have to say that I’m out of money…”

“That won’t be a problem.”

He swept off towards a door. Harry shrugged at his friend and hurried after Snape. It opened to a staircase downwards. Harry followed him, shutting the door as they descended into a cellar-like room that smelled of potions ingredients.

Snape directed Harry to collect several items, including a high-end cauldron, ingredients, tools, and a few sealed potions bottles. He instructed Harry to measure out certain amounts of ingredients into special pouches for travel.

Before Harry could start on those tasks, however, Snape grasped his upper arms and crouched slightly so they were at eye level. “I need you to know something before we leave. A werewolf’s bite is almost always fatal to a muggle. They need a magical core to assist them during the transformation. Very few can ever survive, and none of them have ever been close to a child of her age. She will simply be too weak to make it through her first full moon.”

“No!”

“I will do what I can to close the wound and ease young Lucy’s pain, but there is nothing I can do to save her life.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“I am going to do everything I can to help her first. Then we will all need to sit down and talk. I have brought you along because I thought you deserved to be there and help, but also because I hope you will be a comfort your friends Mary and Callum.”

“Can you invent something? A potion or a spell or something to like, I don’t know, draw the virus out of her?”

“Centuries of people have tried and failed at such a task, Harry.”

“Yeah, but you’re a genius!”

Snape shook his head, looking pained. “You overestimate me, child. I will do what I can. Gather what I have told you. I must run upstairs and pack clothes of my own. I am sure Callum is eager to get moving.”

Harry nodded and Snape released his arms with a squeeze. He then took the stairs two at a time. Turning to the makeshift lab, Harry hurried to do as he’d been instructed.

When he was done, placing everything in the cauldron for ease of carrying, he ran upstairs too. Snape came down from upstairs with a bag over his shoulder just as he stepped out into the sitting room.

Callum began, “I had to take a few different bus systems and a couple boats to—”

“We will be taking a shortcut.” Snape tossed a piece of fabric (Harry guessed it was an old tablecloth) over the top of the cauldron in Harry’s arms.

“A what? Do you have a car?”

“Better,” Harry grinned despite himself, knowing what was about to happen.

“How- AH!”

Snape grabbed one of their shoulders each and twisted on his heel. They disapparated with a fading crack. Moments later, the three of them landed. Harry spluttered at the torrential downpour that doused him in moments. Callum stumbled away, alternately cursing and dry-heaving. Harry looked around and realised that Snape had come to a spot outside that had once been their backyard before the cabin burned down. Its charred remains were mere feet away from them. He stared at the broken foundation.

“What the hell was that??” Callum coughed, looking shell-shocked. His hair was plastered to his face by the rain and he uselessly swiped water out of his eyes. Snape had pulled up his hood and was impatiently waiting for them to gather their wits.

“Apparition.”

Callum finally looked around and seemed to realise where they were. “Wicked,” he breathed.

“Lead the way.”

His friend blinked and remembered what was going on. His awe faded and he nodded. “Right.”

Harry and Snape followed close behind and Callum led them to a house near the water. No one was out, as it was evening and raining heavily. Harry wondered if anyone had noticed their presence yet.

Callum pounded at the door. It swung open almost immediately.

“I was wondering if you were alright!” Mary pulled Callum inside, looking over at them. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Snape said lowly, stepping over the threshold. Harry followed, wiping his feet at the doormat while Callum and Mary spoke to one another rapidly.

“How are you going to use magic with me around?” he whispered to Snape.

Snape looked at him. “We will work that out. First, let us see Lucy.”

“She’s upstairs,” Mary said, hearing the last bit.

“Where are your parents?”

“Mum’s in her room. I’ll tell her you’re here soon.”

Harry remembered then about Mary’s father and how he had died. It made his heart break a little more to know that the family had already been through one tragedy. They didn’t need another.

Mary climbed up the narrow staircase. The rest of them followed. She reached the first door on the right, cracking it open. She spoke into the gap. “Lucy? Some people are here to help you.”

A soft, indistinguishable sound came from inside. Harry wondered how much worse the situation could get.

“Okay,” Mary said softly. She turned to Snape, eyes pleading. “Please help her.”

Snape’s face was stoic. He stared down at her for a moment, then nodded and stepped inside.

The others followed him in, staying back as he approached the bed and the little girl in it. Mary flipped the light switch, revealing the room in stark and uncompromising detail.

Lucy looked very small. She had kicked the blankets down, perhaps turning with fever, and he could see a thick white bandage on her shin just visible where her nightdress had ridden up slightly. It was stained red.

Snape knelt at the bedside. “Hello. My name is Samuel Paine. Do you remember me?” Lucy stared at him, mouth parted, before nodding slightly. He nodded back. “Good. What is your name?”

“L-lucy,” she whispered. Mary whimpered.

“Lucy. I hear you’ve been very brave.”

She smiled faintly.

“I am going to take a look at you and see if I can make you feel better. Can I do that?”

Lucy nodded again. Moving slowly and watching her face to ensure that she wasn’t panicking or growing more upset, Snape moved the edge of her nightdress up just enough to uncover the whole bandage.

“This was well made. Who did it?”

“My sister.”

“She has been taking great care of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked over at Harry. “Hand me the cleansing potion.”

Harry knelt on the ground and set down the cauldron. He pulled off the covering cloth and pulled out the potion. Snape took it. “Use the mortar and pestle and mix three parts dittany, one part silver.”

“Got it.” The ingredients were both in the pouches he had put them in. He remembered how Snape had used the tip of one of his silver knives and dittany in his pocket stores to seal his own scratch months before. As he set to making the mixture, Snape unwrapped the bandage and murmured comfort to the girl. Mary hurried forward with a wad of gauze to hand him.

By the time Harry had finished crushing and mixing the ingredients into a paste, Snape had poured the cleansing potion over the gaping wound and used the gauze to pat it dry. Even as he handed the mortar over, fresh blood began seeping up.

“I am going to put this on your leg. It should stop the bite from hurting so much.” Snape poured the leftover potion over his hands, then used his fingertips to spread the paste over the jagged holes. Some werewolf had gotten its jaws around her leg, and it had been harsh. She hissed at the contact. Callum and Mary rushed over to hold her hands.

Snape held the empty mortar out to Harry behind his back. He took it from him and set it on the floor beside the cauldron.

“Have you a fresh dressing?”

“Yeah, one moment.” Mary walked over to a dresser with several medical supplies on top of it. She ripped a bandage out of its package as Callum looked over at Snape.

“Oh, cool tattoo.”

Harry’s head jerked up. He noticed for the first time that Snape had pushed his sleeves up past his elbows, probably to keep them from contaminating the bite. His Dark Mark was crisp and dark on his pale forearm. Callum’s face was innocent; obviously he wouldn’t grasp the meaning of the snake and skull.

Snape stared at him impassively. “I would not recommend getting one for yourself.”

Mary handed him the bandage. He redressed the wound as the teens all backed up to give him space again.

“How does that feel?”

Lucy’s brow furrowed. She stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Better.”

Mary and Callum clasped hands gratefully. Harry wished he could feel their relief, but Snape’s certainty that she would die in the end weighed him down. He looked away from their hope.

“Do you have a flashlight?”

Mary handed him one from the dresser. Snape checked her pupils with it. He also checked her throat and pressed his fingers to her forehead, temples, and the underside of her jaw. He asked her a few more questions about how she felt. As he worked, his face became more and more focused. His dark eyes flashed and he gained a new intensity to his movements. The watching teens fell into an anxious stillness at the growing change.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

Snape ignored her, attention concentrated solely on Lucy. “Have you ever noticed strange things happening around you?”

She blinked at him, clearly not understanding the question. The man stood straight and looked over his shoulder at Harry. His face flickered, obviously debating something. Harry tried to make his expression supportive as possible. Finally Snape nodded once, pulled his wand out, and turned to cast a spell at Lucy.

Mary and Callum made noises of confusion, but Harry was watching closely as a golden light shone up from the center of Lucy’s chest. She looked down at it in amazement, even going so far as to giggle breathlessly and poke at it with a finger.

Harry was then shocked by Snape giving an incredulous laugh of delight. He’d never heard him make a sound quite like it before.

“What? What does that light mean?” he demanded.

Snape’s mouth quirked up at one corner and he grabbed Harry by the shoulder. “She has magic.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He looked over at the light, and then he, too, laughed.

Chapter Text

“You weren’t there.”

Harry closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at the accusatory light in Mary’s gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

“We needed you, and you weren’t there. Why did you leave?”

Harry rested his forearms on the railing of the porch. He had no answer. All he could do was repeat, “I’m so sorry.”

Callum sighed and looked around. It was just the three of them out on the porch; Snape had spent all night tending to Lucy and was now resting from all of the spellwork in their sitting room. The teens had slipped outside to talk privately. Pre-dawn light was seeping across the highlands. The house’s front faced west, however, and they were cast in shadows. At least the rain had let up.

“You said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“The chances of it even happening at all were super low to begin with. We thought that, after fighting that one pack off, no one would come again. The place was supposed to be marked on their maps as protected. Usually that’s enough to keep them from coming back. Dad put up wards to protect the village too before we left. It wasn’t supposed to happen again,” he stressed, needing them to believe that they hadn’t abandoned the village to its fate.

“Honestly, Henry, we weren’t sure if we should even find you or not. Nothing like this happened until you two showed up. Then you just leave, and the next time, twice as many come and they’re a lot stronger than the one we fought the first go around. In the end, though, Lucy wasn’t getting better and neither the local ANP nor the hospital on the island could do anything for her. Everyone here knew it was werewolves, since they all helped fight ‘em off, but we all knew we couldn’t exactly tell anybody else that.”

“I never wished this for any of you.”

“We know,” Mary spoke up again, exhaustion in her voice. “That’s why Callum went to look for you. We’re not trying to blame you.”

“But you do anyway.”

The other two shrugged and looked away. “It’s been a tough couple of weeks,” was all Callum would say.

“It’s okay,” Harry responded dully, letting his head drop into his hands. “I do too.”

“Why? You didn’t bring them here.”

“But if we’d been here, Lucy wouldn’t have gotten bit.”

“We weren’t totally helpless. Sure, maybe if you’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened. But maybe you would’ve gotten bit, or scratched again, or even killed pulling a stupid stunt like the one you did in the fall,” Callum pointed out.

Mary nudged him. “We’re not trying to make you feel bad. We’re just saying what was going through our heads that first week or so. Everything was a mess, and Lucy was getting sicker, and Mum shut down, and the whole village was practically preparing for war. Interrogated us about you two, although we didn’t have much to tell anyway.”

“The villagers know?”

“They know you helped fight them off last time. I’m sure they’ll be glad to learn you’re here. Maybe wary at first, since they had a lot of the doubts we did, but when they see that you’ve saved Lucy everything will be alright again.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “It won’t, though.” He finally lifted his head up and was relieved to see that their earlier sternness had faded. “Since Lucy’s a muggleborn—don’t worry, Dad and I will explain it all soon—she’ll survive the transformation, but there will still be one. Anyone who survives a werewolf’s bite and their first full moon will spend the rest of their life with the condition. There’s nothing we, or anyone else in the world, can do to stop it. The cure just hasn’t been found yet.”

“So there’s more of you werewolf hunters?”

Harry huffed out a weak laugh. “We’re not actually werewolf hunters or anything. We just knew what to do. There’s so much more out there than werewolves. A whole world of magic. That thing Dad did to make the light? That was a spell. Some people can do magic. Again, we’ll explain it all soon.”

Callum and Mary joined him in leaning against the railing. The dawn was beginning to seep into the corners of the world now, the light glistening where it shone off patches of water left by the recently broken storm. It was still cold, spring and winter teasingly spinning around in the air before they would separate at the dance and go to their own seasons. He was glad he had pulled his red hoodie from his backpack and put it on.

“We’d better get inside and tell my mum what’s happened,” Mary finally said. The three of them went back into the house.

Mary went upstairs to wake her mother. After hearing her say that the woman had shut down after the attack on Lucy, her choice to not wake her when they first came made more sense. Callum wandered into the kitchen to make tea and Harry sat next to Snape on the sofa.

“What happened to the wards?”

Snape, who had been sitting there with an uncharacteristic slump and staring impassively at the opposite wall, roused himself with effort and looked over at him. Harry winced at the exhaustion he saw written in the man’s face. He had apparated two passengers with supplies and spent all night trying to help Lucy, and that was after a full day of teaching and maybe more. He was surprised Snape hadn’t fallen asleep where he sat. “I will need to check, but I suspect that someone purposefully broke them before the full moon. I had secured those wards to too many wardstones for them to fall when mindless beasts were throwing themselves at them. This could only have happened if they were deliberately taken down by someone with a wand beforehand.”

Harry lowered his voice and looked around as if the walls had ears. “You mean it was on purpose?”

Snape’s lips thinned. “I cannot make such a declaration now, and would advise you not to say anything about it, but the possibility is certainly there.”

Harry was stunned. “But… who would do that?” Snape gave him a look. He coloured. “Oh. Yeah.”

Snape was about to say something else, but then his eyes fell to Harry’s hoodie and he blinked as if stunned. “Is that the one I bought you last year?”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry said, fingering the end of one sleeve. “Still fits.”

He didn’t quite understand why he was getting a dumbfounded look from Snape at this but figured that the man was probably too tired to keep up the tight control over his emotions and facial expressions that he usually maintained.

“Henry, Mr. Paine, this is my mother.”

Harry and Snape both turned to see Mary escorting a thin, hollowed-looking woman down the last few steps. She looked at them silently. Harry felt unreasonable guilt for the suffering that had put her in this state.

Snape stood politely, and Harry hastened to do the same. “Hello, Mrs. Barclay. Your daughter will live, but I am afraid there is a lot we have to discuss.”

Callum came in then with a tray of drinks, glancing around at the scene awkwardly. A few minutes later, everyone had settled down somewhere in the now-cramped room. Harry nudged Snape’s foot with his own encouragingly. The older man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and Harry looked off into the distance with his mouth parted in comically overplayed ignorance. He felt more than heard the man’s huff.

The lighthearted moment was then over and all five of the people present prepared themselves for a long conversation.

Snape did not mince words or avoid the struggles surrounding lycanthropes, knowing they would need to be prepared. Mary’s mum was amazed to hear that her daughter had magic, but Mary herself didn’t seem too incredulous. Harry had a feeling that the older girl had spent a lot of time helping raise Lucy and had probably noticed signs of accidental magic before. Callum was just fascinated to learn about magic at all. Snape didn’t tell them who or what they were for now, and Harry found himself relieved. The village was the one place where he didn’t have to be Harry Potter. Another part of him knew that he would have a lot more excuse to keep calling Snape “Dad” if they were keeping up the pretense from last fall. Perhaps it was selfish to keep those secrets for those reasons, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to ask Snape why they weren’t being honest with their identities in case bringing it up made the man reconsider.

After the long discussion was over, Mrs. Barclay hesitantly asked if they would like to stay at their house for the time they spent in the village since it was Lucy they had come for. Harry and Snape had gratefully accepted this offer, as lodgings had been a question on both their minds.

Mrs. Barclay disappeared back upstairs to her room once she had checked on Lucy and seen for herself that the girl was alright. Snape went too and did a few things like administering secondary doses of healing potions. When he returned, Harry could tell that he needed rest.

“Guess it’s your turn to use a sofa,” Harry grinned cheekily. Snape rolled his eyes at him and stretched out along its length with a borrowed blanket. Despite his position of recline, Harry could tell that he was uncomfortable sleeping with the other two teens there in the room.

“C’mon, you guys can show me what spring looks like around here.”

Mary and Callum murmured agreement, too keyed up and anxious like Harry to sleep yet, and all three walked out of the house.

“That’s crazy. I had no idea all of that existed.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, seeing the wonder in their faces. He’d felt that once too. What had happened? He supposed he still did, at times. Seeing something new or learning about some other cool wizarding fact. Some of the new shine had rubbed off though somewhere between giant serpents trying to kill him and Death Eaters out for his blood.

“If you lived in all of that, how could you ever stay here for so long?”

Harry shrugged. “It was kind of nice, in a way. Just me and Dad, living a simple life.” He realised that referring to their existence as simple and pastoral might be offensive. “I mean, not that the village is like backwards or boring or someth—”

“Oh, it is, trust us,” Callum laughed.

Mary stopped. They did too, looking at her curiously. She was staring over at a house near the stream. “I’d better go tell Iona that Lucy’s better. She’s been so upset over everything.”

“Go,” Callum said. “We’ll be at my place.”

She walked off, and the two boys continued on.

“I’m kind of glad for a chance to talk to you, mate.”

“What is it?”

“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you.”

Now nervous, Harry didn’t speak the rest of the way to the Duncans’. When they arrived, both of his parents were there. They exclaimed at the sight of him. He blushed at their warm greetings. Callum explained what had happened in brief terms, leaving out everything about magic, and they listened with rapturous attention. They left as soon as the story was finished. Harry assumed they were off to spread the word. He hoped they’d remember what Callum had said about Snape resting and that people would wait a little before storming the place.

“It’s this way.”

So there was an ‘it’? Harry followed Callum to his room in bewilderment. Inside, his friend reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a slim book with multiple sheets of paper tucked into it at various parts. As soon as he saw it, Harry’s eyes widened in recognition and shock.

“I know I shouldn’t have taken it,” he began apologetically, handing it over to be received by Harry with a sort of reverence. “I didn’t mean to, really. I was just curious and confused. I stopped by your place to hang out one day, don’t remember when, and saw this. Neither of you were there, but the door was unlocked and I had gone inside before I realised. There were all those papers sticking out of this book, so I glanced at one, and it was… weird. It makes a lot more sense, now that you’ve explained about magic, but at the time I was just baffled. Obviously you were gone, so I went home, and I took it with me to read over more. The things that were written down were just so strange, I couldn’t help it.”

Harry swallowed past a lump in his throat and turned The Art of War over in his hands. “I thought it was destroyed,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

“I was gonna give it back, I promise! The more of your notes I read, the more I got the feeling it was kind of personal and not something I should be looking at. Then Aunt’s cottage burned down, and everything was just shot to hell, and you left. I totally forgot about it with everything going on.”

That made sense. Harry had studied the book often, even if he had a few chapters to get through when the fire happened. Later on in their time there, however, he had focused more on the other books like his studies and the one on wards. If Callum had taken it within a few days of the fire, he probably would never have noticed. He’d never gotten around to finishing The Art of War, and after the place burned down, he’d thought he would never get the chance.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For stealing your book?” Callum asked, clearly not expecting gratitude for his actions.

“It was saved.” He pulled out a page of notes at random (Chapter VI: Weak Points and Strong) and glanced over them. They had him cracking a smile. Don’t use repeat tactics, or the enemy will be prepared. You might even have to learn a spell besides Expelliarmus, horror of horrors. ha, ha. The back-and-forth between him and Snape had been recorded through some of these annotations.

“Who’s Voldemort, Harry?”

His head jerked up, both at the use of his real name and the reference to Voldemort. Callum’s embarrassed guilt had faded, replaced with a direct sort of steady calm. Of course, if he had read the notes, he would have seen quite a bit about the war and his and Snape’s real identities.

“He’s a very bad dark wizard,” Harry said cautiously. He assumed Snape had not discussed the war with his friends or Lucy’s mum for a reason. It seemed obvious that Callum knew there was more to the two travellers than they had told, however, and he had kept silent about it even when they were discussing the magical world. “A terrorist. He’s got a following of people—”

“Those Death Eaters you wrote about?”

It was very strange to hear that term from someone he associated with the peaceful ignorance of the muggle world.

“Yeah. Them.”

“Are they coming here?”

Harry blinked at him, then slowly shook his head. “They better not,” he said, surprised at the darkness in his own tone. He forced himself to lighten. “They don’t know about the village anyway.”

“Alright, then,” Callum said, taking this in.

“He’s trying to kill me.”

“Why you?”

Harry tugged on his bangs uncomfortably. “He hates me. I sort of, uh, got on his bad side.”

Callum rolled his eyes, as if to say way to go, Harry, anger the magical terrorist. Harry snorted. “Sounds like you’ve had a rough go of it lately.”

Harry sat down in the desk chair with the book, holding it close with one arm and slinging the other across the back to rest his chin on. “Yeah, you could say that.”

The front door opened and Mary’s voice echoed through the house. “You boys here still?”

“My room!” Callum called back out to her.

“Are you gonna tell her?” Harry asked quietly.

“Not mine to tell,” his friend responded, just as quietly.

She appeared in the doorway moments later. “You’ve caused quite the stir. Everyone’s been talking about you and your dad’s arrival.”

“Well then,” Callum said, voice shifting to something less serious, and Harry knew the deep moment was over, “better go face it head-on.”

“Guess we’d better,” Harry agreed.

“Buck up, solider,” the other boy said, a knowing glint in his eye that showed he meant that more literally than Mary could know. “War’s waiting to be won.”

Harry didn’t know why Callum had decided not to tell anyone about his real identity, or however much of it he’d figured out about it from a few references, but he was grateful for that too. “Let’s get to it, then.”

His eyes had drifted shut without his realising it. Harry was seated cross-legged on the floor, back resting against the front of the sofa as The Art of War slid slowly off of his lap.

“Harry. Harry!”

He startled, blinking blearily. He looked over to see Snape on the staircase, coming down from treating Lucy for the night. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“Your sofa,” Harry gestured vaguely.

Snape looked ready to argue, although what point, Harry didn’t know. Not feeling up to a bickering session, he held up the book as a distraction.

“What is that?”

Harry merely tilted the book towards him. Snape rounded the staircase railing and walked closer. “Is that-?” He took it from Harry, turning it over slowly.

“Yep,” Harry said happily.

Snape did not appear to be as pleased as him. “Where was it?” He rapidly opened it and began scanning the notes, face darkening at all of the sensitive information on it.

“Er, Callum had it. He promised that no one else saw it.”

Snape blew out an exasperated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did he read it?”

“Uh… perhaps.”

“Harry.”

“Look, it’s not my fault. He saw it a couple days before the cottage burned down and was curious. I didn’t give it to him, but it wasn’t like he was trying to steal it or something.”

Snape still looked cross. Harry flapped a piece of paper up at him that had been sitting on the floor next to him. “I never did finish my annotations the first time around, so I’ve been working on them. I’m on chapter eleven, ‘The Nine Situations’. I think I’ll finish it up before Easter hols are over.”

He handed the book back down to him. “You are under no requirement to finish it now.”

“I know, but it’s actually pretty useful.” Harry looked over the chapter list again. Laying Plans, Waging War, Attack By Stratagem, Tactical Dispositions… all of them reminded him of the summer and fall here in the village.

Snape didn’t seem to be feeling the same fond emotions. With a disgruntled air, he sat down on the sofa. Harry, knowing the time for him to get any more work done was past, staggered to a broad armchair and curled up beneath a blanket in it. His eyes closed almost without his permission.

“I’m fine,” he said when he heard Snape suck in a breath to speak.

Snape muttered something under his breath. Harry smiled and let himself drift off.

Chapter Text

“Sev, look!”

He stepped over curiously to where Lily was looking at silver pendants hanging from a stand. She was fingering a butterfly with a slight smile. “This reminds me of you.”

“A butterfly reminds you of me?” Severus asked, not sure how to react to that at all.

“Yes,” she said boldly. “They symbolize endurance, change, and hope. Plus, you’re so clever, your mind flits from idea to idea like a butterfly.”

He blushed slightly at the complement and looked at the pendant too.

“If I get it for you, will you wear it?”

“No! It’s too… girly.”

“How about I get a nice, manly cord for it instead of the chain?” She rolled her eyes. “Please, Sev?”

He hesitated, not because he wasn’t sure, but because he didn’t want to lose face when he inevitably caved in. He’d never been immune to those green eyes, however, so he finally agreed. “Okay.” She began to smile widely, so he picked up a lily pendant. “Fine, but I’m getting you this.” He lifted it and watched the light reflect off its shine. He’d saved up for months to be able to get her a gift at their first Hogsmeade trip, and even though it wasn’t what he’d had in mind, the idea of them wearing matching pendants appealed to him.

“It’ll be like the friendship bracelets we used to have!” Lily beamed.

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned as they took their purchases to the counter.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They were… homemade,” he said carefully.

“Yeah, by me,” she retorted.

“I know.”

She lightly punched his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We were nine,” he reminded her, answering the question without actually admitting the things were ugly.

“We were fabulous, I think you mean,” she said haughtily, but then she too was smiling.

And after he had counted out his coins and tried not to wince at the cost, the pain of the expense faded once he held it out to her and she lifted her hair for him to put it on her himself. He tried not to fumble the clasp and knew that he would never, ever be able to resist wearing his own if she kept giving him a smile like that.

Harry woke early, probably from a habit of rising early to practice bagpipes. He blearily lifted his head and blinked. The light was dim but he could make out Snape’s form shifting in his sleep. He wondered what the man was dreaming about as he rose and stretched. His back hurt from being curled up in the chair all night and a couple of vertebrae cracked satisfyingly when he twisted from side to side.

He padded to the kitchen and made himself some coffee. It felt strange to be treating someone else’s home like his own, but Mary had insisted that he do so. Mrs. Barclay had rarely emerged from her room. Harry sometimes wondered if the woman would be okay when Lucy was old enough to go off to Hogwarts.

While the machine percolated, Harry leaned against the counter and tried to wake up some more. BeforeMcAuliffe gave him his bagpipes, the village and highlands outside would have been filled with the sound of music. That reminded him; he still had to pay a visit to his old tutor. He didn’t want to leave the village again without at least saying hello. He’d heard that Snape had been interrogated by some of the villagers the day before when he was out with his friends even though they’d left to give him space. He supposed it had been inevitable.

The coffee machine made a little gurgling noise. He turned to it and poured himself a mug before stepping out onto the porch. He’d started to get used to spending his early mornings outside for bagpipe practice and had missed the routine at Hogwarts. When he got his own house, he’d make sure it had a porch and go outside first thing.

He took a sip and amended that. He’d bring his coffee with him too.

When his cup was gone, he went back inside feeling very mature and composed with his mug in hand and reflections in his mind. It all went out the window when Snape stumbled out of the living room with mussed hair and he laughed.

“Do try to control yourself,” Snape muttered, beelining for the scent of coffee. Harry washed his mug in the sink.

“Sleep good?”

“Well.”

“Glad to—”

“Sleep well, Pot—Paine. Sleep well.”

“But it’s half six in the morning, I’m not even tired yet,” he said innocently, setting the mug to dry. The death glare he got in response made him grin.

“Henry Paine, comedian. You ought to quit school and do stand-up full time,” Snape grouched, hunching over his mug. Harry laughed again and left him to brood.

As the rising sun began to fill the room with light, Harry decided to finish the last two chapters of The Art of War. Chapter twelve, “The Attack by Fire”, was mostly about the logistics and possible outcomes of using fire as a weapon of war. He scribbled down a few notes, but most of it was definitely dated and also meant for Muggles. It wouldn’t be as devastating to use fire on a group of wizards who could all conjure water with a casual flick of their wands.

Snape came out of the kitchen looking much more awake and calm. He still ignored Harry, however, when he went upstairs to check on Lucy. He snorted and turned a (miraculous, unburned and unsullied) page of the book to the final chapter.

“The Use of Spies.” He glanced involuntarily after Snape at the now-empty staircase. Suddenly very curious about what the chapter might teach him about the man and his tightly closed-off past, Harry began to read with increased attention.

Sun Tzu said: Raising a host of a hundred thousand men and marching them great distances entails heavy loss… Yeah, didn’t he know it? The next few sentences all discussed the moral duty of a general to end wars as quickly as possible. ...What enables the wise sovereign and the good general to strike and conquer, and achieve things beyond the reach of ordinary men, is foreknowledge. Now this foreknowledge cannot be elicited from spirits; it cannot be obtained inductively from experience, nor by any deductive calculation. Knowledge of the enemy’s dispositions can only be obtained from other men.

Harry’s pen scratched against the paper as he wrote down his first note. It paused once the impact of that last bit had settled in. He had known Snape’s spying was useful to the Order, but it had been a vague understanding that it was good to know what Voldemort was planning. This chapter was making it sound like having a spy was less of a helpful convenience and more like a… well, a necessity.

He mentally ran through a list of Order members he knew. None of them were likely to be spies; at least, none of them could be high up enough in the pureblood circles to be even close to making it amongst the ranks of the “illustrious” Death Eaters. He then switched to the book of Death Eaters he’d been forced to memorize. None of them seemed likely to become converts to the Light.

Had Snape really been that vital to the war? What did it mean for them now that he was no longer a spy?

If Voldemort had any important plans in the works, they would be completely in the dark.

He suppressed a shudder at the thought and turned the page. Hence the use of spies, of whom there are five classes: (1) Local spies; (2) inward spies; (3) converted spies; (4) doomed spies; (5) surviving spies.

Which one was Snape? What kind of spy had he been? Was he a surviving spy, sent in initially by Dumbledore to get information? Somehow… he didn’t think so. Based on things that the man himself had said, he was pretty sure Snape had been a Death Eater. Like, a real one. The biggest example in his mind was the text Snape had written about Voldemort’s followers. The page he’d torn out and carefully tucked into the bottom of his trunk had definitely treated him like a Death Eater, and there had been no cover to upkeep and it was the man’s own observations, so obviously Snape thought of himself as having been one. Was he an inward spy then, a Death Eater that was convinced to give information to the light? Or a converted spy, someone who spied on the Light until he was caught and convinced to turn spy and become a double agent?

Who was Snape? Who had he been? Harry suddenly, consumingly, wanted to know.

He turned back to the book hoping it would somehow give answers. Each new thing he read further showed the breadth and depth of what Snape’s services to the Order must have been. He paid special attention to the parts about inward and converted spies.

The enemy’s spies who have come to spy on us must be sought out, tempted with bribes, led away and comfortably housed. Thus they will become converted spies and available for our service. It is through the information brought by the converted spy that we are able to acquire and employ local and inward spies. It is owing to his information, again, that we can cause the doomed spy to carry false tidings to the enemy. Lastly, it is by his information that the surviving spy can be used on appointed occasions. So the converted spy was central to everything, was he? That certainly sounded like Snape.

If Snape was a converted spy, discovered by Dumbledore or some other member of the Light to be a spy upon them, what made him change loyalties? What had been done or said to make him switch sides so drastically and completely? The man purposely dreamed a lucid dream of himself drowning Voldemort. He knew Snape despised the Dark leader. How had that come about if he had once been a true Death Eater?

He tried to think of another point to write down, but the only notes his mind could think of based on his readings were directly related to Snape and his conjectures about the man’s past.

He needed to talk to Snape about this directly. He scribbled down something to remind him of it and finished the chapter. As the book was written as a guide for generals and strategists, there were notes on how to gain and convert spies. The rest was mostly summarization, but one part caught his eye. Hence it is essential that the converted spy be treated with the utmost liberality. He tried to imagine Dumbledore pampering Snape to get him to convert like the book advised and simply couldn’t do it. No. There had to be more to it.

Perhaps, to someone who had been treated with the selfish disregard Voldemort showed even to his most devoted followers, the basic respect and common decency Dumbledore paid to everyone was enough of an improvement to seem like liberal treatment. Merlin knew the rest of the Order didn’t exactly buddy up to Snape. Not all members hated him, but there were certainly enough who didn’t hide their feelings for him. They seemed to mistrust him even after a decade of working together. That was the opposite of what the book said to do to convert a spy. What was it that kept Snape loyal to their side? Moral conviction, he was sure, but how had that conviction come to be?

He tucked his final page of notes into the finished book and sighed. There was no point conjecturing about it any more. It didn’t matter how much he guessed or wondered about Snape when the man himself wasn’t here to give him the truth of it. He resolved to ask him as soon as he came back downstairs.

That took a lot longer than it normally did, and when Snape finally did make his way back to the sitting room, he immediately derailed Harry’s plan by saying, “I must leave. I will return as soon as possible, but I cannot say when.”

“Wait, what?!”

Snape explained, “Lucy’s first transformation will be in a couple of weeks, shortly before we return from the break. I must gather the ingredients to begin on the Wolfsbane and consult with Lupin about finding another werewolf to be with her so she is not alone.”

“Why can’t Remus just be there?”

“Her mother would prefer another woman.”

Harry supposed that made sense. “Alright. Is there anything you need me to do?”

“If I thought there was any serious risk of danger, I would not leave you alone here. You have your portkey, yes?”

He nodded.

“I will leave you my wand in case of emergencies, as yours is confiscated.” He held out his long, black wand with the swirl on the end to Harry, who took it numbly. Snape really trusted him with this?

“Don’t you need it to apparate?”

“Apparition is a spell like any other. Just as other spells may be cast wandlessly with practice and effort, one may apparate without a wand if they are able. It is one of the most useful spells to learn wandlessly. I will teach you how when you are of age. For now, keep this on you at all times until I return.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said softly, humbled at the level of faith he was being shown.

Then Snape had swept out of the room and onto the porch, where he apparated away before Harry could even think to ask anything about the past. It simply wasn’t the time anyway. Left with a sort of vague emptiness, Harry wandered around the ground level. He picked up The Art of War, stared at it blankly for a moment, then cast it back down onto the table without opening it up.

Deciding he was probably in shock and hyper aware of the feeling of Snape’s wand in his sleeve, Harry decided to get out and talk to somebody. There was one person, at least, who he knew would be awake at this time in the village.

McAuliffe was polishing his old army rifle on a chair outside the front step of his shop when Harry walked up. He grinned at the sight and waved. The elderly man looked up and smiled back, lifting a hand in greeting.

Harry leapt up onto the porch and leaned against the railing. McAuliffe set the rifle against the ground end-first and leaned against the barrel. “Hullo there, lad. Hoped I’d see you again when you went off months back.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Harry laughed.

“Been keeping up with your practice on the pipes?”

“Oh, yeah. Pretty much every day. I should’ve brought them with me to show you!”

McAuliffe waved a hand as if to say it was alright. “Next time, Henry. Next time.”

Harry felt hopeful about the prospect of a next time. When they’d left the first time around, he’d thought they’d never be able to return, yet here he was. Under horrible circumstances, it was true, but if they could come back once they could do it again. “Alright,” he agreed. He looked at the rifle. “Seems cleaner than I remember.”

That got him a gruff chuckle. “Last you’d seen her, she was hangin’ on my wall untouched for years. Brought her down when we heard the howling and screaming.”

“You mean you used that against the werewolves?”

“Sure did!” McAuliffe said proudly. “Didn’ think she’d work anymore, but when I took a crack at the big one what got young Lucy, thing fired as smooth as it always had. Got it right in the flank. Beast yowled and went for me, but by then Mary had worked herself to a fury at what happened to her sister and went straight at it with a shovel. Fired again when she was out o’ the way and it finally took off.”

Harry was unable to resist a smile at the thought of a werewolf being taken down by an angry teenage girl and a Scottish muggle war vet with an old Lee-Enfield from D-Day. It was probably the only firearm in the whole village, kept more for the memento than any kind of protection. “Seems like it had a little fight left in it, huh?”

“Just the little,” McAuliffe frowned down at it. “Haven’t gotten it to fire since.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Harry said, settling down to sit. McAuliffe shook his head and asked him about how things were back in “boring ole England”.

They talked for a while until it was time to open the shop for customers. McAuliffe slapped his thighs and stood, face growing serious.

“I don’t know how things really are for you, lad, and what you’re really doing, but stay safe. Your da’s a good man, he’ll keep you out o’ trouble. He’s a busy fellow, though, so make sure you watch out for him, too.”

Harry swallowed past a lump in his throat and nodded. “I will.”

McAuliffe nodded as if satisfied and went back inside. Harry was left standing on the porch, staring out over the waking village. He gave himself a moment to just breathe. Memories of learning the bagpipes, thoughts of Umbridge and his confiscated wand, worries about Lucy and the villagers, and questions about Snape were all coming back to him now that the temporary distraction was over. He sighed and stepped off the porch, letting his feet take him where they would.

The morning journey from this porch to their cottage was one so ingrained that before he knew it, he was standing on the threshold of ruins. They called to him, in a way. He desperately wanted to step through the still-upright doorway. It was as though, in doing so, he could step back into the past and a simpler time. Simpler! You didn’t even know if you’d ever be allowed to go back to Hogwarts. Still, even though he knew he was looking at the past through some rose-coloured glasses, it didn’t stop him from missing that time.

Harry returned to himself when a hand landed on his shoulder. He almost thought it was Snape from habit, but the hand was smaller and lighter. He glanced over to see Amy Duncan there. She was looking at him, eyes crinkled with kindness, and he suddenly became aware that his own were moist.

“Everything went well?”

Harry and Mary looked up. Snape stood in the doorway, observing them. They'd tag-teamed dinner and Harry figured she was probably relieved to have the help for once.

“Yup,” Harry said, choosing not to mention his morning detour. “Get everything sorted?”

“A friend of Lupin's named Siobhán Meagher will be coming to help. I have the supplies to make a batch of Wolfsbane for each of them.”

“Did you see Sirius?”

Snape's face grew pinched. Harry guessed it was at the thought of his old school enemy. “Unfortunately. He is most displeased at your choice to remain here. He believes me to be coercing you.”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbled, less than thrilled at the thought of having to explain to Sirius that he could care about both men at the same time. Again.

When dinner was finished, Mary took a tray up to her mother’s room to eat with her there. Harry gave Snape back his wand, trying to act as calm and normal about it as Snape had when he gave it to him. The man gave him a wry look as if it hadn’t worked.

They made up their own plates and took them to the table to eat. A question he’d been meaning to ask for a couple of days occurred to Harry. “Hey, Dad, how’d you know to cast that spell and check if she was a muggleborn? If she hadn’t been, doing that would’ve alerted the Ministry that there was magic being cast near an underage wizard where there wasn't supposed to be one.”

“As I was looking her over initially, she was showing less severe symptoms than I had expected.”

“Less severe! She had a fever and was laying there like a rag doll!”

“If she were muggle, the lycanthropy infection would have ravaged her body without a magical core to check its progress. She would already have been half dead, the tissue around the wound rotting away despite treatment and dressings. The transformation would have finally killed her. Instead, she was ill but aware and certainly not on the cusp of death. She is strong for someone so young, and the fever was caused by her magic fighting the lycanthropy infection. One of the potions I have been treating her with is a magic suppression potion often used to lower that fever.”

“Isn’t her magical core protecting her though?”

“It is a partial dose. The theory is rather beyond a fifth-year potions level.”

Harry shrugged, trusting in Snape’s knowledge.

They ate in silence after that while Harry warred with himself. Finally, with his gaze fixed on his meal, he said, “I finished The Art of War today.”

“And?”

He hesitated, then went out to the sitting room to grab the book. Returning to the kitchen, he handed it to Snape. The man flipped to the last chapters and pulled out the pages of notes for “The Attack by Fire” and “The Use of Spies”. Harry pushed around his vegetables mindlessly as he watched Snape read them. He saw as soon as he reached the part about spies because of how still and stoic the man grew.

“I, uh, get it if you don’t want to talk about it or whatever.” Harry shifted in his chair. “But reading about spies made me wonder… why did you become a spy? I mean, what made you convert to the Light?”

Snape slowly lifted his head from the page and stared him down. Harry cleared his throat and tried not to look as uncomfortable at the scrutiny as he felt.

“That is a very personal question.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Harry said quickly, fierce curiosity abruptly dampened by the thought that perhaps it would be something he didn't want to know.

Leaning back in his chair, Snape twisted his thin lips in consideration. Several long seconds ticked by. “I have done things in the Dark Lord’s service that I will always be ashamed of.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said reflexively, thoroughly regretting bringing it up.

Another lengthy pause. When he spoke next, his voice was soft. “Be careful with your friends, Henry. It can be very easy to hurt the people you care about.”

Harry lowered his gaze back down to his plate again. Snape stood and took his own dishes to the sink. The teen listened to the sound of running water as he thought about the implications of that.

Snape had hurt someone. A friend. Hurt them badly enough to make him completely change loyalties from one side to its diametrically opposed enemy. He supposed he should feel horrified or judgemental at that, but all he could think about was how broken Snape still sounded about it fifteen years later.

His chest ached. Maybe life had been simpler back in the days of the cottage and bagpipe lessons.

Chapter Text

Harry paced the room back and forth. He reached the window, glanced out uselessly into the darkness without, turned, and walked towards the kitchen again. Turned, began again.

“Will you sit down?” Snape asked from where he sat reading.

“Can’t.”

“Try.”

Harry threw himself down on the sofa, feeling overheated.

“Ruining the Barclays’ carpet will not help Lucy.” Snape took a long, calm sip from the mug on the table beside his chair.

“I’m just nervous, can’t help it.”

Snape looked up and assessed him. “Would a distraction help?”

“I don’t—”

“Come.” Snape stood and started walking out the door. Harry leapt up and followed closely behind.

“What? We’re going out there?!”

“They have taken the Wolfsbane and are miles out into the highlands. I have put up another set of wards, enforced with additional cornerstones and protections against deliberate tampering. We will be fine. I wish to investigate something.” He grabbed a torch from a counter beside the door.

They stepped out into the street, illuminated only by the bright full moon hanging above.

“What are we looking for?” Harry asked, jogging to keep up with Snape’s stride.

“A magical trace.”

“Huh?”

“You will see.” Snape led him down the road and towards… the cottage?

“What are we doing here?” Harry asked quietly, halting in the same place he had several days before when he’d come here. Snape flicked the torch on and stepped through the doorway to where the building had once stood.

“I had buried one of the central wardstones to the original wards in the back lawn last fall. Whoever broke the wards before last month’s attack dug it up, disenchanted it, and tossed it into the ruins. I left it here until the next full moon.”

“Why?”

“As the ward was intended to stop werewolves, its magic was tangentially connected to the full moon. There is deep magical theory related to the lunar cycle, if you ever wish to ask Miss Granger about it.”

“Maybe I’ll ask you.”

“Circe forbid. As I was saying, testing it at the full moon will likely be our best chance of yielding answers as to who may have tampered with it.”

Harry nodded like he understood, which he mostly did, then let his gaze wander around the dimly lit ruins. Snape was using the torch to look at the ashes near the old fireplace. The wandering beam hurt his eyes, so he turned towards what had once been the kitchen instead.

This was once the centre of their little home. He had sat here while Snape made coffee. He had stood here cooking, waiting for Snape to come home and trying to figure out how to make fish taste interesting to someone who worked with it all day. He had cut his hand on a shard here when they first came through to clean up after the fire.

He stood there now, staring at ash and the broken remains of furniture and support beams, and shoved his hands into his front hoodie pocket.

He heard a shifting and clanging behind him as Snape dug through the char. Perhaps it was brought on by his wonders about Snape’s history, thoughts of which had been plaguing him for days since their short conversation about it, but another memory of this kitchen at night came to him as he stood there staring.

He drifted awake, pulled out of sleep by a new smell. Harry shifted in bed. He yawned, opening his eyes briefly before closing them in the hope of dropping off again. In that moment, however, he’d noticed something that instinct told him wasn’t right.

There’d been a light on. Why was that weird? Right, it was the middle of the night.

Harry sat up, slightly propped on one elbow. He looked around and saw that a singular lamp was lit in the kitchen. Snape was there, covered in flour up to his elbows, kneading dough. The smell in the air came from the oven, which was on and baking another loaf.

He saw this, but didn’t understand any of it. Confused, Harry glanced at the clock. It was half two in the morning.

“Wha’ are you doin’?” he asked roughly, rubbing at his face with one hand.

Snape looked up briefly. “Go back to sleep.”

A large part of Harry certainly wanted to do that. His curiosity battled with it as he wavered. Then his intrigue won out and he sat up more fully. “Why are you making bread?”

Snape ignored him, so Harry pulled a blanket off the bed with him and wrapped it around himself as he shuffled over to the kitchen. He was still half-asleep, so thoughts were taking twice as long to get from one end of his brain to the other.

He watched Snape closely for some sign or hint that might give this unusual late night baking session some context. Something was definitely different, but he didn’t recognise it right away.

The lines of the man’s stern face had softened some. It was only then that Harry realised Snape had seemed extra worried or introspective lately. It was late October, and Harry couldn’t think of anything coming up with the Order or Hogwarts that could be giving him stress.

Snape didn’t seem stressed now, though, despite the recent trend towards it. He watched closely as his professor worked more flour into the dough, using his fingertips and the heels of his hands to alternately flip and press on it.

“I like Quidditch,” he blurted as he flopped into a chair at the table facing the scene.

Snape paused, not looking up but definitely nonplussed at hearing the apparent non-sequitur. “I am aware.”

“It calms me when I’m worried.”

Snape did glance up then, a flick of his eyes to Harry’s before he continued kneading. “I am thrilled for you.”

“Cooking is kinda like potions.”

Snape seemed to get it, then, what Harry couldn’t seem to say right in his sluggish mind. “I am not stressed.”

“You like potions. I mean, I assume you do, since you picked it for a career.”

“Why not return to bed?”

“So I bet making potions can help you when you’re stressed. Are you cooking because you’re stressed?”

Snape sighed, a long huffy thing that made Harry smile slightly because it meant he’d given in. “No, I am not stressed. I simply have a lot of things on my mind.”

Harry propped his chin on one hand, settling in. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Might help.”

“Baking helps.”

“At least we get fresh bread!”

The oven beeped. Harry moved to get up and help, but Snape waved him away. Apparently judging the dough ready, he dropped it into a bowl and covered it with a towel before wiping his hands and turning to take the finished loaf out.

“Is it about us and the village?”

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Is it my fault, at least?”

“No, Harry.” He shut the oven door and set the hot baking stone on the stove. Pulling off the mitt, he tossed it down on the counter and sat at the table across from Harry. “It is about the past. Years ago. Nothing for you to feel accountable for.”

“Oh,” Harry said and felt bad for prying.

They sat in silence for a while. Harry was content with that, drifting in and out of a light doze where he sat and waited on Snape’s preference for silence or conversation. After what seemed like ages, Snape spoke.

“I was not always as you see me now.”

“Covered in flour?”

“A bitter old man.”

Harry looked up at that, surprised at both the lack of reaction to his quip and such blatant self-reproach. “You’re not old.”

Snape snorted humourlessly. “I feel it.”

“Why?”

Snape looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. He stood from the table and walked back into the kitchen. With his back to Harry, he said, “There was a time when I had friends, Potter.”

“You said the pendant came from a friend.”

“Did you think I was lying?”

“No,” Harry defended, and while he hadn’t, he’d definitely been surprised when he first heard that. Snape hadn’t said anything about it since then. He wondered what was making him think of it now.

Snape sneered like he didn’t believe him. Harry could do nothing about that and shrugged.

“You should really get back to sleep.”

“What about you?”

Snape didn’t answer. Harry sighed and stood, readjusting the blanket around his shoulders and walking up to him. He watched as Snape unnecessarily checked under the towel to look at the rising dough. “It’ll be over an hour until you’re finished with all of this.”

“Quite the experienced baker, are you?”

Harry decided it was his turn to ignore Snape and got out some butter to melt and spread over the cooling fresh loaf.

His housemate didn’t protest against this, so he felt free to proceed. He briefly considered making a joke that Snape was quite the experienced worrier but thought it was a little mean. Instead, he said, “It’d be okay if you was.”

“Were what?”

“Stressed.”

“I am not. No more than usual, I suppose,” he said wryly.

“It’s still okay if you’re sad.”

Snape did not speak, but this time he wasn't pretending not to have heard. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder, a gesture that was usually meant to comfort him but seemed to give strength to the man himself.

Harry swallowed down a “Dad” that bubbled up in his throat. He tamped down a hug too and settled for a smile instead.

They'd come a long way since then. He hoped now that, even if they were not keeping up the cover of father and son here in the village, he wouldn’t get frowned at if he did call Snape “Dad” someday. The thought set off a memory niggling at the back of his brain, but he was distracted by the sound of Snape’s voice casting an incantation. He turned to see Snape standing with his wand in one hand pointed at a smudged stone in the other. The torch was tucked comically between Snape’s shoulder and ear, but Harry had no urge to laugh. The stone had started to glow with an ominous inner red-orange light.

“What does that mean?” he asked, picking his way over.

“There was certainly malicious interference,” Snape said musingly, turning it over. “Harry, look at this.”

Harry reached him and leaned over to peer at the stone too. “Lookit what?”

“Do you see this marking here?” Snape’s finger traced a seven-pointed figure etched in burning lines on the flat side of the rock.

“Yeah. Is that the original rune work?”

Snape nodded. “Do you see how the lines are broken by scratches?”

“Yep. Does that show you who did it?”

“Unfortunately not.” Snape pursed his lips. “This damage was done through purely physical means.”

“I thought you needed to use magic to destroy a ward?”

“It takes someone with a magical core to sense and influence wards in the first place. It is possible the perpetrator used a spell to make the runes visible and then caused the damage by other means to prevent anyone from detecting their signature.”

“Sounds like a lot of work for all that.”

“They may have worried that, if the Ministry were to come and investigate the attack, this could be used to link it to someone for whom the connection would be very inconvenient.” With a significant glance, he let the stone fall back down into the ash at their feet. Snape plucked the torch out from the crook of his neck and swung its beam across the ground once more.

A low howl, quickly answered by an accompanying higher-pitched one, came from the far distance. Harry instinctively moved a step closer to Snape, his lack of wand weighing heavy on his mind. Snape glanced down at him.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

“If you insist,” Harry said.

“Gryffindor, house of the brave?” Snape smirked.

“Slytherin common sense doesn’t hurt,” Harry retorted. “Shouldn’t you know that?”

“I am surprised that you do, considering your history,” came the mild response. They started back towards Mary’s, Snape casting subtle cleaning charms on their shoes and his other hand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I remember wondering how we were ever going to piece you back together if you fell during more than one Quidditch match over the years.”

“Bit by bit, I guess.”

Snape rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but the howls came again and a bit of the moment’s humour faded.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the darkened highlands but there was nothing to see. They were beyond too many hills for anyone in the village to catch a glimpse.

When they re-entered the house, Mary and her mother had come downstairs from where they had been talking in Mrs. Barclay’s room. Mary was making hot tea from a tray she had brought out into the sitting room. She made a gesture to ask if he or Snape wanted a cup. Harry shook his head, but Snape nodded, so Mary set out another cup.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mrs. Barclay asked in a quiet voice. “That howling.”

Harry and Mary exchanged a glance. He said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“My little girl,” she murmured as Mary handed her the tea.

“She will be fine. Ms. Meagher seems like a kind, competent woman,” Snape said.

“Yes. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”

“It was no trouble,” he said awkwardly. Harry smirked slightly. Snape clearly didn’t know how to react in the face of such genuine gratitude. He changed the subject, probably to avoid further discussing it. “Assuming there are no further complications, Henry and I will have to leave in three days’ time.”

Right. Easter hols were almost over. “You can still write to us, let us know how she’s doing. How you’re all doing.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” Mary smiled sadly, “but you have your lives too.”

Harry and Snape’s eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. It was a shame they couldn’t have the village be a bigger part of those lives.

It was their last night in the village. It was Lucy’s first night spent as a human after her transformation. All of the residents wanted to throw a big bonfire to celebrate her survival and recovery, and even though the girl and her family chose to remain in their house for the event, Harry and Snape were begged to attend as well. So, with very little protest, the two of them joined the gathering on the beach.

Some thirty people were there, a good three quarters of the villagers. Jack Duncan, who was making a big batch of food for everyone, waved them over. Harry found Callum and, after getting a nod from Snape, ran off with him to hang out.

They went from group to group, talking and joking with people. Callum started retelling the story of when they and Mary had fought off the first werewolf. Some of the details were a little embellished from what he remembered, but he let it slide with a smile. Many of the listeners nodded politely as if they had heard the tale many times since learning of werewolves’ existence.

“...and Henry, here, he jumped on its back with this big shout—” (Harry did not remember shouting) “—and used the sextant to—”

“Wait a mo’,” interrupted a member of their current audience, old man McDuffy. “Was that my sextant? The one that was all scratched up one day with a fifty pound note?”

“Er,” Callum stammered, realising his mistake too late.

Harry somehow fought off the facepalm that his hand was itching for and said, “Yes, sir. I’m really sorry about that. Was the note not enough—”

“It’s alright, lad,” McDuffy waved the concern off. “All’s well that ends well.”

This was a highly unusual reaction from the normally irritable man, so Callum and Harry decided not to press their luck and soon moved on.

“Nice going,” Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, alright? At least he didn’t seem too upset.”

“Not with three glasses of scotch in him. We’ll see how he feels in the morning!”

“If he feels annoyed tomorrow, it might just be the scotch,” Callum joked.

“Henry! Callum! Would you boys like anything?”

They turned to see McAuliffe at the drinks table, waggling his eyebrows at them. They both stepped forward. As if summoned by the suggestion of liquor, Harry felt Snape’s gaze swing over and start burning a hole in the back of his head. He glanced over to see him on the complete opposite side of the bonfire, staring directly at him with a very clear warning on his face. Harry flushed at being caught even thinking about it and shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll take—” Callum started, but then Jack’s hand fell on his shoulder from seemingly out of nowhere, and he finished, “some water, I guess.”

Jack walked away again, and the two teens gave one another chagrined looks. McAuliffe grinned at them.

“Sorry, I think my dad warned yours telepathically or something,” Harry said to his friend once he had accepted his glass and they wandered off.

“It’s alright,” Callum shrugged good-naturedly. 

“For you, maybe,” he teased with a hint of nervousness, as Snape was still watching him. He looked at the man and shrugged exaggeratedly.

As the night wound down, the socializing started to slow and people gathered near their family units around the fire. Some dragged over benches, logs, and stools to sit on. Harry found Snape on a log further away from most people and sat down next to him.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah! Have you talked to anybody?”

“Yes, child. Do not worry about how well socialised I am.”

“I read somewhere that it’s important to keep your potions master in an enriched environment.”

Snape gave him a flat look and he laughed softly.

All around the fire were friends of theirs. Francis and Diane sat very close together on a bench nearby, holding hands and not seeming to be very aware of anyone else. Amy and Malcolm were standing at the drinks table with glasses in hand, talking to David Docherty and Jack. David had his and Iona’s older daughter on his hip. Iona sat on a stool nearby, holding on to their youngest. The baby looked a lot bigger than Harry remembered. The ANP was guiding a wavering McDuffy to sit on another bench. The sight of all of them sent a pang of longing through Harry's chest.

“When do you think we’ll be able to come back?”

Snape laced his fingers together in his lap. “I do not know. Perhaps not until after the war. We have brought danger to these people. I would not have returned in the first place if it were not for Lucy’s condition.”

Harry found himself staring at the bonfire. “Is it our fault? That she got bit?”

“No.”

And that was all. No emotional drivel, no overly sentimental platitudes. Just honesty.

“Thanks.”

He wondered how late it was. He felt tired and worn.

“Are you prepared to go back to school?”

“Does it matter if I say no?”

“Very little,” Snape responded, humor in his voice.

Sighing, Harry slumped. Maybe it was the village and all of the memories of when they had posed as father and son that made him do it, but he let his head fall to rest against Snape’s shoulder. The man didn’t pull away, so neither did Harry. Instead, he gazed at the bonfire and let the sounds of the villagers’ soft chatter wash over him.

“Do you have it?”

“No!”

“Someone must! It’s not like Crookshanks ate it!”

Harry ducked under a flying sock. “Woah, take it easy!”

All movement in the hallway stopped, then four redheads and one bushy brown one poked out of their doorways and exclaimed at the sight of him.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, running out and hugging him. “We were so worried, and the Order wouldn’t tell us anything. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, ‘Mione,” he said, letting go of the hug as Ron and the twins came forward too. “Can't really explain, it's got to do with last summer and some people we met then, but Dumbledore and Remus know about it too.” He didn't say that he felt like he'd left a piece of himself behind in that place or that he was anxious about returning to Hogwarts and whatever horrid punishment Umbridge had cooked up for him.

“Train leaves in thirty minutes!” came a bellow from downstairs. “Be down in ten!”

His five friends all ducked back into their rooms. Harry followed Ron into the shared room that they’d never actually had a chance to share and slung his backpack into his trunk. “Done!”

“Good for you,” Ron groaned, half-climbing the wardrobe to look for his Gryffindor scarf. Harry took pity on his best mate and helped him search the room for wayward belongings.

Somehow, despite what seemed to be everyone’s best efforts at forgetting belongings and losing tickets, they all made it onto the train in time. Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione met back up with Luna and Neville in a car.

“How was everyone’s hols?” Ginny asked.

“Splendid!” Luna said happily, tucking a strand of wispy blond hair behind her ear and smiling widely. “This month’s issue printed several days ago and everyone has loved it.”

“Really? Can I see it?” Ron inquired eagerly. Harry peered over with mild curiosity at the magazine as he flipped through it. He stopped at one large article near the front. “Woah, get a look at this! A political exposee—”

“Exposé, Ronald.”

“How do you know, anyway?” he demanded. “A political ex-po-sé—”

“Don’t be a child!”

“Don’t be a nag! Expos… exposé about Umbridge’s past.”

“This is good stuff,” Harry said, taking The Quibbler out of Ron’s hand as he started bickering with their other best friend.

“I saw it when it came out,” Neville agreed. “Gran said it was the first decent...” he trailed off, glancing sheepishly at Luna. “Well, she said it was decent.”

“As long as your Gran said it was decent,” Ginny nodded with mock seriousness as Neville rolled his eyes lightheartedly at her.

Harry looked at the byline. “Written by an… Ivy Hill. Never heard of her before. Do you know anything about her, ’Mione?”

She paused from her argument with Ron about French vowels to smile at him smugly. “Well, of course I know her. She’s me.”

There was dead silence in the car for a brief moment, then everyone seemed to start talking at once.

It took awhile for the commotion caused by her revelation to settle down. When it had, Harry went back to The Quibbler to read through an assortment of entries that ranged from mildly interesting to outright absurd.

The door to their cabin was wrenched open. Everyone looked up (Harry’s hand flew uselessly to where he normally kept his wand) to find Draco Malfoy in the doorway. His appearance was immaculate as ever, but there was a wild look in his eye that gave his entire body a sense of tense anxiety. The whole effect seen on Draco Malfoy of all people drew Harry to his feet, partly concerned, partly wary.

“Malfoy,” he said cautiously.

“Potter,” Malfoy gasped out, reaching forward. Harry stepped back. “You need to give me your glasses!”

“What? Get away from me,” Harry protested, really beginning to grow alarmed at Malfoy's odd behaviour and fearing a trick.

“Trust me, it's important!”

“That's just it, I don't. Trust you, that is.”

“Get out of here, slimeball,” Ron gritted out, shoving him back towards the door. Malfoy seemed to regain a bit of his normal self as he sneered at him and drew his wand. He was immediately outclassed, however, as everyone in the cabin immediately did the same. Recognising a loss when he saw one, Malfoy spasmed with aggravation and stepped back into the hallway.

“You have no idea what–”

Hermione stepped forward. Almost as though it were a reflexive defense mechanism, she sent a confundus hurling his way. It hit him square in the chest and the words died on his lips.

“Go away!” Ron slammed the door shut and locked it. Finally, mercifully (although no doubt as a result of the confundus), he gave up and wandered off.

“What the hell,” Harry said shakily.

Ron fell back into his seat. “Maybe he took a potion that went bad.” He seemed remarkably unconcerned considering the sight they just witnessed, but there was a tension in his body that belied how shaken he was. How they all were.

Malfoy didn’t come back to bother them again. Harry wasn’t sure if that made him more or less concerned.

Ron started talking about his thoughts for a potential lineup for next year’s Quidditch team. Hermione interrupted to remind him that the ban might not be lifted. Ron told her not to get her hopes up and Ginny loudly changed the subject before they could start arguing again.

They arrived in Hogsmeade near nightfall. Long shadows stretched along the cobblestones, the light dim but tinted red. Dusk lay heavy on the village as tired students streamed out of the train. Few people were out by now, no doubt wanting to avoid the rush they knew the students would be causing.

The conversations around him turned to dinner and hopes for what the elves may have made. Everyone was ready for a rest after the long train ride, and the weariness in Harry’s own bones (a result of both literal and emotional causes) made him look forward to the same. A part of him was still distracted, though. He kept an eye out for Malfoy, half expecting to see him passed out somewhere after his weird behaviour earlier, but no blonds draped across nearby benches caught his eye.

As he was peering around thus, he was one of the first students to catch sight of a different person staggering down the high street. He squinted. People began gasping just as the scarves and bushy hair registered in his mind.

“Is that Trelawney?” Neville gasped, voicing his very thoughts aloud.

Everyone started chattering as she weaved closer.

“I thought she’d disappeared!”

“I can’t believe she’s alive!”

“Is she talking? What’s she saying?”

Getting nearer now, she was close enough for the kids to hear her quavering voice, although the words were indistinguishable for the moment.

“Is she drunk?” Ginny asked lowly near his ear, eying the way Trewlaney seemed unable to walk in a straight line.

“No,” Ron said, sounding very serious indeed. “She’s limping.”

“Sweet Merlin,” Lavender Brown whispered in a broken voice. She moved as if to run to her favorite professor, but another girl in their year grabbed her arm to hold her back.

“Un… un… undiscovered! Underway! Un-undone!”

“What’s she talking about?”

“Not… fraud,” Trewlawney’s voice rose in pitch as she giggled, some manic state clearly having a hold on her. “Told so! Told so!” A ringing laugh, awful in its inherent lack of humor, echoed through the street. "Draco? I found it!" She stumbled suddenly, her arms going rigid as they shot out in front of her to brace her fall. She trembled on her hands and knees for a moment. Harry winced; he’d be surprised if she didn’t have badly scraped palms after that. Her form became stiff, only movement the small shakes that her muscles seemed unable to control.

Several people screamed. A couple of prefects went running, probably in search of a professor. Several others tried to get the crowd of students moving again, but they were ignored as teens and children stood in transfixed horror.

“She’s mad,” Ginny said.

Trewlawney spoke again, but the voice that came out of her trembling frame was deeper and harsher than the high wails of before. Harry’s eyes widened as he recognized it, although he’d only heard her speak in such a tone once before.

“Secrets unbidden, heart’s stone heavier than its throw. The past will be driven between those who—” She suddenly stopped, as if her thoughts were lost to her, and then she staggered to her feet again without finishing her prophecy. At least, he thought it had been meant to be a prophecy. He hadn’t ever heard of a seer just stopping mid prophecy before.

The rigid stance was gone just as fast as it had come upon her, and resuming her earlier rambling wanderings, she hurried over to the watching crowd and seized a sixth year boy by the shoulders.

“The turnips, child, the turnips. Have you?”

“I… I…” he stammered, looking incredibly uncomfortable and unsure of what to do.

“No use!” she sobbed, releasing him. He staggered back as she turned to a small girl that looked ready to keel over in fright, pulling the tattered and—as Harry now saw that she was closer—bloody shawl tighter around her shoulders. “You will take heed, yes? Yes?”

The girl let out a sob of fear. A prefect put her arm protectively around the girl and started trying to reason with Trelawney, but the shattered woman had gone all rigid again.

“When moon eclipses the sun, greater hidden behind lesser, so too will it be in the kingdom. The apprentice shall—”

And, once more, the fit ended mid-speech and she gave a soft keen.

“Sybil!” McGonagall cried, running onto the scene to everyone’s intense relief, followed closely by the prefects who had run off before. Several people exclaimed at the sight of the elderly witch who must have recently been released from St. Mungo’s. Harry barely even had time to process his excitement at seeing his Head of House in good health again as everything seemed to be happening at once. “Sybil, what—”

Trelawney wavered. McGonagall glanced at the young girl, who was full-out crying by now, and firmly took ahold of the shaking woman’s elbows to draw her back from the students.

“Oh, Minerva,” Trelawney moaned, looking ready to cry herself.

“Let’s get you to the castle,” McGonagall began, a mixture of sorrow and urgency on her face.

The two of them started slowly towards the carriages. They had barely taken two steps before Trelawney looked around over the students and locked gazes with Harry.

He glanced side to side at his friends in startled alarm. With a gasp, she broke violently free of McGonagall’s hold and rushed over to him. McGonagall cried out and people scattered. Harry felt frozen in place when Trelawney got within inches of his face. Her eyes, ridiculously magnified by her now cracked lenses in twisted frames, struck him as terribly lucid when she said in the most normal yet solemn voice he had ever heard from her, “Your sorrow and your triumph are all because of the prophecy, Harry.”

“W-what?”

“Sybil-!” McGonagall spluttered, grabbing for the woman’s arm. Her attention did not waver, fixed inexorably on Harry.

“End the lies. Ask Severus about the prophecy.”

“Sybil, come!” McGonagall succeeded in drawing her back, and as more professors came and shuffled the students along, Harry couldn’t help himself from looking back over his shoulder at her. Trelawney’s eyes were still locked on him.

He knew the foreboding look in them was not the result of madness.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn't sure how he'd ended up in Dumbledore’s office to witness the aftermath of Trelawney’s sudden appearance. Actually, he knew exactly how: he'd marched right up there after getting back to the castle. It was why he’d been allowed to stay that had him confused.

He tried sitting as still and quietly as he could, doing as little as possible to draw attention to himself. From the occasional glances that an argumentative Snape gave his way, he knew that man at least had not forgotten his presence, but the last thing he wanted to do was remind either of the others who may have forgotten.

“The poor woman seems to have suffered greatly. Poppy says—”

“We must find out if she has been taken by the Dark Lord, Minerva!”

“You can find out after she has rested, Severus!”

Harry had never thought he'd see a day where McGonagall would champion the Divination professor she had always seemed to scorn.

She and Snape bickered for a while after that about whether or not the need to interrogate Trelawney was urgent enough to interrupt her immediate recovery. Harry wasn't sure who he agreed with; after seeing Trewlawney's condition, he was inclined to let the woman sleep, but he was also used to listening to Snape by now.

“Let us look at what information is already at our disposal before making a decision regarding how urgent it may be to gather more,” Dumbledore eventually cut in mildly. The two turned to him, silenced.

“Harry?” Dumbledore said, surprising him by shifting to pierce him with his x-ray blue eyes. “Could you tell us what occurred at the station before Professor McGonagall’s arrival?”

Ah. He should have known there would be a legitimate reason for his being allowed to participate in the discussion. Feeling awkward as all three adults’ attention settled on him, he cleared his throat. Snape raised an eyebrow at him. He flushed.

“Er, yeah. We were all just walking, you know, getting off the train and going to the carriages. Once the station master saw we were all on our way and the prefects were handling it, he shut the door and it was just us students around. We saw someone stumbling around down the street, and people started staring, and then everyone was talking when they realised it was Trelawney. Sorry, er— Prof—”

“Go on, Harry.”

“Right. And she was mumbling to herself, and a couple prefects went running for help. She was limping, looked hurt. At one point, she yelled out for Draco?” Here he paused, watching the adults for some sign that they might have a clue about one of the most curious (to him) aspects of the evening. When none of them seemed forthcoming, he continued. “Then she fell. She started giving a prophecy. I think it was a real one. Her voice got all deep and harsh like it did the first time—”

Snape jerked back at this. Harry looked over, noting his extra pale face and thinned lips, but Dumbledore gestured for him to go on. “I don't think she finished it, though. She cut off halfway through then went back to her earlier mad ramblings. It was creepy. She then did another partial prophecy, and after it stopped, she went limp again and started making these sad sounds. Then Professor McGonagall ran up, and you know the rest.”

“Harry, do you remember these prophecies?”

“Albus, surely you do not—”

“I have no reason to believe Sybil was faking that which Harry described. Even one as skeptical of divination as yourself, Minerva, must admit that it may be a mysterious but powerful branch of magic.”

“I remember,” Harry said. The words had been seared into his brain. Perhaps it was a result of the night's impact, or maybe that was a quality of true prophecies. He recited each fragment for them. They listened closely, even McGonagall, before turning to consult each other.

“A woman staggering around, oscillating between a state of madness and harsh fits in which she spouts half-complete prophecies. I have never heard of such behaviour from a seer,” Snape began. “If they were true prophecies, how on earth were they delivered in such a way?”

“It appears that we may now be quite certain of where she has been. Beyond the evidence of torture and mistreatment, Poppy found scars resultant of dark magic on her and the remnants of dark potions in her system.”

“You believe the Dark Lord was trying to make her give prophecies with greater frequency?”

“I believe Voldemort was trying to make her give a specific prophecy again.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Harry stared at them with wide eyes. What prophecy? Did Dumbledore mean the one from his third year about Wormtail? Why would Voldemort need that prophecy? It had already come true. Did he just want a seer on command?

Snape startled him out of his thoughts when he whirled to face Harry. “Out.”

“What? Why—”

“Out, Harry!”

Harry opened his mouth to protest again, blindsided at being forced out of the conversation at such a random point when he’d already heard so much (and definitely wanted to hear more).

“Perhaps it is time,” Dumbledore said slowly.

“No!” Snape whipped his head around to glare at Dumbledore. There was a wild, frantic look in his face that was starting to make Harry’s heart beat more rapidly in his chest. What was so terrible that Snape didn’t think he could handle it? “You will not do this!”

“To whom, Severus?” the Headmaster asked sadly, an ocean of grief in his eyes. Harry could not look at them, so he turned to Snape instead.

“I’ll go.” He did not want to see that panic anymore. It was causing the dread that Trelawney’s parting words had put in his stomach to start welling up into his chest, his throat, his eyes. He hoped those eyes didn’t show it. From the way Snape watched him leave as if he were some tragedy the man could not prevent, he thought they just might be anyway.

As he let the moving staircase carry him down, away, he couldn’t help but remember. Your sorrow and your triumph are all because of the prophecy, Harry. He hesitated only briefly before turning left, downwards, towards Snape’s quarters instead of Gryffindor tower. End the lies. Ask Severus about the prophecy. His feet walked far steadier than he felt.

He was nearly to Snape’s rooms when he heard Malfoy’s voice down a merging hallway. He ducked into an alcove as the blond turned down the very path he himself had been walking, speaking with Blaise Zabini.

“...find Potter, but there’s no time.”

“You will have your chance soon enough.”

Malfoy made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. He didn’t respond to Zabini verbally before they were too far down the corridor for Harry to hear it.

He peeked out, watching them turn another corner before abandoning his hiding spot and hurrying to Snape’s private rooms. “Razumihin.” The entrance swung open and he went inside, shutting it behind him and leaning his back against it.

End the lies.

He hugged himself, a mannerism that probably stemmed from a too-small, too-dark cupboard. He only allowed himself to do so for a moment before forcing his arms down and pacing instead.

An ominous bubbling came from the cauldron on Snape’s stove. He hesitantly wandered over to it, wincing when he saw that it looked ruined. A glance at the recipe laid out beside the various ingredients and supplies showed The Draught of Peace, something he’d recently gone over with Snape in tutoring. He absently added the next part and stirred. It seemed the potion had been salvageable as the colour settled and the stirring redistributed the heat. Snape rarely left a potion like this. The man probably hadn’t expected to be summoned away from his quarters so early or for so long tonight. He settled in to resume Snape’s progress, undoing the top couple of buttons on his shirt as the rising steam made him too warm. He pulled off his tie as well, tossing it towards Snape’s sofa. It looked so domestic, like he lived here and it was just him and Snape living here with no secrets between them.

The entrance from the office opened a while later. Harry didn’t look up from where he was completing the finishing touches for the draught.

Snape’s footsteps stopped several feet behind him.

“You left the potion.”

“I had not anticipated such dramatics so soon after the students returned.”

“That’s your fault,” Harry snorted. “What better time?”

Snape stepped closer and looked over his shoulder into the cauldron. He grunted, evidently not finding anything too wrong with Harry’s efforts to salvage it. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” Harry said, fighting off the obviously that was tempting him. The feast prepared for students’ return was occurring right at that moment but Harry had come here instead. Both of them knew why.

Snape wouldn’t meet his eyes as he flooed the kitchen for two plates. Harry slumped down into his chair at the kitchen table. When the food arrived, they ate in an awkward silence. A sort of last supper for the two of them, he couldn't help but think.

He had absolutely no appetite, but to finish the meal was to begin the conversation he both wanted and feared to have, so he took great care to finish everything on his plate. All of his senses were on high alert, locked onto Snape for some sign of… well, anything.

“I suppose you—”

“Why did you send me away?” Harry jumped as soon as Snape started talking, nerves getting the better of him. Snape’s jaw clenched and his black eyes stared flatly at Harry.

“It was not yours to hear.”

“Trelawney told me, before she got dragged off, that all of my successes and suffering were because of ‘the prophecy’ and to ask you about it.”

“Did she?”

“You know what she’s talking about, don’t you? You got all pale in Dumbledore’s office.”

“Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry thought it was a dumb time to argue pedantics. “Trewlawney said—”

“Do you seriously pay such great attention to the ramblings of a woman half-mad from the tortures of the Dark Lord?”

“Half-mad, you said. And yeah, I do, actually. Just this one thing.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Harry flinched, the harshness in Snape’s voice unfamiliar in this setting. Village Snape was not cruel to him. “You’ve told me my intuition is good.”

“Perhaps I was wrong, if it leads you to interrogate me about—”

“Just tell me,” Harry said pleadingly, jumping to his feet. Not about to look up at his opponent (he and Snape were not opponents, this was not the potions professor, why—) Snape rose to his feet as well.

“You will not want to hear it,” Snape snarled.

He leaned forward over the table. The lily pendant fell out of his partially undone shirt, catching the light. Snape’s eyes locked onto it.

“I think I have to.” He didn’t know why he did, but it was true. Something in him knew it.

Still staring at the pendant, he said, “And when you hate me for it? Will you destroy the furniture first or simply leave?”

“Why would I leave?” Harry demanded, thoroughly fed up with Snape’s usual self-flagellation streak.

Something snapped. “Because I killed your mother!” Snape shouted, eyes wild and arms thrown wide.

A beat of silence. Snape’s breath was ragged in the quiet.

“What?” Harry asked blankly.

“Your parents are dead because of me,” Snape pressed, as if Harry was supposed to gasp in horror and flee the room.

“No,” he said slowly. He wondered if Snape was feeling ill; he certainly looked it. “Volde… sorry, You-Know-Who killed them. I literally remember it.”

“He hunted your parents as a result of my actions.”

“...wasn’t Wormtail the one—”

“Shut up and listen!”

Harry subsided. Snape took a step back from the table. The planes of his face looked harsher than he remembered.

“Allow me to tell you a story,” he said, sardonically, angrily. And he did.

“I was born in a dirty little town by a dirty little river to a disgraced pureblood witch and her drunkard muggle husband, knowing little but the worst of both worlds for years. Some time before I received my Hogwarts letter, I became friends with a muggleborn witch my age who lived a few streets down. That girl was your mother. She and I were very close, but after being sorted into two different houses with a notorious rivalry and, as you yourself have seen, rather opposed ideals, we drifted apart. Our friendship was permanently ruined after I called her a mudblood when she tried to defend me during a particularly humiliating bout of bullying from your father and his cronies. Upon graduating from school, alone and desperate and angry, I was convinced to join the Dark Lord by the Slytherins whom I had turned to after the loss of your mother’s regard.

“Life as a Death Eater was far from enjoyable. My belief in the Dark Lord’s ideals was shaky at best, although in my younger years I did harbor a certain resentment towards Muggles, as I associated that world with my father and dismal childhood. At his peak, the Dark Lord was amassing an impressive horde of devoted followers. Most of my loyalty stemmed from having someone in power who had a use and appreciation for my services and skills. I also perceived my Death Eater status as protection from the light side, which I naively considered synonymous with James Potter and those who had tormented me.

“As you realised during our visit to the village, I became a converted spy. In the early days of my involvement in the war, I was one of the Dark Lord’s favoured information gathers for my skill with Legilimency and knack for recognising what was important and what did not matter in a source of intel. I betrayed him and turned to Dumbledore for help following a certain series of events.

“The Dark Lord wanted to place a spy close to Dumbledore within Hogwarts. My interview for the position of potions master was on the same day as his interview with another for the Divination opening: Sybil Trelawney. I was eavesdropping at the door when she gave a prophecy predicting the coming of one who would bring about the Dark Lord’s downfall. The bar owner caught me and kicked me out halfway through the recitation, but I had heard enough to report to my master. I told him what I had heard, and in his infinite wisdom, he decided the conditions listed for the soon-to-be-born chosen one could only describe one child: that of recently married Lily Potter.

“When I heard who the Dark Lord intended to target to wipe out this threat, I begged for him to spare her life. He promised he would, but I knew him better than to believe it by then. He would not resist from taking her life if it suited his plans or even his fancy. Desperate and terrified for her life, I went to Albus Dumbledore. I told him of the Dark Lord’s plans; he in turn promised to hide her in exchange for my services as a double agent. I did not think of the child, nor did I desire James Potter to be spared. My only thought was for Lily despite her well deserved hatred of me.

“I would have done anything for her. I agreed with little hesitation. I had grown weary of slaving away for a psychopath’s greater vision of a world I had little desire to actually live in regardless. Until his unexpected fall, I acted as a converted spy for Dumbledore for the preceding year and a half. I was prepared to be discovered and killed at any moment. His defeat would have been a relief if it did not come at the most unthinkable price.

“I had little desire or motivation to live when I heard the news that she had been killed. Not only had all of my efforts and fears been in vain, my own hand had aimed the murderer’s wand. In my grief, Dumbledore directed my loss of purpose towards a new aim: protecting the son she had died for. I made a vow to lay my life down for yours if need be and braced myself for the Dark Lord’s eventual return and my own inevitable resumption of the duties and dangers inherent to be a double agent.”

When he later tried to put into words how Snape’s recounting of the past made him feel in the moment, or even what he thought, Harry would find it impossible. What he remembered most was the building pressure in his chest and a terrible, blinding headache. Or maybe the blinding part was just the tears in his eyes.

Professor Snape— no, his Snape… or was it Professor now? seemed no less affected than he was. He stared at Harry after he was done, face braced as if for some blow. The whole story had been delivered so flatly. It was only now that he'd finished that any emotion shone through.

“How did the bar owner know you were at the door?” he asked. Snape stared at him like it was the most inane thing he could have possibly said in response to hearing that the mentor he had come to rely on for the past few months had been one of the key players in the events that led directly to his parents’ deaths. It probably was.

“Are you mad as well?” Snape asked incredulously.

The insult was apparently what it took to break the dam formed by his shock and let the tide of his rising anger flow forth. He laughed bitterly in Snape’s face. “Guess so. I can’t believe I trusted you!”

What did one think when the man who had started to be there where no one else had been might have had no greater motivator than guilt?

It seemed like one thought they had been a fool. A desperate, pitiful, lonely fool.

“How could I ever believe the man who bullied me for years was a perfect replacement for the parents he took from me!”

Snape’s face blanched. Harry felt bad, knowing Snape could hardly take the sole blame for his orphanhood. The others who perhaps deserved it more were not here, however, and pain is anything but fair. “Did you laugh at me every time I told you something about the Dursleys? Feel annoyed every time I burdened you with my problems, my stupid little mistakes?” He didn’t think Snape actually had. He asked anyway. Maybe what he needed was to hear no, Harry. I did not enjoy hearing it. No, you did not burden me. Out of all the things Snape had told him about the past and what he had done, none of them were that he was sorry.

What he got instead was: “The time was never right to tell you things that would only cause you pain.”

“Right, because you thought I was too weak to handle it. Maybe you saw too much of yourself in me.” His voice came out rough, gravelly, scraping his throat on the way out as if the barbs he aimed at Snape were hurting both of them. He supposed they were.

“When the trial—”

“Hang the bloody trial!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. “You said that it wasn’t my business. How is that not my business?! My parents died and you didn’t think it was my business to know why or how?” He struggled to process all that he had heard. Snape’s involvement was the biggest shock, but hearing that there was apparently some prophecy out there—one he didn’t even know yet—claiming that his destiny was to kill Voldemort also demanded consideration. What hurt the most, and what surely was making his head and chest ache as though gripped too tightly in a dragon’s talons, was the betrayal of never having been told any of it. Voice quieter, he asked, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Snape stared at him, almost in resignation, and he knew the answer was no. Harry remembered what he’d said before it all began. He’d implied that Harry would leave. The idea suddenly, fiercely appealed to him. Not forever, but he needed time to think. He started around the table and stormed past Snape.

“How could I?” Snape’s voice cracked out. Harry paused halfway to the entrance. “Whether I deserved it or not, you were just beginning to trust me, and there was so much to teach you. Still is so much—”

“Trust goes both ways, Professor,” Harry spat, annoyed at what felt like an excuse even though it was approaching the explanation he needed. He could react all he wanted to a factual accounting of events, but he couldn’t make any kind of decision or judgement (despite what he had said in the heat of his feelings) until he heard how Snape felt about all of it. That was the important part, he thought. He knew he couldn’t take hearing that now, however. He clutched his forehead and hissed out a breath of both pain and aggravation. “You never trusted me with anything about you that actually mattered.”

Snape took a faltering, involuntary step towards him. Harry shook his head mutely. He released his forehead and looked down. He caught sight of the lily pendant.

“That pendant was a gift from a… childhood friend.”

“Where’s your friend now?”

“She’s dead.”

Sweet Circe.

“Be careful with your friends, Henry. It can be very easy to hurt the people you care about.”

…

“You said the pendant came from a friend.”

“Did you think I was lying?”

…

A silver lily charm hanging from a delicate chain. A lily.

His fingers closed around it.

It hurt. It hurt to have a physical, tangible reminder of it all. Snape had hurt him.

Professor Snape hurt him all the time. The man in front of him was not looking at him with Professor Snape’s eyes, Professor Snape’s sneer. He wore village Snape’s expression. Village Snape’s pain.

His temple pulsed. Harry yanked on the chain, hard. It snapped, the broken circle falling to swing from his hand in two long trails like cut lifelines.

“I need… I need to go.” He threw the pendant down onto the coffee table, away from himself, between him and Snape just like he suspected Lily Potter had always been. He ignored Snape’s call and fled the room.

The halls stretched out before his feet as he ran, then wandered, going anywhere but towards the place where he always went when life ached like this. Harry rubbed at his forehead harshly with the heels of his hands, dislodging his glasses as he tried to fight off the headache.

“Where are you headed, Potter?”

Harry cursed to himself and wheeled to face Dawlish. He adjusted the frames on his nose for time, rudely reminded of Umbridge, the Ministry, and his limbo of student probation. He glanced around and found that he was near one of the doors that led onto the grounds.

“I was just, ah, on my way to my dorm.”

“I believe Gryffindor tower is in the other direction.”

Harry made a frustrated sound, far too upset to come close to a good lie. He glanced at the door again. The walls were suffocating. Escaping the castle itself, its recent oppressive nature and Umbridge’s overbearing shadow and the refuge he had just lost making the huge school incredibly small.

Dawlish stared at him impassively, then said with surprising gentleness, “You seem troubled.”

“That’s one word for it.”

The auror slowly crossed his arms. “The High Inquisitor is waiting to hear my report tonight for how I have dealt with your… situation.” Harry winced. “It is unfortunate that I will have to tell her you were unwell following the feast.”

Harry’s gaze snapped up to the man’s, hardly daring to hope he was being let off the hook for the moment. It was unexpected kindness in the face of everything. There was no compassion in Dawlish’s face or body language, but he was always void of emotion, so Harry wasn’t surprised.

“I… thank you.”

Dawlish nodded once, then glanced pointedly at the door Harry had obviously not been inconspicuous enough about eyeing. “I hope you will not be too late to your dorm.”

“No, sir.”

The man turned and left Harry alone in the entryway. He started after him, wondering if it was time to reevaluate his opinion of the Ministry employee.

After a moment, he decided Dawlish was by far the least important of the many things he needed to reconsider and wasted no more time in bursting through the door and out onto the grounds.

The moon, still large and mostly full, illuminated the grasses in rustling patterns of silver light and dark shadows. The lawns were really beginning to grow tall with the approaching spring, reaching up to his ankles at some parts.

He stood, taking in the crisp air and looking idly around. His gaze fell on the dark treeline towards the forbidden forest. Fred and George had once told him about a spot halfway into the forest where they liked to hideout sometimes. The twins, who had heard the words “forbidden forest” and first thought “treehouse!” had apparently made a little spot just beyond the castle’s wards where they could get into a spot of trouble when it suited them.

He had never had cause to go looking for it even though they had given him rough directions to it when Umbridge’s attention was zeroing in on him and they thought to suggest it as a spot to escape it all. Escape was certainly the thing still most on his mind, so he let his feet move forward towards its prospect.

As a young man stumbled towards the forest, the rest of the world held its breath. In his office, Albus Dumbledore paused petting his phoenix Fawkes as a sense of unease crept through his old bones. Halfway to Gryffindor tower to speak with her prefects about the need for increased caution, Minerva McGonagall faltered in her step. Sybil Trelawney jerked upright and began to utter a new prophecy about immediate pending trouble, but it was lost after the first few words and Poppy Pomfrey ignored the shiver that had run down her spine to comfort her gently. Delores Umbridge twitched in her bed where she hoped for news about Harry Potter’s expulsion or arrest. From where he stood hunched over his counter, Severus Snape felt the pang of a parent's intuition briefly rise above the rest of the clamour in his head, but it was soon drowned out by everything else running through his mind.

Harry saw none of this. His vision, in fact, had narrowed to a tunnel forward. He didn't even pause as he crossed the treeline into the forest, legs starting to pick up into a run. Soon he was fully sprinting through the trees, choking down sobs and flinching away from stray branches that hit him on his headlong rush.

He finally reached a small clearing and staggered to a halt. There was no tree house in sight, but that was hardly a shock. He hadn’t exactly been paying attention to where he was going.

There was a rustling in the bushes behind him. He whirled around, heart dropping into his stomach when Peter Pettigrew crept out like the rat he was.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, hating that his voice shook.

“Better question for you, Potter. What are you doing here—” he smiled awfully “—beyond the wards?”

Harry reached for his wand by sheer habit and stepped back. Both actions were useless; his wand was in custody and there was a solid presence directly behind him. He bumped into it and immediately tried to run, but a hand clamped down upon his shoulder in a vice-like grip. He glanced reflexively down at it. It bore a large ring with the Malfoy family crest.

“He will be so pleased to see you,” a second voice purred. He felt the vibrations from where he was held captive against the man's chest.

Pettigrew laughed. Harry struggled to break free, but his efforts were useless as he felt himself squeezed through the tight tube of apparition.

They had been searching the castle for almost an hour with no sign of finding Harry. Severus privately admitted to the Headmaster what had occured between them, knowing there was a strong possibility that the teen was hiding or had run away rather than been taken by exterior forces. The old man had rubbed his beard in thought, but both of them knew the search could not be called off when there was even a chance Harry was off the castle grounds.

Severus himself was growing increasingly frantic and full of dread as Harry still could not be found. He was tasked with searching the grounds near the greenhouses, but there was nothing to see. Not even a footprint gave him a clue. After a fruitless hour had passed, he briefly returned to his quarters to fetch a Pepper Up. He would look all night if he had to.

As the door swung open, he caught sight of the pendant on the coffee table. He stood stock still for a moment before hurrying over to it.

The pendant had been enchanted to prevent anyone from tracking Harry. The chain had been his emergency portkey. Without either and—good Merlin—his wand, the teen was practically defenseless.

The surging panic was curdling into horror. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, but he had no chance to grab the thing. His arm bucked as a flaring pain ignited in his Dark Mark.

Clutching his arm to his chest, Severus slowly sank to the floor. A summons that would reach him after such a long silence could mean only one thing: the Dark Lord had called for all of his followers at once.

Soon others would try to reassure him that it could just be a coincidence, but he knew better.

Harry had been captured.

Severus reached out to scoop up the pendant and pressed his forehead against the edge of the coffee table, staring down at the silver he cradled in his lap. His fist closed around the pendant, too tight, the edges stabbing his palm.

Not this time. He would not lose another person he cared about to the Dark Lord.

He stood, wiping tears from his cheeks as he slipped the pendant into his pocket. He had no time for regret.

There was work to do.