Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10867404.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter/Other(s)
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger, Ginny
      Weasley, Neville_Longbottom, Draco_Malfoy, Albus_Dumbledore, Hedwig_
      (Harry_Potter), Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort, Sybill_Trelawney, Remus_Lupin
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Post-Goblet_of_Fire, Angst,
      Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Developing_Relationship, Good_Severus
      Snape, Attempted_Rape/Non-Con, Dubious_Consent, Mental_Health_Issues,
      Psychic!Ginny, Manipulative_Dumbledore, Eventual_Romance, Bad_Decisions,
      Harry_Goes_Through_Shit, So_does_everyone_else, No_Horcruxes, Long_Live
      Feedback_Comment_Project
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-09 Updated: 2018-03-04 Chapters: 20/24 Words: 104589
****** The Greatest Weapon ******
by RiverDeNile
Summary
     “I need your help, Professor.”
     After the death of Sirius Black and with the prophecy revealed to
     him, Harry decides to take things seriously. He must become a weapon
     capable of destroying Voldemort to be the saviour the world needs him
     to be -- and there is only one person who can help him achieve it:
     Severus Snape.
     Post-Goblet of Fire AU.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sybill Trelawney predicted doom for Harry Potter.
Harry wanted to think it was the same doom she’d been predicting since the
beginning - the whiff of Voldemort that danced over his skin like a thick sheen
of oil. The smell of death that couldn’t be washed from his hair. The despair
and hopelessness that had somehow wormed its way bone-deep into his body. He
was sixteen and he just wanted to kill Voldemort before Voldemort killed him.
He wanted to protect his friends from the Death Eaters. He wanted to leave the
world behind him in something resembling the kind of order and safety that he
dreamed was possible. He expected to die.
When Trelawney sought him out to say that word, doom, his lips had given a
parody of a smile. She didn’t need the tea leaves or the cards or anything else
to see the doom in his destiny. It was fairly obvious. He had smiled, because
he had wanted to ask her, Can you narrow the doom down for me? Who will die
this year? What else could it be? Torture? Pain? Misery? Take your pick.
And so began his sixth year at Hogwarts.
 
Voldemort was in hiding. Harry hadn’t felt more than a twinge in his scar
through the summer, but Voldemort’s minions were out in broad daylight, and no
one knew quite what to make of it. Three witches had been killed while shopping
in Diagon Alley. Three days later, a wizard family living on the outskirts of
Muggle London had woken up to find the remains of a disembowelled Hungarian
Horntail strewn about their front lawn - and most of the neighbourhood. A week
later, a wizard in blood red robes was seen trespassing in St. Mungo’s. He
apparated away before anyone could catch him, but the staff found seven
smothered patients, all with family connections to aurors. At the same time, in
three separate places, Death Eaters were seen moving about in groups, and the
small towns they were spotted in were reported to have been burnt to cinders in
the following weeks.
Hogwarts and the rest of the British wizarding world were placed on high alert.
Businesses along Diagon Alley were closed as the owners moved on to less
dangerous locations. The wizarding world bled over into the Muggles’ world as
Aurors patrolled the whole of the country, and the Muggles’ news ran over with
fear. Uncertainty ruled.
At Hogwarts, no one could be found to fill the empty Defence Against the Dark
Arts position. In the new uncertainty, the teaching position seemed worse than
cursed. Hogwarts had too great a connection to Voldemort, and yet, despite the
wizarding world being put on standstill, Hogwarts continued. Defence lessons
were closed, but each professor was urged to volunteer time in the now-official
extracurricular DA lessons, and students were equally urged to take part. Life
was encouraged to continue normally within the walls of Hogwarts, and, for the
most part, the students were students. No defence professor meant no lessons
and no homework, and that was fine by them. Very few seemed to have any clue
that the world outside their safe school was as frozen in terror as it had been
seventeen years ago.
Harry knew. And he knew it was his fault. He knew the world was short of good
fighters because of mistakes he’d made. He knew he wasn’t nearly strong enough
to be the saviour the world expected him to be. He knew that nobody was safe
and he knew trouble was coming. He didn’t need Trelawney to tell him that, and
he didn’t need defence lessons to encourage him to learn.
He made the choice to change all by himself.
They wanted him to be captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team again that year,
but he turned them down. Everyone came to try and talk him into it… his
friends, his team mates, Professor McGonagall, Madam Hooch. He responded by
dropping out of the team completely.
There was a certain part of him that regretted it, but he knew he didn’t have
time for it anymore. It wasn’t productive. It had been fun, but Quidditch
wasn’t going to help him defeat Voldemort. It would only take up his time. He
had to be prepared. He didn’t understand why everyone didn’t see that. Surely
at least Hermione could appreciate his newfound devotion to education. She had
always insisted he take it more seriously. Well, now he was. He was taking it
very seriously.
And if the price was a little unhappiness, then so be it. A person could live
with unhappiness. He knew that well enough.
 
He had never liked the dungeons. They were cold and damp and they smelled. The
sun was a stranger there. The air was thick and stale. And, of course, they
were home to Potions and their Master.
Professor Severus Snape. Who hated Harry and didn’t hide it. Who had hated
Sirius Black and hadn’t hid it. Who had the mark of the Death Eaters on his arm
and hid that under layers of black clothing. Who looked as dark and greasy as
his reputation. Severus Snape, the only one who had never put The Boy Who Lived
on a pedestal. The only one who didn’t put stock in the belief that Harry
Potter had a destiny greater than others.
The only one Harry felt comfortable around anymore.
Even in his present mindset, he could see the irony of it.
He hesitated at the door for only a moment and then knocked firmly.
“Come in or go away!” Came the growl from within, so he pushed open the heavy
door and walked in. Snape didn’t glance upward from the papers on his desk but
said, “Mister Potter. To what do I owe this presumptuous visit?”
At one time, Harry might have asked how Snape had known it was him, or might
have made a quip about how Snape should be in Divinations instead, but the part
of him that would have asked that question, even considered that question, had
been burned away over the summer. Instead, he walked over to Snape’s desk and
got to the point.
“I need your help, Professor.”
The quill stopped and hovered over the half-marked essay. A drop of ink
quivered off the end and fell, splattering against the paper. Snape cursed
under his breath and looked up, his annoyance plain in his sharp brows and dark
eyes.
“You’ve made me spoil the paper, Potter. Five points from Gryffindor.”
Harry continued as if there had been no interruption. “People died because I
wasn’t ready last Spring. I was naïve and stupid and unprepared.”
Snape’s mouth dropped open before curling into a scowl. “You’ll get no argument
from me.”
Harry nodded. “I thought I had the luxury to be angry with you, Professor, to
dislike you, but I don’t. You have knowledge I need in order to face the Death
Eaters and, when the time comes again, to face Voldemort. I have come to ask
you if you would be willing to teach me again. I promise it won’t be a waste of
your time. I fully intend to take you and your lessons seriously.”
Snape’s mouth worked soundlessly. A year ago, Harry would have had to bite down
an explosion of laughter until he’d joined his friends back in the Gryffindor
tower, but it was a new year and so had new rules to live by. And in this new
year, Snape was the new untouchable. His word was Harry’s new law.
“I can give you time to consider it, if you prefer,” he continued and watched
Snape try to form a sentence. “Let me know your decision. I’d like to get
started as soon as possible. Thanks for your time, Professor.”
He closed the door on his way out.
===============================================================================
“I’m concerned about Mr. Potter, Albus…”
“Headmaster! Have you spoken to… oh, Professor Snape…” Hermione froze in her
tracks and paled.
“Hermione,” Ron’s voice hissed from the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office.
“You can’t just go… oh. Um. Hello Professor. Headmaster. Um. How’re… things?”
Dumbledore smiled at them over his half-moon lenses. “In answer to all your
questions, I have not spoken to Harry recently, I am also concerned about him,
and, generally, things have been rather well, thank you, although if you are
referring specifically to Harry, things have been rather not well at all.” He
eyed all three of them. “I would be interested to hear your sides of the story.
If you wouldn’t mind, Severus, I would like to have Harry’s friends speak
first.”
Ron’s eyes had gone blank in panic, but Hermione straightened and cleared her
throat, avoiding Snape’s gaze. “Harry’s been off. He rarely speaks with us, or
with anyone else for that matter. He’s quit Quidditch, he hasn’t joined our DA
meetings at all, and he’s hardly eating in the Great Hall anymore, or even with
people. I don’t actually know where he goes all the time, sir. Whenever we try
to talk to him-”
“He tells us everything will be fine and that he’s doing it for us,” Ron said
softly, eyes still wide. Snape turned his head to gaze at him along the length
of his nose and Ron swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat. “He
tells us… that… He gave us…”
In the corner, the phoenix Fawkes made a sympathetic noise. Hermione reached
over and squeezed Ron’s hand. She looked up. “He gave us a sealed envelope. He
told us to open it after it’s over. After he’s gone.” She looked over at Ron
again, but his head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. “He’s been giving them to
everyone.”
Dumbledore pulled out a white envelope from a drawer of his desk and placed it
on the tabletop. As he touched his fingertip to the red wax seal, it sent off
harmless red sparks. “This arrived this afternoon. By care of Hedwig.” He
flipped it over. On the white paper was Dumbledore’s name, written in silver
ink in Harry’s hand. “I could break the seal quite easily, actually. Harry has
not put a great deal of effort into the spell, perhaps intending it to be a
formality rather than anything more serious. While I could break the seal, I
will not. Not without Harry’s permission. How each of you handle your letters
is a choice you will have to make for yourselves.” Dumbledore turned his
attention from one person to the next, and paused on Snape until the
professor’s shoulders moved uncomfortably.
“I have not received an envelope, so that is not a choice I will need to make.”
His lips twisted into a smile.“Mr. Potter has told me quite plainly what he
thinks of me. I don’t believe a letter would be at all necessary.”
Dumbledore eyed him levelly. “Tell us what you and Harry have been up to,
Severus.”
Ron and Hermione’s heads snapped up.
Snape tasted bitterness on his tongue. “Mr. Potter came to ask me to continue
our Occlumency lessons from last year. He also asked for surplus Defence
lessons, private lessons, to prepare him for the inevitable. I agreed – after
some consideration.”
“Since when?” Ron demanded.
Snape glared at him. “Since the beginning of the year, Mr. Weasley. If it is
any of your concern.”
“I believe it is his concern, Severus. It is all of our concerns. Harry is in a
vulnerable position right now. The death of his godfather has shaken him. We
are his friends and his teachers. It is our job to protect him. Yes, even from
himself.”
“I know, Headmaster,” Snape replied with some hesitancy. “That has been my...
intention.”
Dumbledore’s lips twitched into a small, shrewd smile. “I’m aware. And I
appreciate your efforts. I’ll ask you to continue. However,” he turned his
attention to Ron and Hermione, “I would ask you not to keep this struggle to
yourself from now on, Severus. The four of us are a start, but there are more
who have Harry’s best interests at heart. I believe Harry will need us all and
more in order to overcome this darkness that has taken hold of him.”
“What can we do?” Ron asked in a small voice. “He barely speaks with me
anymore. I rarely see him, and when I do, when I try to talk to him, he’s… He
acts like…” he glanced at Snape and quickly looked away. “How… what can I do?”
“We keep an eye on him. We’re there if he needs us,” Hermione told him. “That’s
all we can do. And we keep on with the DA meetings, because Harry will need to
face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Death Eaters one day, and there’s no way
we’re going to let him do it alone.” She glanced up at Snape and hesitated.
He turned his eyes skyward and sighed. “Say it and be done.”
“You made things very difficult for him last year. You made him miserable. Do
it again and I will hex you.”
“Will you, now?” He sneered, but she nodded sharply, uncowed, as Ron gaped
beside her, his face becoming more pale by the second, making his freckles
stand out in sharp contrast to his skin.
“Yes, I will.”
He paused as he considered her. She bore an expression not unlike Bellatrix at
her most determined.
“I have no intention to coddle the boy. I am not his father, or his godfather,
or his relation of any kind and I have no intention to assume such a role. I
acknowledge that my behaviour may have been somewhat splenetic, and that I did
not necessarily provide a favourable environment for his education.” He gazed
down at Hermione who looked back at him steadily. Ron wasn’t breathing and was
growing green around the edges. Dumbledore hid a smile as the portraits lining
his office watched the proceedings with visible interest.
“I will do my utmost not to upset his delicate feelings in the future.”
She nodded. The portraits whispered to one another. “Good. See that you do.”
Snape held back a growl of irritation. He looked back at Dumbledore, ignoring
the portraits of Gryffindors who grinned and nudged each other. “Will that be
all?”
Dumbledore smiled slightly. “I didn’t call this meeting. You came to me. That
leaves it up to you to determine if we are finished.”
Snape scowled. “Then that will, in fact, be all.” His robes snapped sharply as
he turned and left the room.
===============================================================================
Harry had never noticed how loud Hogwarts could be at all hours of the day.
When the students were about, it was a chaotic mess of voices and sounds, and
he found he couldn’t escape it, not entirely. They surrounded him with their
interest and their disinterest, their concern and their indifference. It clung
to him like sticky threads of spider silk. He could feel it on his skin, in his
hair. He wanted to escape from them.
The dungeons were the safest place. Few students willingly spent time there. He
craved the darkness and oblivion of the underground lair. He wanted to blend
into the rock and never emerge. He wanted to disappear like smoke in the wind.
Snape seemed to be the only one who understood. His friends… he knew they meant
well, but he couldn’t take their concern. Snape was as caustic and
disinterested as always. The only allowance he made for Harry was permitting
him to work in his study, away from the hubbub and commotion of the upper
castle, so long as Harry kept silent and out of the way. It was exactly what
Harry needed. Snape’s silent presence wrapped around him like a security
blanket, a protection from the forces of good and their need to ‘fix’ him. He
didn’t want to be fixed. He just wanted to be left alone. Snape understood
this.
He didn’t want to feel anymore. And since he’d decided to do away with his
hatred of Snape, he was free to feel miraculously blank.
Of course, as luck had it, the longer he spent in Snape’s presence, the harder
that freedom from emotions was to sustain. He no longer felt hatred, that was
true, but now he felt something like gratitude. And possibly respect. And other
things that were far too complicated for him to consider.
He tried to push all the feelings down, but sometimes… Sometimes he would look
up and find Snape watching him and his insides would clench in something like
fear. Sometimes, during their Occlumency lessons, Snape would break through and
touch his mind, and it felt good to not be alone inside his own head. Sometimes
he would be the one to touch Snape’s mind, and the darkness, pain and
uncertainty were familiar and comforting in a way. And twice, when he touched
Snape’s mind, he found something hidden behind the darkness… He found longing
and a surprisingly apprehensive need, and a young boy who had once been far too
sensitive for his father’s liking, and a man who was far too sensitive for his
own.
They never spoke of any of it, but they developed a silent understanding: an
intimacy of shared secrets and embarrassments, of pain and longing.
By the time of the first visit to Hogsmead, as his friends laughed and spent
their coins, Harry no longer dreamt of blending into rock and disappearing. He
dreamt of disappearing into Snape.
===============================================================================
“Harry Potter. Fancy seeing you here... Alone. Wandering about the dungeons, so
close to Slytherin House. Lost, no doubt.” Draco snickered to his companions,
as he emerged around the corner of a dimly lit hallway. Crabbe and Goyle
grinned back in return. “We should help him find his way, wouldn’t you say?
Only proper.”
He turned his eyes to look at Draco. The pale-haired boy had become a pale-
haired young man, but very little else had changed. Crabbe and Goyle kept to
his sides like stone-cut bookends, keeping Draco standing and in place. Behind
the three of them, sliding around the corner to stand at Draco’s back, were two
seventh years, Eric Prewett-Black and Malcolm Prewett, both distant relations
of Draco’s, each with long, wheat-coloured hair, each tall and slim. The two
older boys smirked at one another as they noticed Harry, and they crossed their
arms over their chests. They looked back at Harry, sharp malice shining from
their Slytherin eyes. Harry eyed them back, measuring the threat.
“I’m not lost. I’ve come to see Professor Snape.”
“And why would you do that, I wonder? You’ve been spending far too much time
with him lately,” Draco said, but before he could say more, his cousins glanced
at one another again and their slow smiles set off warning bells in Harry’s
mind.
“If you’re so desperate for a Slytherin’s company, Potter, you needn’t bother
the professor.” Their smiles were icy and jagged. The two young men stepped
forward, tossing an arm around each of Crabbe and Goyle’s shoulders. “We’d be
delighted to be of service to the Famous Harry Potter.”
Goyle frowned and asked, “We would?”
Malcolm chuckled. “Oh, yes, I think we would.” Eric laughed quietly, eyes
hungry, watching his cousin with a slow smile. “Or have him be of service to
us.”
Harry watched them, saw the confusion in Crabbe and Goyle, saw the cruelty
brewing behind the older boys’ smiles. He looked at Draco and met his pale
eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t back away, didn’t turn around. He did nothing.
Draco looked back at him, eyes steady, and for a moment, Harry saw something
behind his cool gaze, but it was short-lived and quickly replaced with an
unapologetic hardness. His hand came forward to grasp Harry’s chin firmly,
fingertips bruising into flesh. “Delighted,” he murmured, weakly parroting of
the older boy’s tone, and his cousins laughed. They nudged Crabbe and Goyle
into motion and the boys moved with the practiced synchronization of unthinking
minions.
Heavy hands fell on Harry’s shoulders and pressed. His knees buckled and he
fell heavily to the stone ground. His kneecaps jarred against the floor and he
bit his tongue, tasting copper down his throat. His eyes glared fire up at
Draco, who smirked with cold eyes and stood to one side. He glanced at the
cousins, who stood side-by-side, arms and hands brushing as they stared down at
Harry. Crabbe and Goyle held him down, pinned his arms behind his back, their
vice grips unbreakable, and Harry didn’t struggle against them. There was
little point.
Eric and Malcolm moved in tandem, sliding smoothly forward across the stone
floor, hands moving to the clasps of their robes, pushing them aside as they
worked at their belts and trousers. Harry didn’t watch. He glared up at Draco,
and clamped his mouth shut, teeth grinding together.
“You Gryffindor boys are all the same, aren’t you, Potter? Just love to open
those mouths of yours, use them for something proper, eh?” Belt buckles fell
open with metallic clinks, echoing quietly in the deserted hall. “Bet that
godfather of yours would be proud, you following in his footsteps like this.
Sirius never was the proper lad, from what we’ve heard.”
The older boys broke their gaze with Harry to look down at themselves as they
opened their trousers, each stroking themselves lazily as they watched the
other. Harry still didn’t look away from Draco’s pale eyes. The young man
hadn’t yet moved either. The sounds made by the cousins were loud in the quiet
of the darkened hallway.
“Uh, Draco?” Crabbe warned and Draco’s eyes flicked away from Harry’s, moving
inches over to eye Crabbe questioningly. He and Goyle were watching the
cousins, their eyes sparking with confused concern. This wasn’t the usual game
plan. Draco looked at his cousins also, but the two boys were too involved in
themselves for the moment to notice the others. He looked back at Harry as
Crabbe issued a sharp inhale, and his eyes widened.
Blue ribbons of energy crackled from Harry, scorching Crabbe and Goyle’s palms.
“Take your hands off me,” he said and the two boys cried out as the energy
snaked up their arms hotly.
“Wild magic,” Draco gasped and took a stumbling step backward. Eric and Malcolm
looked up and froze. “What do you think you’re doing, Potter?”
A slow, deep slither of a voice came from the darkness. “Defending himself, it
would seem.”
“Professor!” Draco exclaimed. “We were just…”
“Yes, I saw. Mr. Goyle, Mr. Crabbe, unhand Mr. Potter. I would suggest you find
your way back to your beds. Mr. Malfoy, you as well. Mr. Prewett and Mr.
Prewett-Black, right your clothing and follow along.”
“Professor!” Malcolm exclaimed, drawing his robe about himself. “He’s a
Gryffindor! How could you even think of…?”
“How could you?” He returned sharply. “My business with Mr. Potter is my own,
and no concern of yours. Now, be on your way.”
Draco flicked his eyes at the still kneeling Harry and, as Harry glanced up at
him, he spat at the ground. He turned and left, Crabbe and Goyle at his heels,
each sparing a glance back at Snape before they disappeared into the darkness.
Eric and Malcolm lingered for a moment, but finally, they too followed the
others back to Slytherin House. The darkness of the dungeons closed around
their retreating shapes.
“I could have handled them on my own,” Harry said, once the sound of footfalls
disappeared, and he rose to his feet, his arms and legs quivering with fear he
refused to feel. Shame settled low in his stomach. He hated that they had been
able to put him in such a position. They had subdued him so easily, so quickly.
He’d been powerless, nearly so.
Snape nodded, his mouth twisting into something close to a smile but it looked
weak, even for him. “I don’t believe I said I was defending you, Mr. Potter. I
have a duty to protect the members of my House, and you seemed on the edge of
electrocuting them.”
Harry looked up at him and his own mouth quirked with an amusement he hadn’t
felt in months. “It’s good you showed up when you did, then.”
Snape looked at him for a long while, his dark, unreadable eyes intense. Harry
shifted, his sore knees twinging, and Snape blinked. “You came to see me for a
reason?”
“I’ve finished my homework for the night. I thought we might run through an
Occlumency lesson. If you have the time, sir.”
He looked down his nose at Harry for a long moment and then nodded. “Very
well.”
Harry followed behind him silently, not intending to speak, but as they reached
the entrance to Snape’s study, he found himself saying, “I’m sorry for using
wild magic. I… I wasn’t thinking.”
Snape’s hand stopped on the door handle and he looked back at Harry. “No, of
course you weren’t. It was a situation over which you had no control. The use
of wild magic was an effort to gain control.” He opened the door and they both
walked into the room, the door swinging shut behind them. The fireplace burst
into life with a glance from Snape and the teakettle hurriedly began to boil.
Snape gestured for Harry to sit and he followed into an opposing chair. “You
have had previous experiences of a lack of control, haven’t you?”
Harry’s eyes flickered as the memories surfaced.
Snape nodded. “And you will continue to experience such situations, to greater
and greater degrees of subjugation. The Dark Lord particularly enjoys creating
situations where one is left with few options.” His dark eyes flashed and he
turned away, moving his attention to the squealing teakettle. “You must learn
to find a measure of control in every situation, no matter how helpless it may
seem. Create your own control, no matter how small.”
“Like with the wild magic?” In his mind’s eye, he pictured setting their pale
hair alight. He needed for them to know they hadn’t beaten him.
Snape nodded. “But wild magic is dangerous, because it also lacks control.”
“Then how…”
“By learning control, daft boy. Wild magic is uncontrolled, that is true, but
it can be harnessed. That is the purpose of the wand, but when you haven’t
access to your wand, you have to find other ways.”
“Such as…”
“Such as control of the mind and of the body. Magic is an outside force,
harnessed by the wand. That is what students are taught, for the wand is the
safest means of harnessing that power, but you can be the wand as well. You can
be the harness. You simply need to learn control.”
Harry nodded slowly. He took the offered tea cup from Snape’s hand and turned
it between his fingers. “Control over my mind and body, that is the next
lesson?”
Snape snorted and sipped his tea. “Occlumency is control over the mind, or have
you not been paying attention?”
“I have,” Harry replied, and he turned these new ideas around in his mind. “But
now I understand.”
Snape looked over at him and sighed. “Finally.”
===============================================================================
“Harry?”
He sighed and looked up from the array of texts he had pilfered from the
Restricted Section. Ron and Hermione stood across the long table. Ron shifted
back and forth between two feet and Hermione's fingers twisted together. He
slammed his book closed and pulled the others closer, away from their eyes.
“What?” He demanded sharply and they glanced at one another.
“Harry, we’re-”
“Look, I’m busy right now, Ron. Is this important?”
Hermione took a deep breath and blindly reached to grip Ron’s hand gently.
“We’re worried about you, Harry. You’ve been keeping to yourself all this time
and spending so much time alone, or with Professor Snape… we…”
“I’m fine,” Harry snapped and then sighed. He took a deep breath of his own and
then looked at his friends again. “I’m fine. I’m just… studying. I have to,
well, I have to learn more than I know and I have to do it quickly. Voldemort,”
he watched them flinch, “might act any moment. I have to be ready this time. I
have to.”
Hermione nodded. She peered over the table at his books, but he drew them
closer again.
“What are you studying now? Do you need any help?”
“No,” he shot back and then shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I have to do this
alone.”
They glanced at each other again and Ron sighed. “Do you need anything, mate?
Uh, sandwich? Cuppa?”
“I’m fine. I just need to finish this,” he eyed them purposefully and they
sighed again.
“Right. Well. We’ll… see you later then?”
He nodded, attention going back to the book in his lap. “Sure. Later.” He
waited for them to finally leave and then reopened the book to the section he’d
been focused on. He smiled grimly to himself and wondered what they would think
if they knew he was studying the proper mechanics of fellatio.
Control, he told himself again and began reading again.
===============================================================================
“Professor! Professor Snape! Yoohoo! Snaaape!”
After several minutes of ignoring the insufferable woman completely, he stopped
dead in the middle of the hall, sending students scrambling to avoid bumping
into him. He growled loudly, causing a small, blonde first-year to squeak and
jump like a field mouse. Then he turned. Trelawney caught up to him in a waft
of silk scarves and lavender incense.
She grinned at him widely, oblivious to his forbidding scowl.
“Congratulations, Professor.”
He growled again, under his breath. He didn’t have time for rubbish. “What are
you on about, Trelawney?”
She waved a hand in the air, bracelets clicking. “You’re in love. I’m so
pleased for you. A long time coming, isn’t it?”
Snape blinked at her, as did several students before they shook themselves and
ran away. “Excuse me? I’m not in…” He cleared his throat and glanced around the
hall. The few students who remained in the area doggedly kept their eyes away
from him. He looked back at the confused woman, her pleased and radiant
expression falling as she tuned into his response.
“You’re… not?” Her eyes flickered hesitantly, but then she smiled knowingly and
said, “Then you will be.” She patted his arm, blind to the way he tensed and
pulled away. “After all, it is the future I see, not the present. This is
lovely. Simply lovely. I do love a happy ending.”
He rolled his eyes. Considering her obsession with doom and gloom, he doubted
that last assertion was entirely truthful.
“Trelawney, I am not in love,” his lips curled in a sneer at the words. “Nor
will I be in love. And I would appreciate it, in both the present and the
future, if you would keep yourself from my business.” He turned away, managing
only a step, when a vice-like hand clamped over his forearm and yanked him
back. He stared down into the woman’s wide, staring eyes. She opened her mouth
and from it came a deep, vibrating voice, filled with power.
“He’d kill for you, Severus. If you’re not careful, the life he takes may be
his own.”
Trelawney cackled and released his arm with a snap of her wrist. He stared
after her as she wafted away down the long hallway. The sound of her sharp
laughter echoed around him long after she’d gone.
===============================================================================
Control. Control over body and mind. Harry stood in the dark dampness of the
dungeon hallway and waited. He’d checked the Marauders’ map. They were coming.
Snape had left him in the study for a meeting with Dumbledore, and he wasn’t
expected back for an hour at least. Plenty of time, Harry thought, to put his
experiment to the test. It was an experiment in control. Not control over
magic, but control over his body and his mind, his emotions and fears. Harry
knew it was always a good idea to start small, but he was impatient. He wanted
to prove, not to anyone else - not even to Snape, because Harry knew he would
never tell Snape about this - but to himself, that he could do this, that he
could face them again, and keep it on his own terms. He needed to prove they
hadn't frightened him.
He checked the map one last time, and yes, Snape and Dumbledore were still in
Dumbledore’s office, Snape pacing back and forth. And yes, there they were,
Malcolm and Eric, the cousins, walking side-by-side, almost on top of each
other. And coming closer with every step.
“Mischief managed,” Harry told the map and folded it up, tucking it away into
an inner pocket of his robe. He straightened his clothing and his glasses, and
leaned back against the wall. The hallway was dark and secluded. No one, rarely
even Mrs. Norris, came down it. But the cousins did, and often. Harry had
staked it out, surveying the length of it for the perfect spot to implement his
experiment. Here, he’d found it. A shallow alcove with a low padded kneeling
bench tucked away. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea what the alcove and bench
had originally been used for, but he knew what he was going to use it for now.
The lantern light bobbed closer and he stepped away from the wall, standing in
the middle of the hallway. His heart stuttered and his stomach clenched as a
sharp stab of fear lanced through him, and he berated himself. He had to be
strong. The circle of light touched him and the cousins came into view, eyeing
him with surprise and dark pleasure.
“What have we here?” Malcolm asked, holding up the lantern. “A lost Gryffindor,
separated from his pride. Should we return him?”
Eric smiled and stroked his fingertips down Malcolm’s arm. “Maybe he’d rather
join our game.”
Harry didn’t smile. He didn’t feel capable. This was his experiment. It was his
game. Time to prove he could control the situation this time around.
“You want to play?” He asked. “Then let’s play.” He gestured with his hand.
“Both of you, into the alcove.”
They stopped. Eric’s fingers froze on Malcolm’s arm, but then Malcolm smiled a
slow grin and looked at his cousin. “I like the sound of this new game. Care to
change our plans, love?”
Eric smiled back, eyes on the unmoving Harry, and he slipped into the alcove.
It was wide enough for the two of them to stand comfortably side-by-side, and
when they stood entwined together as they did, it left more than enough room.
Harry turned to face them, but he didn’t step near them. His stomach turned
over and he curled his hand into a fist at his side. “Robes open,” he ordered
abruptly. “Get yourselves hard.”
Malcolm blinked, before a wide, pleased grin spread over his angular face. “Not
a problem, Potter. We like the sound of this game. We like it a lot.”
“I don’t care,” Harry snapped. “Get on with it. Robes open, or this won’t
happen.”
Eric looked at his cousin, and Malcolm nodded. “Let’s play, little boy.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and said nothing, but his plans for Malcolm made an
abrupt change. He waited and watched as they stroked each other to hardness,
each seemingly oblivious to Harry, but he knew they were very aware of him.
“That’s enough of that,” he interrupted and surged toward them, palms hitting
them flat in the chest and sending them hard against the stone. His hands
immediately went down and he grasped their erections, which rehardened quickly
after their momentary surprise. He stared them hard in the face as he toed the
bench to their feet and sank to his knees.
It required more dexterity than Harry had expected, but holding a broomstick
one-handed and reaching for an evasive Snitch had apparently well-prepared him
for this moment. He grasped Malcolm’s cock firmly, remembering to stroke the
underside with his thumb as he bent forward and slowly took in Eric’s erection.
The head felt full and round against his tongue and a bitterness filled his
mouth as he sank down over it. It throbbed against his tongue, and above him,
Eric groaned and put a hand down into his hair.
He shook off the hand irritably and he pulled off and glared upwards.
“Don’t touch me. Understood?”
Eric nodded quickly, fingers clenching in mid-air. Malcolm glowered at Harry
and pulled Eric closer to him to pass him a filthy, open-mouthed kiss while
watching Harry.
Harry tightened his grip on Malcolm and mashed his thumb down on the frenulum,
and Malcolm jerked back with a strangled yelp. Harry’s mouth curled in derision
and he bent again to close his lips around the slick head of Eric’s cock. He
sank down around it, feeling it fill his mouth and press against his tongue,
feeling it bump against the roof of his mouth. He closed his free hand around
the base of it to steady its movements, and he could feel the thrum of Eric’s
blood beneath the thin surface of skin as it pulsed thickly in his grasp.
He could do this, he decided, as he rose up and sank down again, as the thick
head of the cock pulled over his tongue and against his lips. Above him, Eric
moaned and scrabbled his hands to clutch at Malcolm’s robe, fisting the black
material. Harry looked up at him and sneered. Look at him. What power did he
have now? Harry could hurt him if he wanted to, could end this, could take it
to completion, could do whatever he wanted.
Malcolm leaned over and grasped Eric’s hair, pulling his head back to expose
his throat, and kissed him, shoving his tongue in and pulling his head closer
to seal themselves together. Eric gave a muffled moan, and in Harry’s mouth,
pulsed and Harry tasted a thick, salty, musky flavour.
He pulled off again with a wet pop. Eric pulled his mouth away to protest as
his cock bobbed aimlessly in the air, and Harry scowled up at Malcolm. “We’re
playing by my rules,” he said and grasped Malcolm’s bollocks in his fist and
pulled down.
“FUC-” Malcolm let out the beginnings of a scream before Eric muffled it with
the palm of his hand. Harry took Malcolm as deep as he could, letting his teeth
rest against the swollen skin before he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard.
Malcolm’s cry echoed down the hall before Eric stuffed his tie into his
cousin’s mouth and hushed him, whispering soothing endearments.
He kept his hand clutched around Malcolm’s bollocks, a stern warning, and
returned to Eric, who groaned as he sank down again around his leaking
erection. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it would be long now. Eric was
leaking steadily into his mouth, filling it now with a salty, bitter taste, and
his gasps were becoming short and quick. Eric’s free hand scrabbled at the
stone wall, clutching at the sharp curves of the stone. Harry pulled up and
dragged his tongue against the underside of the cock and Eric gasped loudly and
flooded Harry’s mouth with a musky bitterness.
He choked and pulled off, coughing, and spat on the ground. He winced at
himself, and then looked up at Eric, who had closed his eyes and was grasping
weakly at the wall.
“Sit down.” Harry ordered him and Eric nodded weakly and slid down the wall.
The tie pulled from Malcolm’s mouth and left a trail of spittle against Eric’s
shirt.
He looked up at Malcolm, who had one hand threaded through Eric’s hair and the
other braced against the stone wall. The older boy smirked and said, “My turn
now?”
Harry glared up at him and pulled down again with the hand around Malcolm’s
bollocks. Malcolm twitched, but his grin deepened and Harry gritted his teeth.
He bent forward, eyes holding Malcolm’s, and stretched out his tongue to trail
it gently against the shiny head of Malcolm’s cock. He did this again and then
again and then again until Malcolm was thrusting forward into empty space and
against the retreating tip of Harry’s tongue. He fondled Malcolm’s bollocks,
pressing his thumb gently between them and rolling them about his palm as he
continued his slow and meticulous ministrations. He kept up eye contact and
watched in satisfaction as Malcolm began to unravel and tremble, his eyes
rolling upward, his mouth falling open.
Finally, Malcolm began to thrust deeper into Harry’s mouth and his gasps rolled
together into a steady stream of bitten-off profanity, and he moaned, “I’m
going to, Eric, I’m going to…”
And Harry pulled off and sat back and pulled his hands away.
Malcolm moaned and thrust in the empty space toward him, but Harry slid off the
bench and stood up.
He would chastise himself later for everything he had done wrong, but now he
stood, wiping the bitter taste from the edges of his mouth, and told Malcolm,
“If you mention this to anyone, I’ll see to it that you regret it.”
And he walked away.
His legs shook.
He knew he’d do better the next time. Control, like anything else, took
practice. Snape had taught him so.
===============================================================================
As he put himself to bed that night, wishing Ron a distracted goodnight, he
thought about how Snape would react if he knew about Harry’s extracurricular
lesson plan. He couldn’t approve. No one would approve. It wasn’t the sort of
thing anyone should play at. He could only imagine what Ron and Hermione would
say. He felt the distance between them now as a physical thing, a thick
boundary of safe space he had created to keep them apart from the danger and
chaos of his life, but this was different. This wasn’t someone else causing
chaos in his life; this was all him. He had made this choice. It had been him.
They wouldn’t understand. They’d think it was unforgivable.
Hours ago, he’d thought the same way. It was something he had to do: he had to
prove to them that they hadn’t scared him, prove that he could take what they
gave and that he wouldn’t crumble before them. He had thought it was something
he had to endure. If word of it got out people would talk, but he had so little
time left, it couldn’t matter. He might have a year, at most, before Voldemort
came for him, before they had to kill or be killed, before they had to resolve
that prophecy and set the future of the entire world.
He had once thought his life would proceed the way his parents would have
wanted for him: a wife, children, a cozy home and a proud career, but he knew
now that that life would never be his, regardless. He had little chance to
survive long enough to realise anyone’s dreams and so he had never bothered to
invent a dream of his own. Not sleeping in a cupboard had seemed like enough.
Safe behind the velvet curtains of his bed, his unachievable future took on a
new, nebulous shape. It had been uncomfortable and awkward, and neither Malcolm
nor Eric were anyone he wanted to touch again, but looking back… He could still
feel the heaviness on his tongue, still taste the muskiness. He could remember
the sounds he had pulled from them. He could remember the desperation on
Malcolm’s face as he pulled away. Under very different circumstances, he might
even have enjoyed himself.
But he hadn’t done it as well as he’d hoped to - he could think of a hundred
ways he had failed. His hands had shook. His knees had trembled. His voice had
broken. He had choked and coughed. But he could do it again. He could do it
better. He could win next time. It wasn’t the worst task he’d set for himself
over the years. And it was a power and he liked having that power, he thought
as sleep curled around him. Snape might not approve of the how, but he had to
agree with the power.
As he clutched the thought of Snape close in his mind, Harry dreamed.
He was in the hall again, on his knees again, Malcolm and Eric gasping before
him, and he knew Snape stood somewhere in the shadows, watching. And then Snape
was there beside him, eyes on Harry, so close Harry could feel his heavy robes
brushing against his back, against his arm, his hand warm against his neck. The
cousins were gone, and Snape was bending down, lifting him to his feet. He
smoothed a hand over Harry’s cheek and his eyes were very dark, and the hallway
was gone. He was in Snape’s study, the bitter smell of potions hanging in the
air, the scent of the leather chairs, the smell of the fire, and Malcolm and
Eric were just a nightmare.
He was safe and Snape was there with him. He was folding his long, long arms
around Harry, and holding him close. Harry was enclosed within the darkness and
warmth of Snape’s black cloak, held tight against his body. He could smell him,
he could feel his heartbeat. He was so safe.
Snape was running his hands along his back, up through his hair, along his
neck, over his chest, everywhere. There was no fear. There was no need for
control. He was safe.
He was touching Snape. His hands were inside Snape’s cloak, under his shirt,
against his warm skin. He was so safe. Everything since the bright green light
and his mother’s scream was a bad dream. There was only this warmth, this
comfort, this safe space. This wonderful touching, this wonderful heartbeat,
and these wonderful hands and dark, dark eyes.
He woke, and for a moment, it was as if the world was sunny and full of colour
again. A pleasant ache warmed his belly and his skin tingled at the memory of
Snape’s hands against him. Harry’s hands trailed sleepily lower, and from
beyond the curtain of his bed, Seamus shouted, “Neville! Your blasted toad is
in my bed again!” and Harry woke fully.
And then the heavy, grey weight of it all descended on him.
He had another day full of classes and nosy students before he could retreat to
the safety of Snape’s study, but there, he would need his control now more than
ever. He couldn’t risk Snape seeing these thoughts. Snape hated him and
tolerated his intrusions only because Dumbledore insisted, and this…
He couldn’t risk losing his one safe haven.
===============================================================================
It had been a long afternoon and was now deep into the twilight of the evening.
Dinner had come and gone, and all that remained was a basket of hardening rolls
and a large pot of tea which muttered in annoyance every time it had to reheat
itself. Harry sat bow-backed over a dusty tome, finger hovering near the corner
of the page, and his mouth moved along the thick words. Snape sat at his desk
with two tall piles of essays to mark. The ink had run dry on his quill and he
had yet to notice.
Harry sat at an angle to him. He could watch the young man’s mouth moving as he
followed the text. He could watch the gentle and careful way he turned each
filament-thin page by the upper corner, the way he refrained from touching the
old, yellowing paper so as to keep his finger grease from ruining the
centuries-old text. He was being respectful of Snape’s book - a book he had
certainly never allowed a student to touch previously. Snape wondered if that
was an inherent trait in Harry, or if that was another element of his newly
assumed personality.
The new personality disturbed him in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Harry
was calmer now, more focused, studious, respectful. He didn’t speak back,
didn’t crack jokes, didn’t even smile. At least, not as Harry had smiled in
years previous. Harry no longer had the smile that sparked uneasily in Snape’s
memory and reminded him of that same smile on another’s face, a memory touched
with distant echoes of love and laughter. No, Harry didn’t smile that smile
anymore, only a new cold and bitter smile, one that pulled unnaturally at his
mouth and frosted his eyes. There was no more time wasted on Quidditch. He
didn’t whisper to his friends in class. He didn’t drift off into a daydream
while he should be working. He was the student Snape had always wanted. He was
no trouble. He was perfect.
Snape’s skin itched while he was around him. He wanted Harry back. The one who
caused trouble and laughed until his eyes sparkled. He wanted to see the Harry
who would sneak out past curfew, and challenge him in class. Who would answer
his sneers with snark. Who would get excited over Quidditch, or prop his chin
up in class and drift away with that wistful, dreamy look. He wanted the Harry
back who could find joy in even the most trying of times.
What was wrong with him? Snape had once actively loathed everything that had
identified Harry as Lily and James’ son. He could see Lily in Harry’s eyes and
in his smile and his laughter, but from James’ face, that insufferable prick of
a man. James’ disdain shining at him from his childhood friend’s kind eyes,
James’ pettiness, James’ cruelty.
But they had moved beyond that now, he thought. He could see Harry for what he
was, or what he should be, what he ought to be if he would only let himself
again. Snape wanted to see it again; in fact, he craved it. Merlin’s tangled
beard, even that half-smile out of the corner of Harry’s mouth would suffice.
Something to prove that Harry was, in fact, still Harry and not just the tool
he claimed to be. Harry as the weapon in training disturbed him in a way
nothing ever had before.
“Why are you doing this?” He asked suddenly, voice breaking the silence. Harry
turned to look at him and Snape scowled deeply to hide his embarrassment over
the question. “Why devote yourself so intensely to being this ‘weapon’ you
speak of?”
Harry’s face was pale in the torchlight, with dark hollows under his
inscrutable eyes. His cheekbones stood out prominently as the light cast long
shadows against his cheeks. He had lost weight, Snape noted, but at the
scrutiny, Harry averted his gaze from Snape’s.
“I don’t have time to be foolish,” he answered patiently, as if the question
was an ill-timed test. “More people will die if I’m foolish. They depend on me.
I have to become what they expect me to be. What they believe I am.”
“Which is?”
The cold smile appeared. “I’m The Boy Who Lived. They expect me to save them.
It’s my destiny.” He sat back in the wooden chair, which creaked ominously
beneath him, and he glanced back at Snape once again. “Look at Merlin or at all
the prophets from muggle history - they were all Boys Who Lived, all with
destinies. They were never stupid, never foolish. Their followers expected a
certain role from them, and they delivered. That’s what I have to do.”
“You’re comparing yourself to a messiah?”
Bitter smile. “I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m anyone’s messiah. No one
prays to me, or I certainly hope they don’t. But people do base their faith
around me, and it’s up to me to live up to that faith. I don’t belong to myself
anymore. I belong to them. They own me.” He shrugged lightly, dismissively.
“I…” his voice stuttered and his features hardened, his lips curling in
disdain. “I don’t have a right to… to my emotions. I’m a weapon, a tool, to be
used for one purpose only. It’s better this way. It’s how it should be.”
His eyes lost focus as he gazed toward the high, dark windows and then he
shrugged. “Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned back to the book and
resumed his work.
Snape could feel the ugly taste of bile rising in the back of his throat.
Dumbledore needed to hear this. The Headmaster had to know that the time to
intervene had long past. Snape swallowed thickly and said, putting more than a
touch of annoyance and irritation in his voice, “I have business with the
Headmaster and have wasted enough time on minding you this evening. If you
intend to continue your studies...”
“I know,” Harry said without lifting his head. “If you aren’t back before I’m
done, I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“See that you do,” Snape retorted, sharper than he had intended, but Harry did
not react. He paused momentarily in the doorway, glancing at the bent body, the
hunched, curved spine, and then shut the door firmly behind him.
===============================================================================
He waited with his back pressed against the cold stone. His hands were balled
in tight fists against the tremors he couldn’t manage to calm. His knees were
locked to keep himself standing tall. When his breath came, it stuttered in his
throat, like a butterfly trapped beneath a bell jar.
The air smelled stale, for all that this particular hallway, this particular
alcove, had seen more use than perhaps ever before.
Someone would eventually come to find him. Nearly every night he stood here and
waited. Word had travelled through Slytherin House and they knew where to look
for him. They knew where to find him. They knew what he offered.
He pressed his fists back tightly against the stone wall, until small stones
flaked off from its aging surface and imprinted into his skin. The pain of it
was welcome. It helped to calm his thoughts and helped to focus his mind. He
was here to learn control and he was still here because he had as yet failed to
do so. He couldn’t manage to control his feelings and his thoughts. They
betrayed him. They whispered things to him, about how this was wrong, how he
was wrong, but he was determined to master this.
This was only sex, he told himself, he told the tremor in his arms and the
clutch in his belly. People did this all the time. This was normal. If he
couldn’t manage to control himself in the face of this, what hope did he have
against something worse, against real fear and terror and pain? Death Eaters
were known to torture, and he had to figure out how to be in control then, when
it really mattered.
Footsteps approached in the darkness and he tensed, turning his head toward the
approaching light. It was typically the same people, and Malcolm and Eric had
come back often. They didn’t seem to have suffered greatly from either their
encounter with him or with Snape. After their attack on him, the professor had
officially given them a week of detention with Filch for being “out of rooms
after dark”, and unofficially he had turned his cruel eye on them, chastising
them for every small infraction and every minor error, but they bore it all
with identical smirks. Rumour had it that Snape had been paid a visit by a grim
solicitor and given stern warnings from the boys’ fathers, both of whom were
suspected Death Eaters.
Harry hated them. They did their best to make him feel soiled and
insignificant, and he struggled to maintain his control with them, struggled to
shut off his emotions and keep his calm center intact. They wanted to break
him. He refused.
The flame of the lantern bobbed into view and Harry startled when two of the
seventh year girls came into view. So far, only the boys had come down this
hallway. He’d had to turn away the younger boys because that was not the sort
of control he sought, but he hadn’t thought that any of the girls would come to
find him.
“He is here!” exclaimed the taller of the two, dark skinned with a thick braid
of hair draped over her shoulder, and her friend smirked.
“They were whispering about it in the common room the other day,” she swept her
eyes over Harry and raised one thin, pale eyebrow. “Had to see it for myself.”
Her eyes were like sharp slivers of blue glass, ready to worm beneath his skin
and cut him to ribbons. Harry’s stomach lurched and he took a deep breath. This
would not break him either.
===============================================================================
When Ron and Hermione returned from their Christmas holidays, it was impossible
for them to pretend that Harry hadn’t changed. Denial was no longer an option.
This was not something that would easily be resolved. If the rumours were to be
believed, their friend had gone beyond what they could reach.
Ron sat in Dumbledore’s office, deep in a plush chair, and all he could think
about was the first time he and Harry had met. First, the brief meeting on the
station platform, then the train ride itself. Harry bashfully showing his scar
and admitting to being “the Harry Potter”. Buying the cartload of sweets
because Ron had a hateful corned beef sandwich. Later, facing off against Draco
as he defended his barely hours-long friend. Ron could remember the joy Harry
had felt on discovering flying, the relief he’d felt at finding Hogwarts and
having a place to belong. And even through everything, through Quirrell and
Voldemort, through the Slytherin’s Heir episode, through Death Eaters, through
the Tri-Wizard tournament, through everything, Harry had never lost that simple
joy of experiencing what the world offered him.
Never had Ron imagined that Harry would accept this. Never in his wildest dream
had he imagined he would find himself here: that he’d one day find out that his
best friend was choosing to give random blowjobs to Slytherins out of a need to
prove something - to whom? To himself? Ron didn’t even know how to react to the
news. Harry had lost his mind. There was no other explanation. After everything
that had happened, it must have been too much for Harry’s mind to take. He’d
fallen off his rocker. He had one too many boggarts in his belfry. There could
be no other explanation.
Hermione, he noticed ruefully, was not as trapped in shock as he was.
“Did you know he was doing this?” The top of her head came within a bare inch
of Snape’s shoulders, but she had him pinned in place through sheer willpower.
“You’re supposed to be looking after him! You’re supposed to be his teacher.
How could you not know he was doing this? You’re the only one he spends any
time with these days. If he’s doing anything, you’d know. And he’s doing it
with Slytherins, with your House! How could you not have heard anything?”
Snape refused to be cowed. He stood with his arms tightly crossed over his
chest and glared down at her. “No one in this room knew how Mr. Potter was
spending his spare time. I can hardly be held to blame.”
Ron met Dumbledore’s gaze. The old man looked at him for a moment, his chin
resting on his folded hands, and then he lifted his head and said, “I knew.”
Snape and Hermione turned to look at him as one, and before Snape could say a
single word, Hermione turned her fury on the Headmaster.
“You knew? And you did nothing?”
Dumbledore shrugged. “It was his choice. I couldn’t interfere.”
Even Snape looked appalled. “You’re the Headmaster. You can interfere wherever
you care to.”
Dumbledore shrugged again, a quick flick of his right shoulder. “I can order
him not to engage in his current activity, but he’ll find another way of
exerting control over himself. He thinks this control is necessary and ordering
him away from this will only push him deeper into darker activities.”
Snape’s face drained of the little colour it possessed and he said in a
strained, quiet voice, “Control?”
“Someone told Harry he needed to learn control over himself. Control over his
mind and over his body, I believe it was. Harry, left to his own devices, has
taken that advice and interpreted it in his own manner.” Dumbledore picked up a
frosted cookie and turned it over once before taking a large bite out of it. He
chewed for a moment and then said, “I don’t believe that I have any influence
over Harry’s current mindset. That honour belongs only to one person, Severus.”
The room was held in a long, pregnant silence. Ron looked up at Snape. All
colour had drained from the man’s stark face and he didn’t need to be Hermione
to make the mental leap. “You’d better fix this,” he said, his voice louder
than expected in the quiet room. Snape flinched at the sound of it, barely
noticeable except for the slight sway of his hair around his face. Ron took a
deep breath and told him, “If you did this, you’d better fix it.”
===============================================================================
Snape watched from the shadows. He wanted to leave, rather desperately,
actually, but unlike some other people, he hadn’t an invisibility cloak in
which to hide. Any movement on his part would be immediately spotted by the
couple. He had missed the opportune moment to step from the shadows, tarried a
few seconds too long, and now it was too late.
A small voice in his head told him he didn’t have to watch, didn’t have to
listen, shouldn’t be doing it in the first place, but his body didn’t listen.
He watched with a morbid fascination, a masochistic inability to look away. The
girl’s back was to him, but he could see the way she writhed, the way her
spread legs quivered. Her fingers were in Harry’s hair, and Harry’s fingers
were on her hips. They held each other close, locked in a carnal embrace. She
finally spasmed, throwing back her head, a small, bitten off cry between her
lips, and Harry raised his own face from between her thighs. She panted up at
the ceiling, catching her breath, no doubt, waiting for her heart rate to slow,
and then she looked back at Harry.
“Thanks,” Snape heard her say. Aurora Cartwithe, a seventh year Slytherin. He
recognized her voice. “That was great.”
She pulled away from Harry and stood, smoothing down her skirt and robe and
tucking her hair back into a messy parody of order. She looked down at Harry,
still crouched on his knees. “You need me to…” She gestured vaguely at him, and
he shook his head mutely. Snape saw the relief fall over her features. “Right
then. Well. See you.”
She walked away without another word, leaving Harry on his knees in the
darkness of the secluded hallway.
As soon as her steps retreated far enough to no longer be heard, Harry dropped
forward, hands flat against the cold stone ground. His head dropped down. His
shoulders shook.
Snape couldn’t remain hidden. His control slipped and his body betrayed him. He
walked forward, slippered steps muted, and crouched by Harry’s side. His hand
ended up on Harry’s back, stroking minutely.
Harry shuddered.
“Harry,” he said softly, coaxingly, as if he spoke to a wild animal, a bolting
pony, an injured hawk.
His reaction was not what Snape would have expected, not that he had a good
idea of what to expect as he had very little idea of what he himself did at the
moment.
“Don’t!” Harry cried out. “Don’t call me that! I need to you to… Tell me how
I’ve failed. Tell me I’m nothing to you. Don’t pity me. Don’t do that to me! I
can’t do this without... You have to hate me.”
Snape stared at him, hand frozen on the tense back. “No,” he replied,
unthinkingly. “I can’t. I don’t.”
Harry sobbed sharply. His head dropped back down. “Why?” He whispered. “Why
not? I need you to.”
“Because,” Snape replied and ran his hand up his back to the narrow patch of
pale skin between the dark robe and the midnight black hair. “Because, Harry
Potter, it is the person I admire, not the weapon.”
Harry froze under his hand, and Snape did as well. His mind screamed at him,
Idiot. Now look what you’ve… Harry gasped suddenly and twisted under his hands.
He wrapped his arms around Snape’s waist and pressed his face into Snape’s
chest, shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed out his misery. Snape tensed
for a moment before he did what he hadn’t allowed of himself since childhood.
He released his tightly reined control, and he curled his taller body around
Harry’s and buried his nose in Harry’s dark hair, and he covered him from the
world within the safety of his arms.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N - my betas wanted to name this 1st chapter "Harry Potter and the
     Alcove of Bitter Emissions"
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Harry paused in his reading to give his tired eyes a firm rub. They were still
a bit gritty with sleep. He shifted on the familiar hard wooden library chair
in an effort to find a more comfortable position, and then sighed and gave up.
The chairs were clearly designed to discourage study and encourage back
problems.
“Harry?” Came a tentative voice from behind him. He turned in his chair and
looked back.
“Ginny.”
She hesitated, fingers curving around themselves. “Can I sit?” She asked.
He looked around the library, at the rows of empty tables. The late night had
once been his safe haven, but he’d quickly discovered that the early morning
was best. Few were awake at that hour, even among the faculty. Snape, for
instance, prowled the night, but slept long into the morning.
But he wasn’t avoiding Snape. He wasn’t avoiding anyone anymore. If they found
him, spoke to him, he answered. He’d promised to try. Promised not to hide
anymore. And during the day, that was exactly what he did, but sometimes it was
just too much. That’s when he came here, to the library, in the wee hours of
the morning. Not to hide, but to breathe. He just needed to breathe sometimes.
He had made a promise to Dumbledore, to Ron and Hermione. He would try.
He blinked and saw Ginny taking a hesitant step backward. “Sit,” he told her
and pushed out a chair. “It’s okay.”
She hesitated another moment, clearly torn, but she sat. “I wanted to know… I
just wanted to ask you…”
Harry sighed and sat back in the chair. “Go ahead. I’ll answer. Whatever you
want to know.”
Ginny looked at him in surprise, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. “No,
Harry, I –”
“What do you want, Ginny? Do you want to know if I’m gay? Because that wasn’t
what it was about, even though, yeah, I think I am. Do you want to know why I
really did it?”
She shook her head mutely.
He sighed again. “Then tell me. What do you want to know?”
“I wanted to know… I’m having trouble with Potions, and… Well, you’d been
spending so much time with Snape. I just wanted… some help.” She looked down at
her hands and shrugged one shoulder lightly. “That’s all.”
“Oh,” he said. And then he laughed. Ginny’s lips quirked hesitantly as she
peeked up at him, and Harry grinned at her. “Ginny, I’m pants at Potions. The
worst. I can barely make tea.”
“But,” she said, still with that uncertain smile. “You spent so much time with
Snape…”
“I was reading his books and learning Occlumency or Defence. Sometimes I just
sat there and did my homework, but never Potions. Because I’m rubbish at it.
Really.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip and looked down. “That’s too bad.”
“Ginny,” he sighed. “If you want help with a potion, why don’t you go ask Snape
for help? No one in the world knows more about potions than him.”
“Snape? I couldn’t! I mean, he’s…”
“He’s not so bad, Ginny.” He laughed at the look she gave him. “He isn’t.”
“Then…”
“What?”
She looked up at him. “Why aren’t you spending time with him anymore? Did
Dumbledore order you not to? Because of the… you know, the thing.”
“Because I was sucking guys off in the dungeons when I was supposed to be
studying with Snape?”
She flushed red and scowled at him.
“Ginny, I was… I made a mistake. A series of mistakes. I was… confused. But it
wasn’t Snape’s fault. He really did try to help me, but I was… Dumbledore
certainly hasn’t ordered me not to see him. He hasn’t ordered me not to do
anything, actually. I haven’t been spending time with Snape because… well, he’s
a professor. He has better things to do than baby-sit me.”
She eyed him hard and he looked away.
“Well, I’ll just go ask Professor Snape for help then.”
“He’ll still be sleeping at this hour,” Harry told her.
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He flushed and looked away again.
“I don’t know that way, Ginny.”
She gazed over at him, mutely, eyes seeing more than he wanted to tell. She,
like most others, had little patience for Trelawney, but Divinations was
Ginny’s particular strength. She had an uncanny and uncomfortable way of seeing
things others didn’t. Finally she nodded. “Thanks, Harry. See you at
breakfast.”
===============================================================================
He ought to be grateful, Snape told himself. After all, in the beginning, he
had let Harry into his study out of pity, or perhaps it had been compassion.
Either way, it had been against his better judgement. He wasn’t the type to let
anyone into his private study. He enjoyed his private time far too much to be
comfortable with people trekking through his life and his space with such
regularity. He wasn’t Dumbledore, for Merlin’s sake.
So he ought to be grateful to have his study back to himself.
But he wasn’t.
It had been three weeks since what he liked to think of as “The Incident”. As
unnameable as the Dark Lord in proper society. Though, truthfully, not much had
happened. Harry had been left kneeling on the stone after young Miss Cartwithe
had left, and Snape had lost control and held him. And perhaps he’d pressed his
lips against Harry’s neck, but really, it hadn’t been a kiss. That wasn’t what
he’d intended at all.
The morning after The Incident, Harry had come to his office and thanked him
for his consideration, and apologized for taking up his time and space. He
wasn’t going to bother him anymore, he’d said.
And he hadn’t. Harry hadn’t gone back to being the aggressively hostile pupil,
but the almost friendly truce between the two of them seemed over. Harry was
polite and respectful and removed. As it should be between a teacher and a
pupil, of course.
He really ought to just be grateful.
He glanced up as a knock sounded on his door, but it wasn’t Harry. Harry had a
very distinctive knock. Or, perhaps it wasn’t so distinctive, but Snape had
come to recognize it nonetheless. That wasn’t so odd, was it?
“Come in,” he called out gruffly and looked down at the paper he’d been trying
to mark. He couldn’t remember what the topic of the paper was supposed to have
been. This wasn’t like him. And over a student. It was ridiculous.
“Professor Snape?”
He looked up. “Miss Weasley. What can I do for you?”
She was looking at him with an uncomfortable intensity. His stomach clenched
and his mind screamed at him that she knew, she knew, she knew, but he shushed
it. There was nothing to know.
“I’m having trouble with the potion you assigned yesterday, sir. I was hoping
you could help me with it.”
He blinked and sat back in his chair. “That’s very brave of you, Miss Weasley.
I don’t believe I have ever had a student come to me for help before.”
She smiled and sat down in the chairs across from his desk. “I have to confess
that it wasn’t my first thought. Harry was the one to tell me to come here. He
said that no one in the world knew more about potions than you did. I was…
hesitant, but…” She smiled again. “He said you weren’t that bad.”
“Did he?” Snape pondered that.
“Yep.” She sat back in the chair and traced her fingers up and down the arms of
the chair curiously, looking around the room as she did. “So, will you help me
with my homework, professor?”
He looked over at her and steepled his fingers. “And if I were to tell you that
all the help you need is in the text?”
She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “Harry told me you’re not so
bad. For him to say that about you, sir, makes me believe that you won’t turn
me down. In fact, I’m willing to believe you’re more than just a decent human
being. If Harry likes you, you must be a good man.”
Snape blinked again and his mouth went dry. He reached over and drank down the
rest of his forgotten tea, now a bitterly frigid concoction, but it was enough
to wet his suddenly parched throat. If Harry likes you… He told his overactive
mind to shush and focused on the student before him. He was acting like a
bloody randy teenager. He hadn’t been this uncontrolled since…
“Very well, I’ll help you.” He nodded his head toward the far corner, where a
basic table was set with a small cauldron and an array of ingredients. It
wasn’t enough for more complex potions, but more than enough to mix up a last-
minute tincture for his own use. The homework potion he’d assigned for the
fifth-years was an easy enough potion, without needing any complicated
equipment, but despite that, it required a steady hand and a clear head while
mixing the ingredients, for if it were not combined with knife-blade accuracy,
the potion would fail. He suspected Ginny’s attempts had worsened with each
failure. That was the beauty of the lesson, as far as he was concerned.
He walked over to the table and began pulling small bottles from the array.
Ginny trailed after him, watching. He poured a clear stream of spring water
into the cauldron and then tapped his wand along the edge of it, sending it
into a slow, steady boil. He turned to look at the slight, redheaded girl.
“These ingredients are fresh, I would have nothing less in my office, but if
you aren’t certain, always perform a check. You can forgo that particular step
for now.” He nodded down at the cauldron. “Begin making the potion, Miss
Weasley, and do so slowly and methodically. I will observe and comment when
necessary.”
She nodded, licked her lips, and stepped forward. Her hands shook at first, but
as she worked, he watched her relax into the experiment. She had an aptitude
for potions, when she paid careful attention to her actions, he thought, but
that was similar to many other students who claimed to be terrible at Potions.
Mr. Potter, for example. The man – the boy, he corrected – didn’t have the
patience for potions, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t focus if necessary.
Snape had seen him do it time and time again, when faced with Voldemort or the
various other challenges which sought him out. The Triwizard Tournament, for
example. Snape had had to bite down on his cheek to keep from smiling when
Harry had defeated the Hungarian Horntail. It was cleverly done and weighted to
his strengths. He knew Potter could focus. Potions simply weren’t what he chose
to focus upon.
Ginny lifted a small vial of the liquid, holding it up to the light to check
the colour, tongue trapped between her teeth, and she added one of the final
ingredients to the mixture, stirring widdershins three times before testing it
again.
Snape stood back, watching her, considering. He knew it had been a popular
rumour around the school for several years that pinned Ginny and Harry
together. Certainly, there was a connection between the two, Ginny being a
Weasley and Harry being an honorary member of that particular clan, and they
had the connection of having both fallen prey to Tom Riddle. He supposed he
also had that particular connection with the two of them. He wondered if the
rumour was just that, a rumour, or if perhaps it was more. She certainly was an
attractive enough child, not that he was the best to judge such things, and she
and Harry seemed close, close enough that she trusted his opinion enough to
risk the wrath of Severus Snape.
He smiled to himself at that, at the same time hoping that Harry wouldn’t
continue to tell others that he wasn’t quite as unapproachable as the students
believed. He had crafted a persona for himself, and he could honestly only
barely tolerate the majority of the students, and he especially didn’t like
them traipsing through his office. He wondered if he should have a word with
Harry, but then immediately dismissed the idea. No, all ‘words’ with Harry had
been cut off after The Incident. Harry had stepped back and Snape let him. As
was for the best. Why a man, a boy, like Harry would look twice at Snape… It
was preposterous to have –
“Hey! It worked!”
His eyes flicked down to Ginny and the small vial she held aloft in the candle-
soft yellow light. The liquid was a brilliant blue colour, and the bottom of
the vial pulsed white. He smiled.
“Excellent work, Miss Weasley. It would seem that you’ve disturbed my afternoon
for nothing.”
She stared at him for a half-second, then shook herself and looked down at the
vial. “I couldn’t do it before. Not at all. It just kept getting worse and
worse.” She looked up at him again. “Thank you.”
“For? I did nothing.”
“For…” She shrugged. “Making me slow down and pay attention to what I was
doing. It was…” She was looking at him again, as she had when she first walked
in. She set the vial down on the tabletop and considered him. She ran her eyes
up and down him and Snape had to fight down a sudden blush. She saw too much,
this girl.
She smiled at him. “I can see why Harry changed his mind about you. I can see
why he likes you. You really are a good man, aren’t you?”
He scowled at her, but it missed its usual heat. “I would appreciate if you
didn’t spread about unnecessary rumours.”
Ginny grinned and tapped her nose. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with
me.” She looked at him again, seeing past his carefully wrought defences. Had
the Dark Lord thought to recruit the girl rather than use her as a vessel, they
would all be in danger, Snape thought. She smiled again and then nodded.
“Thanks again, professor. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
He nodded and said nothing, nor did he watch her leave. Every internal self-
preservation alarm he’d developed over the years was currently ringing like a
Sunday morning church bell. He did not trust easily, but he would have to trust
a Weasley now. The thought did nothing to improve his mood for the evening.
===============================================================================
“Oi! Harry!” Ron jogged up beside him and matched his long legged stride with
his friend’s. “You look like shits, mate.”
Harry smiled and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Thanks, Ron. Want to
push me down the stairs too?”
Ron snickered. “Na, thanks for the offer though. But you gonna tell me what’s
got you looking like your best-friend’s died?” Ron narrowed his eyes at him.
“You’re not planning on killing me, are you?”
“Not today, no.” Harry shook his head and looked away, looking at the new
spring growth sprouting around them. The cherry trees would blossom soon.
Sprout would soon be out on rickety ladders, snipping flowered branches to
collect cherry blossom essence for Snape. A primary ingredient in love potions.
And in sedatives.
“What?” Ron asked. “You got that look again. You thinking about… you know. The
Thing?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone have to call it that? It’s bad enough
the whole school knows, but having all of you calling it ‘The Thing’ doesn’t
help either, you know.”
“Well? What do you want me to call it?”
“Don’t call it anything. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I was confused and I just
needed… something. I looked in the wrong place, is all. And no, I wasn’t
thinking about it. I was… Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Hey, Harry,” Ron stopped and put his hand on Harry’s elbow to stop him. The
crowds had thinned and they were both left in the courtyard with only a handful
of stragglers sitting on the benches across the way. “Look, mate. I don’t want
you doing it again, got it? I don’t care what you got to say, just don’t keep
it all locked up again. I don’t want you running off in the middle of the night
to start shagging…” he waved his hand in the air, looking for a name, “…Filch.”
Harry smacked him. “Ron!”
Ron chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. “Look, the point is, I’m not gonna judge
you for nothing. Got it? Hell, even if you do want to shag Filch, that’s all
fine and good. It’s damned strange, and rather disgusting, actually, but
whatever. Whatever you tell me, and I mean that, I’ll be fine with it. May take
me a second or two to think about it, but really. I’ll be fine.”
Harry looked at him. “Really? Anything?”
“Anything. Just as long as you don’t want to join up with What’s His Name, or…
I don’t know… shag me, or Hermione. Um… or dead people. That’s just icky.”
Harry grinned despite himself. He looked away again and then motioned for them
to sit on a bench.
“Go on. Get it off your chest.”
Rolling his eyes again, Harry scowled at him. “I’m getting there.” He sighed
and looked down at his hands. “Ron, what do you think of Snape?”
Ron frowned and thought about it. “I dunno. Never much liked him, you know
that. You didn’t either. No one does, really, ‘cept maybe his Slytherins. And
Dumbledore, I guess. But lately? I dunno. You hanging around him didn’t seem to
do you much good, really, but he’s been pretty good to you since, not being a
wanker in class or glaring at you all the time like he wants to skin you alive
and watch you dance, so maybe he wasn’t such an arse all along. Maybe he really
was looking out for you, since the beginning. Remember that first Quidditch
match?”
He shrugged and continued, “Ginny seems fine with him too, going to him for
help with her Potions. She’s getting real good in that class too. Has nothing
but good to say about him.” He shrugged again and looked up at Harry. “So, I
dunno. Kinda, what’s the word, ambivalent, I guess. Why?”
Harry had watched his friend carefully, but he still didn’t have the answer he
wanted. But Ron had said ‘anything’. “Because I think I’ve fallen for him.”
Ron blinked and then blinked again. “Fallen, as in…”
“You know what I mean.”
His eyes grew wide and he looked away, staring off blankly. He looked back.
“Really? Snape?”
Harry shrugged self-consciously.
“All the way? Like you want to –”
“Shag him?” Harry cut in and watched Ron’s face turn a purplish shade. “Yeah,
but it’s not just that. I think I kind of… love him, or something.” He sighed.
“Look, you love Hermione, right? And it’s not just because you want to shag
her?”
“Harry!” Ron looked scandalized for a moment and then considered. “Well, ya, I
don’t just want to shag her. Though… uh, anyway. I want to, you know, be with
her and… I dunno. Make her happy.”
“And even though she’s really annoying around examinations and when you’re
trying not to write a paper, you still want to be with her.”
“Well…” Ron laughed at the look on Harry’s face. “I get your point. Yes, I
still love her even when she’s being a prat.”
Harry nodded. “Well, that’s just it. I’ve tried to talk myself out of it, but
there’s no point. I feel better when I’m near him. I want to figure out how to
make him smile. I just… I’m in love with Snape.”
Ron shook his head bemusedly. “Well, bloody hell. You sure can pick ‘em, can’t
you, Harry? What’s he got to say about it, then, eh?”
Harry blushed. “I haven’t said anything to him!”
“Why not?”
“Because! He’s a… teacher. And… why would he want me?”
Ron shot him a look. “You taken a look in the mirror lately? Even I know you’re
hotter than beans on toast.”
“Beans on…”
“Besides,” Ron interrupted with a look. “In class lately, Snape just, what’s
the word for it, he smoulders at you. Like it’s eating him up inside that he
can see you but can’t touch you.”
“Ron!”
“What? That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s the truth as far
as I see it.”
“He’s our professor, Ron.”
Ron shrugged. “He’s not so much older, and age for wizards is all beside the
point anyway. Dumbledore’s like, a million years old. That would be weird,
mate. Snape’s just, what, twenty years older? That’s nothing to wizards.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m not just talking about how
old he is, Ron. He’s our professor. I’d get him in trouble.”
Ron shot him an odd look, then shook his head. “Keep forgetting you were raised
by Muggles and all. We’re wizards, Harry. This is, well, normal. Hogwarts has
always had a kind of… unwritten policy against it, but only because it happens
a lot. Not even thirty years ago, we were married right out of school,
generally. Sixteen was when we courted officially, marriage-like courting, and
generally speaking, witches, and sometimes wizards too, would marry older. You
know, they’ve got the knowledge and the money and the houses and the security
and stuff. Professors were easy targets. You marry older, they help continue
your education, and you make a bunch of babies to marry up, and so on. Most of
the old families still do it. It’s falling out lately - Muggle influence
likely, but it’s still not gone.”
At the skeptical look on Harry’s face, Ron grinned and poked him in the ribs,
in precisely the spot Harry was most ticklish. Harry twitched away from the
touch with a glare. “Look, if anyone ever said anything about it, some bloke
from the Ministry would come down and you’d take a veritaserum and Snape would
take a veritaserum, and everything would be fine. They’d see it was all settled
and fine between the two of you, and then they’d go have lunch or something.
‘Sides, you’re old enough now for it to be legal and all, and it’s not like the
Dursleys can kick up a fuss, even if they ever find out.” He looked at Harry
again and then sighed. “Look, you're really worried about it, talk to
Dumbledore. He’ll tell you the same thing all over again.”
Harry flushed at the thought of telling Dumbledore that he wanted to sleep with
Snape. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think I’d just embarrass myself
in front of Snape, and then everyone else would find out, and I’ve got enough
bloody things to be embarrassed about around here. Just… forget I said
anything.”
“No way. You told me so now I know. Can’t take it back.” He shook his head
fiercely. “I won’t tell anyone, you know me. ‘Sides, you going to want to talk
to someone about it from time to time, and me’s better than nobody, right? Just
think you’re missing out and all. I mean, I wouldn’t want to shag Snape. He’s
so… thin and pasty, like. Plus, you know, a bloke. But who doesn’t want a good
shag? Probably. Plus, poor Snape, gotta look at you every day in class. Poor
guy probably has to pull himself off just to sleep at night.”
“Ron!” Harry shoved him again, sending his friend into a fit of laughter.
“Sorry! Couldn’t help myself. You look so serious. Cheer up, mate. You could
always just seduce him after we’re done here.”
Harry rolled his eyes and pushed his friend to his feet. “Thanks for all the
help, Ron,” he muttered.
“Anytime, mate,” Ron laughed as they made their way back into the castle.
“Anytime at all.”
===============================================================================
Snape looked up in annoyance as someone’s cauldron exploded loudly with a cloud
of rancid smelling yellow smoke. His eyes fell immediately on Longbottom, but
the young man looked as surprised as the rest of them. The cloud parted and
Snape’s eyebrows rose.
“Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! What went wrong here?”
Harry blushed even as Ron hid his sniggers in the palm of his hand.
“Nothing, sir. I was just… I’m sorry.”
Snape narrowed his eyes at him. Harry wasn’t meeting his eyes and the flush
along his cheeks was suspicious, not to mention the look Ron was shooting at
him. It had been some time since the two of them had concocted some mischief
under his nose, and he wasn’t about to let them get away with it, no matter his
feelings for the man. Boy, he corrected himself with irritation.
“Detention for the both of you, in my office, tomorrow afternoon. I will decide
what to do with you then.” He stopped and stared as Harry flushed even hotter
and Ron all but chewed through his hand in an effort not to laugh. “What now?”
Harry shook his head, his eyes frantic with mortification as he looked up at
him.
Snape held his eyes, confused by the look held within their depths, but he only
frowned and let it drop. “Ten points from Gryffindor. Each.” He swept back to
the front of the room and glared at them all. “I hope there will be no further
interruptions?”
===============================================================================
Harry pushed Ron away as soon as they were out in the hallway, but Ron just
collapsed into a fit of laughter against Hermione who looked at the two of them
as if they were insane.
“What was that all about?” She asked, but the two just shook their heads, Harry
mute with anger and Ron mute with laughter. She sighed and pushed Ron away. He
fell against the wall and slid down it, holding his sides. She stared down at
him and looked at Harry.
“Harry, what is the dimwit laughing about now? What happened with the potion?
Did you confuse the order again? Because I told you that the goosegrass came
before –”
“That’s not it,” Harry interrupted her. He flushed, with anger or with
embarrassment, she couldn’t be sure, and he glanced around the crowded hallway
before answering. “Come on,” he pulled Ron to his feet. “Snap out of it. Come
on.”
He led them down the hallway and then sharply around a cobwebbed corner. The
secluded hallway was thick with dust and light filtered feebly through the
thick cobwebs, leaving the hall pitch dark. They each lit their wands and the
bluish light cast their faces in odd relief.
Harry looked at Hermione, who stared back at him, intrigued by the mystery. “I
told Ron and now look at him. Getting me detention,” Ron burst into renewed
laughter and Harry shot him a disgusted look. “So if I tell you, Hermione, do
you promise to be a little more mature about it than your boyfriend?”
She nodded seriously, eyes wide, and Harry sighed.
“Fine. Here it is, the big joke. I fancy Snape.”
She blinked and looked at Ron who was biting his lip to keep from laughing.
Tears ran down his face, leaving him red-faced and blotchy. She looked back at
Harry and repeated, “Snape.”
He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Yes, Snape. I more than fancy him. And
Ron is laughing at me because I happened to stupidly share a particular fantasy
with him last week about detention with Snape. Ron teased me about it in class
and now I have detention with Snape.” He glared at his friend. “Which means I
have to kill him, of course.”
Hermione nodded and turned to glare at her boyfriend. “I’ll join you. I know a
particularly effective little curse that I think I might like to try…”
“I’m sorry! It’s just so funny!”
Harry growled. “Yes, well. You have detention too. So you had better hope that
detention goes a little more normal and a little less fantasy.”
Ron turned a greenish shade and swallowed. “Yeah, mate. I’m with you on that.”
Hermione shook her head and looked back at Harry. “You really fancy Snape? Are
you going to… do something about it?”
“No,” Harry replied immediately and Ron sighed.
“Tell him! You both could use a good shag, I say.”
“Ron!” Hermione and Harry exclaimed and he raised his hands in the air, the
blue light from his wand fluttering above his head like a fairy, casting
shadows over them.
“Fine!” Ron replied. “But it’s true, mate. I’m getting sick and bloody tired of
watching the two of you stare at each other all day. Either get to it or get
over it. And that goes double for him. It’s right pervy the way he watches you
all the time, I say.”
“Ron…”
“Right, right. My mouth is sealed. Not another word.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Hermione shook her head and asked, “Harry, didn’t you go to Snape in the first
place to ask for help? For training against… you-know-who? Are you still doing
that?”
Harry opened his mouth and then shut it with a snap. He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Because…” He shrugged.
She looked at him. “Look, Harry. This is too important, isn’t it? In the
beginning, didn’t you say you weren’t going to let your hate for him stand in
the way of your training? Because the information he can give you is more
important than your feelings?”
Harry nodded, looking at the ground.
“Well, don’t you think it still applies now? Isn’t it still more important than
your feelings? You can’t let… let love stand in your way any more than you
could let hate. Right? If you’re all that stands in the way between us and…”
She waved her hand in the air, “…don’t you think you should be working
seriously at it? All the time?”
He sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I know. I’ll… talk to him.” He sighed
again and ran a hand through his hair, scattering any semblance of order. He
looked over at Ron and then said, “Tomorrow. Today, let’s get down to the Great
Hall. I’m hungry.”
Ron nodded, leading the way, his lit wand bobbing along. “I could eat a
hippogriff. I hope they have those little cheese things they had yesterday.” He
took off and Harry and Hermione glanced at each other before dashing after him.
The hall stood dark and silent for a breath, and then a wand flickered to
light, turning Draco’s pale hair an eerie blue. Crabbe and Goyle stepped away
from the wall and looked after the retreating lights. They looked to Draco and
waited.
He shook his head, eyes shining in the light. “Neither of you heard a word they
said, understood?”
They nodded. “Got it,” Goyle replied and scratched his ear. Crabbe relaxed back
against the wall again and picked at his teeth with his thumbnail.
“Good,” Draco said slowly. “I’ll handle this.”
===============================================================================
Harry looked up from the extra-large cauldron, which smelled unpleasantly of
charred milk and which was far too large for him to scrub comfortably, to
glance across the room at Snape. Snape sat behind his desk, his raven-feathered
quill waving furiously through the air as he marked a knee-high pile of papers.
The man had barely glanced at Harry and Ron as they’d come into the room, and,
in as few words as possible, had pointed them to a corner of the classroom
piled high with cauldrons for them to scrub. Snape had been there since, behind
his desk, like an angry shadow, and Harry wondered what had changed since the
last time he’d been in such close quarters with the man. He wasn’t just
ignoring him – he was angrily ignoring him.
He frowned down at the cauldron as the thought came to him. Why was Snape
ignoring him? Was he still angry over what Harry had done? Was he embarrassed
about finding Harry in the corridor? Was he embarrassed by the way Harry had
clung to him afterwards? It was understandable, Harry supposed. Snape didn’t
like people, so he certainly wouldn’t like people sobbing down the back of his
robe and clinging to him. But…
Ron nudged him and Harry looked over at him questioningly. Ron made a scrubbing
motion and raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed and nodded, going back to work. His
elbow and shoulder were starting to hurt, and they still had more than enough
cauldrons waiting for them to move on to. And when it was all over, he had to
speak with Snape, and once again ask for his help. His stomach clenched at the
thought.
Occlumency. He knew now that it was something he needed, that if he were ever
to come within fighting distance with Voldemort again, as he undoubtedly would,
he needed to be able to protect his mind. But it also meant that Snape would
see his every thought while teaching him to mask them from others. His every
thought.
But Snape was a professor, Harry told himself as he scrubbed the cauldron’s
bottom, leaning half-in, half-out of the giant pot, feet braced to keep himself
from ending bottom up in the cauldron. Snape wouldn’t hold his thoughts against
him, even if those thoughts prominently featured Snape in various stages of
dress and undress. Snape would ignore them. Surely he was used to featuring in
a fantasy or two. Harry sucked in a breath as the image of the man danced
before his spinning head.
Snape was dark and intense and… not handsome, but striking, certainly. And he
understood. He wasn’t like anyone else. He took all of this seriously. Those
Harry’s own age had no idea about the real danger of Voldemort, and even
Dumbledore seemed to minimize the threat, as if the worse danger was causing a
panic. As if it all might blow over anyway. And no one else had had the same
experience with Voldemort that Snape had. Harry still had little idea about the
extent of Snape’s experiences, but Harry knew it hadn’t been a happy time. They
had a shared intimacy with Voldemort’s cruelty. Few others could completely
understand.
He wriggled back to his feet, brushing sweat from his forehead as he breathed
in deeply, feeling light-headed. He had long ago shed his robe and jumper, and
now his shirt was clinging to him uncomfortably. He needed a bath. He probably
stank, not that Ron would say a word, seeing as they both stank, but Snape,
with that nose of his… He glanced back at Snape and froze as their eyes met and
held. Snape’s eyes were dark and guilty, as if he’d been caught at something
forbidden. Harry’s skin felt electric, and he could almost feel the air
crackling. His breath clutched in his chest. He couldn’t look away.
Ron nudged him and he turned his head automatically. Then, seeing only his
friend’s smirking face, glanced back, but Snape had already returned to his
work, hair fallen in a heavy curtain around his face. Harry looked back at Ron
and glared at him.
Ron grinned, even as he worked. “Have your fantasy detentions on your own time,
mate,” he whispered. “Leave me out of it.”
“I wasn’t…!”
“Yes, you were, Harry, and so was he,” Ron nodded his head toward Snape. “If I
weren’t here, you’d be all over each other.”
Harry flushed and looked down at the cauldron. “No, we wouldn’t.”
Ron chuckled softly. “You’re probably right. You’re both such pansies about
it.”
Harry shot him an amused look as he crouched down, ready to continue scrubbing.
“We’re pansies about a gay relationship? Shocker.”
“You know what I mean, Harry. The space between the two of you is probably the
safest place to be, since neither of you’ve got the bollocks to step into it.”
“Ron…”
“You have time for conversation?” Snape asked, standing directly behind Harry’s
curved back. Harry froze and glanced up at him. Snape surveyed him down the
length of his nose. “Perhaps I haven’t set aside enough work to occupy you.”
“We’re working, Professor. Look at the load we’ve cleaned,” Ron said
defensively.
“Yes,” Snape said coolly. “I have been watching. You, Mr. Weasley, have been
working, surprisingly enough. However, Mr. Potter seems to be having trouble
focusing on the task at hand. I believe we need to eliminate distractions in
order to achieve any success from him.” Snape turned his hooded eyes toward
Ron. “You may go, Mr. Weasley.”
Ron’s eyes widened and he looked over at his friend, who shook his head
imperceptibly, eyes white and wide.
“Mr. Weasley? Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said you may go.”
Ron slid to his feet and nodded. “Yes, sir.” He paused and bit his lip hard.
“Don’t be too stiff with him, sir.” He choked at the look that flashed over
both their faces and, without another moment’s hesitation, he ran from the room
before he said another word.
Harry stared after his friend as he crouched on the floor. He couldn’t move. He
might as well have been cursed with a binding spell. He wondered if he could do
as Snape had told him, harness the magic with his own body and have the floor
open up beneath him and let the cold earth swallow him.
Snape’s feet moved around him and Snape’s fingers came into view, touching the
rim of the cauldron and coming away. “Do you intend to spend the evening in
your current position, or have you considered the true marvel of mobility?”
Harry’s head dropped between his shoulders and the moment flashed back to him.
He exhaled sharply and pushed up to his knees and then shot up. He took several
steps back from the spot and brushed his hands frantically over his dusty
knees. “I…” He began and stopped, wondering what he could say.
“Follow me,” Snape ordered him after an interminable second, and he walked
away.
Harry looked after him and grabbed his jumper and robe before following,
keeping several steps behind. Snape left the classroom, and as Harry left, the
door swung shut with a flick of Snape’s hand and it locked. Snape led him down
the corridor to where it branched, and there he paused before continuing. Harry
didn’t say a word. The air was frigid against his sweat-soaked skin and he
struggled into his robe as he tried to keep up with Snape’s long-legged pace.
He was sure he looked like the cursed spider from third year defence class, but
there was no one to see him either way.
Snape finally paused at the end of a hallway. Nestled into a small alcove sat a
statue of a young girl, her arms curled around her knees and her chin resting
in the crook of one elbow. Her eyes were slitted and a tiny smile hovered in
the corner of her mouth, as if she held a secret she would never tell. She was
covered in browning moss and from the tip of one elbow to the wall stretched a
silvery spider web. Harry looked at her and then at Snape.
“Lueur du jour,” Snape said to the girl and her lips twitched before the panel
opened, exposing a winding staircase leading down. Snape glanced back at Harry,
eyes unreadable.
“That’s your…”
Snape nodded. “Would you…” He stopped and looked down the staircase. “A tea,
perhaps?”
Harry looked down the staircase too and then back at Snape. He nodded. “Tea
would be nice.”
Snape nodded again and led the way.
It wasn’t what he’d imagined Snape’s rooms looked like, but it wasn’t far off
either. Two closed doors signalled further rooms, but it was the outer room
that had his immediate attention. It was warmer than he’d thought, with a large
fire waiting for them, casting waves of heat throughout the cozy room. One
chair sat near the fireplace and beside it, a side table stacked with books and
mugs and papers. Beside the table, resting on a pile of leather-bound books
only slightly shorter than the table, sat a bottle of amber brandy, and the
light from the fire turned it a golden, sparkling hue. A large woven carpet in
an intricate pattern of reds and greens and blues stretched the length and
breadth of the space. The second wing-backed chair sat lonely in a corner of
the room, and it was covered in stray blankets and robes and pillows, as if
someone had been trying to forget its very presence. Not far from it, against
the wall, was a table piled high with more books. The room was a disorder, but
a warm disorder, and even an inviting disorder. Harry had to get that second
chair out from the corner.
“It’s nice,” he told Snape, unsure of his place and his role in the situation.
He had his suspicions, but he was ready to have them shattered with one word
from Snape.
Snape snorted and shed his robe with a twitch of his shoulders. Beneath it, he
wore dark trousers and a black, mandarin-collared jacket, buttoned high to his
neck. The slightest hint of a white shirt appeared at his throat and at his
wrists. He tossed his robe at the wall and a wrought iron hook sprung from the
stone to catch it. Harry raised an appreciative eyebrow and tried to do the
same. His robe slid down the wall to puddle on the floor. Snape smirked. “The
room is serviceable,” he said and pushed a kettle of water over the fire. He
turned and looked at the single chair and froze.
Harry rolled his eyes and drew out his wand. The second chair lifted from its
corner and slid from the wall, blankets and robes spilling out along the floor
as it hovered its way across the room and settled beside the first. Harry
smiled and settled himself into it, automatically drawing up his knees to curl
into the wide seat. Snape gazed down at him for a moment before settling
himself into his own chair and gazing into the fire.
Harry drummed his fingertips against the leather of the arm. He scanned his
eyes over the pile of books beside him and picked up the topmost. It was a
fairly new edition, with a glossy cover showing a changing picture of lush
greens and misty valleys. Potions of China, read the title, and Harry thumbed
it open, finding several pages marked with bits of torn parchment. The pictures
were all similarly lush and alive, and, as he thumbed through it, he found
himself wondering if he would ever manage to survive long enough to travel
somewhere alive and different, somewhere that had never heard the name
Voldemort and Potter. He wondered if Snape had ever travelled. He wondered if
Snape ever would travel. He hoped so.
“Spit it out, Potter.”
He turned his head to look at Snape. “What?”
“Whatever has been pressing on your mind all evening. I’ve promised both your
friends and Albus that I would…” He made a face. “‘look out for you’ and I
would hate to disappoint them all. Especially Miss Granger. She certainly knows
how to put the sang-froid in a person.”
“That’s French.”
Snape rolled his eyes. “You impress me daily, Mr. Potter.” He summoned a tea
tray and poured the boiling water into the pot.
“Your password was French also, wasn’t it? What did it mean?”
Snape sighed and sat back into his chair. “Your education is dreadfully
incomplete, Mr. Potter. Have you never consider expanding your linguistic
knowledge?”
Harry scowled at him and Snape’s lips turned up in the corner. “My password,
Lueur du jour. It means… I suppose, literally translated, it means ‘brightness
of the day’, colloquially, other things. But it has no particular personal
meaning, if that is your question. I choose passwords which no one would
associate with me, and tend to favour languages other than Latin.” He shook his
head disgustedly. “Wizards would do well to remember that there are other
languages in the world besides English and Latin.”
“I had no idea that Professor Snape was such a champion of underdogs.”
“I am not a champion of underdogs. I do, however, believe in diversity in one’s
education.”
Harry nodded and looked down at the book still in his hands. The picture before
him was of a waterfall crashing into a calm pool. There were only a few ripples
across the pond. He read the caption, but it only spoke of herbs which grew
along the edge of the pond and a local apothecary who used them following
ancient tradition. “This book is nice,” he said, wondering at the surrealism of
the moment. He was sitting in Snape’s quarters, talking about languages and
books, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Nice pictures.”
“Hmm? Yes. It is a recent addition to my collection.”
“Collection?” Harry asked and it was then he noticed that the stack of books
beside him focused entirely on China. His eyes widened even as he let his
finger trail down the spines, reading the titles. One was propped against the
base of the pile, tingling with preservation spells, and he picked it up. It
was old, the pages yellowed and soft with use, and the few pictures were
stationary, but it wasn’t a Muggle book. Unless the Muggle who had written it
had believed himself to be a magician. It was filled with potion recipes, using
herbs and oils he had never heard of before. He checked for a copyright date
and found instead For Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth’s Royal Collection.
Harry looked up at Snape with wide, impressed eyes and found Snape watching him
apprehensively.
“This is amazing,” Harry told him and looked at the pile of books again. “You
have more?” He looked around the room.
Snape cleared his throat and nodded. “A… few.”
“Why so many?” Harry asked, still leafing through the ancient book.
He hesitated, drawing Harry’s attention back to him, and he said with a shrug,
“No one single book contains a comprehensive enough collection of information
for what I require.”
“Why don’t you write your own? You must be an expert, if you’ve read all
these.”
Shrugging again, his pale face flushed with a hint of colour. “The subject
interests me. China has a particularly long history of potions.”
Harry quirked a self-deprecating smile. “I wouldn’t know. Potions have never
been my favourite subject.”
Snape shot him a look. “I am shocked, Mr. Potter. Here, I’ve been living under
the misapprehension that you used Quidditch as a foil to hide your passion for
potions.”
Rolling his eyes, he replaced the books to the pile and picked up the teapot,
filling both cups and taking his own, blowing across the top. He took a
tentative sip and burned his lips. Snape made a small sound and Harry looked up
to find dark eyes watching his mouth. He licked his lips again, and Snape’s
lips twitched.
“You could call me Harry, you know.”
Snape startled and looked up into his eyes. “Excuse me?”
Harry shrugged and blew over the tea again. “You don’t have to keep calling me
‘Mr. Potter’. You know more about me than anyone else does, even Ron,
considering everything you’ve seen of my head. You can call me Harry…” Snape
was already shaking his head, so Harry asked, “Why not? It’s not like you
can’t, as a professor. Most of the other professors call me Harry.”
Snape shook his head again. “It would be… improper.”
“Why?” Harry asked again, a touch too strongly.
Snape made a face and looked away. “It simply would.”
“Look,” he began angrily, making Snape turn back to look at him. “I know I said
before that I didn’t want you to call me by name, but that was different. That
was a different situation. I want you to call me Harry.” He let out a long,
hard breath and sat back in the chair, his steady gaze challenging Snape to say
something. Anything. His stomach flipped, but he pushed down the anxiety. It
was done now. The quaffle was in Snape’s hands.
“Har…” Snape cut himself off with a violent shake of the head and he was out of
the chair, pacing away. He turned once he reached the far wall and shook his
head again. “I cannot.”
“Why?” Harry demanded, standing. “I know you want to. I know you.”
“You don’t know me!” Snape exclaimed. “You don’t know anything, Harry Potter.
What has happened to you? Tell me.”
“What do you mean, what’s happened to me? Everything –”
“No,” Snape cut him off, slicing his hand through the air. “What has happened
to you? I didn’t ask what has happened to those around you; I asked what has
happened to you.”
Harry’s mouth opened without sound. “My parents died! Sirius died! The basilisk
–”
“Your parents died. Sirius Black died. You didn’t. The basilisk attacked
others. Tom Riddle’s diary chose Ginny Weasley. Voldemort killed Cedric
Diggory. Not you.”
Harry felt the fury building up behind his eyes. “You want to know what
happened to me? I’ll tell you! Umbridge made me carve my punishment in flesh
and blood last year, over and over and fucking over, and every time I healed so
that no one would know, so that I could do it again the next day. You want to
more? How about the Dursleys? They locked me in a closet and starved me. They
looked the other way when Dudley and his friends decided to use me as a
punching bag. They treated me like something they’d stepped on.” He sucked in a
deep breath, only warming up. “How dare you imply that nothing’s happened to
me? How dare you?”
Snape’s eyes sparked at him. “Tragic, Mr. Potter. Flesh wounds and neglect.
Tragic, indeed. Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you know of the Dark Lord and his
treatment of those close at hand? What do you know of the Death Eaters and
their behaviour?”
“Nothing!” Harry yelled back. “Because you won’t tell me! I want to know! I
want to know what happened to you. I care! I care about you! Don’t you fucking
understand that yet?” He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, finally
realising he had said far, far too much. His throat closed up painfully and he
swallowed down.
Snape stared at him, mouth agape, and the colour he’d achieved from his fury
quickly faded to a bone white. “Mr…”
“Don’t,” Harry told him sharply and looked up through the dark fringe of his
hair. “You know now, don’t you? Even if you didn’t before, if you weren’t quite
sure, you know now, right?”
Snape nodded soundlessly.
“And you’re giving me nothing in return. You call me Mr. Potter and tell me
nothing, only that ‘it’s not possible’, that ‘it’s improper’, even though you
won’t even confirm what it is that’s impossible and improper.”
“You’re a child…”
Harry looked away for a moment and then looked back. “I’m old enough. That’s no
excuse and you know it as well as I do.”
“You’re my student…”
“Also not a problem, with veritaserum. Want to try another one?”
Snape sighed and rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “You’re
confused. That’s the only explanation. I couldn’t take advantage…”
“That’s utter shite. I was confused, yes, back when I was blowing most of your
House in the dark of the dungeons…” He drifted off and then his eyes lit up.
“That really upset you, didn’t it? That’s the whole problem…”
“No,” Snape answered immediately and then shook his head. “It upset me, of
course. It upset us all.”
“But it upset you especially, didn’t it? I was confused because you told me to
find control, and I made a mistake, and you blamed yourself, didn’t you?” Harry
watched him and his eyes grew even wider. “You didn’t just blame yourself. You
were jealous.”
“I most certainly was not!” Snape returned heatedly.
“You were… And you felt guilty for it. You blamed yourself for the whole thing
and you hated yourself because you were jealous.”
“Mr. Potter, do not presume to tell me what I felt.”
Harry stamped across the room, backing Snape against the wall, and locking eyes
with him. Harry reached out with his mind, exactly as Snape had taught him,
exactly as he had in their practice sessions so many times before. Snape’s mind
was a swirl of guilt and longing and desperation and self-repulsion and hunger.
And when Harry broke through, Snape’s mind immediately sought his, as if he
couldn’t help it, and Harry touched something elusive. He reached for it, even
as Snape fought against him to keep it hidden, but the more Snape fought, the
more it sought Harry, as if it wanted to be found. Harry reached out and
grasped it.
He pulled back and looked at Snape, who shook against the wall, gasping, eyes
wide with alarm. “You love me?”
Snape closed his eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened his
eyes again, they were hard and cold. “Do not do that again.”
“Then talk to me. Do you love me?”
“Mr. Potter, unhand me.”
Harry stepped back two steps and stopped, looking at him. “I need to know.”
Snape brushed the wrinkles from his clothes and glared at Harry. “What you did
could be considered an illegal attack.”
Harry let out an exasperated breath. “Then charge me. Go ahead. Bring the
Ministry down here. Have them bring their veritaserum. Maybe then I’ll be able
to get an answer out of you.”
“Perhaps it would be wise of you to leave now, Mr. Potter.”
He sighed again and nodded. “Fine. I’ll go, but I’m going to get an answer from
you, Prof…” He stopped and then said, “Severus.”
Snape’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
Harry nodded. “I’m going to get a real answer from you, Severus. But until
then, you can’t be rid of me. I still need your help with Occlumency and
Legilimency.”
Snape glared. “I should think you’ve had enough training, after your display.”
“I haven’t and you know it. I can break into your mind when you’re upset and
distracted, but Voldemort is a different story, isn’t he?”
Snape let out a long sigh and nodded, one quick, sharp incline of the head.
“True. Very well. But if you continue to… hound me, as you did tonight, I will
be forced to bring in a chaperone.”
Harry snorted, amused. “If you think I’m as dangerous as that,” he rolled his
eyes. “But I’d like to know what you’d tell the other professor, what story you
would create.”
Snape said nothing, only glared, and Harry grinned. “I’ll go, don’t worry.” He
turned and went to the door, picking up his robe, and turned back to look at
Snape. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Severus. Pleasant dreams.” And he left, feeling
victorious.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you for all your comments and kudos! I hope you all enjoyed
     this chapter. <3
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     I've decided to try posting shorter chapters more often, rather than
     a long chapter less often - mostly to try to keep up my momentum. I
     get lazy without a quick deadline!
     Please let me know what you think! Do you prefer a long chapter every
     2 weeks(ish) or a shorter chapter more often?
Ron rolled his eyes as they left Potions and joined the masses of students
heading up towards fresh air. “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?”
Harry suppressed a grin and looked at Ron innocently. “What are you talking
about?”
Hermione looked at him past Ron and pushed her hair out of her face. “I think
he’s talking about you, Harry Potter, and that... What was that? How on earth
did you make Snape turn that colour?”
He grinned at Hermione and shrugged, chuckling, “I have no idea what you mean.”
Neville jogged up behind them. “What was that, Harry? I was sure he was going
to kill me, but you just looked at him and he turned purple. How did you do
that? You’re not using Dark Arts on him, are you?”
He chuckled again and shook his head, noticing the crowd that hadn’t yet
disbursed around them. “I really can’t say anything.”
Ron snorted and Neville glanced between the two of them curiously.
“Why not?” He asked and peered at Harry. “Are you using Dark Arts?”
Harry laughed. “No, I’m not.” He looked around at the still undisbursed crowd
of students. None of them were even pretending not to be listening in. “Look,
Snape has been teaching me how to shield my mine from magical invasion, and
part of learning how to keep out an attack is learning how to break into
someone’s mind.”
Neville’s eyes grew round. “You’ve seen inside Snape’s mind?”
“Well, yes.”
A hushed mumble ran through the crowd. “Wow,” Neville breathed. “And he let you
live?”
Harry shrugged. “The whole point is to keep me alive, isn’t it? Wouldn’t make
much sense to kill me. Besides, I think Snape likes me.”
Hermione and Ron turned laughter into strangled coughs while Neville’s eyes
threatened to fall from his head.
“What’s this about, then?” Came Draco’s sneering voice as he pushed his way to
the center of the crowd. “Is something interesting happening? Oh, no. It’s just
the Potter fan club.”
Slowly, the crowd began to disburse, no doubt sensing that any real fun was
over. Hermione and Ron crossed their arms over their chests as they faced
Draco, and Neville stood his ground with his friends. Draco’s eyes flicked over
them disdainfully. Harry glared at the Slytherin boy, but he gathered his
control about him, mostly so that he wouldn’t set Draco’s pale hair alight with
fury.
“What do you want, Malfoy? We were having a private conversation.”
“Not so private from where I was standing. Doesn’t the famous Harry Potter know
that sometimes he should just keep his mouth shut?” Draco arched an eyebrow and
flicked his eyes dismissively over Harry’s friends again. “You little
Gryffindors should run back to your tower before someone hears something they
shouldn’t.”
He eyed Harry down the length of his nose and chuckled darkly. “You never know
who might be listening,” he laughed and turned away with a swish of his robe.
Ron growled at his retreating back. “Sometimes I wish I had a toad. I’d have
Dobby put it in his sheets,” he said with a jerk toward Draco.
“I…”
They turned to look at Neville, who smiled tentatively. “I have a toad.”
Ron’s face lit up and he tossed an arm around Neville’s shoulders. “Neville,
I’d kiss you, but Hermione would get jealous, and she’d never let me hear the
end of it.”
Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head to relieve Neville of the sudden worry
in his eyes. “Ron, no one in their right mind would believe you’re gay. We’re a
better dressed lot than you.”
Hermione snorted at the look on Ron’s face. “We’d best hurry,” she said.
“Remember? Hagrid said he had something special for us today.”
Ron shuddered. “What d’ya wanna bet it’s those horse-sized acid-spewing leeches
he was talking about last week? And what’s wrong with the way I dress, eh? I
think I’m pretty dashing, if I do say so myself.”
Harry and Hermione traded a look and Hermione smiled at him, patting his arm.
“Let’s get to class.”
They walked away, smiling, and Ron stared after them.
“Hey!”
===============================================================================
“Mr. Potter,” Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would you
kindly stop?”
Harry smiled and batted his eyelashes as he’d seen some of the girls do before.
Snape turned a deeper shade of pink for a second before he turned away,
growling.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“The point of Occlumency isn’t to allow the other person into your mind. You
are supposed to be trying to block me.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not good enough to block you.”
Snape rolled his eyes and looked back at him. “When the first thoughts I come
across once inside your mind are as specific as those I’ve been privy to, one
begins to wonder, Mr. Potter.”
“Like what? What thoughts?”
“You know which thoughts. Kindly keep those particular ideations to the
confines of your bedroom.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe I can’t help it.” He grinned. “You’re very sexy when
you’re angry, you know.”
Snape growled and paced away. He took a deep breath and then another, and
finally he turned back again. He tried a final tact. “What you are doing
constitutes harassment, Mr. Potter. And so I say this in the hopes that it
penetrates your hormone-addled mind. I have no interest in pursuing a
relationship with you. Any slight attraction I may harbour toward you is
overshadowed by many various reasons against it. One of which is your youth,
which you are currently displaying to an embarrassing degree. Even if I were
interested in pursuing a relationship with you, your current behaviour would
make me reconsider. I am a grown man, Mr. Potter. I have no interest in the
hormonal games of children. Do you understand me?”
Harry blinked at him. “Uh…” He flushed with mortification and nodded. “Yes.
Sir. I… think I do.”
“Good.” Snape answered with a relieved sigh and rubbed his forehead. “Now, can
we take this lesson seriously?”
===============================================================================
“Harry?”
He turned in his seat and found Dumbledore behind him. “Yes?”
“Could you follow me for a moment?”
He glanced over the table at Hermione quizzically and shrugged. “Sure.” He
grabbed a buttermilk muffin before getting up to follow the Headmaster from the
massive room. They stopped at the top of the staircase leading down from the
Great Hall. Dumbledore gazed down at him and Harry picked at the muffin, trying
not to wonder what Dumbledore wanted from him now. He hoped it was something
simple, but Dumbledore rarely did simple.
“Have you felt any sign of Voldemort lately?”
Harry blinked and rubbed his scar with the back of his hand. “No. Not really. A
twitch now and then, but nothing besides that.”
Dumbledore nodded and glanced away. “I’ve received some reports, but I wanted
to confirm it with you.”
“Reports?”
He nodded again and folded his hands inside his sleeves. “He is planning.”
The blood drained from Harry’s face and the muffin crumbs stuck in his throat.
“Soon?”
Another nod and Dumbledore had to right his hat before it slid from his head.
“How are your lessons with Severus progressing?”
Harry flushed and felt dizzy from the sudden rush of blood. “They… could be
better.”
“I need for you to devote more time to it.”
“How much more?”
“As much as possible.”
“Classes?” Harry asked.
Dumbledore looked down at him. “We cannot appear to change our schedules
overtly. Hogwarts is not as safe as we may like.” He looked away again and his
nose twitched. He scratched it. “But I have excused you from homework. And…” He
paused and scratched his nose again. “Severus has a spare room in his
quarters.”
Harry blinked and his eyes widened. “You want me to…?”
“It would save quite a bit of time, wouldn’t it?”
“But… what about changing schedules? People are going to notice if I’m… if I’m
living with Snape.”
“I have spoken to your roommates. They have agreed to behave as if you still
live in the tower with them. And…” Dumbledore fumbled suddenly with his robe
and produced a brass medallion on a chain. It dangled from between his fingers
as he handed it over. “Wear this. It will allow for brief Apparating within
Hogwarts.” He paused and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Or anywhere
that has been warded against it.”
“I haven’t learned…”
“Severus will teach you.” Dumbledore looked down at him with a sudden,
frightening intensity. “Is there a problem between Severus and yourself of
which I should be made aware? Anything to interfere with your studies?”
“Um…” Harry flushed again as he tucked the medallion under his shirt, feeling
the coolness of it against his burning skin. “Maybe. But I can… handle it.”
Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment and his eyes softened. “I trust
Severus, Harry.”
Harry nodded. “So do I.”
“Good. I have faith in your decisions. You both have my unconditional support.
In all matters.”
His face felt like fire, but he nodded. “Thank you.”
With another nod, Dumbledore changed demeanours again, rubbing his nose and
tweaking his ear. “You needn’t worry about your possessions. I have asked Dobby
to transport them to your new residence.” He smiled widely and walked away.
Harry felt his stomach drop to his knees. “Wonderful.”
===============================================================================
Snape stood in the open doorway to what had always been a bothersome room,
nursing a cup of camomile tea. His quarters had four rooms: the main living
area, and a toilet dividing two bedrooms. He supposed one of the rooms could
have been used as a study or a laboratory, but his office had both attached,
and so he had never seen the point to the second room. He had locked the door
and ignored its existence. He supposed he could have used it as a junk room or
as storage, but he had never been the type to keep attachments to objects for
which he no longer had a use. When his robes became too threadbare to be
repaired, he disposed of them. Chipped mugs were thrown out. Books that had
outlived their usefulness were donated to the school library or used as fuel in
his fireplace. The room had always been completely bare, without a single piece
of unused furniture.
The previously bare room was now in a state of complete disorder. A curtained
bed stood showplace in the center of the far wall. Beside it was a small
armoire teeming over with clothing and a squat, cushioned chair covered in
socks. A small desk sat directly beside the doorway, the chair pushed in,
textbooks piled neatly along its surface. It was the only spot of order in the
room. Everything else was covered in clothes and oddities. Bright orange
banners and posters of what Snape assumed must be famous Quidditch players were
pinned haphazardly along the walls, combined with several waving photos of
Harry’s house-elf with its arm around another sulking house-elf who clutched a
stained blue hat to its head as it attempted to pull itself from the embrace.
Harry’s Firebolt rested against the foot of his bed and piled beside it was his
Gryffindor team uniform, despite that he hadn’t had a use for it in nearly two
years. Across the bare, wooden floor was a plush carpet of burgundy and wine,
with a proud, rearing golden lion in the center and the word Gryffindor in
shining letters along the border.
He was housing a young, proud Gryffindor. The Slytherin in him wanted to
protest. The man in him wanted to find said young lion, tie him to the proud
Gryffindor bedposts and do unspeakably Slytherin things to him.
He turned away from the room and went to find himself a more fortifying
beverage.
He suppressed the urge to kill Dumbledore.
It had been an hour or so before the door to his rooms opened and a hesitating
Harry came in, clutching his book bag to his chest as he looked at Snape with
wide green eyes.
“Um… hi,” he said eloquently and took a single brave step into the room.
“Dumbledore said…”
“Yes, yes. Through the door on your right,” Snape waved toward the door and
went back to his reading. “You may wish to spend a moment or two organizing the
space. Your house-elf has an unusual take on decorating.”
Harry groaned and headed into his room. Snape heard him groan again and a
scuffle as he fought to organize. Several moments later, Harry reappeared, his
hairline dark with sweat and his face a brewing thundercloud.
“Dobby took my socks.”
“Excuse me?” Snape asked. He was certain he had seen a large pile of socks. On
the chair. In decorative fashion.
“He took one of each pair. I have a giant pile of single socks.” He came over
and flopped down into the empty armchair, his long legs stretched out before
him. “And those photos on my walls? They must be cursed. They won’t come down.”
Snape frowned and stood. “I’ll see to that.”
Harry trailed after him into the room and watched as Snape inspected the
grinning, waving photos. He ran his finger along the edge of one and picked at
a corner with a fingernail. Finally, he stood back and drew out his wand. He
glanced back at Harry and warned, “Avert your eyes.” He closed his eyes and
covered his face with a black-cloaked arm, and he released the spell. There was
a loud tearing noise and when it was over, he opened his eyes and smiled his
satisfaction. The photos hadn’t just been torn from the wall, but shredded as
well, tossed about the room like forlorn confetti. He glanced back at Harry,
dimly hoping for that same undisguised awe he managed to pull from the young
man from time to time.
“Ow,” Harry said instead and rubbed his eyes.
Snape came closer and touched his chin, said in an exasperated voice, “Let me
see.”
Harry swallowed and lifted his hand, blinking at Snape. His brilliantly green
eyes were covered by a thin, milky film. Snape sighed. “I thought I told you to
avert your eyes.”
“I did. I looked away.”
Snape sighed again and tilted Harry’s face, leaning closer to check the
severity of Harry’s condition. It didn’t look like more than he could handle
himself. He believed he had an eyewash somewhere that he could use. “For future
knowledge, Potter, when I warn you to avert your eyes, I expect you to do more
than simply look away.” He pressed with his fingertips, drawing Harry’s chin
up. A glint at the young man’s throat caught his eye and his fingers slid down
Harry’s throat to pick at the chain. He drew out the medallion. “Have you
always worn this?”
Harry shook his head, and his breath came in shallow, muted gasps. Snape looked
at him with concern. The burn from the spell shouldn’t have done more than
surprise and blind him.
“Dumbledore gave it to me today. It lets me Apparate inside Hogwarts.”
Snape’s eyebrows rose and he looked down at the medallion again. It was warm
from close contact with Harry’s skin. Snape rubbed it between his fingers. “Is
that so? How useful.” He tucked the medallion back under Harry’s shirt, and
Harry’s skin felt warm compared to his cool fingers. Harry shivered.
“Sir? Are you…” He bit his lip lightly and the action drew Snape’s eyes. Harry
was flushed and his lips shone a rosy colour. Snape’s fingers moved on his
chin, thumb rubbing slightly. Harry let out a hot puff of breath and ran his
tongue over his lip before he tried again. “Are you going to… do I have to stay
blind?”
“Hmm? Oh,” Snape shook himself. “No, of course not. Come.” He took Harry’s
elbow and led him into the toilet. “Sit here,” he pushed Harry down onto the
edge of the bath and began to rummage through a line of vials in the cupboard.
He pushed aside jars of topical lotion, and, for a moment, frowned down at a
jar of purple ink, wondering how that had gotten mixed in. He set it aside on
the edge of the sink and continued looking.
Harry’s breathing was loud in the small confines of the washroom. Snape glanced
back at him.
“Are you in any pain?”
“What?” Harry turned his head at the sound of his voice, blinking his milky
eyes. “Um… no. I don’t think so.”
Snape rolled his eyes. “You don’t think you’re in pain? One generally knows
when one is in pain.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Your breathing is shallow and quick. That normally signals heightened
adrenaline, a pounding heart, you might say. If you aren’t experiencing any
pain, may I ask what is the matter?”
Harry bit his lip again. He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
Snape frowned. “Of course I want to know. I asked.”
Harry shook his head again and Snape gave up searching for the eyewash as he
turned around to face Harry.
“If there is something the matter, I need to know. I can cure your blindness
myself, but if there is anything gravely wrong, I should take you to see Madam
Pomfrey.”
“No! No… no. That’s… not it.” Harry sighed, resigned. “You… touched me.”
“I… what?”
Harry sighed again and stroked one hand down his neck to settle on the hidden
medallion against his chest. “You touched me.”
Snape’s mouth went dry. “Ah, oh.”
Harry nodded miserably, lowering his head. His hand still rested against his
chest, fingertips along his collarbone. Snape could still feel Harry’s skin
under his own fingertips.
“I’m… sorry.”
He shook his head. “Not your fault. You were just… you weren’t doing it on
purpose.”
Snape wondered about that, even as Harry continued speaking.
“You’ve made it clear that you aren’t interested in a relationship with me.
I’m… I’m trying not to be…” He made a face and rubbed his neck, “…hormonal.”
Snape gazed down at him. He wanted nothing more than to collect Harry against
him and taste every inch of his skin, learn his every gasp and sigh. He wanted
to wake up to his warm form beside him in his cold bed. He wanted to end his
days with Harry in the chair beside his own, sharing tea and trading tales of
their days. But it was impossible, he couldn’t dare. Harry was young and,
despite the very real possibility of being killed in a truly horrible way, had
his whole life ahead of him. Harry Potter could never live the life Snape had
chosen for himself. He had far too much promise. Snape knew, even if he tasted,
it would be just that… a taste. In the end, Harry would leave and Snape would
stay. And that would be that.
He looked back at the array of bottles and plucked the correct one from the
center of the collection. He stepped close to Harry and touched his shoulder.
“I have the eyewash, Mr. Potter.” He cupped the back of his head. “Lean back.”
Harry did without question, milky eyes open wide and trusting. It was nearly
too much. Snape tipped the small bottle and dropped a single drop into each
eye. Harry blinked rapidly through the drops, and Snape watched the green eyes
appear. They gazed at one another for a moment, and then Harry sat up. Snape
stepped back until the small of his back touched the sink and Harry stood,
blinking around the room, hand on the wall of the bath. He looked up at Snape,
and Snape realised he had seen that expression on Harry’s face once before. It
was the same expression he’d worn as he’d calmly spoken about being a weapon
rather than a person, about his resignation to the inevitability of death.
Snape put a hand back and gripped the cool porcelain of the sink.
“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’ll…” he gestured toward the open door leading back
into his new room. “I’ll go. Let you get back to… your work.” He turned and
closed the door behind him, leaving Snape standing alone in his washroom. He
returned the bottle to its home in the cupboard and walked slowly to his room.
He gazed at Harry’s closed door for a moment, before he turned and firmly
closed his own door behind him.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Ron jumped and fell out of his bed when Harry Apparated in the center of the
room. He crawled off the floor and blinked widely at Harry, mouth agape.
“Cripes, Harry. You gotta stop doing that.” He looked at him for a long moment
and then said, “You look like hell again.”
Harry nodded, because he knew it also. The mirror hadn’t lied to him. It had
said roughly the same thing earlier as he’d gazed into it. He wondered what it
told Snape. He wondered if it told him to wash his hair and perk up, dearie. He
suppressed a smile and straightened his robes. “Get up, Ron. You’ll be late for
breakfast.”
Ron rolled up and ran a hand through his copper hair. He plucked at his night
shirt and yawned. “So, how’s life with the Snapers? Is it as fun as I think it
is?”
Harry shrugged and hitched his book bag up his shoulder. “We get along. We’ve
been working too hard these past weeks for anything else though.”
“You learning lots then?” Ron asked as he peeled himself out of his pyjamas and
located clean clothes in his trunk.
“I Apparate here every morning, don’t I?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s what that medal is for, isn’t it?”
Harry touched two fingers to the spot against his chest and shook his head. “I
had to learn how to Apparate. This just lets me get around the Hogwarts
spells.”
Ron grinned suddenly, in the middle of jumping into his trousers, and chuckled.
“Now, whenever Hermione says, ‘Don’t you read Hogwarts: A History? You can’t
Apparate on to school grounds,’ we can say, ‘Sure you can. Harry can.’”
“Yes, that was the plan all along,” Harry replied dryly.
Ron tucked his shirt into his trousers and shook his head. “You’re starting to
sound just like him, mate.”
“Snape?”
“Who else?”
Harry frowned. “I don’t sound like him.”
“You’re starting to look like him too. When was the last time you cut your
hair? Or washed it?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair and realised that, yes, it was longer now,
nearly passed his chin. And, yes, it was a touch greasier than was pleasant. He
wondered how he had managed to miss that in the mirror. He sighed and dropped
his book bag to the ground. “Go on to breakfast without me. I have to…” He
gestured to his hair.
“Just wash it, mate!” Ron called after him. “Looks good long.”
He ended up leaving it long. The mirror in the Gryffindor bath agreed with Ron.
It looked better now that it was clean, either way.
“Coming along well, Harry?” Dumbledore asked him in passing at breakfast and
Harry nodded. He looked up and found Snape watching him. His stomach caught in
a sharp longing and he looked away, swallowing a biscuit that now tasted of
wallpaper paste.
“You really do look like shits, Harry,” Ron told him as they headed out across
the yard to Care of Magical Creatures. “You should just tell Snape how you
feel.”
“I have. A while ago. He doesn’t want me.”
Ron stopped walking and Neville bumped into him. Ron hopped to catch up with
Harry. “He doesn’t want you? Why the hell not?”
Harry smiled. “Not everyone seems to think I’m hotter than beans on toast,
Ron.”
His friend shook his head in annoyance. “Look, talk to Ginny. She read him.
She’ll know.”
“Read him?”
Ron waved his hand in the air. “You know, that thing when she looks at you like
she can see your soul? It’s creepy, but it’s what she does. She’ll know.”
===============================================================================
“He wants you,” Ginny told him as she packed up her book bag.
“Then why doesn’t he want me?” He couldn’t quite keep the whine from his voice.
She looked at him patiently, as if he should know all of it already, but she
forgave him because he was slow. “Because you’re going to leave him.”
“No, I’m not.”
She shot him another don’t be an idiot look. “Harry, yes, you are.”
“When?”
“When it’s time. I can’t give you a precise date. That isn’t how it works. You
knowing you’re going to leave him already changes things. That’s why I don’t
tell people what I see very often. And don’t ask me what happens after you
leave him. I can’t see beyond that fork in the road.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. His hand stopped and
dropped to his side. “Wait.” Ginny looked back up at him, raising one ginger
eyebrow. “Wait. You said I’m going to leave him. That means I have to be with
him first. I can’t leave him if I’m not with him. Right?”
She smiled and cinched the straps on her bag. “You’re with him right now,
aren’t you? Try not to overanalyze every word I say. It’ll give you a
headache.” She patted his shoulder. “He wants you and he wants to keep you. He
knows he can’t, and just like everyone else on this planet, he doesn’t want his
heart broken. But, Harry, you might want to stop trying to see Snape’s future.
Try looking at his past. He desperately wants someone to know, someone besides
Dumbledore and the Malfoys. He wants you to know, but it’s going to be
absolutely, fucking painful for him to tell it. So be a lot more patient than
you are normally, Harry.”
He stared at her, caught on the unusual sound of her swearing, and then
catching up to the rest of it.
She swung the bag over her shoulder and then paused and looked at him. Her eyes
filled with sadness and regret and she shook her head. “Be careful, Harry. You
have a lot of forks coming up. I wish I could give you a better warning.” She
turned and left the room, only to appear again in the doorway. “Learn to
harness the magic, Harry. Master it. You’re going to need it.”
===============================================================================
Harry clenched his teeth and stared at the small, delicate tea cup. It was
simple enough. Move the cup from one table to the next. A flick of his wand and
a Leviosa and he could move the cup, fill it with tea, stir in a drop of milk,
and then sit down to enjoy it. All without spilling a drop or shattering
anything.
The cup quivered and slid to one side, and then stopped. It shook in place and
both he and Snape tensed, expecting it to shatter in all directions as all the
previous attempts had done.
Harry sucked in a breath and forcefully relaxed himself, and the cup relaxed as
well. He continued to breathe, focusing on his breaths, in and out, and the cup
lifted unsteadily from the table and hovered for a moment before moving very
slowly. It paused again over the second table and then dropped the inch,
landing heavily, but in one piece. Harry let out a long breath and stared.
“I did it.” He turned to look at Snape.
“So you did,” Snape said evenly, but the corner of his mouth twitched and that
was more than enough encouragement for Harry.
“I did it!” He cried and tossed himself at Snape, wrapping his arms around the
man and holding on. He couldn’t help but quiver with joy. He looked up at
Snape’s face. “I did it!”
Snape raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
“Shut up, this is amazing!” Harry let go and ran to check the cup, lifting it
up and checking it all over for hidden cracks.
“All in one piece then, Potter?”
“It’s perfect.” Harry set it back on the table and hopped in place, bouncing on
the balls of his feet. “That was great.” He ran a hand over his brow, wiping
sweat from his face. “I have to…” He bounced again.
“Have to…?”
“Donno. Celebrate.”
Snape smiled thinly. “You moved a single cup less than a foot.”
“Exactly!” Harry grinned. “Come on! Don’t even pretend you’re not excited. I
can tell. You’re just bursting inside, aren’t you?”
“Hardly,” Snape drawled, but the twitch in the corner of his lips remained.
Harry grinned and jumped forward to grab his hand. He tugged Snape toward the
door. “Let’s go.”
Snape dug in his feet. “Where are you taking me?”
“To celebrate.”
“Where?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Where else? Hogsmeade. Come on. I’m young, rich, and
full of myself. I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“But I…” Snape cut himself off.
“What?”
Snape flushed and brushed his free hand over his robe.
Harry paused and looked him. “You look great, Severus. You don’t have to
change.”
Snape flushed a deeper shade of red and scowled. “Of course not.”
With a small smile, Harry reached up and touched his face with two fingertips.
Snape froze and stared down at him.
“I like you, Severus.” Harry smiled. He did not try for a firmer touch than the
brush of his two fingers against Snape’s chin. Pushing Snape was like pushing
against a mountain.
“I like it when you’re proud of me and your lips curl up just a little in the
corner,” Harry grazed that corner with the tip of one finger. “I like it when
you’re amused by me and you roll your eyes and try not to smile. I like it when
you stare at me when you think I’m not looking.” He trailed his fingers away
and smiled again. “I like you first thing in the morning, before tea. I even
like it when you are tired of me and you just flick your eyes at me until I get
the hint. I like all of it.”
Snape’s mouth fell open and Harry tapped it closed with his finger. He tugged
on the hand he still held. “Now, let’s go. Before my high wears off.”
Hogsmeade on a Friday evening was a busy, bustling, throbbing place,
overflowing with students eager for something other than classes, with young,
blushing lovers searching for a corner, with professors looking for a long
drink and a moment’s peace. Snape hated Hogsmeade, although he did find it
practical for last minute purchases he hadn’t thought to order ahead. He
trailed after Harry and hoped desperately that the young man wouldn’t lead him
into an establishment teaming over with reckless students.
Thankfully, Harry lead them past the most popular meeting places and around a
corner with the surety of someone who knew exactly where he was heading. He
stopped at a dark-faced, shuttered building and smiled before pushing through
the door. Snape allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light and looked
around.
How had he not known of this place? The central room was a quiet, darkly-lit
room, filled with low chairs and couches and a spattering of tables. None of
the handful of patrons did more than glance at them as they came in, but kept
to their subdued conversations, hands occasionally reaching out to take cups or
wedges of bread from the tables.
A tall woman in a long, wine-coloured dress approached them and reached out to
take Harry’s hands in her own. She bent and kissed both his cheeks. “Harry,”
she said in a low, throaty voice. “It has been so long. Our friend told me of
Sirius.”
Harry nodded and gripped her hands. “I should have come sooner.”
She nodded and glanced up at Snape, eyes recognizing him, but saying nothing.
She looked back at Harry. “Would you like his room?”
“Please.”
“You remember the way. I will begin your meal.”
Harry smiled widely. “Thanks. We’re celebrating.”
She smiled without showing teeth and nodded, releasing his hands. “I will keep
that in mind.” She nodded at Snape and turned away, disappearing through a
swinging door.
Still carrying his smile, Harry nodded his head down a hallway. “This way.”
They passed by many closed doors and then around a series of corners, until
Snape was certain that the building had no sensible floor plan. He was
convinced that they had made a full circle, but he knew that they were nowhere
they had previously been. There were no windows for him navigate by. He found
himself entirely reliant on Harry for any sense of direction. It was
disconcerting.
Harry finally stopped by a door which looked no different than any other, and
he knocked three times before turning the handle. The room within was empty of
any people, but in one corner was a couch and two plush chairs and in the
other, a table with four chairs and an array of place settings. The light was
soft and two candles flickered from the table. The walls were warm, dark wood,
the ceiling high and vaulted, the floor carpeted and comfortable.
“What is this place?”
Harry took off his robe, hooking it against the wall, and he toed off his shoes
before he crossed the room and sprawled over the couch. “I’m not sure I should
tell you.”
Snape rolled his eyes and removed his own robe, keeping his shoes. He crossed
and sat in a chair. It hugged his body comfortably. “Mysterious does not suit
you, Mr. Potter.”
He grinned and lay back, head on the arm of the couch, ankles crossed over each
other. “It’s a safe house. For werewolves.”
Snape tensed and looked around him. “For… what?”
Harry smiled obliviously at the ceiling. “Werewolves. Everyone here, except a
very few, and us of course, are werewolves. Remus brought me here. Sirius
stayed here a few times, but rarely. Werewolves aren’t fond of strange dogs.”
Harry shrugged a single shoulder.
“There will be a full moon tonight.”
Harry’s eyes turned toward him, luminescent in the shallow light. “Don’t worry.
No windows. The moon isn’t allowed in here. The low light and the warm tones
keep them relaxed.” He smiled, “And there are over a dozen spells warding this
place. It’s called a safe house for a reason.”
Snape looked around again. To be surrounded by so many werewolves, so close to
Hogsmeade, so close to Hogwarts… To place such trust of wards and interior
decorating… “I had no idea such a place existed.”
“Few do. I only know about it because of Remus, of course. They don’t generally
let outsiders in, because of the attitudes toward werewolves.” Harry paused and
settled one hand on his stomach. “I’m constantly surprised by what wizards are
willing to tolerate and what they aren’t.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Harry lifted his hand in a shrug, settling it back on his stomach. “No one
minds if your skin is a different colour, or if you’re gay, at least not these
days so much, or if you’d rather worship one deity or another, or anything like
that. No one even cares if your family tree doesn’t branch out quite as much as
it should. But if your parents are Muggles, you’re a “mudblood”. If you’re
bitten by a vampire or a werewolf, you’re a danger to society. Or if one of
your relatives is a giant, like Hagrid. It’s… sad, I suppose. They can’t help
being who they are. They didn’t choose to be bitten, or to have the parents
they have.”
Snape gazed at him until Harry turned his head.
“But I suppose I’m talking to the wrong person.”
Snape frowned. “What do you mean?”
Harry lifted his hand again. “You’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you?
You don’t like werewolves either. Prefer pure-blooded wizards.”
Darkness descended over Snape’s eyes. “I am not a bigot, Mr. Potter. I don’t
like werewolves due to nearly being eaten by one. It is bound to leave a
lasting impression. And my own heritage is… complex. I have had my time of
prejudice and hatred, but it has been decades since I have prejudiced against a
person for a reason out of their control.”
“So says the man who hated me because I was a Potter.”
“I never hated you.”
Harry looked at him again, disbelief written clear across his face. “I don’t
think I believe you.”
“I hated James. I hated him quite passionately, actually,” Snape said without
hesitation. He spoke plainly, eyes on Harry. “And, I’m sure you’re quite tired
of hearing it, but you look like him, more than enough to draw that same
passion from me from the first moment I saw you.”
“Then…” Harry frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “You did hate me?”
“I thought I did. I wanted to. I half-expected you to be exactly like him. And
you, Harry Potter, did very little to dissuade that particular expectation.”
Snape raised an eyebrow at him, “And you speak of irrational prejudices.”
Harry flushed shamefully, but Snape shook his head, dismissing it.
“I cannot blame you. I have never done anything to lead anyone to believe
anything but the worst of me.” His eyes turned inward, thoughtful, and he shook
his head again. “But no, I didn’t hate you. But I thought I might, because
there was a never a moment when I did not feel passionately about you.”
The young man made a small, quickly repressed sound, causing that quirk in
Snape’s lips to appear again.
“It took me quite some time to realise that my passion for you ran in the
opposite direction of hate.”
“Since when?”
Snape smiled, showing teeth for a breathless second. “When you sat quietly in
my study, behaving as the perfect student, and I realised how deeply it
discomforted me. I wanted to see you smile again and hear you laugh. Your
laughter, it is so similar to that of a friend of mine, from a very long time
ago. She, like you, was always so full of laughter.”
Harry caught his breath. “Who…”
Snape’s eyes turned down and a very small smile caught at his lips. “She is
likely remembered for her kindness, and certainly she was very kind, but I will
always remember the way her eyes would shine so brightly when she told some of
the most off-colour jokes I had ever heard in my short time on earth.” He
looked back up at Harry and met his eyes.
“I was so angry, so resentful of everything, but your mother, she could make me
laugh. She could make me laugh until tears rolled down my face and I could
scarcely catch my breath. She was the single brightest spot in my life, the
dearest friend I had ever had, and certainly would ever have. I had so many
strikes against me - mudblood, poor, shy, awkward, angry, queer as a chocolate
teapot, but Lily,” he smiled in memory, “she cared not a whit for what anyone
told her about me. She would cut ribbons through anyone who dared tell her what
to do. So like you in so many ways.”
Harry perched forward on the edge of his seat. “She was?”
Snape nodded. “It was so very disconcerting to see James’ face and hear Lily’s
laughter emerge when you first arrived in my classroom. You had already been
warned of me, I could tell, and I could see James so clearly again. I could see
his torment, his meanness and his cruelty, but you did not have James’ smile,
you have only ever had Lily’s. I did resent you for taking her smile away from
her and claiming it for yourself.”
“I’m…” Harry stuttered, “I’m sorry.”
Snape shook his head vehemently. “Oh no, don’t be. I’m very glad to see so much
of my friend continues on through you.”
“Did you… I mean… did you? Love her?”
Snape shot him a hard look. “Was I in love with your mother, is that what you
ask me? That would certainly make current developments very awkward. No, Harry.
I have never been anything other than very, very gay, I assure you. Lily was my
dearest friend and she knew very well my preferences. As did your father, and
as did everyone else after your father decided to announce it in the middle of
the Great Hall after causing my robes to vanish.”
Harry’s mouth twisted in disgust. “He did? And my mother… I don’t get it. If my
father was so… so awful, why did my mother date him? Why did she marry him? If
she was your best friend and he was so awful to you… Why?”
“And now you ask excellent questions.” Snape shrugged one shoulder and shook
his head. “The truth of it is, by that time, she and I had drifted apart, due
greatly to my own movement toward the Death Eaters and their promise of power
and knowledge.” He hesitated and folded his hands together. He steadied himself
and said quietly, “Due greatly to my own involvement with a man named Tom
Riddle and his… attentions.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Snape cut him off. “And that is all I will say of
that. Suffice to say, Harry, that no, I have not hated you. I have resented
you. I have envied you. I have cursed my own poor decisions and what I have
lost, but I have not hated you.”
“But you never… you always acted like you hated me, like… well, like Ron said
once, that you wanted to skin me alive and watch me dance. If you didn’t really
hate me… You did a good job of fooling people.”
“Thank you. I’m glad my efforts did not go to waste.”
“What?”
Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. “The Death Eaters would never have welcomed
me back, allowing me to collect the precious data the Order requires, if I had
embraced you from day one. I had a role to play, Mr. Potter. My outward
appearance of prejudices fell into that role as well. Surely you can understand
that.”
Harry grinned. “Embraced me?”
Snape growled and looked away. They sat in silence for a long while, Harry
smiling up at the high ceiling. He had more out of Snape tonight than he had
expected to receive, ever. He finally closed his eyes, unwilling to press his
luck.
“I thought we had come to celebrate,” Snape spoke up suddenly. “This is
hardly…” he drifted off. He had been expecting something a touch more
boisterous, considering Harry’s behaviour back in their quarters.
Harry blinked over at Snape. “Do you really want me to jump around, screaming
and shouting and hugging you? Or do you want to sit here and eat good food and
drink a bottle of wine?”
Snape gazed back at him, unresponsive, and Harry lifted an eyebrow. He sat up.
“You want me to jump around, don’t you?”
Snape tilted his head at him and said, “I do believe I had mentioned something
about missing your laughter, if you do recall. Although do not expect me to
repeat myself again.”
Harry grinned widely. “Wow, okay.” He gave it very little thought before he
stood and walked over to Snape, pausing a long moment before leaning over him
and taking one hand in his own.
“You want laughter? I think I can give you that.” He put Snape’s hand to his
side, sliding it under the edge of his shirt, against his skin.
Snape lifted an eyebrow at him and Harry grinned. “No really, go for it.”
Snape made an aborted twitch of his fingers and Harry’s stomach muscles tensed
in anticipation. Snape’s eyebrow quirked again and the corners of his lips
turned up, and his fingers curled wickedly against Harry’s side. Harry gasped
and a small squeak burst from him, and a light awoke in Snape’s eyes.
He leaned forward sharply and slid both hands under the edge of Harry’s shirt
and tickled him.
“Oh no! No! Ah!” Harry laughed and tried to turn away from the grip, but Snape
pulled him back in and bracketed him between his knees. He tickled Harry’s ribs
mercilessly, and Harry twisted in the circle of his hands and doubled over,
laughing. His hands tried to grab at Snape’s to still him, but Snape grinned
despite himself and grabbed Harry’s wrists, pulling them behind his back and
holding them firmly in one hand as his other hand stroked over the sensitive
skin of Harry’s side.
“Oh.” Harry said softly and stilled, and he lifted his head to look at Snape,
who stopped and returned the gaze. He held Harry’s hands securely behind his
back and had one hand against the soft skin of Harry’s belly, and Harry’s
breath stuttered in his throat. His stomach muscles twitched under Snape’s
hand, and Snape’s eyes held his as he stroked his hand along Harry’s flank, his
fingers trailing softly against his side.
“I…” Harry tried to say as his body responded to this new and absolutely
glorious situation he found himself in. “I… um…”
Snape sat still for a long, breathless moment, his eyes intent on Harry’s, and
then something shifted in his eyes, and his lips twitched and Harry found
himself pulled suddenly forward into the V of Snape’s legs. Snape’s hand slid
over to the small of his back and he released Harry’s wrists to put a hand to
the back of Harry’s neck, thumb warm against his pulse, and Harry found that he
could not breathe at all. There was no room left in his chest for oxygen, only
this heavy, expanding warmth. It swelled in his chest like a living thing.
Snape’s hand slid again against his bare skin and Harry swayed forward
minutely. They were so very close. He could feel the press of Snape’s thighs
against the sides of his knees and the soft touch of Snape’s hand splayed
against his back. He could see the beat of Snape’s pulse in his throat, fast,
very fast, and he watched Snape’s eyes darken as he gazed up at Harry standing
above him.
“I...” Harry tried again, but his mouth was suddenly very dry, his tongue far
too clumsy for words, and he decided on efficiency rather than eloquence.
“Yes,” he said and leaned down to capture Snape’s mouth with his own.
He could feel Snape shudder against him as their lips touched and Snape’s hand
spasmed against his back, fingers gripping into him and pulling him even
closer. Harry flowed into him, sliding forward until they were flush against
one another, and he moaned low in his throat as Snape slid his thumb against
Harry’s side. His freed hands came around and up, holding Snape’s face still
for him, and he tilted his head and pressed in, deepening the kiss. He gasped
despite himself when Snape’s lips parted and Harry slid a tentative tongue
across the curve of Snape’s lip and Snape chased it with his own, curling about
his. They traded quick, short kisses and long, devastating kisses until Harry’s
head began to spin. He pulled back to suck in a lungful of air and looked at
Snape, who gazed back at him with black eyes, his thin lips swollen, his pale
cheeks flushed. Harry’s arms had somehow found their way around Snape’s neck,
and he had one hand laced into the man’s dark hair.
“Wow,” Harry breathed and bent forward again.
There was a knock on the door and they both turned their heads to glare. Harry
slid from between Snape’s knees and righted his clothes with one hand while the
other swiped at the corners of his mouth. “Come in,” he called and sat back on
the couch, heart pounding in his chest loud enough he expected everyone in the
building could hear it.
The woman came in and looked them over with a hint of a smile. She stepped
aside and a self-propelled cart followed her in. It stopped by the table side
and dishes flew off of it, arranging themselves on the table. A wine bottle
danced over the glasses, filling them three inches full and then resettled
itself in its bucket of ice.
Both Snape and Harry noticed that three place settings had been filled. Harry
looked at the woman questioningly.
She smiled, showing slightly pointed teeth. “Our friend has arrived.”
“Remus?” Harry asked and his feet slipped from the couch to drop heavily to the
ground. “He’s here? Now?”
“He’s greeting some other guests currently, but will no doubt join you
shortly.” The woman checked the table and nodded with satisfaction. “Is there
anything else you require?”
Harry glanced at Snape and they shared a look. “No,” Harry replied dully,
trying not to pout. “No, we’re fine.”
She closed the door behind her and Harry sighed, slouching even farther back
into the couch. “Perfect timing.” He looked up at Snape again and found that
quirk in the corner of his mouth. It made Harry smile despite himself. “This
isn’t funny.”
“Oh, I think it’s quite amusing.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, you would. You weren’t the one about to get shagged
by the sexiest man on earth.”
“Yes, I was,” Snape said in a dark voice, and Harry shivered at the sound of
it.
He looked at the door and then back. “We can’t possibly have time for this.”
Snape shook his head, amused. “Not nearly.”
Sighing, Harry nodded. “How badly do I look like I was just being snogged?”
“Looks are beside the point, Potter. Werewolves have keenly developed senses of
smell, or do you remember nothing of your lessons?”
Harry flushed brilliant red. “Oh, right. He’s going to…” He made a sound.
“Madam Selene knew. I hope she doesn’t… But he’s going to… smell… Oh, bugger
all.”
Snape’s mouth turned up. “I could leave.”
“No, oh no. You’re not leaving me alone with him. Besides, I invited you to
dinner. He’s the one crashing my date. He should leave.”
“It is his room, is it not?”
Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead, fingers lingering over the scar as it
sent a small spike of pain behind his eyes. “Yeah, it is. Bugger. Bugger
bugger. Damned Lupin.”
Snape snorted back a laugh. “We share rooms in Hogwarts, Potter. Or has the
redirected blood flow left your brain completely useless?”
Harry looked up and his face was transformed by a growing, wicked grin.
Three knocks and the door opened. Lupin, looking pale but refreshed, stepped
in. And stopped as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. He sniffed the air
and glanced between the two of them with growing eyes.
“Hi, Remus.” Harry lifted a hand and waved. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
===============================================================================
“Are you insane?” Lupin stood over him, his eyes yellowing along the edges, his
teeth sharp. Were it not for the dozen spells over the safe house, Harry knew
his entrails, and Snape’s, would be lining the walls.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Remus,” Harry began, but Lupin
growled low in his throat and Harry shut his mouth with a sigh. He rubbed his
scar absently, feeling a twinge for the second time in the evening.
“You might be finding yourself blissfully short on guardianship this year,
Harry, but your parents would never have approved of this. Sirius would never
–”
Harry growled back. “Don’t talk to me about Sirius, or my parents. They loved
me. They wanted me to be happy.”
“Not with Snape!” Lupin rounded suddenly and glared at Snape. “How could you
take advantage of a child?”
Snape stood, making the differences in their height obvious. He looked down his
nose at Lupin. “I have not taken anything that wasn’t offered. Repeatedly.”
Harry’s mouth dropped open and he made a choked sound, but both men paid him no
attention.
“You should have never have acted on it! For Merlin’s sake, he’s only sixteen.”
“He’s old enough to choose for himself.”
“I don’t care! This isn’t about any sixteen year old boy’s infatuation with his
teacher. This is about Harry Potter,” he said the name as everyone said the
name, as if he weren’t speaking of a person, but of a thing, a concept. “No one
is more closely watched than him. I can’t believe you of all people wouldn’t
think of the consequences!”
“I’m standing right here,” Harry told them, but still, neither so much as
glanced at him.
Lupin continued speaking, in a quieter tone, now that Snape’s dark anger had
faded from his eyes. “You’re as closely watched as Harry is, Snape. He’ll kill
you if he hears about this.”
Snape shook his head and argued, “No, he won’t.” But his tone was soft.
Lupin looked at him knowingly and nodded.
“Not at first, certainly,” Snape continued.
“He’d let you watch, wouldn’t he? After he’d captured Harry and wrung what he
sought from him. And then he’d kill you. Slowly. Or he would curse you, and
give you the honour of murdering Harry. He’d find that fitting, no doubt.”
Harry’s eyes grew round and his hand groped back for support, finding the door
jamb and gripping into it until he was certain he would leave marks in the
wood.
“Don’t you see? You can’t risk this, not for Harry, and not for the Order. We
need you; you are too valuable, Snape. We need that from you. You and Harry
can’t risk a… a relationship. You put yourself into danger too often, and Harry
is too young and too excitable. The first bad news we heard and he’d be off,
risking his life in some idiotic rescue.”
Snape nodded seriously, any trace of anger gone. “You’re correct, of course. I
should never have allowed his enthusiasm to sway me. I should have worked
harder to maintain my control…”
“That’s enough!” Harry cried out, unable to contain himself any longer.
They turned, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“I can’t believe you two! Don’t I get any say in this?”
“Harry, the risks…”
“I know the risks, Remus. I know the risks better than anyone. Do you both
think I’m so dense as that?”
The two men glanced at one another and Harry’s mouth dropped open again.
“You do! You think…” He looked at Snape. “Severus, you still think I’m naïve
and stupid. Still? Even after everything?”
Snape looked away.
“I can’t believe this,” Harry whispered. He swallowed around the lump in his
throat and batted at his eyes angrily. “I can’t believe you.”
“Harry…” Snape said and took a step forward.
“Don’t!” Harry pulled back sharply. “How dare you call me that now? How dare
you! I have been waiting, god, have I been waiting, and you…” Tears escaped
down his face and he swiped them away. He looked at the two and felt sick.
“Fuck you. Fuck you both.” He spun, flinging open the door, and disappeared
down the hall.
Madam Selene and the patrons of the front room looked up at him as he dashed
passed and out the door, into the bright, moonlit night.
Harry ran blindly. His unshod feet should have hurt as they flew against the
cobbled street but he didn’t notice, any more than he noticed when he tripped,
scrapping his palms against the road. He didn’t notice the pain; he pushed back
to his feet and kept running. He lost all trace of where he was, which dark
buildings loomed over him. He’d lost all his senses. And yet he still hurt.
He collapsed against the red-bricked side of a building and he sobbed into it,
hugging and burrowing himself in the unyielding stone. The night had begun so
differently. Damn them. Damn them both. Damn them all. He pounded his fists
into the wall and felt his bones jar against each other. He did it again, and
again, until blood dripped down his wrists. It felt good to hurt for something
other than his inner turmoil.
“Hello, Harry Potter…,” a whispered voice behind him said.
He stopped, shoulders still quivering, and turned, half hoping to see Snape
behind him – half wanting to hug him, half wanting to pound the man’s head into
the wall.
Bellatrix Lestrange grinned at him and lunged.
===============================================================================
“Potter?” Snape turned another corner, following the small, yellow locating
pixie he’d summoned. He glanced up at the sky, noting the moon, and debated
cursing it. Without it, Lupin would never have arrived in the safe house, never
have interrupted their evening, as necessary as he now saw that interruption to
be. Still, without the moon, Lupin could be out in the night with him, sniffing
the air with his overdeveloped senses. A far sight better than the bloody
irritating pixie. It fluttered ahead of him down a dark alley and emerged into
a desolate courtyard.
“Potter?” He called louder, seeing a shadowed shape moving against a building
ahead of him. The pixie hovered over to the shape and winked out, its duty
over. He took a few steps forward, mind working on what he could possibly say
to the young man, and then he froze, his entire body going cold.
Bellatrix had turned and she grinned at him, showing white, dangerous teeth.
Harry hung limp in her arms and she bent, pressing a kiss to his temple, before
she began to Apparate, collecting Harry up against her body.
“No!” Snape cried and ran forward, wand out and prepared, but it was too late.
They disappeared in an explosion of displaced air, leaving nothing, and Snape
slammed hard against the wall, adding his own scraped blood to the bricks.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     I am going to add an additional trigger warning here for the next few
     chapters, because REASONS — off-screen torture, psychological
     torture, and general Death Eater nastiness. Nothing is explicit or
     gratuitous. Please, message me if you want more detailed warnings.
His world erupted in flames. Along his skin, through his muscles and in his
bones, he couldn’t escape the searing heat. He fought, but each time he pulled
away, something tightened around his neck, cutting off his air, and left him
choking, burning. Everything was darkness. He couldn’t escape.
Something cool and silky brushed over his legs, coiling about his body. He
jerked away, choking himself again and he coughed around a throat of fire.
“Try not to move. Nagini might mistake you for a rabbit,” the voice slid over
him laughingly. “Though you do writhe about deliciously, boy. I only wish you
could see yourself.”
Harry opened his eyes, but the world stayed black. He blinked and blinked
again. “What did you do to me?”
The voice laughed again. “Very little, dear boy. Merely contained you. If
anyone had mentioned how attractive you look with chains about that throat of
yours, I would have worked harder to lay my hands upon you and keep you.”
Harry moved his bound hands behind his back gently and felt the tug at his
neck. A rough chain rubbed against his spine with every motion. His feet were
loose, but he could hardly move from his position on the floor without
strangling himself.
“Why can’t I see?”
“A blinding spell, of my own creation. It makes this so much more fun, wouldn’t
you say? Chained, blindfolded, on your knees…”
Harry gagged as invisible hands pulled him upward suddenly. He nearly toppled
over onto his face as he was moved into a kneeling position, but a sudden hand
on his chest brought him upright again. Hot breath ghosted over his face and he
turned away from it.
Fingers took hold of his chin and turned his face back.
“Such a pretty boy you are, Harry.” The fingers moved from his chin and traced
under his bangs, stroking over the scar. Harry pulled away again, but the hand
pulled on the collar tightly, bringing him too close to that hot breath. “Does
no one touch you like this, boy? Who have you let this close before?”
Fingers probed his mind and Harry gritted his teeth and snapped his mind shut.
“Ah, someone has taught you.” The fingers and breath retreated and Harry sagged
down against his calves. His fingers gripped his heels to keep from tipping
over. “Someone has made this more difficult for me. Who would that be, little
Harry? Albus Dumbledore, perhaps? He has always been fond of you, hasn’t he?” A
finger trailed along the edge of his collar again, against his skin, and then
left. The voice retreated again, “Oh yes, I can see how he would be fond of
you.”
“What do you want from me?” Harry asked tiredly.
Voldemort’s voice wrapped around him like silk as he said, “Everything,” and
Harry screamed as his scar erupted in flame.
===============================================================================
Lupin had never invited so many into the safe-house. Under the circumstances,
it was the only option. The wolf kept him trapped within the moonless walls.
As the last of the Marauders, Harry was his responsibility. He couldn’t
describe what it had been to wait while Severus Snape went after Harry into the
night, to pace the length and breadth of the small room until he felt certain
he might scream, and he certainly couldn’t describe what it had been to have
Snape return, alone. Never had he seen Snape in such a condition, with
something resembling madness behind his eyes. After relating the story to
Lupin, he had retreated into a corner of the room and had yet to move, despite
the growing number of people pouring into the small space.
Lupin offered a small smile as Ron, Neville and Hermione pushed through the
crowd to stand before him. They had grown in the year since he’d last seen
them. None of them were the children they had been, Lupin could see that now.
Harry was not a child anymore. Despite memories of holding the small, bright-
eyed infant in his arms, that time was many years gone.
“Professor Lupin,” Hermione began, but he shook his head.
“Remus, now. I think we are all equal in this fight, as of today.”
Ron sucked in a trembling breath and shook off Hermione when she tried to lace
her fingers through his. “What happened to him? What happened exactly?”
Lupin felt his face heat with shame. “We argued and he ran. I–” He shook his
head and gestured over to the corner. “Snape would be able to tell you best. He
saw… what I could not.”
Ron turned his head to where Lupin gestured and crossed the room immediately,
leaving the others behind.
Hermione had tears in her eyes when she looked back at Lupin. “What can we do?”
He shook his head, feeling exhaustion creeping up behind his eyes. “Nothing,
yet. Aurors have been sent about, searching for him, but…”
“But no one knows where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is,” Neville supplied quietly.
“And Harry could be nowhere but with him.”
Neville’s tone was a paper cut: sharp, quick and undeniable. Lupin swallowed
and nodded, “That would be the whole of it. I’m afraid we’re all left in the
dark on this one. We–” He paused as Dumbledore wove toward them and stopped.
“Any news?”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Nothing as of yet, but there’s no need to give up
hope. My sources have reported movement among the Death Eaters. It will take
time to interpret the data, but…” He drifted off and asked, “Has anyone spoken
to Severus?”
Lupin nodded in that direction. “He returned, told me what had happened and
retreated into that corner.”
The crowd jostled and Ginny appeared beside Hermione, lacing her own fingers
between her friend’s. “I could try to speak with him.”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Let’s give Ron a chance first, shall we?” He looked
down at the red-haired girl. “You read Harry recently. Is there anything you
can tell us?”
She shook her head. Her long bangs fell from their place, tucked behind her
ear, and she angrily swept them back. “I knew something unpleasant was coming
for Harry, but I couldn’t see what it was. There were too many paths stretching
out from tonight, I couldn’t follow them.”
“I’m glad I could help to make the worst possible,” Lupin spoke bitterly, but
Dumbledore hushed him.
“We haven’t the time for recrimination and regrets, Remus. Harry needs to be
found.”
Lupin closed his eyes and nodded, rubbing his temple. “Of course, of course.
I…” He let out a long breath, sharp with tension. “I’m sorry. I need…” The room
was usually more than enough to keep him calm during the moon, and when it was
at its worst, he could pace the endless halls, but tonight… His fingernails
curled into his palms.
Neville spoke up softly, “The moon is setting.”
Lupin opened his eyes to stare at the young man.
“Did Professor Snape tell you where it happened?”
“Yes.”
Neville nodded and looked to Dumbledore. “It would be good to see it, wouldn’t
it? Look it over?”
“A brilliant idea. Remus, you wouldn’t mind watching these three as they search
the area, would you? I would go myself, but I’m afraid I have to remain here
should any of my contacts try to reach me.”
Remus shook his head. “No, I… that would be…” He glanced over at Ron and Snape
and then back at his three former students. “It should be done soon, so we
don’t lose any possible evidence, right?”
Neville nodded. Hermione glanced to Ron as well, but gripped Ginny’s smaller
fingers and turned away with the others.
===============================================================================
They didn’t like each other, though both had come to tolerate the other over
the last few months, for the sake of Harry. Ron watched him as Snape stood with
his back to the wall, his head bowed, his hair a thick curtain shielding his
face from view of all save Ron. For the first time, he really looked at the
man.
Snape was tall and thin and wore too many layers of dark clothing, as if he
were trying to be a shadow and not only hide in them. His skin was pale. His
eyes were dark and hooded. His nose was over-large and hooked. His mouth was
thin. His hair was lank and long and dark as ink. He did look like a shadow,
Ron decided. He looked like someone who didn’t live, but only survived.
“Harry loves you,” Ron spoke and his voice sounded loud, even amid the din of
voices in the room.
Snape flinched at his simple words and glanced at him. They were of similar
height these days, though Ron was still an inch or two short, but it was enough
that they could look at each other without looking down.
“He doesn’t blame you, you know. Wherever he is, he would never blame you.”
Snape scoffed quietly, but it lacked energy, and Ron didn’t believe it for a
second.
“Harry doesn’t hold grudges. He never has and never will.” Ron paused and then
said, “I do. Hold grudges, that is. I’ve held them over Harry. Plenty of times.
He’s always hurt by it, but he can’t even keep that hurt for long, after I get
over it and come back.” Ron smiled. “He loves me. We’re best mates, he and I.”
Ron looked up at Snape, found him watching with dark eyes. “Did you ever have a
best mate?”
Snape thought for a moment and Ron watched him do it. Finally, Snape looked
back at him.
“I never had one until Harry, just my brothers, but they don’t count. Harry’s
been my best mate since day one,” Ron smiled at the memory and then looked at
Snape again. “And you were his enemy since day one. But that was my fault. I
told him to hate you. And so he did. ‘Cause that’s what best mates are for.”
Snape moved, only slightly, probably only stretching his leg or shifting a
foot.
“My sister likes you,” Ron kept talking. He needed to. He had to something.
“She told me you would be good for Harry, that in the end, Harry would be
better because of you.” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure about that yet.
Harry’s done a bunch of things I wouldn’t consider good, and he’s done them for
you or because of you. But he’s done stuff for me too, so… can’t be a
hypocrite.”
He looked at Snape again, studying him for a long moment, watching Snape watch
him. Ron nodded, still not sure exactly what had been resolved in his mind, but
he held out his hand. Snape stared at it and then up at him.
“Truce. I’m sorry for every… um, okay. Not everything, but most of what I have
done or said about you. And a few of my thoughts too, I suppose. Mum always
told me not to judge someone unless you know them, and… Well, I still don’t
know you, but I know that you’re not evil. You’re… good, in a way, I guess,
almost. So, I’m sorry. There. I said it.”
The corner of Snape’s mouth quirked and Ron smiled back.
“This is where you take my hand and say nice things back to me.”
Snape’s lips curved and he looked down at the hand again. His hand appeared
from his sleeve and he took Ron’s hand, gripping it with a touch too much
strength, but Ron grinned and easily returned the grip.
“I apologize for nothing, Mr. Weasley. You deserved everything you have
received from me.”
Ron pouted. “That wasn’t a nice thing. You have to say one nice thing. To seal
the truce.”
“Very well.” Snape thought for a good long while, his long fingers gripping
Ron’s hand with unbroken strength, and then finally replied, “You are a skilled
chess player.”
Ron considered that for a moment and then nodded and released Snape’s hand.
“Thanks. Wanna play a round sometime?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, now’s hardly the time, s’pose. We’ve got a best mate to find, don’t
we?”
Snape looked at him again. “Yes, we do.”
===============================================================================
Something Harry had never anticipated was that Voldemort was a real person. In
his mind, he still pictured Voldemort as a skeletal corpse, thin and weedy like
an ancient memory of a man, fresh from the grave. But from Voldemort’s touches,
he couldn’t be so insubstantial anymore. His hands felt warm and soft, and
quite strong. He felt like a human being. He didn’t feel like an illusion.
That was what worried Harry the most. Real people were so much more dangerous
than illusions.
He’d been kneeling in the darkness of his blindness for what seemed an
eternity. He had no way of knowing the time, unless he were to ask, and he had
no desire to speak to Voldemort. It had been long enough that he was beginning
to feel weak from the constant gnawing hunger in his stomach. He remembered the
meal he had promised Snape and his stomach growled angrily. It had been too
long since he’d last eaten.
His stomach growled again and Voldemort asked, “Are you hungry?”
He didn’t answer, but his stomach did. The very question caused his entire body
to ache for food.
“I don’t intend to starve you, Harry. All you need to do is ask and you’ll be
fed. You need only to ask for whatever you need, and it will be given. You are
my…” The amusement came back into his voice, “…my special guest.”
Harry pulled at his hands behind his back, feeling the tense pain in his
shoulders, feeling the tug on his neck. “In that case, would you mind letting
me go?”
Voldemort chuckled and there was a slight clinking sound. Harry’s ears perked
as he tried to place the familiar/strange sound. Even the smallest of sounds
had taken on a whole new importance to him. There were things he knew about
where he was: the floor was cold, the room was large, there was an open window,
there were birds outside, the breeze smells of flowers. He wasn’t sure how any
of that would help, but he had to do something.
“I like you, Harry Potter. You provide a great deal of entertainment. I hope I
can find ways to encourage your further participation.”
“Then you aren’t going to let me go? So much for whatever I need.”
Nagini brushed around him again, but he held still. The snake seemed to behave
as an extension of Voldemort, moving against him and flicking its small tongue
against his skin whenever the man wasn’t close enough to do it himself. Both
evil creatures seemed to enjoy his movements far too much.
“Perhaps I should rephrase. You may ask for whatever you need, and I will
consider the request. But, really, Harry, some requests are unreasonable. If I
were to let you go, you would no longer be my guest. I would miss you.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” Harry returned dryly and tried to still the
trembling in his limbs. It might not be the wisest course of action to talk
back at Voldemort, but at the moment, it was what sustained Harry. It reminded
him of Snape. He hoped that Snape would be proud of him so far. He had kept his
mind closed and had even managed to push down his fear as best he could.
He hoped they would find him soon, because his defences could only last so much
longer. He would eventually need to sleep, and he knew his guard would relax.
It took years of training to keep one’s defences up when asleep. He had to hope
that he was determined enough to keep Voldemort from digging too deeply.
“Your heart is not my primary concern,” Voldemort said as Nagini bit deeply
into his ankle. He gasped and jerked, causing the collar to pull hard against
his throat. The snake lapped at his blood and Voldemort hummed a satisfied
sound. Harry’s scar twitched again, but softly. “You’ve saved yourself, Harry.
How thoughtful.”
Harry snorted.
“Your blood tastes virgin, dear boy. You can’t argue.”
He shook his head as much as the collar and chain would allow. He could feel
the clutch of it against his throat as it moved with him. “I have no control
over what your pet tastes or does not taste in my blood.”
Voldemort stood from his seat and Harry heard him come closer. He tensed and
his pulse spiked as fingers pressed at his throat to tip up his chin.
“Interesting. I like it when my guests give me puzzles to occupy my time.”
“What’s the matter?” Harry gritted his teeth and tried to calm his racing
heart. “World domination not keeping you as busy as you’d like?”
A low chuckle vibrated through the fingers under his chin. “I thought I’d like
you, and I’m pleased to be right. Some of my previous guests haven’t been as
participatory as you are.”
“Maybe if you didn’t chain your guests, they’d participate more.”
“Perhaps,” Voldemort replied and slipped his fingers down Harry’s chin, tracing
over the collar before he moved down. He touched the slim chain dangling down
his shirt and drew it out. The medallion bumped against his collarbone as
Voldemort fingered it. “What’s this? A memento?”
Harry swallowed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. It’s pointless here.”
Voldemort’s fingers stroked over the medallion, touching Harry’s skin at
intervals that left Harry biting his tongue to keep from shivering. “It has a
magical property to it, but faint. What is it for?”
Harry shrugged, trying to move away as he did it. “I don’t know. I’ve never
noticed it do much of anything.” Voldemort’s mind brushed up against his walls
and he pushed everything back again, forming another wall. Soon enough, he
wouldn’t have any space left to retreat.
“Who gave it to you?”
“What does it matter?
“It could matter a great deal. Even the smallest, most inconsequential of
things can have a deep power to them, if you know how to harness it. If someone
you love, or who loved you, gave you this trinket, it could have great power.”
Harry smiled and lifted an eyebrow. “A lesson from the Dark Lord himself. I
should feel privileged.”
Voldemort slipped his hands along the medallion’s chain and unclasped it. The
thin chain slithered against his skin as it pooled down into Voldemort’s
waiting hands.
“If it is so inconsequential, you will certainly not miss it.”
Harry felt his heart sink as he heard Voldemort coil the chain in his hands and
pull it away. While his hands weren’t free to hold the medallion and use it, he
had certainly hoped he might get the chance at some point, but he buried those
hopes away. Someone would come to rescue him. He had no portkey to save him
this time.
Voldemort stayed where he crouched for a moment and Harry could feel how close
he was, and he could feel the heat radiating off the man. He was certainly no
illusion. “Are you hungry?” He asked, his voice scant inches away from Harry’s
face.
He shifted away again and nodded. There was little point in lying. “Yes. I am.”
A long silence followed his words and Harry bit back a sigh. Control, he
thought to himself angrily. He knew how to play this game. “May I have
something to eat?”
“Of course.” Voldemort walked away and there was a clinking noise again.
Dishes, Harry realised, before Voldemort returned and something wet touched his
lips.
He jerked, but Voldemort shushed him. “It’s only fruit. I haven’t even bothered
to poison it.”
“Good of you,” Harry replied and opened his mouth. The small piece of fruit
Voldemort pushed into his mouth was dripping with juice. A peach, he guessed
from the taste. The juices ran down his chin and he couldn’t do a thing about
it. His stomach growled and another piece was placed against his lips.
A strangely familiar, feminine voice cried out a muffled warning in the back of
his mind, sounding in part like Ginny as if from a long distance, but he was
hungry and there was no other way. Unless Voldemort released his hands from
behind his back, he had no way of eating without help. Voldemort continued to
feed him, piece by piece, until finally the stream of various fruits ended. He
had a sticky river of juices down his chin, but his stomach not longer
screamed. A soft, damp cloth swiped over his mouth and chin and it smelled
faintly of mint.
Harry chuckled bitterly. “Is the Dark Lord going to help me take a piss later,
too?”
Voldemort laughed softly and touched his cheek. “No, I don’t think so, pretty
boy. I believe I’ll let one of my inferiors handle that particular task. They
are always so willing to help care for my guests.” His tone was soft, but his
fingernails pricked into skin as he continued, “They’ve been eager to meet you,
Harry. Impatient, even. I know they’ll be willing to help you with the cruder
aspects of your stay.”
Harry failed to suppress his whimper.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     Trigger reminder: mentions of off-camera torture, psychological
     torture and Death Eater awfulness
Snape massaged his brow and looked up to scan his tired, sore eyes over the
classroom. They were busily and silently working on their end of year exams,
but never had he witnessed such a low spirit among them, even for an exam
period. Dumbledore, for once, hadn’t put the entire school on hold because of
The Boy Who Lived and final exams continued as originally intended.
Harry missed nothing, of course. Months before, the Headmaster had given the
laughable orders that Harry’s classes would be perfunctory, that he was to be
excused from homework and exams due to ‘uncontrollable circumstances’.
Mollycoddling the boy, Snape had thought at the time, and worse still, the
orders would certainly reinforce Harry’s preconceptions that he was disposable,
that he had no future beyond school for which to prepare. Snape had disagreed
vehemently with the Headmaster, to no avail.
Now, of course, those uncontrollable circumstances were vastly exacerbated.
Harry’s absence left more of a mark in the classes than simply an empty seat in
the classroom. Snape’s gaze found Harry’s friends among the crowd of faces.
Ron’s quill was against the paper, but it hadn’t moved in quite a while.
Hermione was busily scribbling away, but even he could see the tears streaming
silently down her face. Nearly every face in the room was a study of misery. He
didn’t expect miracles for this exam period. The passing mark would need to be
greatly lowered, lest the entire student population fail their year.
He stood slowly from behind his desk and made a round of the room, checking
each student’s papers as he passed. Most of them were horrendously dismal, of
course, and, unsurprisingly, Hermione Granger’s was not, even with the tears
streaking through the ink.
“This is your Potions final, Ms. Granger, not an invitation to dabble with
watercolours,” he curled his lip as she looked up at him in surprise. “Clean up
this mess.” He dropped a handkerchief onto her desk and swept past, although
not before noting the look of startled gratitude that overtook her face.
Ron’s parchment was blank, without even the presence of effort, although he had
managed to scribble his own name near the top of the parchment and had left
several blobs of ink in haphazard places. He shook his head with a sigh, as he
continued on. One of the blobs could be mistaken for a potions bottle if one
squinted – with a half mark for correctly spelling his own name and for
attempting to illustrate a potion, he could achieve a Dreadful rather than a
Troll. But if Ron did not make an attempt, there was little more he could do.
As he swept around the front of the room, Longbottom, in an unexpected feat of
bravery, glanced up at him and they locked eyes for a tense second or two,
before Snape nodded to him and Neville lowered his eyes and returned to his
work.
While there were many long faces in the room, he was disappointed and disturbed
to see that some of his Slytherins looked positively pleased, and Snape had to
force himself not to turn his tense fury on them. Didn’t they understand what
this meant? Were they so deluded to believe that Voldemort’s possession of
Harry Potter was a thing over which to rejoice? It wasn’t a game. Harry hasn’t
gotten lost while walking through the Forbidden Forest. He wouldn’t wander out
after an hour and be the object of well-deserved ridicule and mockery. He’d
been taken by Bellatrix Lestrange and was being kept as Voldemort’s personal
‘guest’, a position no one in their right mind would ever seek, would ever wish
upon their worst enemy. Snape knew this particularly well.
Snape made his way back to the front and sat again. He laid his hands flat
against the tabletop and looked down at them. They were tinted yellow by his
years with potions, and, while he knew of several cleansers that would be
extremely effective, he had never bothered with the appearance of his hands
before. It had been many, many years since he had had any desire to be noticed
favourably, or noticed at all. He took several deep, meditative breaths and
tried to put from his mind the memories which threatened to surface.
A frantic rustle at the door broke the silence of the room, made the students
leap in their seats, and set Snape’s heart thumping. Someone cursed softly as
they retrieved their toppled inkwell. Snape stood on shaking legs, glad for his
robes to hide this from the too-observant students, and he crossed the long
room. He took in a deep breath and opened the door.
In a wild flutter of white wings, Hedwig flew in low over the students’ heads
and perched on the back of his chair, dropping her parcel on the desk. She
stretched her wings wide, seemingly aware of every eye upon her and then,
satisfied with the attention, preened herself carefully.
Snape stared for a long minute and then shook himself. “Back to work,” he
ordered angrily and each head bowed again, although he could see some peeking
out toward the owl, and Ron did not even pretend to return to the exam he
wasn’t writing. The young man’s face had gone very pale.
He looked at the bird for a long moment, glancing at the letter on his desk,
and he approached the owl uneasily. She eyed him in return as he reached to
take the white envelope, and he turned it over. His name was written in silver
ink across it. His breath caught in his throat and he looked at the owl again.
She slid over on her perch and gazed at him with bright eyes.
He sat slowly, moving as if through water, and reached for his dragon-clawed
letter opener. The red wax seal split easily and the paper fell open, revealing
a letter addressed, Dear Severus.
He looked around the room again, but blindly. Had the entire space been on
fire, with students screaming and running into the walls in a panic, he would
not have noticed.
     Dear Severus,
     If Hedwig has delivered this, then it’s happened. I don’t know what
     ‘it’ is, but it can’t be anything good. I might be dead. Or something
     else terrible has happened. I really do have the worst luck. This
     will only be delivered to you if Hedwig herself is worried about me.
     Speaking of, she’s going to be upset. Please look out for her. She’s
     a very good owl and a very good friend. She’ll be the same for you.
     I’m not even sure why I’m writing this to you. Will you even want it?
     Will you even read it? I hope you will. If nothing else, we’re
     friends now, right? Shocking as that is. Last year at this time, I
     hated you, or thought I did. What a difference a year can make.
Snape wished he were alone with this letter, but couldn’t bear to put it away
until later. He had never liked public displays of emotion, but he was in great
danger of being overtaken by one.
     Maybe I should fill this with secrets and confessions, but you
     already know all of that. I don’t hide things well. Poker would never
     be my game. I have nothing new to tell you except what I’m feeling
     right now. And right now, I can’t sleep.
     This is my first night here in your rooms and I can’t sleep. I could
     ask you for a sleep draught, I suppose, but I’m not nearly brave
     enough for that. I’m sure I’ve embarrassed myself permanently in
     front of you, and Merlin only knows what you think of me. Hormonal
     seems to be the best description you’ve offered, though, and it
     certainly applies right now. All I can do is lay here in my bed and
     think of you. I know that sounds like the worst kind of cliché, but
     it’s the truth. I’m lying here wondering if you’re thinking of me.
     There is so much I want from you, but mostly, I just want to know
     you. I want to be let inside your head, the way you’ve been in mine.
     I want that in a way that almost hurts, especially tonight.
Snape swallowed around a heavy lump in his throat. He cleared his throat and
reached for his glass of water. He felt the owl shift closer until her wings
just barely brushed against his hair.
     You do care about me, don’t you? I’m not a complete dunderhead for
     thinking it, am I? I don’t know what to say to you. I want to tear
     this into little pieces, but… Maybe you’ll never read this anyway.
     Maybe it doesn’t matter.
     The point to this whole rambling letter, Severus, is that I care
     about you. No matter what happens to me, what happens to you, just
     remember that. I hope it means something to you. It means something
     to me.
     Harry

Snape cleared his throat again and looked up. He found Draco watching him, his
eyes narrowed and considering. Snape didn’t fool himself into thinking that he
could continue as a spy amongst the Death Eaters. He cared for Harry, and he
couldn’t keep up the pretence anymore. If one Malfoy knew, all Death Eaters
knew and so too did Voldemort. Snape sighed and the owl at his shoulder nudged
him sympathetically. He checked the hourglass at the edge of his desk and
blinked. It had run dry. It had run dry and he hadn’t noticed.
“Time,” he called, and for once, no one groaned.
===============================================================================
For some reason, Hermione kept reassuring him that he would be able to retake
the exams. Ron wasn’t exactly sure why she bothered. Yes, he’d failed every
single exam he’d written, but he couldn’t care less. He hadn’t put any effort
into it. He had other things on his mind, and maybe she’d been able to put that
aside long enough to impressively pass all her exams, but he couldn’t even
understand why Dumbledore made them take the exams in the first place. There
were more important things to think about. They had to find Harry.
It had been two weeks. Merlin only knew what had happened to him since.
Voldemort wasn’t exactly known for his hospitality. Harry could be dead, could
be in pieces, could be anything. Horrible things could be happening at the very
moment and Ron didn’t just think so – he knew so. He only had to look at Snape
to know it. The man looked like someone he cared about was being tortured. That
was how Ron knew.
He couldn’t care less about the exams. He couldn’t understand Hermione. He
couldn’t even look at her, for fear of saying something he’d regret later.
The time between the end of exams and the start of summer holidays had always
been Ron’s favourite, but this year was a different story. Hogwarts was being
kept open for all students who wanted to stay. Many didn’t, but the school was
the safest place in Britain at the moment with all its wards, and quite a few
students were taking advantage of that. Or having it taken advantage of by
their parents. Ron would stay, as would Ginny, Neville and Hermione. Most of
the professors were staying on. The Slytherins already had their bags packed
and ready to go, which was why it surprised Ron to no end to find out that
Draco and his two guard dogs were staying too. Snape had mentioned it with a
careful casualness after yet another pointless meeting where the Order
discussed what they were doing and exactly how much they hadn’t accomplished.
No one but the Death Eaters knew where Harry was at this point, and Snape had
apparently been taken off the contact list.
Funny, thought Ron. Snape had been posing as a Death Eater for years now, and
it was only now, when they were truly desperate for the knowledge Snape could
gain, that Voldemort reached out his hand and snapped his connection. Ron could
only imagine how Snape felt. Helpless, maybe. Useless. Powerless.
He sat on the bottom step of the hall’s staircase, chin resting on his hands,
elbows propped on his knees. The school was deathly silent. The air hummed.
Something was happening. Ron knew it. He could feel it. He just didn’t know
what it was.
The doors flew open, and Ron jolted and sat up. Hagrid clomped in and shook
himself like a dog to rid his coat and hair of the torrential rains pouring
down outside. He looked up and spotted Ron, and then shook his head.
Ron slumped back down. No news. It was such a familiar refrain these days. No
one seemed to have the slightest clue where Voldemort could be, where Harry
could be. Ron wanted to scream. Britain wasn’t such a massive place that they
could just lose two of the most influential wizards alive. They had to be
somewhere.
The realisation began to sink in as he sat on that step, as Hagrid left
uneasily without a word, as the silence of Hogwarts fell over him again, that,
once and for all, he was in over his head. Ron wasn’t cut out to be the hero.
He didn’t have the slightest clue what to do. Harry would know. Harry always
knew. That was why he was the hero.
“And why I’m the sidekick,” he murmured to himself.
A snort brought his head up again. He turned to find Draco two steps above him,
looking down at him with icy eyes. Ron felt his insides clench into something
dangerous.
“What are you looking at?” He snapped.
“Nothing,” Draco shook his head with a crooked smile. “Just a sidekick,
apparently.”
Ron growled. “Bugger off, Malfoy. Now’s not the time.”
“Time for what?” Draco took the remaining steps down and stood just to the side
of Ron. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose. He had to
have been practicing that move for years, Ron thought spitefully. It was a
cheap copy of the Snape original. “For sitting still, doing nothing? Because
that’s all you seem to have time to do.”
Ron flew to his feet and in seconds had Draco by the collar, slamming him into
the wall. The sound of it echoed through the entire castle, it seemed, breaking
that heavy silence. “Bloody Slytherin,” he hissed.
“Yes,” Draco replied, his composure undisturbed despite the ringing that must
be in his ears. “I am a Slytherin. And you are a good little Gryffindor,
blaming the many for the actions of the few. Tell me, does it get tiring being
so perfect all the time, Weasley? Are you so blinded by your own superiority
that you can’t see how wrong you are?”
“I’m not wrong, Malfoy,” he glowered and then demanded, “Wrong about what?”
“Not every Slytherin follows the Dark Lord, just as not every Gryffindor is a
shining, blameless paragon of virtue.”
“Shut up, Malfoy! Don’t pretend to be innocent in this. I know you’re not.
You’re a Malfoy.”
Draco sighed and pushed Ron away. He straightened his robes and looked at Ron
with a level gaze. “And you’re a Weasley. Harry is a Potter. Our Potions Master
is a Snape. Harry’s godfather was a Black. The Dark Lord is a Riddle. Don’t you
understand yet?”
“What are you on about, Malfoy?”
Draco only shook his head. “If only we were all as single-minded as you, Ron.
What a world this would be.” He shook his head again and walked away, leaving
Ron to stare after him with the heavy feeling that he’d missed something
important.
===============================================================================
Harry’s body was on fire again, a fire that burned from the inside out. It
stretched the length of his skin, it pulsed along his bones, it shook his
teeth. It gripped his mind like claws. It was so completely inescapable. It was
the air he sucked deep into his lungs. The fire invaded his body like a virus
and soon, there would be no Harry. Harry would break and there would be only
pain.
He had no idea how long it had been since this new phase of his capture had
begun. The first of the Death Eaters had drawn a whimper from his lips, but
he’d been careful since. He’d been so careful. He knew they wanted him to
scream. They were waiting for it and Harry knew it would only keep up until he
finally broke, but he couldn’t. He had to be strong. He had to fight as long as
he could. He couldn’t let Voldemort win. If he ever survived this, if he ever
returned, how could he look them in the face if he allowed himself to be
broken? How could he look Severus in the eye again? He had never been broken,
Harry was certain. No one could break Snape. Harry had to do the same. He
needed control. He knew far too much: he knew of 12 Grimmauld place, he knew of
the Order, he knew of Snape. He was the hope of the wizarding world. He
couldn’t break.
But he could bend. He could bend quite a bit farther than he’d ever have
imagined.
It had been several minutes since the last person had left and Harry hadn’t yet
caught his breath again. His body still tingled from the healing spell, from
the memory of what that spell had erased. He was amazed at how much pain his
body could absorb and still function. Each time, he felt like it was the end.
He was certain that it would be over. He wished it would be over. But it never
was. They always pulled back before his very bones shattered. They pulled back
when he was just on the edge of losing his mind. He hated each and every one of
them for that.
It was worse going into it blind. If he could see them, watch their movement,
he might be able to brace himself against it, but it was all so unexpected.
Each person had a different idea of how to play with him, each had a different
idea of pain. Each had such different tastes. It wasn’t always sexual. It
wasn’t always physical. Cruciatus was a favourite, but some liked the sharp
simplicity of a knife. A few liked Imperitus, but it wasn’t necessary. If they
wanted to fuck his throat, it’s what they did. If they wanted to bend him over
and tear him open, it’s what they did. There were no rules, save that Harry had
to be whole when Voldemort returned. No scratches. No scars. No scars save the
one that belonged to Voldemort. Harry belonged to Voldemort.
A damp cloth touched his face and he couldn’t summon the energy to either move
away or move into it.
“You keep impressing me, Harry.”
Harry lay on his side, his elbow digging painfully into the hard ground, his
cheek pressed into the cool tiles. His breath huffed out against the floor and
he could feel the accumulating moisture against his cheek and down his neck,
making the leather collar chafe against his throat. He felt Nagini slide
against his curved back. He couldn’t have moved for worlds.
“Let me go,” he whispered. “Please.”
Voldemort touched his cheek and brushed his damp, tangled hair from his face.
“You know what I want of you.”
Harry felt a hot tear escape and mix with the sweat on his face. “I’ll do
anything…”
Voldemort didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stroked his hair, and
Harry shuddered. Yes, he would do anything, and Voldemort knew it. So did every
Death Eater and their every guest who had come to ‘visit’. Harry Potter,
Dumbledore’s shining star, would do anything, and he wouldn’t say a single word
against it. Not a single ‘stop’ or ‘no’ or ‘don’t’. Harry Potter wouldn’t
fight. He gave everything, everything but the one thing Voldemort wanted.
Because, unlike the Death Eaters, Voldemort wanted his mind and that was the
one part of himself Harry hadn’t let them invade.
The man still said nothing. There was nothing he needed to say. Harry knew. He
knew the ‘visits’ would continue until he gave Voldemort what he sought, but he
couldn’t. He couldn’t let the man into his head, let him see everything he kept
close. He couldn’t let Voldemort see him so completely naked. As soon as
Voldemort touched his thoughts, his friends would be as good as dead.
Harry knew that Ron’s family was the best way to hurt him. He knew that Ron was
deathly afraid of spiders. He knew that Ron needed time to think before he
acted. And if Harry knew those truths, Voldemort would know them too. And if
Voldemort knew them, Ron hadn’t a chance. And Severus… Harry had stopped
thinking of Severus. He had pushed every memory back into a dark, locked box,
because he needed to know that those memories would be protected, even if he
did break. He couldn’t let Voldemort touch Severus again. He couldn’t bear to
be responsible for that.
“You are, by far, my favourite guest, Harry,” Voldemort sat on the floor by his
head and kept up the stroking, his fingers running from scalp to spine. Harry
wished he could pull away, but these were the only moments of kindness he
received since waking up in this dark place. He knew it wasn’t true kindness.
He knew it, and he hated himself for it, but he always leaned into the touch.
“It has been over twenty years since I was so taken by someone. He was quite a
bit like you, I suppose, especially at first. So strong, so angry. So much
potential…” Voldemort trailed off and his hand stilled on Harry’s neck, just
below the collar. Harry embarrassed himself further by making a low moan of
protest. Voldemort’s hand resumed and Harry was glad he couldn’t see the man’s
face.
“In other ways you are quite different. He loved me, you see. He loved me
dearly. He would have done anything had I asked it of him, and he very nearly
did.” Voldemort’s voice was soft and Harry wondered if anyone else had ever
heard this from him. He wondered if anyone had ever been this close to
Voldemort before.
“Very nearly, I say, because, in the end, there was something I asked of him
which he refused. Perhaps if I hadn’t asked him to make that final leap,
everything would be different.” Voldemort lapsed into silence again, with only
the rustle of his robes as he stretched out his legs before him. Harry knew
this. He knew what was expected of him. He gathered his faintly returning
strength and lifted his head to Voldemort’s lap. Voldemort touched his forehead
in approval and kept up the gentle petting. Nagini curled about them both and
rested her head over Harry’s legs.
“I’ll tell you this, Harry, because I think we’ve reached a point where we can
understand each other. Haven’t we?”
Harry nodded, his cheek moving against Voldemort’s thigh.
The man simply breathed for a moment, and Harry listened to it. He knew the
sound of the man now, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart. He
knew he could outlive Dumbledore and still never forget Voldemort’s heartbeat.
“Yes, we understand each other. Which is why I know you will understand this.
You see, he was my favourite. Oh, I loved them all back in those days, when
everything was fresh and filled with such potential. They loved me in return.
Those days were so… beautiful. I miss those days, but I don’t blame you for the
end of them. No, I caused my own end, I confess. I caused my own end because he
was my favourite and when he told me no, I couldn’t bear to kill him. I should
have, of course. No one says no to me, not then and not now. They loved me and
they feared me. That’s how it should be. But he… He didn’t fear me as he
should, and by the end, I no longer wanted him to.”
Voldemort wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders and drew him closer, his
hands moving against Harry’s back now, stroking up and down his bound arms.
Nagini settled against them sleepily. “Love is a dangerous thing, so much more
dangerous than hatred. Love has toppled more kingdoms than time, you know. So
dangerous. Have you ever been in love, Harry?”
Fingers brushed against Harry’s mind and he resisted weakly, but Voldemort no
longer pushed. He simply sighed and said, “Never mind. It makes no difference.
You still understand. I loved him and what is worse, I no longer saw him as my
inferior. He was so strong, so powerful. So much potential, it shone from his
eyes. He was so alive with power then. So much like yourself.” Voldemort shook
his head. Harry could feel the movement throughout his body. “And that was my
downfall. I loved him far too much. I asked him to kill someone for me and he
refused.”
Voldemort felt Harry’s movement and he chuckled. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. He’d
killed for me before, and often. He had a particular flair for poisons. He made
such wonderful poisons. But no, this time he refused because I asked him to
kill someone else he loved. Someone he loved more than he loved me.”
Harry could feel sleep coming over him, and he relaxed into it. He knew
Voldemort would take nothing from him while he slept. The man didn’t want to
take, he wanted Harry to give it of his own free will. He wanted Harry to
choose. Yes, they understood one another well now.
“And when he refused, I almost loved him more, I think. It’s so hard to tell
the difference between hatred and love sometimes. Passion can take on so many
different guises. If I had not demanded he do as I ordered, things would have
been very different. He would never have left me. And I would never have died.”
Harry’s mind recognized the story as changing. His mind picked up on the change
in Voldemort’s voice, but he was so thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and
body. He couldn’t hold on to learn the end. He fell away into blissful
oblivion.
===============================================================================
Something was calling her. Usually, Ginny ignored such midnight callings. She
wasn’t going to be controlled by her gifts. She was the one who controlled
them. But everything was different now that Harry was gone. In this new world
of uncertainty, where no one knew anything and no one knew the first place to
look, she felt like the one point of knowledge. The Order could look high and
low and they would find nothing. Voldemort didn’t want to be found, and Ginny
could feel Harry’s path drifting farther away from her own. He was pulling
away, losing anchor. But the knowledge of where he was, it was still out there
and knowledge always wanted to be found.
And now it was calling her. She had to listen.
She pulled a burgundy dressing gown over her nightclothes and slid her feet
into slippers, and she crept from the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady
snorted in her sleep and tossed over, rolling out of the frame and into her
neighbour’s. As Ginny swept down from the tower, listening to a calling few
others could hear, she pulled her long hair from her face and fastened it out
of her way. The call was growing louder the deeper she went into Hogwarts. She
could have followed it blind. It led her quickly and efficiently through the
maze that was her school. It shifted the universe to accommodate her. Hogwarts
rearranged itself and in short time, she found herself at the door to the
Slytherin common room. The portrait on the door eyed her suspiciously, but a
voice whispered the password in her left ear and she spoke it confidently. The
serpentine portrait glared at her and hissed a warning, but swung open
nonetheless.
Although she had never seen this room, never stepped foot into this Slytherin
world, she didn’t spare it a glance. The calling was so loud now, so loud she
could only barely hear her own heartbeat. It pulled her up the stairway from
the common room and to a closed door. Draco looked up at her as she stepped
into the room and his pale eyebrows rose.
“How did you–”
“Where are you going?” She interrupted as she stepped further into the room.
His trunk lay open before him, but it was already filled and ready to go. She
had arrived, she knew, only moments before he would leave.
“I’m–”
He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening, the lie falling from his lips as he
stared at her. The last shirt in his hand fell from numb fingers and Ginny
stepped forward to pick it up. He stared at her and she had never seen such
fear in his eyes before.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he breathed and she nodded.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know what depends on–”
“I know,” she finished and handed him the shirt. He took it blindly and she
touched his shoulder. “I know. I won’t say a word. Just… bring him back.
Please.” She paused again, her hand gripping his arm. “When you see him, remind
him to harness the magic. Tell him… Tell him to be the magic.”
Draco shook his head. “I can’t promise anything. I can’t risk…”
She nodded again. “I know. Do your best. It’s all we can ask of anyone.”
He looked at her for a long while and she felt surprisingly exposed under his
pale gaze. She supposed it was similar to how people felt when she looked at
them. Unsettled. Naked. Connected.
“How can you understand so easily, Ginny? You and your brother are like night
and day. How is it possible for two Weasleys to be so essentially different?”
She smiled, because that was an easy question to answer. “The same way two
Malfoys can be different, I suppose.” She reached up and straightened the knot
of his tie and patted it smooth. “Good luck.”
He looked up from his tie and smiled tentatively at her. “Thank you.”
***** Chapter 7 *****
In his more lucid moments, Snape wondered if he were going insane.
He could hear Harry sometimes; feel him along the edges of his mind, as if they
were in the midst of an Occlumency lesson. He could feel him as a tangible
presence. He could smell him, for Merlin’s sake. Snape could nearly taste him,
a salty taste, like the ocean, like tears and sweat.
Snape hoped he was going insane. If he wasn’t, if he was somehow connected to
Harry, then Harry was quite worse off than any of his friends hoped. Snape
couldn’t stand to sit in on any more Order meetings, with Harry’s dark, tired
presence over his shoulder. They all expected to somehow find Harry whole and
safe and untouched, and when he had tried to tell them otherwise, they’d grown
uncomfortable, as if he had done something impolite, passing gas in a silent
room.
They didn’t want to hear that Harry would be changed when and if they recovered
him. But Snape knew it. He knew it far too well. No one was the same after
Voldemort. The Dark Lord wasn’t someone who used a soft touch. He wormed
himself bone-deep, until he settled heavy against your soul, and no matter how
many years might pass, no matter how much you might strive to change, Voldemort
could never fully be excavated from a person’s soul. He would do the same to
Harry. The young man would have to work hard to recover. That is, if he hadn’t
already given up.
He had said as much to Ron Weasley one evening and then promptly wished he
hadn’t. Red hair was more than a colour. It was a warning. Ron had turned on
him with a Weasley fury and Snape knew better now than to discuss anything with
him. Ron teetered on the border between the wishful thinking of the Order and
the truth. He lived in an uncertain denial. Snape left him to it. Denial was a
comforting thing when one could manage it.
The Weasley girl was a thing unto her own. She wandered about in a foggy-eyed
daze, neither here nor there. It was unsettling to be in her presence for long.
If someone spoke to her, her eyes would flicker, as if back to life, but she
would quickly return to her daze. The other girl, Granger, fluttered about like
a caged bird, pressing against windows and scraping along the walls. Her hollow
eyes were haunting. She needed to be useful. Anyone could see that. He should
do it himself, he knew. It could be as easy as having her scrub cauldrons, for
Merlin’s sake, if he told her it might help Harry, but they all existed in
their own private worlds now. Harry had been the invisible tie to bind them,
and without him, they were as scattered as smoke.
The door to his office opened, and Dumbledore came in without so much as a by-
your-leave. “Severus…”
“No.”
Dumbledore stopped a foot away from his desk and blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“No,” Snape replied.
“No to… what?”
“Whatever you were about to ask me. I will not do it.” He held his finger to
mark his place in the book and looked at the man calmly. “Unless you are asking
me to finally venture from this enforced seclusion you have kept us all under
and at long last begin the search for Harry, I will not do it.”
Dumbledore blinked again and sank down slowly into the chair opposite Snape’s
desk. “I wanted to ask if you had seen Draco Malfoy recently.”
“Then the answer is still no.”
“He has gone missing.”
“That is hardly my concern. It is summer. If he chooses to leave, he’s
entitled.”
“Well, yes, but if he didn’t choose to leave…”
“He did,” Snape replied. “Of course he chose to leave. One wonders why he chose
to remain in the first place. With his connections, he could be standing at his
father’s side at this very moment, practicing his Cruciatus curses. Harry is no
doubt enjoying the visit.”
Dumbledore pursed his lips. “Severus, we can’t give up the hope that-”
“No!” Snape slammed the book closed. “Do not speak to me of this. You claim to
be knowledgeable of Voldemort, simply because you know his true name, his past.
I have known Tom Riddle, Albus. I know him well. I know what to expect from him
when he favours a person. He feared you, Albus, but not me. No, I had the
misfortune of knowing what it is to be loved by Tom Riddle. That is something
you have never known. And that is something that Harry now shares with me. So
do not speak to me of hope. Harry has given up hope, I assure you.”
“Which is precisely why we cannot.” Dumbledore’s voice grew soft and coaxing,
but Snape was no trapped bird. Dumbledore could go speak with the Granger girl
if he expected a positive reaction from that tone. “We have to hope, Severus,
that he will be returned to us.”
Snape sighed. He sat forward and fixed Dumbledore with his dark, hooded eyes.
“Harry may well be returned to us, bodily, Albus, but he will never be the
same. He will never be the same. If he has not yet been broken, he has been
bent as easily as a green willow staff. Try, if you will, to remember me after
I took my leave of him, and remember that, despite my appearance, I chose to
stay by his side as long as I did. I didn’t fight him. I loved him back.”
“Severus…”
He reopened the book. “If you have nothing else to say to me, perhaps you’d be
kind enough to leave.”
Hedwig fluttered down from her high perch on the ceiling and landed at Snape’s
shoulder. She glared at Dumbledore and hissed.
Dumbledore raised a shaggy eyebrow and then nodded. “Very well, as you’ve
clearly acquired powerful allies. But please be aware that you may have given
up hope, and that Harry may have given up hope, but I have not.” He looked
directly at the owl and then back at Snape. “We will retrieve him.”
Snape ignored him and did not look up from his book until his office door
closed again. He sagged back against the seat and Hedwig nuzzled his cheek
worriedly. He reached a hand up to scratch her neck. “What do you believe?”
She let out a low cry and nipped his fingers lightly.
He nodded. “Yes, a miracle would be advantageous. I hope Harry has one left in
him.”
===============================================================================
The night was chilly for June. Lupin could see the small puff of breath with
each exhale and the grass underfoot was crisp with a trace of frost. It would
be gone by daybreak, he knew, but it was a welcome respite from the smothering
heat and humidity of the past few weeks. Like the others, he had been trapped
within walls for far too long now. Dumbledore had his reasons, of course, and
Lupin knew… Well, with so few of them out looking and very few who knew the
precise reason why, it made for an uncomfortable tension in the air. Not that
anyone had an idea of where to look, of where to begin, but…
Lupin sighed and stopped walking. The Whomping Willow flicked its branches
about as if dreaming and Lupin watched it. A heaviness fell over his heart and
he put one hand up to his chest as if he could rip the pain from himself. The
moon shone through the branches of the Willow, but he didn’t need to look at it
to know it was waxing. He could feel the pull of it through his blood. He had
little more than a week. He had already begun his treatments of wolfbane.
Madame Selene would be clearing his room for him, busily preparing for the
influx of residents. He didn’t want to leave. He hated the wolf, hated it for
dragging him away from what needed to be done.
He closed his eyes as a crisp breeze pushed up against his back, lifting his
hair and dipping beneath his collar.
He tried to remember a time when he hadn’t hated the wolf quite so terribly and
the moment came up from the depths of his mind as if it had been waiting to be
called. Sirius. Padfoot. The wind twirled around him again and he shivered,
opening his eyes to see the Willow shiver in the cool breeze as well.
Sirius had made everything bearable. Had anyone ever had a more cheerful
outlook than that man? He remembered the day they met, at the station platform
at King’s Cross. Remus had had his family with him. His father had been busily
checking and double-checking his papers, his tickets, his trunks and bags –
everything to keep himself busy, to keep himself from crying. His mother hadn’t
been hiding her tears and she hadn’t been able to take her hands off him. Every
moment he’d pulled away from her, she’d wrap herself around him again. He
smiled, thinking back on it. A young werewolf’s first day away from home. He’d
been burning up with embarrassment at the time, but he knew that he hadn’t been
the only one to be so wrapped into their parents’ arms. But he hadn’t been
looking at everyone else. He’d been watching the boy with the dark ponytail,
the silver earring, and the oblivious independence.
Sirius had come alone to King’s Cross. He wore Muggle clothes: flared jeans,
boots, a red button-down shirt, and a leather jacket. He stood to one side, his
trunks on the trolley by his feet, his hands buried in his pockets, and he’d
just stood there, surveying the students as if he were mapping them for
conquest. Lupin hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him. He had never seen
anyone quite like him. Lupin had always been like his few friends at home,
young and innocent. They were only eleven, after all. They still wore the
clothes their mothers picked for them, and Lupin’s trunks were filled with
‘nice trousers’ and ‘good shirts’. He still had a bedtime. This boy, somehow he
knew this boy had never had a bedtime. He was so completely different from
everything Lupin had ever known. He hadn’t been able to look away.
The boarding call was announced and his mother had wrapped him in one last,
desperate hug, and over her shoulder, his eyes had met Sirius’. And the boy had
winked.
It had all been so easy between the two of them since, and nothing had ever
come easy for Lupin. He was shy and quiet and studious and Sirius was
everything but. Sirius laughed big, talked big, lived big. He seemed to make
friends as easily as he breathed, and Lupin could only walk in his shadow,
awestruck by Sirius’ ease. He was constantly afraid that Sirius would leave him
behind, but it never happened. Where Sirius went, Lupin went also. Sirius’
friends were Lupin’s friends. It came to a point during their first year at
Hogwarts where if someone saw one without the other, they would wonder what was
wrong. They weren’t Sirius and Remus, two separate, disconnected entities. No,
they were Sirius-and-Remus. Even when they met James and his shadow Peter…
James who swam as easily through life as Sirius did, Lupin was never forgotten.
Sirius was James’ best friend. Lupin was Sirius’. Nothing had ever made him
glow quite as much as that knowledge.
It had been Sirius’ idea for the rest of them to become animagi. James and
Peter had gone along because it was fun and dangerous and forbidden, and
nothing had ever appealed to James more than the forbidden, but it was only
Sirius who understood exactly how much it meant to Lupin. James became a stag,
the noble, untouchable of the forest. Peter became a rat, which they had teased
him mercilessly over, no matter how useful it could be from time to time. But
Sirius had become a massive black dog, and Lupin knew it was as close to a wolf
as an animagus could become. James had become a stag for the pride. Peter, a
rat for the deviousness. Sirius had become a dog for Lupin… for the loyalty.
The wind danced around him again and he pulled his cloak around himself
tighter. The Willow shook itself and then drooped, branches trailing upon the
ground, bent as a weeping man’s spine. Lupin looked at it and he didn’t need to
move and venture inside to know what the Willow kept hidden. It hid more than
just the passage to the Shrieking Shack, the secret headquarters of the
Marauders. It also hid a secret that James and Peter had never known. It was a
Sirius-and-Remus secret. Yes, the Willow knew them both better than their own
friends had.
The grass behind him crunched, followed by a soft cry and a muffled curse, and
he turned to find Nymphadora Tonks tripping over her over-long robe as she
strolled up the lawn behind him. She had flamingo-pink hair and a canary-yellow
robe slung over her shoulders, but beneath it, he could see her ripped, patched
jeans and her safety-pinned T-shirt, and it made him smile. She reminded him,
at times, of the old Sirius, the one from before… before Azkaban. Before
everything had fallen to ruin.
She smiled as she reached him and slid an arm around his slim waist, hugging
herself to his side. “Visiting old friends?”
He nodded and looked back at the tree. It was sleeping now, he could tell from
the even movements, as if it were breathing. Dreaming.
“He’s strong tonight.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if
he’s haunting me.”
“He would if he could,” Tonks smiled up at him. “He never left your side for
long. I’ve seen the pictures.” She grinned and hugged him tighter. “All the
girls must have been so jealous of you back then. I don’t think he ever
connected with anyone the way he did with you.”
Lupin’s breath hitched. He looked at the moon and then said softly, “I loved
him.”
Tonks’ grip on him froze and she turned up her head again. He smiled and kept
his eyes on the moon.
“Did he…”
He nodded.
“Oh god…” She breathed. “Did you… I mean… were you…”
His lips curled up further into his smile and he shrugged. “We never had
something official. Never like James and Lily. We never dated or anything so
trite as that. We just…” He shrugged again. “We were Sirius-and-Remus. It was
all we needed.”
“Oh, Remus…”
He grinned and curled his arm around her shoulders. “It’s alright, Tonks. It’s
been years. Decades.”
Her eyes widened. “You were… What about when he was sent to Azkaban? Did you…”
“He asked me to trust him. Begged me to believe him, believe that he was
innocent. He swore to me that he could never do that to James and Lily. He
cried. I’d never seen him cry before.” He shook his head, eyes on the moon
again. “I wanted to believe him, but… I couldn’t. He knew. I know he knew. We
could never hide anything from each other. I didn’t think we’d ever see each
other again.”
“And when he escaped? What did you think?”
His mouth twisted into a self-mocking smile. “I thought I’d been right about
what he’d done. I thought he’d deserved to be in Azkaban. I’d hated him for
betraying us. I never stopped loving him.”
“But…” She began breathlessly. “When you knew he was innocent… Did you at
least… I mean, if it had been me I would have…”
“Would you? I’d all but sent him to Azkaban. I’d given up on him and he’d been
innocent. All those years… and you saw him. If you’ve seen the pictures, you
know how he’d changed. I’d killed him. I betrayed him and killed him, as much
as Peter did James.” He tightened his arm around Tonks and clenched his teeth.
“And he still loved me. He forgave me. But I couldn’t forgive myself. And now,
it’s too late. He’s gone again. And this time, it’s absolute. I will never see
him again.”
Tonks buried her face in his side but Lupin had no tears left to share with
her. He’d already drained himself over what he’d lost. He had no companion to
run with during the moon’s high now. The wolf within him had mated for life,
and Lupin could see no other either. They were both left to run alone. He
smiled bitterly and the Willow shook itself wide, blocking the moon from his
sight.
===============================================================================
“I’ve had enough of this,” Ron exclaimed as he burst into Snape’s study,
slamming open the door. Snape’s teacup rattled on the table top, and it went
flying off the edge as Ron banged his fists on the table.
Snape watched the cup fly and then raised his eyebrow. “Enough of what,
precisely?”
“Enough of doing nothing! Harry has been gone for too bloody long and Merlin
only knows what’s happening to him. I’m sick of meetings and talking and doing
nothing. Aren’t you?”
Snape shut his book and nodded. “Extremely.” He flicked his wrist and lit the
study’s candles. The young man’s face was pale in the sudden light. He looked
younger than his seventeen years, but his eyes shone hard and ancient. There
would be no children left among Harry’s companions by the end of the summer,
Snape thought to himself.
Ron nodded at him and flattened his palms against the table. His fingernails
were ragged and bitten. “Then let’s do something. I can’t do it on my own. I’m
no Auror. I’m just a bloody student and not even a good one at that. I’m
nothing that even looks like a hero, but you can do it, can’t you?”
Neither of them were heroes, Snape wanted to say. Heroism was nothing to which
he aspired. Even during his turbulent twenties, all he had ever wanted was
knowledge. But Ron wasn’t asking him to be a hero. He was asking for help. And
so he replied, “Yes, I can do it. Dumbledore–”
“Fuck Dumbledore’s rules,” Ron snapped back angrily and Snape had a sudden and
disconcerting flashback of himself saying the very same thing, before his own
fall. “Don’t give me any of that ‘but Dumbledore says’ shite. He didn’t say
anything when Harry was doing the nasty down here in the dungeons, and he’s not
doing anything now either. I don’t know what he’s on about, but Harry is not
going to get found with us sitting around here with our thumbs twisting up our
arses.”
“Colourfully put, Mr. Weasley, though I agree with you. What do you have in
mind?”
Ron let out a long breath and sat down in the chair. “I overheard Moody talking
to Tonks and Lupin this morning. About rumours coming out of Wales over the
past few months. Thought we could start there. Poke around a bit.”
Snape watched the young man pick at his raw fingernails, watched the tension in
his shoulders. Ron would need watching. Careful watching. But he also needed to
get out of Hogwarts. That much had to be clear to anyone, even Dumbledore. The
young man had enough tension built up in him to take down buildings once he
finally exploded.
“Yes,” he answered and Ron’s head snapped up like he hadn’t expected Snape to
agree. “Wales is a good start. The Dark Lord has previously made his home
there. Pack lightly and say goodbye to those you feel the need. We will leave
at daybreak.”
Ron’s eyes went wide and then he nodded quickly and shot to his feet. “Yes,
good. Daybreak. Um… where…?”
“The main entrance should do. But be sure to pack lightly. We will begin in a
small town which I vaguely remember from my time within that circle. In my
experience, the Dark Lord prefers the ancient homesteads built far from
civilization. We will find an abundance of those in Wales.”
“Yes, ‘course. And I will, I’ll remember to pack light. Good. I’ll be there.”
He turned and made for the door, only stopping once he had one foot in the
hallway. He turned and Snape raised his eyebrow again.
“Yes, Mr. Weasley?”
Ron shook his head. “Just… thanks. For… understanding. I think I’m starting to…
um… I hope we can get Harry back, for you.”
Snape closed his eyes. He heard Ron hesitate a moment longer and then the door
clicked shut.
===============================================================================
She found Hermione sitting alone in the astrology tower. The sunrise shone pink
on the horizon through the tall windows and cast a pale, soft light over
everyone’s misery. Hermione sat wrapped in a pale blue shawl and she hugged it
to herself as she gazed out across the stretch of green toward Hogwarts’
boundaries. At the sound of Ginny’s footsteps, she turned and Ginny didn’t need
the daylight to know she’d been crying. Her skin was pale. Her hair flew about
her face in a tangle and her eyes were wide and open and haunted. She looked as
substantial as a ghost.
“He’s gone.”
Ginny frowned a moment, even as she sat and wrapped her friend in her arms. Her
mind moved, weaving itself through the filaments of knowledge that thrust
themselves at her. Once, she hadn’t looked, not unless asked, not unless she
thought it necessary, but it was necessary now. It wasn’t enough now. It worked
better when she touched the person, so she hugged Hermione to herself. She
could follow her friend’s paths so much easier that way. She shuddered as she
saw the dark and shadowed path ahead of Hermione, misty and uncertain and
sinister. Here be monsters, she thought.
“Neville came and told me and I… He wasn’t even going to say goodbye. He was…
Ginny, he was so angry when I found him, I couldn’t even… He didn’t want me to
touch him, not at all. He almost… he didn’t, but… He’s so angry.” Hermione’s
breath escaped her in sharp, rattling cries. “What’s happened to us, Ginny?
We’re so lost. All of us. I can’t even… I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what
to do. Nothing I know helps me, nothing I’ve learned, nothing. All I have ever
been was my books, and what good are books now? Harry… I can feel him pulling
away, can you?”
Ginny nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around her friend’s shaking
shoulders. Yes, she could feel it. They were losing Harry. She could feel him
cracking. It was only so much longer before he broke.
“And Ron… he’s pulling away from me. He’s leaving me behind. And even you…
you’re so…” Hermione shook her head and leaned her cheek against Ginny’s
shoulder. “You live somewhere else now. I can see it in your eyes. And Neville
is busy being… I don’t even know. He’s taking care of everything, like he
doesn’t have anything holding him back anymore. And you’re all leaving me
behind. I have nothing to give. I’ve never felt so… God, Ginny, so useless.”
Ginny hushed her. “You’re not useless, Hermione. Nobody here is useless. We’re
all just… floating about, trying to find our purpose. I’m doing the same thing.
Do you think I know what I’m doing? All I can do is feel. What’s so useful
about that? I can’t do anything about it. I can’t save Harry. I can’t save you
or Ron or Snape. I can just watch and know and… Merlin, Hermione. I’m so
alone.”
Hermione shifted in the circle of her arms and they held each other as the sun
rose higher in the sky. Ginny opened her eyes and she saw, in the distance,
both Snape and Ron turn to look at Hogwarts from the edge of the school’s
boundaries. Her eyes shifted and she saw their paths join and merge. The two
men gazed at Hogwarts and then looked at each other. She watched them, and
their paths, disappear.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Trigger reminder: off-camera torture, psychological torture and Death
     Eaters being Death Eaters
Dumbledore steepled his hands and gazed around the small circle of people.
Candlelight flickered off the stone walls, casting long shadows beneath their
eyes. They were all tired; it was plain to see. Far too much rested on the
shoulders of these four men.
Moody sat low and back in his chair, arms crossed thickly over his chest. One
eye was fixed on Dumbledore, but the second, magical eye skittered around the
room, scanning each and every face, every corner. Beside him, Hagrid looked
like a nightmare attending a children’s tea party as he towered and glowered
over the table, perched in a chair far too small for his size. His palms lay
flat against the tabletop and he glared about the circle, as if he were only
barely restraining himself from tearing them all to pieces.
Across from them sat Lupin, his face pale in the candlelight. White bandages
wound around each of his hands and wrists, and his amber eyes sparked with a
restrained wildness. The full of the moon approached, and in respect for it, an
acrid-smelling tankard of wolfsbane potion steamed beside his elbow. Lupin
reached for it and winced at the first sip. He set it back on the table and
Neville wrinkled his nose, casting an apologetic look toward Lupin.
Two chairs sat empty on either side of Dumbledore.
He cleared his throat and the four pairs of eyes turned toward him. Moody’s
magical eye paused for a moment before returning to its wild spinning.
“Everything is proceeding as expected.”
Hagrid snorted and grumbled low into his beard. Moody’s eye swerved over and
across him.
Dumbledore looked at him with narrowed eyes and asked in a tight voice, “Have
you anything to add, Hagrid?”
The large man looked up sharply and growled low. “Don’t like this. Don’t like
this, not one bit. Don’t like puttin’ Harry into this, or puttin’ Ron and
Hermione into this. Too young, them. And ‘specially don’t like that Malfoy’s in
this. He’s just trouble, that one.”
Neville tipped his head to one side and said, “We have to trust Draco. He’s the
only one who can get close to Harry.”
“Rubbish, it is. Don’t like it one bit. To think what that monster might be
doin’ to our Harry…”
Dumbledore sighed. “We’ve discussed this. It has to be done.”
Hagrid growled again and slouched lower in the chair. His thick brows shadowed
his narrowed eyes. “I care ‘bout Harry. D’y’think I give one rat’s arse ‘bout
the damnable prophecy?”
“You’re here because you must,” Moody rasped. “It named us and we’re here. No
sense fighting it. You see what happens when you fight it. Just look at Snape,
poor bastard.”
Lupin sipped the steaming drink again. He shook his head. “We should have let
Severus in on this. We should have told him everything. The prophecy numbers
him among this circle as well.”
Neville sat forward and argued, “It doesn’t call for him the same way. He’s one
of the pieces, not one of the players.”
“He is a player,” Dumbledore corrected gently. “But he follows another path.”
“Yeah, a path straight into young Harry’s pants,” Moody rumbled beneath his
breath.
Hagrid’s fist came down hard on the table and the heavy wood groaned. “Rubbish!
All of this. I won’ hear of it! I never asked for this, me. All I wanted–”
“Hagrid,” Dumbledore rubbed a hand over his forehead and removed his hat. “I
appreciate your concerns, of course, but we haven’t the time for it. We are the
players. We have a job to do.”
“Don’ hafta like it…”
Lupin sipped his drink again and grimaced. “None of us like it, Hagrid, but
Dumbledore’s right. The prophecy names each of us as the key orchestrators. It
is our job to see to it that events follow through. Harry will never be capable
of defeating Voldemort without the knowledge he’s gaining now. It’s necessary.”
“Regretful, but necessary.”
Neville shook his head slowly and propped his elbows on the table. He rested
his chin in his palms and looked at Dumbledore. “You know very well that I
don’t agree with this any more than Hagrid does,” he glanced over at the
glowering giant. “Prophecies can be wrong. They are often wrong. They can
easily be misinterpreted.”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Everything is proceeding according to the
predictions. We cannot be wrong.”
Hagrid growled again and the chair beneath him creaked ominously. “We’d better
be right. It isn’t just Harry we’re puttin’ to hell ‘n back. You shoulda seen
Ron ‘fore he went tearin’ off with Severus. And Hermione–”
“Hermione’s losing her mind,” Ginny said from the now open doorway and drew all
eyes toward her. She was dressed in night clothes, with an overlarge sweater
wrapped about her small body. The sleeves trailed over her slender fingers and,
as she propped her hand against the doorframe, pooled down around her elbow.
Dumbledore lifted one eyebrow and Moody shot to his feet.
“Morgana’s leathered teats, girl, how did you get in here?”
She ignored him and sat in the empty seat beside Neville. He stared back at her
apprehensively as she said, “A room full of men who think they know more than
others… I’m sure great decisions are made here.”
“Indeed they are,” Dumbledore replied as he willfully misinterpreted her
statement, “but I believe we are all curious to know how you found us.”
“I was led here,” she answered simply and sat back, crossing her arms. “Now,
what’s this all about?”
Neville hesitated a moment, and then touched a hand briefly to her arm. “This
is the inner fold of the Order of the Phoenix, Ginny,” he said in a quiet voice
and tipped his head to include the others in his gesture.
She scanned her blue eyes over each of them slowly. Her gaze was unflinching,
and Lupin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as she passed her scrutiny over
him. She turned her eyes over each of them in turn until she stopped on
Dumbledore, her eyes were wide and aghast with discovered knowledge. Her hands
were clenched on the edge of the table, her knuckles white with strain. “You…
all of you? You’ve done this purposefully? You’ve chosen to do this?”
Neville’s cheeks flushed with shame. “We don’t have much choice, Ginny. It has
to be done.”
“No, it doesn’t! Merlin’s blood! Nothing is set in stone! This didn’t have to
happen. There were so many others paths that could–”
Dumbledore cut in using a sharp, harsh voice none had heard from him before.
“You see possibilities, Miss Weasley. I see fact. To defeat Voldemort, Harry
must know him, better than anyone else. He must love him. There is no other
way.”
“You’re killing him! Hasn’t he been through enough without–”
“Enough!” Dumbledore snapped and she sat back, eyes wide. “That is enough, Miss
Weasley. I have valued your opinions to a point, but for this I must draw the
line. Harry is my responsibility. As is Voldemort. The prophecy must be kept,
for there is no other way. Only Harry can defeat Voldemort, and nothing but
what he undergoes now can prepare him for that task. We cannot question the
prophecy.”
She stared at him and then looked around the circle. All but Moody avoided her
eyes, and she let out a loud, expletive-filled breath. “What prophecy? What
could possibly be so important, so trustworthy, as to lead you all to do this
to Harry? What?”
Neville touched her arm again and drew her attention. He gazed at her with sad,
pale eyes and began to speak. “He Who Must Not Be Named has but one weakness
and that is love. For to know is to love and to love is to know, and he who
knows the defeat of this man must be the one who has loved and been loved in
return.”
She stared at him. The words echoed in her mind with a sharp clarity, and a
terrible taste rose in her throat. “Why can’t there be another way?”
“We have sought another way,” Dumbledore said gently and she turned her gaze to
see the same sadness mirrored in his eyes. “We have found none. Harry must love
Voldemort to defeat him. It is the only way.”
“This will kill him,” Ginny said, her eyes fixed on Dumbledore. “You’re putting
a very high price on He-Who… on V-voldemort’s defeat.” She pushed the name from
her mouth. “A very high price.” She looked around the circle again. Hagrid
nodded in agreement at her words; Moody glowered. Neville curled his fingers
into fists against the table, but it was Lupin she came to last.
“You are the last of his family. You do this to him?”
Lupin’s amber eyes glittered in the candlelight, but he nodded. “I must. I must
believe that Harry is strong enough for this. If I don’t…” He took a deep
breath and shook his head. “Harry is our only hope. He has to love Voldemort.
He has to know him in a way we do not. He has to–”
She stood and cut him off. “Then I wish you all luck. I hope your prophecy is
true. I hope Harry survives. I hope he can forgive you. I don’t think I can.”
She left, the room silent in her wake.
Neville looked down at his hands. His face was very pale in the candlelight.
“The prophecy is true, isn’t it? Harry won’t… What if Voldemort breaks him?”
“I have faith,” Dumbledore said firmly. “We must all have faith. Harry is
strong. He will not break. We must have faith.” His eyes were bright as he
turned back to Neville. “Harry will not break.”
===============================================================================
Ron stood inside the doorway to the small room and he gazed around it, taking
it in. Two thin, narrow beds. One rough table. Two spindly chairs. One small,
smudged window, releasing a chill draft, stirring the curtains. It was bare and
dull and cheap. He set his bag down on the bed closest to the door and furthest
from the drafty window, and then turned to look at Snape.
The man sniffed at the room and glared around it with sharpened features. He
narrowed his eyes at the window and brought out his wand, flicking it in
annoyance at the window. The curtains stilled as the cold draft was staunched,
and Snape tucked the wand back into his robe with satisfaction. He set his own
bag down on the remaining bed and said without turning, “We will remain here
for a time. Voldemort is quite adept at staying hidden, but not so adept as to
escape the notice of the local people. We can reassess the situation when we
have acquired more knowledge.”
Ron nodded. It sounded plausible enough. “Then what will we do in the
meantime?”
Snape turned to look at him and there was a smirk in his eyes and in the lines
around his mouth, one that struck Ron as being a Bad Thing. “In the meantime,
Mr. Weasley, I shall teach you what you need to know.”
===============================================================================
“–rry, Harry, Harry?”
He surfaced slowly, pulling up through the thick mud that held him down.
Voldemort was calling him. He had to answer. The man didn’t like it when Harry
didn’t answer him. But Harry was so tired. So terribly tired. He wanted to
sleep forever. The mud slicked over his head again, pulling him nearly under.
“What have you done to him?” Voldemort hissed and Harry’s mind latched on to
the sound of it. He hadn’t yet heard him so angry. He sounded livid. He sounded
murderous. This was the Dark Lord who had stolen his blood and been reborn.
This was the man who had killed so many, killed his parents, killed his
friends. This was the man who loved him.
“You’ve injured him. You had no right to injure him. He is mine.”
There was another voice, familiar, deep but halting. Afraid. Harry recognized
it, but he couldn’t quite associate it with the proper memory. The voice was
attached to pain, but so many voices brought pain. It hadn’t been afraid when
it had spoken to him. No, it had been mocking and cruel. Laughter as sharp as
the pain which lanced through his body. Voice as blunt as the fingers bruising
his skin. Voldemort would heal him. Voldemort cared for him.
“Please, don’t, please, Lord… Please, Lord Volde– No, please, don’t!”
Voldemort’s voice sliced through the snivelling and Harry whimpered quietly.
Avada Kadavra.
That smooth voice had once spoken those words to him. The sound of it made his
body convulse into a tight ball of wishful denial. He heard his mother scream
in the space behind his eyes and he squeezed them shut and pushed her back. She
had no place here.
The body hit the ground with a heavy, wet thud, shaking the floor under Harry’s
cheek. He whimpered again and pulled himself closer in around his body, feeling
the now familiar wet pull of knife gashes. The chain rubbed slickly against his
bare, raw skin and he dimly realised that his fingers were sticky with blood.
Pain was everywhere.
“Shh,” Voldemort stroked him softly and Harry mewled and pushed himself into
the touch, all but crawling into the man. “Shh, Harry. He won’t touch you
again.”
Harry sobbed as his head was cradled against Voldemort’s lap, and he wished, he
wished so badly that he could believe it. Voldemort had been the one to send
the man in, after all, to send them all in. He didn’t like seeing Harry
damaged, though, and that man had had particularly violent tastes. Others had a
taste for his blood as well, but they had all had the decency to cast a healing
spell over him before their Dark Lord returned to the room. The corpse on the
floor hadn’t been as intelligent as that. He’d paid for that failure.
Harry listened to Voldemort’s voice again and felt the tingle of the healing
spell sweep over his body. The man’s voice wrapped around him like a blanket
and Harry slipped down into it, and for a while, the world was blessedly quiet
and dark and numb.
Sometime later, he awoke into the now familiar darkness. He stayed still and
listened for the sounds of a man he had come to know better than he had ever
known anyone. Yes, there. He wasn’t alone. He would never be alone again.
He shifted on the floor, rolling up to sit cross-legged on the floor, and he
turned his head toward Voldemort. He could hear birdsong. Morning. His voice
was dry and his throat hurt, but he managed to ask, “Could I have some water,
please?”
Voldemort was barefoot. Harry could hear the sound of his feet against the
stone tiles. The man’s fingers touched his lips, a signal, and Harry opened his
mouth and tipped back his chin. The water was cool and sweet, with a hint of
mint. It soothed his dry throat and settled coldly in his empty stomach. He
could feel the chill of it invading his body.
“Hungry?”
He nodded. “Please.”
More sweet smelling fruit. It was always fruit in the morning.
“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice was hesitant, and that was new. He raised his head
and waited to know why.
“You have visitors who have asked to see you today, but I could send them away,
if you need more time to recover.”
He wanted to laugh. He had never been given this choice before. Send them away?
Ridiculous. And he had never been given time to recover before. When had the
Dark Lord ever been worried about him? How badly had he been injured to invoke
this?
“How long have I been here?” He asked instead and was truly curious to know to
the answer.
Voldemort was silent for a moment. “Fifty-three days.”
Harry nodded. Nearly two months. It was summer. It would be… July? August? Had
things been different, very different, he would be with the Dursleys.
No, his brain supplied from behind the fog. Not with the Dursleys. With
Severus.
He pushed that back. That was all over now. There was nothing but fruit juice
on Voldemort’s fingers each morning, and Voldemort’s hand stroking him to sleep
every night. Everything in between those moments wasn’t real. Everything that
had come before wasn’t real. Dreams and nightmares.
“Send them in.”
Voldemort hesitated again and Harry had to bite his raw lips to hold back his
laughter. Didn’t the man realise what this was? He’d won. There would always be
a small, locked box hidden away in the shadows of Harry’s mind, but the rest of
it? It was all Voldemort’s. Everything Harry had to give was Voldemort’s. There
could be no other.
“Are you certain?”
“Very.”
Voldemort’s fingers trailed over his cheek and then away. He knew. Of course,
he knew. How could he not?
“It is your choice, Harry, of course, but Lucius has had his visit with you far
too recently. He is being greedy. We will give his son a chance. You know
Draco, don’t you?”
Harry froze and his eyes flew open into the darkness, but Voldemort’s steps
were already retreating. The door creaked on heavy hinges and Harry listened to
the murmurs exchanged. The door closed again and it was only silence for a long
moment before lighter steps came back to him.
“Merlin’s balls, Potter…”
Harry sat up straighter. He pushed back his shoulders and tipped up his chin.
He still had his self-respect, and Draco would see that, would have to, because
Harry would never be so broken as to lose that. He was loved here; this is
where he belonged.
Harry may not have been able to see Draco’s expression, but his tone was
hushed, disbelieving. “What have they done to you?”
“What haven’t they done?” He pushed a smile onto his lips. “What’s the matter,
Malfoy? First time? Don’t worry. I know how this is done. Would you rather me
on my back or on my front?”
Draco sucked in a breath and the young man sat down heavily in front of Harry.
He reached out a trembling hand and touched the collar with his fingertips.
“How can you stand it?”
Harry shrugged and felt the comforting pull at his throat. “Voldemort prefers
it when I keep up my spirits.” Harry smiled a real smile and could feel Draco
shudder. “He likes it when I’m content.”
“You’re chained like a dog at his feet! How can you possibly be content? You’re
Harry fucking Potter. You’ve never been content to be less than anyone, and now
you’re playing at… at… How could you?”
Harry shrugged one shoulder, feeling again the smooth, hard pull at his neck,
and he couldn’t suppress a shiver at the feel of it. The collar was a constant
reminder that he belonged to someone, someone who cared for him. Voldemort’s
hand against his skin. “I’ve made my choice. This is… This makes sense. You
can’t understand. I don’t have to be the Boy Who Lived. I don’t have to fight.”
He closed his eyes and tilted his head down. “Some of it is… unpleasant, but
that’s the price I pay.”
“For what?”
“For… for not being alone. For being loved. For being cared for.”
“Cared for?” Draco’s voice rose an octave. “Harry, I was sent in here to fuck
you. No rules, no restrictions, just fuck you. Merlin, my father has been in
here.”
“Several times,” Harry murmured.
Draco made a noise low in his throat. “Harry, how many times have you… how many
times have they done this to you?”
Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes again. “Someone comes to visit me
every day, but sometimes they come in groups. I couldn’t say how many times. I…
I don’t usually stay conscious the whole time, so I lose count.”
“Merlin, Harry.”
Harry had had more than enough of this. He didn’t like being pitied. He was
fine. It hurt, it always hurt, but he welcomed it, because what he wanted was
the numbness that accompanied the new healing spell, the one Voldemort insisted
upon. It swept over him, through his mind, his bones, and left him so
blissfully at peace. Voldemort would come to stroke his hair and tell him how
good he was, how loved he was, and Harry would fall asleep in his lap,
surrounded by love. He didn’t need pity.
“Get on with it already, Malfoy! Stop pretending to care. Stop pretending to be
shocked.”
“I’m not going to fuck you, Harry!”
“Why the hell not?” Harry sat up on his heels and glared. “You didn’t seem
reluctant that night in the dungeons with Malcolm and Eric. Don’t you want a
turn too? Your cousins took theirs. They had their fun, paid me back in full
for what I gave to them. Or do you think you’re too good to sully yourself on
me? Is that what this is?”
Draco sucked in a deep breath and then let it out again. His hand slipped away
from Harry. “Ginny told me to remind you to harness the magic.”
Harry froze.
“She told me to remind you that you can be the magic. What is she talking
about?”
“I…” Harry shook his head. “She told me, warned me… But I can’t. I’ve tried. I
could only barely move the bloody teacup without it shattering. She doesn’t
know what she’s asking. I can’t. I’d shatter into a million pieces.”
Draco’s voice turned soft. “You already have.”
“No,” he shook his head stubbornly. “No, I’ve kept myself together. That’s the
whole point. They wanted something from me. I had to give it to them. I had to
keep them from my mind. I’ve kept that together. Don’t you understand? I had to
give them something.”
“You don’t deserve this, Harry. Let me help you. I can try to get you out of
here. Don’t you want to go back to Hogwarts?”
“Back to…” He reeled as colours suddenly burst behind his eyes, and images
flashed in his mind in a kaleidoscopic storm. He saw Ron grinning over a
chessboard; Hermione knee-deep in texts; Ginny smiling from her broom; Hagrid
and Norbert; Dobby’s sock collection; Seamus, Dean and Neville stumbling from
bed on bleary-eyed mornings; Nearly-Headless Nick’s death-day party; Colin
Creevy’s camera flash; Severus… Severus. His dark eyes, his small, secret
smiles, the taste of his lips, the roughness of his voice, the feel of his
hands…
And then it was too late. His safe, black box was open. The lock had been
snapped. There was no closing it again. Nothing in his mind was safe now. If he
opened himself to Voldemort tonight, he’d have nothing left.
“Why are you saying these things? I can’t hear this…”
Draco sighed and leaned forward until his lips just brushed Harry’s ear, who
froze against at the contact. “Snape makes a terrible spy for the Order. He
never managed to believe his own lies. A spy needs to come just shy of
believing them.”
Harry was still for a breathless moment, and then he turned his head and his
own lips touched Draco’s ear. “You believe the lies?”
Draco’s mouth moved, a smile. “Just shy.”
Harry’s eyes were open into darkness, seeing the angry, bullying boy he had
known, seeing the young man in the dark hallway, the flicker of apology in his
eyes. “How long?”
A puff of amused breath against Harry’s cheek. “I’m the best actor you’ll ever
meet, Potter.”
***** Chapter 9 *****
Ron slammed his palm down flat against the table, startling the spattering of
people in the common room of the inn. He let out a loud burst of irritation as
he glared down at the seated man. “Snape! Would you just bloody well stop?”
“Stop what?” Snape shot back, glaring at him across the tabletop. He dipped his
quill in the inkpot again and jumped as Ron snatched it from between his
fingers.
“This is my quill. And that is my ink! And that is my parchment! What do you
think you’re doing, stealing my things?”
Snape rolled his eyes and sighed. He sat back in the creaking wooden chair and
folded his arms over his chest. “You’re being unreasonable, Mr. Weasley.”
“I am not!” Ron sputtered and glared at him, his cheeks and ears flushing red.
“Just stop, alright?”
“Stop what?” Snape asked again, his voice rising sharply.
“Stop… being you!”
Snape sat back and rolled his eyes again. The patrons across the room were
tactfully ignoring them, as usual, save for the one inebriated old man by the
bar who watched them every evening with an interest generally reserved for
sporting matches.
“Then can I ask the same of you, Mr. Weasley?”
Ron huffed and sat down across the table from him. “You can ask, but that
doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”
Snape smiled thinly and sat forward again, resting his elbows on the table.
“Then I certainly don’t intend to ‘do it’, either.”
They glared at each other for a moment and then Ron handed back the quill.
Snape took it without comment and began writing again. Ron sat down in the seat
opposite Snape and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at the old man
who grinned and saluted him sloppily with his tankard.
The old man had proven an interesting source of information, although perhaps
less than useful than ideal. While he was a squib, his parents and siblings had
been full wizards and witches, and he was old enough to remember Voldemort’s
first rise to power and the subsequent fallout. His sister had died in the war.
The town had been half-burnt and rebuilt on the ashes, and now things were
beginning again. He was thrilled someone, anyone, had finally arrived to put
things to right in the area.
He had sent them out on several hunts to local properties, although few were
particularly fruitful. In one case, they had found two Death Eater supporters
living in a small house outside of the village. Snape had been immediately
recognized and the pair had attacked, but it hadn’t been much to subdue them.
They’d discovered the trove of supplies hidden in the floorboards: dark potions
and texts, anti-muggle propaganda, and a single Death Eater mask. It was enough
to incriminate them. The worst of it, Ron found, had been waiting for the
Aurors to finally appear to arrest the two supporters.
Later, they had found what Snape claimed was a former Death Eater safehouse,
long since abandoned. The hearth had been full of charred parchment, and the
coal room in the cellar scattered with the small bones of hundreds of birds and
rodents. Food for the snake, Snape claimed, and Ron was at least glad the thing
wasn’t fed babies. When Ron said as much, Snape’s mouth thinned in a tight line
and he’d looked away, and Ron didn’t ask any more questions.
While their days were full of country jaunts and creepy bone-filled rooms,
their evenings were a little too close for comfort, stuck together in the small
room. Snape spent most of his time writing endless letters, and when not doing
that, he attempted to teach Ron Occlumency. Legilimency was well beyond him, it
seemed, and good riddance too. He had no desire to go tramping about in
anyone’s mind, least of all Snape’s. Battering up against the man’s mind every
evening was exhausting, but he had certainly learned more of protecting his
mind than he had ever before. He’d learned defence spells and useful hexes and
plenty of things no professor had ever bothered to teach him before.
It was surprising and unexpected. Who knew he could actually learn something
useful from Snape.
He looked back at the man and watched him for several minutes before he finally
asked, “What are you writing, then?”
Snape glanced up and then down again. “A letter.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “To who?”
 
“Whom.”
Ron let out another grating sound. “Dammit, Snape, would you just stop being an
insufferably pompous git already?”
Snape’s lips quirked, though he didn’t raise his head from his writing. “I am
writing a letter to Harry, if you must know. Though if you ask what it is I am
writing, I will demonstrate a little known hex which I’ve no doubt you’ll find
vastly interesting.”
Ron snorted. “Yeah, I’d like to see you try.” He grinned as Snape looked up at
him with a raised eyebrow, and Ron chuckled. “I have your wand, you greasy git.
Remember?”
The man’s lips turned up into a true lazy smile and he blinked like a cat in
the sun. “I have met your sister, Mr. Weasley, and so I can only assume that
your inherent witlessness is not hereditary, though your brothers certainly
make me wonder.”
“Hey!” He paused and then frowned, “…I think.”
Snape rolled his eyes again and put down the quill. “Shall I take you through
this slowly? I was teaching Harry to control magic without the use of a wand. I
have considered trying to teach the same to you, though I’m unsure if the
lessons could penetrate your skull. Our lessons thus far have left me doubtful
on that note.” He lifted one dark eyebrow. “One generally doesn’t teach a skill
which one does not already possess.”
Ron coloured but sniffed and sat back nonchalantly. “Lockhart did it.”
“Oh, spare me. That man was an insufferable git.”
Ron grinned. “You just called him a git, you git.”
“Would you like to spend the rest of this excursion as a toad?”
Ron opened his mouth to send back his retort but the older waitress appeared by
his elbow and interrupted him.
“Can I get you boys anythin’ else?” She had a chaotic bramble of grey-blonde
hair piled on her head, three visible pencils sticking out from the mess. She
reached up and took one and put the point to her pad of paper, raising her
eyebrows as she waited.
They looked up at her and Ron grinned. “Firewhiskey?”
Snape cleared his throat. “Butterbeer,” he corrected with a pointed look before
going back to his letter. “For him. I will have a firewhiskey.”
The woman smiled and winked at Ron conspiratorially. She pulled a set of dark-
rimmed glasses from her hair and set them on the end of her nose, smiling at
him through them. “Your pa’s a regular riot, ain’t he?”
Ron’s mouth dropped open and he looked from her to Snape in shock and a touch
of horror. “My father? Him? No!”
“Oh,” she glanced between them again, her eyes flickering behind her thick-
rimmed glasses, her tongue between her teeth. “Uncle?”
“He’s my pupil,” Snape said, eyes still on his letter, through Ron could see
the amusement in his severe features. “I can only count my blessings that I
never contributed to the creation of that.”
“Hey!” Ron exclaimed. “You’re no prize either, you know.”
The woman’s smile froze along its edges, a tiny crease above her nose. She
backed up a step. “Well, that’s just lovely, then, ain’t it? I’ll just be
getting those drinks, then.” She dashed off, leaving a scatter of pencils
behind her.
Ron glared at her and then across the table. “Like we look anything alike,
thank Merlin.”
“Yes,” Snape murmured. “Thank Merlin, indeed.”
Ron narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything. The waitress was talking to the
old man at the bar, and Ron sighed and turned so he looked at the whitewashed
wall. There was a picture of a large, red-faced man in a kilt, tossing a very
hefty-looking log. The log flew some distance and the man turned to Ron and
winked. Ron frowned and then look back at Snape. He looked at the long line of
his nose, the pallor of his skin, the lank curtain of midnight black hair. He
imagined his professor as a Weasley, the red hair, the freckles, the maroon
sweater with a lopsided S, and he grinned despite himself.
“Yeah,” Ron chuckled, fighting back a laugh. “You’d look silly with red hair.”
Snape lifted his head, eyes glittering. “You’d look ridiculous with my nose.”
Ron laughed outright and laughed harder as Snape put his knuckles to his mouth,
sharply holding back what must be his own laughter. Their eyes held and shared
their amusement for a moment, and then, simultaneously, they frowned and looked
away. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long while, as Snape’s quill went
back to scratching over the paper and Ron watched him. Finally, he asked,
softly, “Do you think we’ll find him?”
The quill paused on the paper, and Snape looked up. “No.”
Ron nodded and swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah, me
neither.”
===============================================================================
Draco didn’t look back as he walked from the room. He knew he had left Harry in
a tangled, sated sleep, thanks to a charm he’d learned from his mother – a
charm well-known and well-used by the dissatisfied wives of the upper echelon
of wizardom. He had carefully and deliberately arranged his clothing: one
button off on his shirt, his tie loose, his robes open and twisted. His father
turned in the hallway as he stepped from the room and closed the heavy door
behind him. Lucius looked him over with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, and Draco
smirked back, rearranging his robe into a semblance of order, slicking back his
sweat-lined hair.
“Well?” Lucius asked, his body radiating with contained eagerness, his long,
elegant fingers twitching against his thighs.
Draco grinned, showing a line of white, perfect teeth, and then feigned
disinterest, shrugging and sniffing. “I’m famished. Shall we go?”
His father laughed and clapped him over the shoulder, leading him away from the
large, imposing door. The hallway was long and brightly lit, sunlight casting
bright, cheerful light across the pale wood walls, tinting them blue and red
from the coloured panes of glass. They arrived in the main hall and two
servants in dark robes opened the front doors for them, while a third handed
them their outer robes and wands. They stepped out into the warm midday sun and
the light poured down over their pale faces.
Draco spared a glance over the rambling chaos of the front gardens, amused by
their Englishness. Robins and bluebirds flitted about, calling each other in
musical tones, chasing each other from stone walls to mossy tree, and he half-
expected to see a young trio of Victorian children, laughing about their secret
garden.
It was a change from Voldemort’s last headquarters, a damp, decrepit house on
the outskirts of a dark, unsuspecting town. But that had been before. No one,
none of the Death Eaters, knew quite what to make of the change in their Dark
Lord, but sometime ago, the man had gone from a waxy-skinned, bitterly frail
old man to a young, hale man with a sharp smile and razor-blade amusement.
Draco’s father told him that it was how Voldemort had been in the beginning, in
the very beginning, when it had all been new and exciting, when most of the
Death Eaters still remembered the boy named Tom Riddle, but no one mentioned
him. It was when the Death Eaters loved their Dark Lord willingly, rather than
fearfully.
Even Voldemort had been young once, and it seemed he had chosen to be young
again.
It came at a price, of course. Voldemort had found a way to siphon off a
person’s youth through their blood. It was a dark, dark magic, ancient and
buried, but Voldemort had revived it, and through it, revived himself. Muggle
blood did not have the potency that wizard blood had, they had determined that
through trial and error, but Draco knew that some Death Eaters on tenuous
ground with their master had ‘volunteered’ their own young children and this
had proven more than successful.
In theory, Voldemort might live forever, should he chose.
While the blood magic sustaining him was dark and ancient, the new quaint manor
he had adopted was certainly not. It had been painted a lively yellow with
crisp white trim, and was surrounded by English gardens and fluttering
bluebirds, and the whole of it confused the Death Eaters, through it amused
Draco to no end. He wished he had Creevy’s camera, because he doubted anyone
who had not seen it would believe it.
He glanced at his father and hid a smirk as he saw the disgust in Lucius’ eyes
as a pair of lovebirds circled each other across their path.
“What does the Dark Lord plan for Potter? In the end, I mean.”
Lucius shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt anyone but the man himself knows.”
“He doesn’t still need Potter’s blood, does he?”
“Hardly. You saw him. He’s fitter than I am.”
Draco nodded. “He looks like a twenty-year old. He looks like he could hop
aboard a broomstick and play a round or three of Quidditch and not tire himself
out.”
Lucius rolled his eyes, but nodded back. “My guess? He’s keeping the boy for
personal reasons.”
“But…” Draco frowned and glanced at his father. “He hasn’t touched him, not
that way, has he?”
Lucius grinned at him. “He hasn’t buggered him, you mean. Well, no. Rumour is,
he hasn’t, though the rest of us surely have.” Lucius laughed darkly and Draco
had to look away. “No, when I say personal reasons, son, I mean I think he
cares for the boy.”
Draco’s head snapped around to stare and his mind flipped busily into work. The
prophecy, Dumbledore’s idiotic, revolting prophecy… It was happening?
“He loves Potter?” He put a note of disgust in with his incredulity. “My god,
why?”
His father shrugged again, but chuckled. “Amusement? Boredom? But why sound so
shocked, Draco? Is it so hard to think anyone might love that pretty boy in
there? Goodness, if Voldemort hadn’t tagged the Potter boy since the beginning,
I would have liked to keep him for myself.”
Draco swallowed the taste of bile in his throat and made a tsk sound. “Father,
he was my classmate. Shame. What would mother say?”
Lucius smiled sharply and replied, “She wouldn’t. As always.” A robin flitted
too close to him and he swore, turning to swat at it. Draco sucked in a breath
and looked away. He swallowed hard and plastered his smile back over his lips,
and he was as icily smooth as always by the time his father had incinerated the
small bird and turned back.
They reached the end of the long front path and stood a ways from the wrought
iron gates, finally outside the warded circle around Voldemort’s Summer House,
as it had come to be called.
Lucius looked down at him with slitted eyes. “Will you return to Hogwarts now?”
“Do you wish me to?” Draco asked carefully, neutrally.
“Dumbledore is planning something, you said. I’d rather have someone I trust to
watch over him.”
Nodding, Draco agreed. “They will be curious to know where I have been.”
Lucius scoffed. “They need to know nothing more than that you’re a Malfoy.
Insanity, expecting one of us to be answerable to the likes of Hogwarts
professors.” He shook his head, gazing off over the garden, and then he looked
back at his son, his eyes dark with a warning. “Watch Severus carefully. Few of
us trust him anymore. He’s… Things are not as they were. The Dark Lord might
say one thing about him, but… Keep an eye on him. I want to know what he’s
about.”
Draco nodded again. “Of course, Father. I will.”
Lucius smiled and patted his shoulder again. “I know you will, Draco. I have
faith in you. The others will see your worth too, one day. You will show them
all.”
“Yes,” Draco answered and looked at the cheerful house surrounded by its
cheerful gardens. “I will.”
===============================================================================
“Hermione?” Ginny stepped through the entrance to the Gryffindor common room
and cast her eyes around the empty space. She released a long sigh and was
about to step from the room again when she caught sight of movement from the
corner of her eye. She narrowed her eyes and saw it again. A cloud of frazzled
brown hair moved in the slight current of air in the room, visible along the
edge of a burgundy chair, which sat with its back to the entrance to the room.
Ginny stepped back into the room and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut
behind her.
“Hermione?” She called again, but when she received no response, Ginny huffed
in irritation, frustrated with Hermione’s continued strangeness. Her friend had
been in a plunging spiral of despondency and hopelessness in the months since
Harry had been taken, and certainly, Ron and the way he had left things with
Hermione before he’d gone hadn’t helped.
Ginny wanted to shake her friend. Yes, Ron was gone. Yes, Harry was gone. But
the rest of them were managing. Why on earth couldn’t Hermione do the same?
She strode across the room, circling around the chair, a sharp retort on her
tongue, but before the words could pass across her lips, they died.
Curled up, her knees against her chest, a blanket around her back, sat
Hermione, staring ahead blankly. Her face was unnaturally pale. Her eyes stared
ahead at the flickering fire, but her pupils were wide, her eyes nearly
entirely black.
Ginny froze for a moment and her heart leapt painfully in her chest. She bent
closer and saw the faint stirring of hair around Hermione’s face, saw the
slight rise and fall of her friend’s chest. She was breathing, at least. Ginny
put her hand out and touched her friend’s shoulder, and a bolt of sharp
electricity shook up her arm, spiralling down her spine, slithering around her
legs and into the floor.
She jumped back, rubbing her arm as the tingles of it raced through her nerves.
The carpet smoked where she had stood, the plush burned with two blackened
footprints. Hermione hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. There was no reaction at
all.
Ginny felt an icy shiver run up her spine and deliberately she opened herself
to track Hermione’s paths, to find her energy, but when she did, all she found
was an absence. Not darkness, but a steady emptiness. Hermione had no future
ahead of her. She walked no paths. As far as Ginny could see, Hermione simply
wasn’t.
“Bloody hell, Hermione.” Her voice shook. “What have you done to yourself?”
The room was empty, so painfully empty, and she put a hand to her stomach,
feeling it turn over in a rare panic. She was stronger than this, stronger than
panic. She could handle this. Ginny looked down at Hermione again, into those
blank, staring eyes, and her stomach roiled over again. She needed… help.
“Dobby,” she called softly, and immediately, the house-elf appeared.
He smiled widely at her and said, “What can Dobby do for Ginny Weasley today?”
Ginny motioned to Hermione with a trembling hand, and the house-elf turned to
look and froze still. His large eyes widened. He tilted his head and looked
back at Ginny and said in a strange voice, “Hermione Granger has gone and has
left behind her body.”
Ginny swallowed thickly and said, “Dobby, can you please find Professor
McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey and ask them both to come here? I need their
help.”
“Of course,” Dobby bowed low, but he glanced back at Hermione and tugged on one
ear as he said, “Dobby has never forgotten his body before. Hermione Granger
will be missing it soon, Dobby thinks.”
He disappeared with a pop, and Ginny sat down where she stood to wait.
===============================================================================
Ron snorted, turned over, and fell off the narrow bed. He hit the floor with a
building-shaking thud, and Snape watched as the young man groaned and emerged
from his tangled cocoon of blankets.
“Perhaps you need a guardrail, such as they use for young children. I don’t
believe they make bassinets for people of your size.”
“Funny, funny man, you are, Professor.” Ron pushed at the sucking mass of
blankets, kicking the tangle from his right leg and growling as it refused to
let go. Finally, he subdued the blankets and tossed the whole, bundled ball of
them back onto the bed. His pants were a twist about his hips and his t-shirt
was halfway under his left armpit, but he scratched his chest and righted them
as he crossed the room, heading for their shared toilet. Once upon a time, he’d
have been embarrassed to be half-naked, sleepy, and always slightly disoriented
around Snape, but that time had passed. Now, he flipped him a non-verbal hand
gesture as he passed by and then closed the washroom door behind him.
He stared at himself in the mirror over the sink as he washed his hands. His
eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. His face was pale, making his hair look
like a Muggle traffic cone had melted over his head. The patchy red scruff over
his chin and cheeks looked more like an unpleasant skin condition than facial
hair.
“At least your hair isn’t greasy,” he told his reflection.
“Don’t be too sure, mate,” the mirror replied in a thick burl. “Yeh look… Well,
be glad yeh’ve got yerself a good personality, a’least.”
“Thanks,” Ron muttered and splashed his face with icy water. It made his teeth
clench and grind together, but at least he was mostly awake now. A quick
cleaning spell and an even quicker shave later, he emerged from the washroom
and sat down, his chin in his hands, and sniffed as he looked at Snape.
The man looked like a walking corpse. An amused walking corpse, but a corpse
nonetheless. His skin was chalky, his dark eyes and hair strengthening the
contrast to the point where he looked like a photo-negative of a person,
colours too severe and contrasting to be true. Dark shadows hung beneath his
eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks. The pair of them must make quite an
impression. He wondered what the innkeepers thought of them. One shadow
creature and one deranged traffic cone.
Ron snorted to himself at the image and then closed his eyes as the pain behind
his eyes throbbed.
“You should eat something,” Snape told him and Ron heard as a wooden bowl was
pushed across the table toward him. He cracked his eyes open and saw two green
apples and a couple fresh muffins. Blueberry, his nose told him, but his
stomach turned over once, then twice, and he shook his head and pushed the bowl
back.
“You’re not looking well,” Snape commented dryly and Ron glared at him through
slitted eyes.
“Pot, kettle, black.”
Snape rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we should have included basic English grammar
as a supplementary class. You seem to have your difficulties with the simplest
of sentences.”
Ron opened his eyes and glared harder. “You look like crap, Snape, all pasty
pale and sick. Practically see-through, like a ghost, but I’ve seen better
looking ghosts. In fact, if Nearly-Headless Nick was here, and I had to choose
between the two of you, I’d pick him.” His forehead bunched in a deep furrowed
frown and he looked away. “What the hell are we doing here? We’re going to
fucking kill each other before we find him.”
Snape sighed and rubbed his temple. “We aren’t going to find him. That isn’t
the point.”
“Then what is?” Ron snapped, unable to stop himself. “Huh? What are we doing
here? Anything? Pissing around, doing nothing? What’s the point, Snape? Exactly
what is the point?”
“The point was to get you out of Hogwarts, to keep you from killing one of your
friends with your bare hands, to give you something to do. I have tried to
teach you. I have tried to take you out into the world. I have tried.” Snape
glared at him balefully, dark eyes filled with anger and frustration. “I should
have just locked you in a closet and left you there, you little…”
“You little what? What? What am I, Snape, you greasy bastard? Hm?”
Snape stood, pushing back his chair noisily and Ron followed, his own chair
flying backward to hit the ground with a sharp snap. The table was all that
stood between them, and Ron, despite his anger, was well aware that his wand
was across the room, resting on the bedside table. Snape’s sleeves were rolled
up and Ron could plainly see the Dark Mark against the man’s pale forearm. He
flicked his eyes from the Mark to his wand and back.
Snape recoiled as if slapped and took a stumbling step backwards.
Ron stood still and felt his anger drop away as he stepped around the table and
asked, “What? What’s wrong?”
The man closed his eyes and shook his head, but Ron wasn’t about to let him get
away with anything. “No, you tell me. What’s wrong?”
Snape opened his eyes narrowly and said sharply. “I am not a danger to you.”
“Reading my mind, Snape?”
Snape turned away and crossed his arms over his chest.
Ron looked away. He brushed a hand over his face and sighed. “Look, I know. I
don’t think… I mean, I know you’re not a Death Eater. Okay? Not anymore. But
you were, it’s right there, plain as day, and… Well, that’s hard to overlook.
Even with, you know, everything else.”
Snape’s shoulders slumped but he turned back again, his eyes guarded. He
unrolled his sleeves, unfolding them down to hide his forearms, and said,
“Understandable.”
Ron sighed and scratched his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think you’re a
greasy bastard, by the way.”
“Oh?” Snape’s lips turned up for a moment, but only a moment.
“No. I think you’re a greasy git. There’s a difference.”
“Of course.”
Ron looked at him and smiled, a flick of his lips before it was gone too. He
looked away again, toward the table, where Snape had a collection of rolled
scrolls, each a letter to Harry. He wrote every day. Even though he knew they
weren’t going to find him. There was another, loosely curled about a quill, and
Ron could only guess what it held.
He sat again and waited for Snape to do the same. When he finally did, Ron
looked at him. “Do you have more paper?”
Snape gazed at him for a moment and then passed him a long roll of it and
another quill, long and thin, a pale yellow feather striped with brown.
Ron dipped the quill into the ink and began writing.
Happy Birthday, Harry…
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Hello Hermione.”
She turned slowly, as though moving through water, the very air pushing her
back, pulling her apart, trying to hold her still. Her head felt two sizes too
big, heavy and slow. Her eyes took too long to focus; the world too bright. He
was tall, thin, dark haired and familiar, but her vision blurred, the world
wouldn’t right itself. He blended in with the background.
“Harry?”
The man laughed quietly. “No, no. Not hardly. Hermione, just look at me. Just
at me.”
She blinked and felt a pinch behind her eyes as she trained her eyes on the
dark figure. While the world around her stayed blurred and unreal, the man came
into focus and she caught her breath, biting hard on her lip. “Sirius? What…
where…”
“Who, what, where, when, why?” He replied and gave her a quiet smile. He had
his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders lightly. “I can’t answer
you, Hermione. I’ve been asking those same questions myself. At least, I think
I have.”
She blinked at him again and tried to look around herself. The shifting
landscape of indeterminate colours and angles made her head hurt. She looked
back at Sirius. He was solid, focused, or more so than the rest. His edges kept
blurring, and his face was slightly off in a way she didn’t immediately
understand.
“Where am I? What happened?”
He shook his head, still smiling, bemused. “Don’t know. I don’t even know where
I am, so I haven’t the slightest idea where you are. I’m not even sure I know
who you are, though I know your name, and I know you’re Harry’s friend. I know
you’re loyal and bloody stubborn, and I think that you’re a good friend for
Harry. I know you rescued me from the tower. I know you’ve read Hogwarts: A
History more times than anyone’s ever wanted to, but…” He shrugged again and
looked around, his shoulders hunched toward his ears, his chin ducked down.
“But I don’t know why I know all that. I don’t even know who Harry is, except I
do. James and Lily’s son. But that doesn’t make sense. Lily hasn’t been
pregnant. Not yet.”
She stared at him. Sirius didn’t look quite right, but she couldn’t think of a
reason why. There was something off. “I don’t understand.”
He sat down on the edge of a shifting form that resembled a chair for a moment,
then a rock, then a table. “The last thing I remember is saying goodbye to
Moony at the London station after seventh year. I was going to see him in a few
weeks, go to a concert or something, we hadn’t decided yet. He was wearing a
red shirt,” he smiled suddenly and it brightened his face completely, a winter
sunrise from Hogwarts’ tower. “No, he was wearing my red shirt, because he’d
spilled chocolate down his own when Peter…”
He cut himself off and frowned. “Peter.” He shook his head and looked at her
curiously. “Why am I angry at Peter? What did he do?”
Hermione’s head felt stuffed with cotton, her mind as indeterminate as the
surrounding area. “He betrayed Harry’s parents. Let Voldemort kill them.”
“He did?” Sirius’ eyes widened and then he sighed and sank back into his seat.
“Oh yes, that’s right. He did. I keep forgetting. I went to Azkaban. I think… I
can’t remember? A good thing, in the long run, I’d say.” He looked back up at
her, his face young and innocent, unlined, naively curious. “Did I get out of
Azkaban? Am I still there?”
“No, you escaped. But…” She looked at him and stopped looking for the man she
knew, because this Sirius was not the same man. The strangeness about him
suddenly made sense as she stopped trying to correct him and really looked at
him. He was younger, much younger. His hair longer, smoother, tied back from
his face low on his neck. His skin wasn’t as pale as she remembered, and his
face wasn’t as thin. His eyes were brighter, free of the shadowed haunting
she’d come to associate with him. “But you… You’re dead, I think. You fell
through the Veil. I don’t… I don’t understand…”
“Oh, right,” he nodded, as if she had reminded him of a forgotten shopping
list. “Right, right. I think I remember that. Bellatrix, crazy bitch, hit me
with… with… Oh, bollocks. Avada kedavra. I don’t think many people survive
that. Except Harry, of course. I think, wait, yes. He survived. Didn’t he?
Hmmm… So I’m dead? Odd.” He sat back and propped up his feet on a table. At
least, Hermione thought it might be a table. “Well, it could be worse, I
suppose. It’s nice to have some company. It’s been rather dull.” He frowned,
“At least, I think it has. I’m not too sure, exactly.”
She sat down. On what, she couldn’t say. “My head… hurts.”
He nodded. “Oh yes, it’ll do that, if you think too much. It helps if you
don’t. Or,” he frowned and then rephrased with a shrug and a smile. “More, it
helps if you don’t try to understand it.” He smiled wider and slid sideways in
his chair, dangling his denim-clad legs over the arm, tapping the heels of his
heavy black boots against the chair. “So, what’s the last thing you remember?”
Hermione settled back into her own seat, crossing her legs under her. She
thought for a moment. “Harry was captured. Ron left. I don’t remember much
after that, bits and pieces. I think I might have lost my head.”
Sirius laughed and slid a hand through his hair without thought, snapping it
from its ties. His hands went back to re-secure it even as he replied, “Yeah,
that can happen. I think that’s what this place might be. Where lost things go.
Your mind, my… well, my entire existence, I suppose. I wonder what else is
here,” he said, glancing around.
“Are we trapped here?”
He looked back at her in surprise. “No, no. I don’t think so. I think we just
have to be found. Though,” he made a face. “If I’m dead, they probably aren’t
looking for me. They’ll find you though. Unless you’re dead too. Do you think
you might be dead?”
A heavy pit of dread fell into her stomach. “I hope not. My parents will be
upset.”
He laughed again. “Yeah. My parents won’t be. They never really… Oh.” He
stopped and frowned. “I guess they’re probably both dead now.” He paused and
his eyes unfocused, looking away into the changing landscape. “Huh.”
“You didn’t like your family, though. You were always saying so. You were happy
they were dead. And it was pretty clear you didn’t like Kreacher. You kept
trying to kill him.” She didn’t quite manage to keep the disapproval from her
tone.
Sirius grinned suddenly and shook his head, rubbing his forehead. “What a
little bastard of a house-elf that one is.” He chuckled to himself. “No, I
didn’t like my family much. They didn’t like me either. It made things easy.
But still, they’re dead. I haven’t really thought about that. But I suppose I’m
dead too, so…”
“Sirius, you’re not making much sense.”
He shrugged lightly. “It happens.”
Hermione sat up again, her hands gripping into the arms of the chair. Or
whatever it was. “I can’t stay here. Harry is missing. I need to find him. Save
him.”
“Missing, eh? Well, that’s convenient. This would probably be the best place to
start looking. This is where missing things end up, I think.” He stood and
brushed off his jeans, and then held out a hand to her. “Come on. He must be
around here somewhere.”
She hesitated, uncertainty churning in her belly, but she took his hand and let
him pull her to her feet. He smiled at her, young and free, in a way she hadn’t
seen in anyone in a very long time. So innocent. So untouched. She smiled back
at him and looked around.
“Yes, somewhere around here. Maybe.”
===============================================================================
Something wasn’t right. Draco knew it the moment he stepped out of the passage
from Hogsmead. The castle was quiet and still, almost breathless. Even empty,
Hogwarts had a vibrant energy, a life all of its own and this was a completely
different atmosphere. He thought, for a moment, that perhaps someone had
learned something of Harry independently, but no, that wasn’t possible. No one
knew where Harry was, not even the Order, not even Dumbledore’s little prophecy
circle. Only he had that information.
No, this was something new. Something different. It piqued his interest.
He wished he had the Sight, as Ginny Weasley did. She had appeared by his side
at the very moment it had mattered most, led to a place she had never been by
what she had explained as “voices” and a “strong feeling”. He had no desire to
rely on something as ephemeral as a “strong feeling”, but he could certainly
use the additional information provided. He could tell that something was off,
but he had no idea how to find what it might be. Hogwarts was not a small
place.
Of course, taking into account every other strange event since he’d arrived at
Hogwarts, it was a safe bet that this one involved a Gryffindor, so he turned
his feet toward the staircase leading him up toward their tower. His suspicions
were confirmed when he met Neville waiting for him on the landing, sitting on
an empty statue ledge, fingers twisting into his school robe.
Neville stood as Draco slowed to a stop and said, “I felt you cross the wards.”
Dumbledore, when the old man had approached them in Year 3 with the decidedly
non-optional invitation into his little prophecy club, had connected them to
the school’s wards and had connected them to one another. They could now feel
when the other crossed the wards. Likely Dumbledore could also feel when they
crossed the wards – Draco wouldn’t put it past the manipulative coot. It wasn’t
enough to have recruited children into a group supporting the emotional
decimation of their schoolmate, no. One must also control their comings and
goings.
“Did you…” Neville trailed off and hesitated.
“Find your lost saviour? Confirm his psychological allegiance to a monster?
Take advantage of the offer to bugger him senseless and/or torture him through
whatever means I deemed desirable?” Neville flinched at his words, and Draco
replied, “Yes, yes, and most certainly no. Although I’m certain my father will
be disappointed should he learn we do not actually have an unwilling cocksheath
in common.”
“Draco!”
“Exactly which part of this has offended you, Longbottom? The language? The
truth? Or our own part in this atrocity?” His lips curled and he swallowed
around a heavy taste of bile in his throat.
Neville’s eyes narrowed at him and he took a step forward, his hands held in
tight fists against his sides. “You know I don’t support any of this, any more
than you do, any more than Hagrid does. Harry is my friend. I didn’t want any
of this to happen to him.”
They were going to save the world, Dumbledore had told them. They were
thirteen, there was a murderer on the loose, and neither of them had felt like
they had much control over their lives. Dumbledore offered them a chance to be
something more. To be part of something important, he had told them. To save
the world.
Draco hadn’t given much of a fuck about saving the world, but Harry Potter was
supposed to save the world, and Draco didn’t want someone who had rebuffed his
friendship and then taken every opportunity to ridicule him to get all the
power.
Neville had wanted to save the world, of course. Gryffindors.
Regardless, the news that Harry was to be captured, tortured, and subverted
into loving the man who had single-handedly destroyed the respect Slytherin
House deserved, that this was the purpose Dumbledore had set for them, this
news came later, years later. Later enough that Dumbledore had had them do
enough in the name of “saving the world” to ensure that the two teenagers were
completely under the old man’s thumb.
Draco had been raised into a life of devious machinations, but Dumbledore put
them all to shame.
“I know,” Draco sighed and Neville’s tense posture shifted hesitantly. “I know.
But you didn’t see him, Neville. You didn’t have to leave him there.”
He drew back against the wall as the sound of footsteps rounded the curve of
the stairs, and he tensed as the old man himself appeared. He wore a pink robe
and a striped pink hat and he smiled widely at the two of them.
“Ah, Mr. Malfoy. And Mr. Longbottom. How fortuitous. Would you both come with
me? It would seem that Hermione Granger has found herself in a state.”
Draco wasn’t entirely sure what that had to do with him, but it likely had to
do with the odd, breathless feeling in the air, so he exchanged a glance with
Neville as they trailed after the Headmaster.
The portrait hanging on the wall was an unpleasant sort of woman, rather crude.
Too much make-up, clothes too tight for her ample body, a overlarge tray of
food hiding half behind her elbow. She simpered at the Headmaster and waved a
feathered Victorian fan about herself as she swung open and allowed them into
the Gryffindor common room.
It was a warm room, done in red, plush furniture, with a large fireplace and
none of the gravitas of the Slytherin common room. Draco supposed the room was
likely perfect for people who placed no value on a good impression.
“Ah, Minerva. What have we here?”
McGonagall had the same sour expression her pinched face typically bore, and it
didn’t improve as she took in his presence, but she ignored him completely.
Instead, she shook her head and gestured to a tall wingback chair by the
fireplace, where Madam Pomfrey crouched, blocking view of whoever, supposedly
Granger, was in the chair. Beside her sat Ginny, and she looked up at the sound
of Dumbledore’s voice, an expression as sour as McGonagall’s on her face, but
it dropped as she met Draco’s eyes.
“Ms. Granger is… I can’t say for sure, Albus. It’s very strange.” McGonagall
shook her head.
Pomfrey stood, brushing her hands off against her robes, and she similarly
shook her head, as if what she hid behind her defied all explanation. “I can’t
get a signature from her,” the mediwitch said. “Her body lives, she breathes,
but there is a magical barrier blocking us from her and her from us. I have
never seen the like.”
Draco rounded them to get a better look at this mystery. Hermione lay in the
chair, knees pulled to her chest, with a strange, blank look in her eyes. The
air about her crackled with the same odd energy he had detected earlier.
“Draco,” Ginny whispered and he looked down at her. To her right were two burnt
footprints in the carpet, obviously new. “Something’s so wrong with Hermione.”
Clearly, he didn’t say. Instead, he asked, “What happened?”
“I found her this way,” she said in a small voice, so unlike herself. “I
touched her arm and she gave off sparks, electricity. It… it burnt the carpet.”
Draco frowned, “Did they damage you?”
“The sparks? No. It hurt, but mostly it surprised me.”
“Has anyone else tried?”
“To touch her?” Pomfrey asked and Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, Gryffindors
were the worst.
“No, to dance the tango. Of course to touch her.” Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at
him and he rolled his eyes again, he couldn’t help it. “Well, someone ought to
try.”
They stared at him, mouths parting in unspoken words, and he sighed again.
“Fine,” and before anyone could react, he reached out and put a hand to
Hermione’s shoulder.
Dimly, he heard the outburst of cries, but he was more concerned with the
liquid fire running up his veins, shivering across his every nerve ending. He
wrenched himself away and rubbed his arm.
“Ow,” he said and Ginny glared at him as she got to her feet.
“That was stupid.”
He glared back at her, with more heat than he’d intended as his nerves were
still dancing under his skin, setting his teeth on edge. “Maybe, but it needed
to be done if we’re going to understand what’s happened to her.”
Madam Pomfrey looked at him in surprise, “You know what’s happened to her?”
He shot her a pointed look and scoffed at her, fool woman. “Of course not. How
could I?”
The woman deflated and Draco shook his head and looked back at Ginny who was
glaring again.
“What?”
“Getting electrocuted because of your own stubborn stupidity doesn’t give you a
licence to be rude.”
His eyes widened incredulously, but she just looked at him, a hand on her hip
and waited. Draco sighed and looked back at Madam Pomfrey, and said tightly,
“My apologies, Madam.”
The woman nodded, a hint of amusement lurking behind her eyes, and he looked
back at Ginny, raising one eyebrow. She gave him a hard, no-nonsense smile and
crossed her arms over her chest. He stifled another sigh and looked back at
Dumbledore.
“There is nothing I can do for Granger, but I do have something I need to
discuss with you.” He glanced at Neville as well, and felt Ginny stir beside
him.
Dumbledore nodded and pulled a pink striped bag from a pocket. It matched his
hat perfectly. “Poppy, Minerva, if you could both take Ms. Granger to the
infirmary? I will join you shortly.”
“Of course,” the mediwitch replied with a curious glance at Draco, who pointed
ignored her.
“Albus,” McGonagall began, but Dumbledore shook his head at her, setting his
hat off kilter on his head.
“Later, dear girl. Please see to Ms. Granger. We may need to contact her
parents should this strange state continue.”
McGonagall stared at him for a long moment before her shoulders slumped and she
nodded. “Very well.”
None of them spoke again until the two women disappeared through the entrance,
the hovering Hermione trailing behind them. Dumbledore sat in the chair
previously occupied by Hermione and absently reached into the striped bag with
two fingers and ate the resulting lemon sherbet.
“Please continue, Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco glanced around again, uncomfortable to be so open in the midst of the
Gryffindor common room, but it seemed he had little choice.
“Harry is being held as Voldemort’s special guest. He is…” He paused and
glanced at Ginny, meeting her eyes for a moment before lowering his own. “He is
chained and blinded, and he wears only a robe for convenience’s sake. He–”
“Convenience for what?” Ginny asked softly and he swallowed, glancing back at
her. She looked into his eyes and paled. Neville jumped to take her arm as she
wavered on her feet, but she shook his off and put a hand to her mouth, shaking
her head, her eyes wide. “Oh, gods.”
He looked away and returned to Dumbledore, picking up his account again. “His
spirits are quite… low. He didn’t believe in rescue. He had, for the most part,
purposefully forgotten his life before his capture. His every thought is of
Voldemort. He… Harry still knows quite well who and what Voldemort is, but he
is devoted.”
Dumbledore smiled widely. “Wonderful. Wonderful.”
Draco swallowed, his lip curling, and he looked away, back to Ginny. She was
staring at Dumbledore in horror. Her skin was porcelain pale, the freckles
across her nose standing out darkly against her skin.
“I told him what you asked me to, Ginny. He’s going to try, but he doesn’t know
if he can without tearing himself to pieces.”
She dropped her hand from her mouth as she turned her gaze back on him and
shook her head wildly, as if her thoughts couldn’t quite be contained. “I can’t
see… I don’t know… He’s too far for me to see, too tangled.”
Draco felt a heavy pit in his stomach. “I’m not sure if I hurt him more than
helped him. I reminded him of who he was, but he didn’t want to be saved. He
was happy where he was, content was the word he used. He said that Voldemort
let him just be Harry, that he didn’t have to be the Boy Who Lived, or a hero.
He didn’t have to fight.” Draco turned his eyes back on Dumbledore, but the man
only looked satisfied.
“It is progressing well. That’s good.”
“How dare you?” Ginny cried. “How can you just sit there and hear this, and
know what’s happening to Harry, and be pleased?” She was a rearing dragon, all
fire and passion as she confronted Dumbledore. “He thinks this, all of this,
rape, abuse, is what he deserves, thinks it’s the price he has to pay to be
loved. That’s disgusting! And you’re letting it happen! How could you?”
Dumbledore gazed back at her from beneath his shaggy eyebrows and the line of
hair emerging from his hat. His eyes softened as he spoke. “I did what had to
be done. The prophecy–”
“Don’t bring your prophecy into this again. You could have found another way.
There’s always another way.”
“When this is all resolved…”
She shook her head wildly again, her hair flying from its ties. “No. No. This
isn’t going to be resolved. Harry is not something that will be resolved. How
could you sacrifice him for something so, so…”
Dumbledore tipped his head back and levelled his bright gaze upon her. He
tucked the bag back into his robe and folded his hands together in his lap, and
he said, “Harry is my responsibility, and as such, I take full responsibility
for what befalls him now, and for his recovery. I assure you, all is not lost.
Have faith.”
“Have faith,” she repeated, disbelieving. Neville’s shoulders slumped and he
put a hand over his eyes. Draco sympathized. The old man was mad, and one was
always judged by the company one kept.
“Yes, have faith,” Dumbledore continued. “If you cannot have faith in me any
longer, have faith in Harry, and have faith in the powers behind all. You look
at the strands of fate and wonder that you cannot see the larger design, Miss
Weasley. Search instead for the tapestry of destiny and you will see that all
will be well. All will be resolved in time.”
Ginny’s eyes flicked back toward Draco’s and held.
===============================================================================
“Harry. Harry. Harry?”
He surfaced slowly from the shadowed world of his mind, pulled reluctantly
toward the voice that allowed no refusal. He had dreamt for the first time in
months. He had dreamt of his mother, that he had lain with his head in her lap,
her hand stroking through his hair. Her soft voice had been soothing, speaking
words to him he could no longer remember. But as she had stroked his hair, she
had brushed her thumb over the center of his forehead, just to the side of the
scar, and she had leaned down over him and whispered…
What? He wasn’t sure. But it was as if the shadows in his mind had lifted, and
all the closed doors were open. He felt almost invincible. Hogwarts, suddenly,
did not seem so far away.
“How are you, Harry? You’ve slept for nearly eighteen hours.”
“Have I?” Harry stretched his neck, feeling the chain against his back, the
collar against his neck, the bindings around his wrists. He wiggled his fingers
as much as the bindings would allow and then sat up on his knees, stretching
his back until he felt the tugging of the leather about his neck. “I feel
rested. Good.”
Voldemort hesitated, a new and wonderful thing to experience. Harry felt a
thrill shoot through his core at the sound of it. It settled deep in his
stomach and he felt energy shiver along his nerves. The muscles in his arms
quivered and his fingertips tingled. His body knew. The season was about to
change.
“That’s good…” Voldemort said slowly and, after a moment, Harry heard the
familiar sound of the bowl. “Are you hungry?”
Harry’s lips turned up, because, no, he wasn’t. “No, thank you.” He had the
sharp taste of power on his tongue. It filled him and he felt no other hunger.
His thighs tensed, muscles coiled.
“Oh.” The voice was uncertain and Harry rejoiced in it. “Thirsty?”
“No.”
He heard Voldemort take a breath and hold it for a moment before releasing it.
“Are you certain you’re well, Harry?”
He smiled and pushed out with a thin thread of his mind, testing the collar,
the chain and the bindings. He smiled wider, finding the usable cracks along
their design. He jabbed at the bindings around his hands and wiggled his
fingers again, loosening the ties until he could pull his wrists apart an inch
or two. Cold air hit the thin layer of sweat on his skin, sending a shiver of
promise up his spine.
“I’m perfect,” he replied, settling back against his heels. Behind him and to
the left, he heard the birds and the windy rustling of leaves.
He heard Voldemort take a step back. His voice was hesitant as he said, “I
suppose I can allow you one day’s rest. It is your birthday, after all.”
Harry frowned and stopped, tilting his chin up toward the man. “It is?”
“Yes, it is.”
Harry paused, lowering his chin. His birthday. He was seventeen now. An adult
as far as the wizard world was concerned. He could make his own choices now. He
could choose.
“Harry?” Voldemort’s voice was suddenly very hard and as sharp as a knife.
He pretended not to have noticed.
“Yes?”
“You were going to tell me something yesterday.”
It felt as if an era has passed since yesterday. The last day flashed to life
behind his eyes and he could not recognize himself in the memory. He had been a
shard of himself and he saw all his illusions of control as precisely that:
illusions. He could still hear his mother’s gentle voice in the back of his
mind, whispering to him from that small black box tucked in the shadows of his
memory. He reached back and found that hidden recess open, unguarded even from
himself, and within it… Within it was his control and his power. Within it was
love, so much love.
His mother, his father, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Molly and Arthur,
Hedwig, Sirius, Lupin, Hagrid, Severus.
Severus.
Home.
He shivered and gasped as it all swept through him. Yes. Home. He wanted to go
home.
Now.
He breathed in deeply and felt his power expand with his breath, and he pushed
again, jabbed, hacked at the bindings around his wrists and then, yes, they
gave way and the momentum of it flung him forward toward the hard ground. His
hands came around automatically and he caught himself. The marble floor was
cold against his palms. The chain flopped limp against his back.
“How?” Voldemort took that step forward again, but Harry’s head snapped up to
glare at him. The world was still dark, but, in his mind’s eye, he could see
the glowing outline of the man’s power - sickly green and purple like an old
bruise.
“You said you’d give me whatever I wanted,” Harry said. “I ask you to let me
go. You should have let me go, Tom.”
He drew more power into himself, feeling for his boundaries, testing them. His
power thrummed beneath his skin; he could barely contain it. Voldemort glowed
in his mind and he could clearly see the cracks in the man’s power. Yes, even
Voldemort wasn’t perfect, it seemed.
Harry commanded and the leather collar snapped and fell in a crash of chain
against the floor, snaking cold against his calf as it slid away. The world was
still dark and black, but Harry could see him clearly now, see the edges of his
energy, the cracks along his edges. It sparkled in the darkness of his mind
like fireworks. He could see a bright golden spot of power tucked into the
man’s pocket and he reached out his hand for it. The medallion flew into his
palm.
“You should have let me go. None of this would have happened.”
Voldemort did not move, but Harry could smell his fear. He knew. Yes, they knew
each other very well now.
“Well?” Voldemort taunted. “Are you going to kill me then, my little Harry?”
Harry sat up on his heels, pulling his power in close to him, but he couldn’t
release it. It was trapped inside his chest, fluttering along with his heart,
like a trapped bird. He could hear the man’s heartbeat and could feel it
echoing inside himself. Voldemort’s heartbeat, the sound of his breath inside
his chest, the flow of his blood through his veins: he would feel it as if it
were his own blood and his own breath. He could feel the touch of the man’s
hand against his head as he stroked his hair and his neck, as he massaged the
tightness from his back.
“You can’t, can you?” Voldemort laughed bitingly. “You can’t kill me.”
Harry gazed up at him, “I can’t stay either.”
Voldemort snorted. “How do you expect to leave? The wards on this house are as
strong as those of your precious school. Do you think I will let you walk away?
And how far will you get, naked and blind?”
Harry felt the corners of his mouth turn up again, and, in his mind, he saw
Severus’ room, saw the chairs and the fire and the piles and piles of books on
China. He could feel the plush carpeted ground of the room, smell the faint
scents in the air, the fire and the bunches of herbs drying from the rafters,
the smell of dust and paper and leather. The scent of Severus.
Harry reached up and slid the medallion about his neck where the collar once
gripped him. “Goodbye, Tom,” he said, as the medallion flared hot in his hand
and he disappeared.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the delay on updates lately. RL has been getting in the
     way. The next few updates might be a bit slower, but it won't be a
     long wait, I promise!
     Thanks for all the support so far! Next chapter sees Severus and
     Harry reunited! :)
***** Chapter 11 *****
The room was silent save the scratching of their quills against paper. It was
early enough in the day that the sounds from the inn below were muted. Ron
paused in his writing to read over what he’d written and sighed. It was all
shite, but Harry would never read it anyway. It hardly mattered.
Ron moved to dip his quill into the inkpot again, when Snape’s head snapped up
suddenly, his eyes wild and focused on something just over Ron’s shoulder. Ron
turned his head to see absolutely nothing remarkable, just the messy room and
his own unmade bed. He looked back with a frown, but Snape had already shot to
his feet. His chair tipped and clattered to the floor.
“What? What are you…? Hey!” Ron exclaimed when the man’s wand shot into his
hand, his belongings flying across the room into his satchel. “What do you
think you’re doing?”
Snape looked at him blankly for a moment, as if he had forgotten the weeks they
had spent training and tracking down Death Eaters, and then he blinked and his
dark eyes focused. “We have to go back. Now.”
“Now?” Ron stood from his chair, the unfinished letter rolling into a curl of
paper. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now.” Snape glared at him and Ron’s things shot straight toward
him.
“Awk!” Ron exclaimed and ducked like a good Quidditch player. His belongings
crammed themselves in his backpack, including his muddy boots, he noted with
dismay, and Snape tossed down a handful of gold coins onto the tabletop.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait! What’s going…? Ah, hey! What do you…? Hey!”
Snape grabbed his arm, grabbed their bags, and they Disapparated in a deafening
snap of air. Ron stumbled on the mud-soaked ground beneath his feet, barely
catching himself as his feet slid out from under him, and he grabbed for his
bag as Snape let go of it.
“Hey, Snape, what the hell? Trying to splinch me…” He trailed off as he glanced
up, and then he blinked, finding himself facing Hogwarts, the morning bright
and misty, then he blinked again and hopped into action as Snape dashed away.
“Snape, Snape! Bloody hell. You’re not even half-dressed, you stupid git! You
can’t just go…!”
But Snape ignored him, striding at a breakneck pace down the long path to
Hogwarts. His feet were bare and his white shirt tails flapped behind him, two
buttons keeping the shirt from sliding off his shoulders. Ron dashed after him,
buttoning his robe as he ran, wrinkling his nose at the feel of mud between his
toes, splashing up his ankles. The mud path turned to hard packed earth, but
Snape’s stride didn’t change, and, no matter his own long legs, Ron had to
force himself to keep up.
“Snape,” he gasped, clinging to his bag. “Snape, you… you stupid… what the
hell…”
Snape flung the doors open and disappeared into the dimly lit interior,
allowing no pause for his eyes to adjust. Ron tripped over the threshold, his
bag flying across the hall, and he threw his arms out in an effort to stay
upright, his wet feet sliding across the floor until he met with carpet. Snape
was already disappearing down the long stairway to the dungeons.
Ron had given up on words. He hadn’t the breath for it anymore. The dungeons,
despite the torches along the walls, were dismally dark, and his eyes were
having trouble adjusting to the sharp changes. He tripped his own feet, hitting
the wall hard and biting down on his tongue, but he pushed away from the wall
quickly to keep running. Snape was just a pale blur ahead of him, until he
finally disappeared.
Ron stopped, panting, staring down at the unfamiliar stone stairway, and he
eyed the statue of a girl recessed into the wall. Her eyes turned toward him
and he stared at her for a moment before taking the steps three at a time. He
fell forward into a warmly lit room that smelled faintly bitter, and then he
stopped as if hitting a brick wall, his breath and voice catching in his
suddenly dry throat.
Snape was on his knees in front of Harry, who was curled on the floor,
shivering, his bare, pale feet peeking from the edge of a voluminous, dark
robe. Snape had one hand on Harry’s back, the other on his shoulder, and as Ron
watched, Harry lifted his head, his shaking hands already coming out to grip
blindly at Snape.
“Severus, Severus, Severus,” Harry whispered desperately. His hands clutched at
Snape’s shirt as he pulled himself closer, pulling Snape closer. “Severus, oh
god, Severus, please…”
Snape hushed him, taking his face between his hands, breath stuttering faintly,
awe in his voice, “Shh, Harry. I’m here. I’m here.”
“Don’t let go, please, don’t…” Harry’s hands moved up and wrapped around
Snape’s neck, pulling him down. Snape coiled one arm around Harry’s shoulders
and pulled him tight against his body, and Harry blindly sought Snape’s mouth
as if it was the crux of his entire universe. They were flush from mouth to
knees, and their mouths met, open and panting, breathing in desperate air.
Snape cupped Harry’s face in one hand and his fingers stroked against his
cheek. Snape’s eyes were open and wide and filled with wonder. He could see
nothing but Harry.
Ron stood frozen in place, disbelief warring with a joy so sharp, he felt he
might bleed from it. Harry moaned softly as Snape’s mouth trailed against his
neck, and Ron blinked and then took a stumbling step backwards, then another,
until he finally turned and stumbled blindly back up the winding stairs. He
pressed one palm against the stone wall as the wall slid shut behind him and he
breathed for a minute.
Harry was back. Harry was safe. Harry was alive.
His eyes flicked up to look at the stone girl again. She gazed back at him and
they shared a long, frozen look, and then he pushed off the wall and ran.
Hermione.
===============================================================================
“Severus,” Harry whispered against Snape’s lips. “Severus.”
He ran his hand up the man’s neck, winding his fingers through that long, dark
hair. It was thick and silky and slid like satin through his hand. He clenched
his fingers in it and he stretched himself up again, pressing himself along the
length of Snape’s long, hard torso. His heart pounded desperately in his chest,
trapped like a bird within his ribcage. He could feel Snape’s heartbeat through
the meager layers of clothing separating them and could feel the soft tick of
it through Snape’s fingertips where they pressed trembling against Harry’s
cheeks.
Snape’s mouth captured his own in a kiss with such sweet desperation, Harry
felt tears escape his eyes and track down his face.
His hand shook as he slid it under Snape’s open shirt and down his bare chest.
He felt Snape’s breath stutter in his chest. Harry didn’t know where Snape had
been before he’d burst into his quarters, but he knew that Snape hadn’t spared
a single thought before rushing here to him. Snape would never have been seen
open like this, unbuttoned, exposed, not to the world.
Harry curled his hand further under Snape’s shirt, tracing the feel of his
painfully thin ribs, hidden under what felt like nothing more than a layer of
silky, tissue-thin skin. Snape shivered at the sensation of Harry’s fingertips
as they mapped his body.
Under his touch, he found that Snape was thin, far too thin, as if he hadn’t
eaten in days, weeks. As if he were half starved. Harry smoothed his hand up
Snape’s side and over to trace along the centre of his chest, his fingertips as
hungry as Snape seemed to be. He tilted up and brushed their lips together, and
the catch and slip made his arousal flare hot through him. He exhaled sharply
and Snape groaned against him, and for a moment, the only thing that existed in
the world was the slide of their lips against one another, their mingled
breath, and the feeling of soft skin beneath his hands.
Harry brushed his palm over the hard chest against him and as his palm slid
over a nipple Snape gasped into Harry’s mouth and he drew back to trace his
nose along Harry’s cheek and up into his hair. Harry moved his palm again
curiously, stroking lightly against the hardening nipple with the rounded base
of his palm, and Snape groaned a raw sound into his neck, one torn from deep
inside him.
“Harry,” he said, as if he’d never uttered the name Potter before. “Harry, open
your eyes. Look at me.”
Harry’s mouth twisted. He opened his eyes into the familiar but now hated
darkness and felt Snape’s small gasp against his lips. “I can’t. I really wish
I could.”
“He blinded you? I...” Snape struggled against Harry’s hands and he framed
Harry’s face between his palms, tilting it to examine his eyes. “This is more
than I can… I’ll take you to the infirmary. Poppy can surely–”
“No, no.” A sharp clutch of fear spiked through him, and Harry tightened his
fingers in Snape’s long hair. The words tumbled out of him in a panicked
jumble. “Please, I don’t want to wait. I need you. I need to know that this…
that I can… that they haven’t…” He slid his hands from where they had tangled,
mindful not to tug. His body felt tight and electric but also strangely numb,
as if it might not even be his own anymore.
He took a deep, trembling breath and tried again. “I want you, I do. But, let
me hear your voice. I need to know it’s you. I need to know you’re not… that
you aren’t…” The words caught again and he cleared his throat and drew in a
shuddering breath. He should be able to finish a sentence. He should be able to
speak. His hands clenched reflexively into Snape’s shirt. “I need to know that…
that you aren’t…”
Snape’s smooth hand gentled across the back of his neck, drawing him forward
into another soft kiss. Their lips clung for a moment, and Snape’s fingers
carded into his hair, his nails scratching lightly against his scalp.
A shiver ran up Harry’s spine, and memories of another touch, another hand in
his hair, rose up. He pushed the memories away, down into that locked box in
the dark recess of his mind. The box had a broken lock, but he could still
wedge all his dark memories into it, he could close it, he could push it back
into the dark and forget all about it. It had to be enough.
“I’m sorry,” Harry turned his face into Snape’s neck, nosing behind his ear to
breathe him in, and could not help but press his lips against his skin. “I’m
sorry. I wanted to know, I wanted to know you, but… I’m so sorry.”
“Shh,” Snape hushed him and smoothed his hands over Harry’s face, down his
shoulders and back, touch never leaving his skin beneath the robe. “I don’t
know what happened to you, Harry. Not precisely, and now is not the time to
tell me,” he said quickly as Harry opened his mouth. “Later. I will tell you
what happened to me also. I promise you that. An equal trade. But right now, I
need to know you’re safe, and I trust you need to know that very same thing.”
“Yes,” Harry hissed and swayed forward again, and his blind, unseeing eyes
drifted closed. “Yes. Please.”
His mouth was captured again and Snape’s longer fingers traced down the line of
his jaw, and Harry clutched at him and pressed himself hard against Snape. His
heart stuttered painfully in his chest at the feel of him. Real, so real.
Finally, so real.
“Yes, don’t stop, Severus,” he groaned, panting into Snape’s mouth, but, as
Snape pressed into him, as though toward the ground, a sudden spike of fear
lanced through him. “No, I haven’t… I can’t… Not on the floor, please. Not, I
don’t want…”
“Shh,” Snape shushed him again, hands tracing comforting circles against his
hips. “I know, Harry. I know.”
They pulled each other to their feet and Harry held on tightly, refusing to
give up contact as he led them into Snape’s own bedroom. The room smelled like
home. It was a faint scent and Harry knew that wherever Snape had been for the
past while, it hadn’t been here, but the room still smelled like Snape. It
smelled of wood smoke and cotton sheets and that sharp, bitter scent he had
come to associate with Snape: smoke and charred herbs and raw potions. It
wasn’t the most pleasant of scents, it wasn’t anything anyone would try to
perfume, but it meant safety to Harry. It meant home.
He took Snape’s wrist and drew him closer, until he could bury his nose against
Snape’s neck and breathe in the scent of him. He wrapped his arms around the
man and held tight, and he pressed his ear to Snape’s quick, thrumming
heartbeat, a sound he hadn’t yet memorized, but would soon.
“Harry,” Snape whispered and Harry felt the name vibrate against his cheek.
“Touch me, Severus,” Harry breathed against his skin. “Please, just touch me.”
Snape’s hands curled around his back; one long-fingered hand splayed against
the small of his back, against his spine, one finger hitting low on his
tailbone, and he said, “I’m here, Harry.”
His body arched into the touch. His skin felt charged and sensitised, as though
a storm brewed inside himself, and he could taste the sharp electricity of it
against his tongue. He wrapped his arms tighter around Snape until they pressed
together again, and a sharp gasp tore through him. Harry could feel Snape’s
arousal strain against his hip, and he groaned as his own cock leapt in
response. He pressed himself against Snape’s hard thigh, and the hand on
Harry’s back clenched, fingers making cloth bite into skin. He felt Snape’s
sharp inhale against his skin.
“Get this off me,” Harry rasped. He tugged at the metal clasp across his chest,
knowing far too well that it bore the crest of the Dark Lord, naming him as
property. “Get this off me.”
The hand on his back stayed, but Snape’s other hand pressed against Harry’s,
stilling them. The clasp snapped with a burst of heat and a sharp sound, and
the smooth, cool robe slid down his bare skin to pool at his feet. He kicked it
away furiously, hoping it landed in the fire, but then Snape’s hand was back on
his skin, his other hand tucking under his chin to lift his head.
“Harry,” Snape whispered and kissed him again, softly now, tongue caressing his
lips until Harry stopped shivering, and the muscles he hadn’t known he’d tensed
relaxed. Harry parted his lips and exhaled through his nose, welcoming Snape
back into his mouth with a grateful sigh.
He curled one hand high around Snape’s arm and then dug his fingers into the
shirt. He pulled at it and it slipped from Snape’s shoulders, hanging from his
elbows until Snape let it fall, and then Harry put his hand low on Snape’s
stomach, feeling the muscles there tense and jump as he slid lower, coming to a
stop at the edge of Snape’s trousers. A fine line of hair tickled against his
knuckles, disappearing beneath the waistband. Harry’s breath rattled in his
throat and his fingers trembled, and Snape’s hand again pressed against his
own.
“We needn’t,” he said calmly, in a voice Harry recognized so well, it made him
smile, despite the need vibrating through his body. He shook off the hand and
unsnapped Snape’s trousers, lowered the zipper, listening to its metallic rasp,
listening to Snape’s short, sharp breaths, and then he slid his hand in,
following that smooth, soft trail of hair until it thickened into a coarse
nest.
Snape groaned and his hips jerked as Harry closed his hand around Snape’s
erection.
“Merlin, Harry… I…”
“Shh,” Harry told him with a smile and curled his sweating palm around it,
stroking slowly, tentatively, for no matter that he had done this before, he
had never done this before. Snape made a choked sound above him, muscles
tensing along his long, starved body, and Harry lifted his head to lick across
those thin lips and felt Snape’s teeth clutching into his bottom lip, barely
containing himself.
He had never seen that barely harnessed need in Snape before; the man was far
too adept at control. Occlumency aside, Snape had learned to survive through
control. That he was allowing so much of his control to slip now… Maybe it was
because Harry was blind. Maybe Harry’s inability to see his loss of control
made it easier, safer. Whatever the reason, Harry accepted it and gladly. He
quickly pushed Snape’s trousers down his hips and the man stepped out of them,
kicking them away as blindly as Harry had done. Harry reached forward to grip
him by those hips, pulled them together, and they thrust slowly as they rubbed,
sweat-slick skin against skin.
Snape panted, his fingers trembling against Harry’s lower back, and Harry
swayed backward, taking Snape with him, and his calves hit the edge of the bed.
“Please.”
Snape bent and kissed him hard, and then lowered the two of them down onto the
bed. Unmade, the tangle of blankets twisted against Harry’s spine and he
crawled up the length of the bed backwards, dragging Snape with a deep kiss
until his shoulders hit the pillows. He fell back into them and spread his legs
around Snape’s hips, drawing the man down flush against him, thrusting upward
into Snape’s hardness and heat. Harry took Snape’s hand and pushed it down
until Snape’s long, tapered fingers brushed between his buttocks. He placed
Snape’s fingers against his opening, and wrapped one leg over Snape’s hip,
angling himself. He had learned this too, what worked and inadvertently
pleased. But he didn’t want to think of what had brought him here. He wanted to
live this moment. He just wanted… Absolution.
“Harry, no,” Snape struggled for the last of his control. “I… Dear Merlin, I
don’t want to be like them.”
“You’re not. You couldn’t be. You never will be, never were.” He pulled Snape
close again and arched his back. “Severus, I need you in me. Please, you have
to… I need you to make me yours, just yours. Please…”
Snape bent over him, burying his face in Harry’s hair. “I don’t want to hurt
you,” he confessed in a voice barely above a whisper.
“You won’t, you can’t. I trust you, Severus.” Harry took Snape’s hand and
guided it downward again.
“There,” Harry released a trapped breath as Snape’s fingers teased him. “Now.”
“Yes,” Snape replied and kissed him again, whispering a spell against his lips.
His newly slick fingers slid over, around, and then finally, one finger
breached him. Harry froze for a heartbeat, pulled his mouth away from Snape’s
to gasp, and thankfully Snape didn’t stop, knew exactly… Harry almost sobbed as
Snape slid the finger slickly deeper and he tilted his hips forward to give
Snape better access. He pushed back into the feeling, a desperate greediness
overtaking him. He could feel the motion of Snape’s arm, back and forth, as he
moved his finger within Harry.
Snape added a second finger and dropped one hand hard against Harry’s hip to
hold his writhing motions still, tasting each and every gasp and moan that
dripped from Harry’s mouth. “Like this?” He asked, mouth moving against
Harry’s. He crooked his fingers and twisted them and a fiery spark of pleasure
exploded within Harry as his dark vision flared white hot.
He gasped and undulated against Snape, crying desperately, “Fuck, yes! More!”
Snape pulled back and slid in again, a third finger stretching Harry until he
knew nothing except the keen stretch and the gentle slide of Snape’s fingers,
in and out of him. He lifted a hand and pressed it against Snape’s cheek, his
fingers making do where his eyes failed. The man leaned into his touch and a
delicious, calm stillness overtook Harry, blanketing his heart. He felt
stripped and raw, drowning in pleasure, and desperately, finally safe.
“Now,” Harry whispered faintly, his voice raw. “Like this.” And Snape nodded,
his cheek sliding against Harry’s as he pulled his fingers from Harry’s body.
Harry pushed back against the retreating fingers, his body perilously hungry
for more.
Snape slid into him in one slow, steady push and they both groaned and dug
sharp fingers into shoulders and hips. Harry tensed and panted out one hard
breath as sensation overwhelmed him, engulfing him. Biting memories tried to
overtake him again, but he pushed them back brutally. He focused on the man he
held within himself, and he could feel their magic intertwining; if he opened
his mind, he might very well become lost. Snape held himself still and kissed
him, again and again, whispering exquisite encouragements as Harry quivered,
until he finally breathed out a long, full breath and shifted his hips, and
Snape slid the last inch into him, filling him as if they were built for one
another.
Harry exhaled sharply, arching his neck back into the soft pillow. Snape pulled
out slowly and thrust once, experimentally, and Harry rocked with it, moaning
low in his throat, growls rolling over his tongue. He clutched one hand into
the sheets and breathed his lover’s name. His tongue tasted his own sweat. He
pushed back, and Snape thrust harder into him, rocking Harry further up the
bed, and Harry pushed his arm up, bracing himself against the sturdy headboard.
He cried out as Snape thrust again and then again and then again, hips snapping
in a rough, barely controlled rhythm. Snape’s hands were firm against his hips
and his thighs burned from the stretch. His hand slid down, over his own
stomach and then around his heavy cock, lips parting as he stroked himself for
the first time in months. This would not last very long.
“Harry,” Snape grated between his teeth and pushed his face against Harry’s
shoulder to muffle his next words. Harry felt his own name gasped against his
skin and he tightened his grip on himself and quickened his strokes as he
pushed back into each thrust. His guttural groans, pulled deep from his chest,
sharpened into staccato cries. He curled his leg up and dug his heel into
Snape’s spine, and Snape grabbed his hips tighter and shifted Harry, and the
sudden change of the angle sparked a pleasure so fierce through Harry, it felt
dangerous. He could no longer hold back his gasps and groans; the noises
spilling from his lips were unearthly. With every thrust, Harry’s pleasure grew
and grew and he arched and pushed into the sensation, chasing the jagged
feeling within himself.
Snape’s mind wrapped around his own, and Harry swam in sensation, echoed in
their shared mind. Their magics wove together until Harry could taste him. His
own name, Harry, Snape groaned it as if it might be the only word he had left
within him, and everything sharpened suddenly, bright and clear, and Harry
threw back his head and came between them. His body clenched and released
around the fullness inside him, over and over, as if it might never end. His
body was a taut arch.
He shivered and clutched, the sharp, dangerous sensation flooding the numbness
from his body until his skin felt electric, and Snape made a broken sound as he
yanked Harry back, burying himself within Harry. He let out a long, low groan,
and Harry felt the intense, deep pulsing of Snape’s release within himself.
Snape’s arms quivered as he lowered himself down to lay heavy against the man
beneath him, and, after a short moment of useless, trembling muscles, he tried
to push himself off, but Harry’s arms came around him like iron vices, keeping
them pressed together, keeping their musky scent trapped heavy in the pocket of
warm air surrounding them.
“Don’t go. Stay.”
“Not going anywhere,” Snape panted breathlessly into Harry’s neck, breathing in
their mingled scents. He rolled them gently onto their sides and maneuvered
Harry to lay against his chest, within the circle of his arms.
“Promise?” Harry asked softly, his voice quivering, and Snape kissed the skin
before him, feeling the pounding thrum of Harry’s wild pulse beneath his lips.
“I am never going anywhere ever again, Harry.”
And Snape held him as Harry broke down in his arms and sobbed.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The walls of the Summer House rattled as the storm raged around it. Rain beat
against the windows and walls; wind tore at the roof; thunder shook the floors.
The gardens were thick with mud, and the roses and trees were stripped bare of
colour. The lights within the house flickered angrily, mimicking the shots of
lightning appearing through the rain and mud-soaked windows.
Voldemort stood in the center of his room, his feet planted on the tiles, which
still bore traces of Harry’s warmth. Sharp winds whipped around him, snatching
at his blood-red robes. Energy crackled around him, flashing from his
fingertips and all along his skin, spiralling out into the room, snapping
against the walls, sparking the candles higher and higher. Wormtail cringed
before him, flanked on either side by a dark-eyed Bellatrix Lestrange and pale-
haired Lucius Malfoy. The wind and energy ripped at them, stripping their skin
raw, but they stood still and silent, save for Wormtail who quietly whimpered
behind his hands.
The storm dimmed, and Wormtail peered from between his fingers at Voldemort,
waiting for his first words.
“I am displeased.”
Lucius and Bellatrix exchanged a glance over Wormtail’s head.
“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius answered after only a momentary pause.
Voldemort fixed his eyes on Lucius. “I am most displeased. My guest has left
me, without so much as a by-your-leave. I hadn’t intended for him to leave so
suddenly, Lucius.”
“No, Lord Voldemort,” he replied, holding the man’s gaze, but he unconsciously
shifted from one foot to the other. The energy Voldemort had begun to siphon
off of his followers had left him looking decades younger, his skin pink, his
eyes sparkling. Lucius was uncomfortably aware that the lingering traces of his
own distant youth could easily become fuel for Voldemort’s return.
“What has your son to say of this, Lucius? He was the last to see my guest.
Does he know where he has gone?”
Lucius’s shoulders stiffened and he lowered his eyes before he replied, “I have
not heard from my son since last I saw him, my Lord.”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned away
and paced several steps, his back tense and rigid.
“My eyes fail me, Lucius. My ears have turned deaf. Do you trust your son?”
“With my life, Lord.”
Voldemort turned back to gaze at him. “I hope your trust is not misplaced. Mine
has been, several times over.” He looked at Bellatrix and held her sharp gaze
as he murmured, “I want my guest back, Bellatrix. He must be returned to me.
What news is there of my Severus? Might he be of use?”
Bellatrix lidded her eyes and tilted her head, allowing her dark hair to trail
down over her shoulder. “He isn’t yours any more, Lord. He hasn’t been for some
time.”
 
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Severus does not belong to himself. He never has
and never will. If he is not mine, then to whom does he look? Certainly not to
that poncy Dumbledore.”
“Harry,” Wormtail replied suddenly, his eyes surprised as if he had not
expected himself to speak. He glanced warily from side to side and wrung his
hands together, licking his lips before he spoke again. “Since the beginning,
Snape was always very careful around Harry Potter. I saw it. I saw it myself.”
Lucius scoffed. “You must be joking. Snape abhors the Potter boy. Everyone
knows it.”
Bellatrix wrinkled her forehead and brushed her long nails through her hair,
tongue resting thoughtfully against one canine tooth. “That may not be true
anymore, if it ever was. When I took the boy, Severus was there. He did not
look pleased. And the boy stank of him, thoroughly. I think there may be more
hidden here. Lies beneath lies.”
Voldemort laughed suddenly, and all eyes turned toward him. He ran a hand over
his face and across his head, and he laughed delightedly. The sound of it made
Wormtail shiver. “My two belong to one another? How… unexpected. And absolutely
perfect. Devoted and faithful they may be to one another, but never more so
than they are to me. Neither have the will to turn against me, this I know, and
that will work to my advantage.”
Lucius and Bellatrix glanced at one another surreptitiously, and as Voldemort
continued on, as if speaking to himself, Lucius forcibly suppressed an eyeroll.
Bellatrix arched her eyebrow at him and they both settled into a more
comfortable standing position.
“The problem with my Harry,” Voldemort soliloquized, an eerie smile tugging at
his mouth, “one which I never had with my Severus, has always been those who
are devoted to him: his friends, his family.”
His smile dimmed, and he frowned and shook his head lightly. His robe curled
around his legs as he turned away from them and walked to the mud-splattered
windows. “I have done away with what little family he possessed. His friends I
will deal with in time. But a lover, that is a danger I had hoped to avoid by
taking him so young. Perhaps I should have taken him sooner. But if my Severus
is his lover, then all is well. Very well.”
He turned and smiled widely at the trio. “Yes, all will be well. When I have my
pair bonded by my side once more, faithful at my side, all will be very well,
indeed.”
===============================================================================
Ginny sat by Hermione’s bedside, stroking her fingers lightly over Hermione’s
upturned palm. While the initial electricity of touch had faded, her skin now
burned with an icy cold, as though in stasis. Her breaths were even and relaxed
and she gave every outward sign of a deep sleep, but she was unnaturally still
and gave no magical signature whatsoever. She was blank and empty and so kept
under close watch, for any number of creatures existed which would appreciate a
blank slate of a body to possess.
A hand touched Ginny’s shoulder, and she jumped.
“It’s only me,” her mother hushed her and squeezed her shoulder. “I brought you
some tea.”
Taking it with her free hand, Ginny smiled gratefully at her mother, dipping
her head to blow gently over the steaming cup. “How are Hermione’s parents?”
Molly smiled quickly before she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Settling in
well enough. They’re a mite overwhelmed, I’d say, and rather upset, but that’s
understandable, poor dears. They’re resting now.”
Ginny sighed and looked back down at her friend. She shook her head. “This
wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t see this.”
“You can’t see everything, dear. You shouldn’t try, either.”
“But I should be able to see more, to see where she’s gone. I know I have the
power, I know it’s in me. I just can’t… I can’t reach it. I can’t help her.”
“Just because you have the power, doesn’t mean you should use it, Ginny.” Her
mother sipped her own mug of tea and smoothed her hand over Hermione’s tangled
hair.
Ginny looked up at her mother, watching her with a small frown line between her
copper brows. “But…”
Molly shook her head, interrupting. “Most of us don’t have the kind of
potential you possess. We’re… ordinary,” Molly said with a shrug and a small,
self-deprecating smile. Her work-rough hands curled around her cup of tea,
twining together. “And that’s fine. It’s the way it needs to be. Balance. But
some of us are born with the potential to be legendary. Harry, for instance. He
has power open to him that most of us could never hope to understand. You, my
dear, you have great power open to you.”
Molly reached over and brushed her hand over and through Ginny’s hair, and she
sighed. “But the problem with power like that is that your body can’t handle
it. A wizard’s mind and body are no more special than a Muggle’s, dear, and
they can only handle so much before they break down. I don’t want to see that
happen to you, Ginny. Don’t try to be more than you can handle.”
Ginny rubbed her nose against her wrist.“I just… I wish there was more I could
do for Hermione. I wish I knew how to find her.” She shook her head and opened
her eyes to look at her mother. “I wish –” She began and then cut off abruptly
as she turned to look at the infirmary doors one moment before they flew open.
Ron stood still and ghostly pale in the doorway. Molly sucked in a breath at
the sight of him, and as she moved to sit up, Ginny dropped a restraining hand
against her arm.
“What happened to her?” Ron whispered in an empty voice. His eyes were round
and shadowed with dark circles. He walked over slowly and stood on the opposite
side of the bed from his sister and mother. His hand hovered over Hermione’s.
“She’s cold as ice,” he whispered and stared down into her empty eyes. He
touched her face gently with the pads of his fingers. “What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Ginny stared at her brother, at the changes in him. It had
only been two months, and yet he was darker, shadowed, harder. Stronger. “I
found her like this, but I don’t know how it happened.”
“How long ago?” His voice sounded haunted.
“Not long. I found her yesterday.”
He looked up at Ginny and the look in his eyes made her stomach clench and
twist. “When did it start? How long… Since when?”
She sighed and looked away, looked down at Hermione. “Before you left. Since
Harry was taken. A long time. She’s didn’t take any of it… well.”
“And I didn’t see it. I thought…” He cleared his throat and stroked his thumb
over Hermione’s wrist. He shook his head. “No. No, I saw it. I knew. But I
didn’t want to. It was too –” He broke off sharply and bowed his head down into
Hermione’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her icy skin. “Hermione,
forgive me.”
Molly slid her hand around Ginny’s back and circled the bed to touch her hand
to Ron’s.
He leaned up into the touch and looked up at his mother. “Why didn’t she say
anything? Why did she let me leave?”
Molly smiled sadly and stroked his longish hair back from his face, fingering
the ragged edges. “Because she loves you, dear. She loves you.”
His breath caught sharply as he gazed up at his mother, his blue eyes pale and
stricken, and his throat worked in a rough swallow. He looked back down at
Hermione and ran his fingers down from her forehead, tracing her nose,
smoothing over her lower lip as she puffed out shallow breaths. His mother’s
hand trailed off him and both she and Ginny slipped away, drawing the curtain
around the bed behind them. Ron leaned over Hermione again, resting his cheek
against hers.
“Hermione,” he whispered and crawled up the bed. His face hung only a breath
away from hers as he braced himself over her. “Hermione, please. Come back.” He
leaned down the bare space and kissed her dry lips. “I need you.”
He buried his face in her neck and wrapped his arms around her still body,
breathing as she breathed.
===============================================================================
Hermione turned and frowned, peering off into the changing distance. Sirius
turned back to look at her, a question in his eyes, and her frown deepened as
she looked back at him.
“Did you hear that?”
He lifted an eyebrow and shrugged, looking around himself. “Hear what, luv?”
She chuckled and shook her head. “It’s ‘luv’ now, is it?”
Sirius offered her a rakish smile and set his hands on his hips. “Don’t read
much into it. You’re quite nice, but sadly, not my type.”
Grinning, she caught up to him and slipped her arm into his. “And who would be
your type?”
“Ah!” Sirius grinned off into the distance, and they began walking again.
“Easily said, that. My type is quiet, studious, intelligent, with sandy-brown
hair…”
“Yes?” She eyed him in amusement and fingered her own brown hair.
He grinned again, still gazing ahead into the misty landscape, and continued,
“Amber eyes, a split lupine/human personality…”
“Remus!” She gasped and looked up at him. “Remus Lupin? Professor Lupin?”
Sirius looked down at her in surprise. “You know Moony? My Moony?” He shook his
head at himself and sighed, “Yes, of course you know him. He’s a professor?”
“He was, for a year. Defence Against the Dark Arts.”
He laughed suddenly, shaking his head in amusement. “Moony teaching. That would
have been a sight. Was he any good?”
“He was brilliant. Though, we haven’t much to compare him against. But you? And
Professor Lupin? Really?”
“Yes, really. Imagine that.”
Hermione blushed and Sirius laughed, and he tightened his arm about her.
“Ah, I see you’ve begun already. Dirty mind, you.”
“But – you’re telling the truth. Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly. We were a pair, he and I, right from the get-go. Straight from
day one of first year, King’s Cross, platform 9¾. Well,” he amended and changed
their direction to avoid a patch of rapidly changing ground. “We weren’t quite
the pair you’re imagining then. Not at eleven, no, that came later. But even
after things had changed, they never really did. The rest, that was just…
extra, really. He was my friend, the best of them all. That lasted all the way
through.”
“Even in Azkaban?”
His expression grew pensive and solemn, as it always did when the prison was
mentioned. He still had no real memory of the place and the time. The memories
he possessed were vague and disconnected, as though he remembered another
person’s story, told to him ages ago.
“Azkaban was different, I think. Dark, blurry, mind-numbing. It wasn’t a real
place, not after so many years. In the beginning, sure. I thought of Moony
often, and…” Sirius frowned in thought. “I didn’t blame him, you know. For
sending me there.”
Hermione’s head snapped up. “He sent you there? No… No, he didn’t. You were
sent there by the Ministry. Remus didn’t turn you in. It was Peter.”
Sirius shook his head slowly. “No… no. I went to Moony, I think. After Peter
accused me but before the Ministry found me. I went to him. I wanted him to
know that I hadn’t done it, that I would never have done it. But he didn’t
believe me. Not that I blame him for that. It was a strange time, confusing.
And we trusted Peter. No one thought he would have betrayed James and Lily any
more than they thought I would have.”
He stepped over a bluish, pulsating lump in the ground and then stopped and
looked around himself, looked down at Hermione. “I never blamed him for it, you
know. Never. It’s not just here. I never had to forgive him for anything,
because I never blamed him. He didn’t understand that, when I came back. He
felt guilty, but he didn’t understand. I never blamed him at all. I always
loved him.”
He tilted back his head to stare up at the swirling colours above them. “That
hurt, you know, more than anything else. That he couldn’t forgive himself. I
wish I could tell him that. When you go back, tell him for me, would you? Tell
him to forgive himself.”
“Someone will find us. You can tell him yourself.”
Sirius smiled sadly and began walking again, toward the faint brightness in the
sky. It felt as if they had been walking toward that light for weeks, but there
was no fatigue in her body. She could walk forever here.
“I have been here a long time, Hermione. No one is looking for me anymore. I’m
forgotten.”
“No! You’re not forgotten, you’re just…”
“Dead.” He smiled again and hugged her with one arm. “It’s alright. I’ve had
time to think about it, to accept it. I don’t mind. But you, you’re not dead.
They’ll look for you. They’ll find you. And when they do, you’ll tell Moony.
Right?”
She nodded and swiped at her stinging eyes. “Of course. Of course, I’ll tell
him.”
Sirius nodded solemnly and dug his free hand into his pocket, hooking his thumb
through an empty belt loop. He gazed off into the changing landscape and spoke
decisively at the sky, “Good.”
Chapter End Notes
     More Harry next chapter! (And someone finally tells Dumbledore to
     stuff it.)
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Harry awoke, he knew immediately that everything had changed.
A big indicator was that he lay in a bed – warm and surrounded by the scent of
wood fires and the sleepy musk of their bodies and the sex they had shared.
Snape had haphazardly drawn the blankets over the two of them at some point;
Harry could feel the tangle of them against his chest, although his legs were
mostly uncovered and exposed to the cooler air. He could feel the warmth
radiating from Snape beside him and hear the man’s soft breaths.
There would be no fruit waiting for him on the tips of smooth fingers and no
gentle, coaxing flutter against his mind. No cold, heavy chain sliding against
his spine or warm collar closing like fingers against his throat. The room was
small and intimate, not the cavernous room with its chilled marble floor and
echoing walls.
And they were alone. Voldemort was not here, not here between them. Harry had
left him behind, he reminded himself, although, as the thought crossed his
mind, it was almost as if he could still feel the slippery presence of
Voldemort against his mind. He could still feel the man’s touch against his
skin, and he shivered as the feeling intensified for a moment, goosebumps
rising along his skin, tactile and visceral, as if he hadn’t managed to escape.
Harry whimpered despite himself and pressed closer to Snape, who groggily
hushed him as he buried his face in Harry’s neck and nudged his hairline with
his prominent nose.
Harry turned into his body, pressing close, and he inhaled deeply, letting the
smell of the man invade his senses, letting it chase away the memory of
Voldemort’s scent, the slick, creeping feel of it. Harry pressed his ear
against Snape’s chest, listening to the thrumming of his heart, of the blood
through his veins, the gurgle of his stomach, the real, honest sounds of his
body. No, Severus wasn’t Voldemort. It was all different: every sound from him,
every smell, just the very feel of him. He didn’t need to see to know. It was
clear to him, as clear as anything had ever been. This was what he wanted, what
he had been wanting all along before any of it had begun. This felt like where
he belonged.
“Morning,” he murmured against Snape’s chest and took in another breath of the
man. He smelled raw and sharp and musky, sweat and firewhiskey bleeding from
his pores, ink from his fingertips, wood-fire from his hair. A sensory record
of where Snape had been, without him.
“Afternoon,” Snape corrected with a catch in his voice, and it made Harry
instinctively lift his head to look at his face despite being unable to see it.
His right hand came out and traced along Snape’s features, mapping them against
his palm. He ran his fingertips across his thin lips, over the line of his
nose, gently thumbing the depressions of eyes and cheeks, and up to trace his
eyebrows.
“Thank you,” Harry said and felt Snape’s forehead wrinkle under his touch.
“For?”
“Saving me.”
Snape shook his head. “I didn’t. I couldn’t find you.”
Harry tilted his head and asked, “You came looking for me?”
Snape paused and Harry moved his hand over his lips, feeling them move against
his palm. “Of course. I… but I couldn’t find you, Harry. I didn’t save you. You
shouldn’t thank me when I didn’t…”
Harry pressed his hand down, stopping the words. He leaned over and moved his
hand, pressing his lips to Snape’s before leaning back, wishing he could watch
Snape’s confusion and uncertainty. Wishing he could see him so undone.
“I didn’t expect a rescue, not after… He would never have let anyone. You know
that.” Harry paused, leaning down and letting his cheek rest against Snape’s.
“In the beginning, yes, but then, until the end, the very end, I doubt I would
have let you take me away. I lost myself for a time, you know. I’m not sure I
would have let you save me. There was very little left of me then. I nearly
gave him everything.”
Snape’s breath hitched against his neck and Harry smiled because he could now.
“I had to decide to save myself. If it weren’t for Draco… I guess I owe him one
now.”
“Draco?” Snape pulled back.
Harry shook his head. “Later, I can tell you later. Now, I think I’d like to go
see Madam Pomfrey. I would like to be able to see again, if that’s at all
possible.”
Snape jerked away and fumbled from the bed. Harry listened to him tumble over
the side and onto his feet, and he grinned down, hiding behind his curtain of
hair. He doubted Snape wanted to be laughed at.
“Of course,” Snape stuttered and cleared his throat, reaching out for Harry and
guiding him off the bed. His hands were cold against Harry’s skin, and he could
almost feel Snape’s gaze as it tracked over his bare form.
“Clothes, Severus?”
“Right,” the man replied and spun away. Harry listened to him fumble through
his wardrobe. “Here,” fabric was thrust into his hands. “The trousers will be
too long, but surely they will suffice for the time being.”
Harry slipped into them, and he pulled the jumper over his head and shook out
his long hair, tousling it back before asking, “Will you be getting dressed
too, or are you going to walk me down to the infirmary naked?”
“Bollocks,” Snape cursed under his breath and Harry couldn’t help but laugh
that time. “Amused, are we?” Snape asked in a sardonic voice and Harry nodded,
grinning.
“Very. I wish I could see you like this. It might almost make it all
worthwhile.”
Snape froze, and he hesitated, saying, “Harry…” But Harry shook his head and
put out a hand, letting Snape catch and squeeze it.
“Don’t. Not now. I just want to get my sight back. All right?”
“Yes,” Snape gripped his hand and then let it go to dress. “Yes.”
He could have just as easily Apparated himself to the infirmary. The medallion
still hung about his neck, cool and dormant, but he let Snape take his arm and
lead him through the hallways, up the stairs, around the corners. Hogwarts was
even more of a maze in his blindness, but he didn’t feel trapped by it, or
overwhelmed. He was glad to be home.
They stepped only once into bright, burning sunlight, and, as he tilted back
his face to greet it, it greeted him back. He heard the flurry of feathers, the
tumultuous bedlam of screeches and hoots, and from somewhere above him, Hedwig
dropped to his shoulder, biting furious hellos along his chin. He laughed and
curled his hands up to hold her, settling her against his neck until she nearly
cooed like a turtledove, perfectly content to cuddle into his skin.
“She found you, then,” Snape drawled and Harry felt the movement as the man
reached over to drag his fingers through her ruff. She nipped at Snape’s
fingers gently, greeting him with contented hatchling noises and then she
cuddled back against Harry. “She kept me quite good company while you were
away”, he said, as if he’d been gone on holiday for a long weekend.
“You seduced my owl while I was gone?”
“I did nothing of the sort. Your owl took it upon herself to become my charge.
Or rather, I became her charge. She can be quite a stringent guard when the
situation calls.”
“Yes, she can,” Harry pet Hedwig lovingly and began walking again, setting one
hand up to hold his owl in place, and the other down to curl his hand about
Snape’s wrist.
As they pushed through into the infirmary, he knew immediately where he was.
The filtered heat from the sun shining through the windows hit his face again,
but it was the smell more than anything. Antiseptic and sterile, clean cotton
and astringents. And he apparently had a welcome party awaiting him.
“Harry! Merlin, Harry! Ginny, Ginny! Where did that… It’s Harry!”
Molly Weasley, he identified quickly, and she growled, “What did you do to him
you… you… just you… get your hands off him, blasted man.”
Snape let go of him immediately, but Harry grabbed for him again, lacing his
fingers with Snape’s longer ones before he could escape.
“Molly, it’s okay,” he said, even as Ginny’s voice appeared from the darkness,
saying, “Mum. For Merlin’s sake, mum, just relax. Professor Snape is… Mother!”
Hedwig bristled and hissed, and Snape said in a dry voice, “If you would kindly
lower your wand and fetch Madam Pomfrey? Mr. Potter could use her attention.”
Harry could almost see the quirk in the corner of his lips.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Madam Pomfrey said, appearing behind Harry, taking his
arm and leading him away, pulling his fingers from Snape’s. Hedwig released her
claws from his shoulder, releasing him into Pomfrey’s care, and it was then
that Ron’s voice appeared to the other side of him, saying, “Now look what
you’ve done, you bloody git of a man. Causing all this trouble. I know it was
you.”
Harry opened his mouth to defend Snape and attempted to pull away from Madam
Pomfrey’s iron grip, but Snape’s voice stopped him, amused and good-humoured.
“I can hardly be held to blame for all the world’s ills, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps
you should ask you mother to lower her wand as she seems unwilling to listen to
reason and will therefore listen to you.”
“Maybe I should let her blast you a new one, Snape. It would only serve you
right for – ”
A door closed, cutting off the sound, and Harry squirmed against Madam
Pomfrey’s hold.
“Goodness, Harry, hold still. I can’t do this if you keep squirming around like
a handful of doxies. Just let me,” she grasped his chin and tilted back his
head, shining a hot light in his face. “Let me see… Hmm, nasty piece of work
here,” she tsked. “All right. Hold very still. This might hurt a little. No,
still. Very still. Yes, don’t move now, not at all, don’t breathe. Keep your
eyes open and…” A splash of burning liquid fell in each of his eyes, making him
cry out in surprise, and she said, “There we are. Blink through it, Harry, and
then look around, tell me what you see.”
He blinked back the burning drops and shook his head, opening his eyes to peer
blurrily around the room. His legs came into focus first, black trousers,
heavily cuffed, and from there he lifted his head and peered at his hands and
his fingernails, previously ragged but now trimmed cleanly. He turned up his
head, scowled at Madam Pomfrey who gazed at him and held up three fingers.
“How many?”
He glared at her. She was blurry, but that had more to do with his missing
glasses than to anything else. “Three! You couldn’t have warned me? That hurt!”
“I did warn you.” She set the small dark-glass bottle back on the shelf and
dusted off her hands, reaching around and handing him a miraculous set of spare
glasses and then, “Here, have some chocolate. It will do you good. Now, I’m
going to need a full account of what was done to you, Harry.”
He froze in the act of bringing the glasses to his face, and he lifted his eyes
to stare at her.
She stared back at him, and despite the blurriness of his vision, he could tell
she bore her best no-nonsense expression.
“It doesn’t have to be today. I can give you a general healing potion that
should assist with anything uncomplicated. But let’s not mince words here:
there will be ramifications to what was done to you, Harry, and it is my job to
see to the medical. I cannot do that without information.” She took the glasses
from his limp hand and slid them onto his nose. Her face came into focus and
she did, in fact, have an expression that allowed little leniency. Her eyes
were very kind, however.
She continued, “You can speak to me, you can put it into writing, or you may
transfer it to me by way of pensieve memories, but you will provide me with a
full account. In return, I promise to treat the information you give me as
confidential and I will see to it that you receive any and every medical
treatment required. Are we agreed?”
He opened his mouth and she lifted an eyebrow at him. He closed his mouth again
and looked down at the chunk of chocolate in his hand. His stomach twisted.
“Yes, I… Yes. Madam Pomfrey. I will.”
“Good.” She patted his arm. “Now, off with you before the Weasleys turn the
professor into a toad. But don’t wander. I need to give you that potion. I just
need to fetch it before I let you go.”
She brushed him to his feet and back out into the main infirmary where he saw
the three redheads facing the professor. Snape had his back to Harry, and so
Harry took a moment to gaze at the line of his back and shoulders as he let one
piece of chocolate melt on his tongue. Hedwig perched on the professor’s left
shoulder, glaring sharply between the three redheads, apparently willing to
protect Snape as eagerly as she’d protect Harry, and he smiled at that.
Ginny caught his eye first, and she smiled at him, a nod of her head, her eyes
searching his, and he nodded back, keeping his mind locked from hers, before
turning his head and looking at Ron. He couldn’t help but note how changed his
friend looked. Ron was taller, and thin and pale, with dark shadows under his
eyes, and the smile on his face didn’t shine as brightly as it had before. Ron
shifted his gaze and met Harry’s and held it for a long moment before glancing
at Snape and nodding toward Harry.
Snape turned and Harry looked at him for the first time in months.
He was thin. Much too thin. Dark circles under his eyes, like Ron’s. But when
Harry felt his mouth stretch into a smile, Snape’s lips twitched up into a
reciprocating smile. It was only for a heartbeat, but it had been there. There
was something new in his eyes as he gazed over at Harry. The hesitance from
them had been burned away and the expression was no longer as reserved as it
had once been. He looked weary, yes, but there was a hint of colour to his face
and his eyes were dark and sparkling. He looked… Someone, if they looked
closely, might mistake him for happy.
Harry pushed a hand through his hair. “My sight is back,” he said, meeting and
holding Snape’s gaze again, and he stepped further into the room, felt the
crackle of energy pass between the two of them. The man looked tired, but he
looked good. Now that he could see him, all Harry wanted was to touch and watch
Snape fall apart under his hands. Something in his own gaze must have betrayed
him, because Snape swallowed heavily and shifted on his feet.
Molly spun at the sound of his voice and rushed over to him, breaking the hot
gaze between Snape and himself. She took his face in her hands and looked him
over. “Oh, Harry! You’re back and you’re…” She patted her hands down his arms.
“You’re fine. You’re… Well, physically, you are. Emotionally, you must be… Oh!
Harry. Poor dear,” she collected him to her chest and enveloped him in
motherliness, stroking her hands down his hair. Harry balked for a moment,
embarrassed, but her arms tightened and he finally sank into her warmth,
ducking his chin and wrapping his arms tight, inhaling the pervasive scent of
bread from her robes. She pulled away after a moment and peered into his eyes.
“You know you can speak with me? About anything?”
He could not quite meet her eyes. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, although he
would never tell her a word of it, not voluntarily. He would never willingly
tell anyone if he could help it, but some choices were not his to make. He
doubted Madam Pomfrey would allow him much time, and he conceded to the merit
of that. Ginny would want to know, and she would try, but if he had learned to
lock his mind from Voldemort, Ginny was far less of a challenge. Dumbledore
would likely know, in that way that allowed him to know everything. There were
no defences against that. He would try to avoid telling Ron and Hermione, they
deserved to be untainted by it, but they were both unlikely to let him get away
with that again for long. And Severus… He pulled away from Molly and turned to
look at Severus again. Yes, Severus would hear it all. Because who else would
understand it all?
As their eyes met, he saw comprehension sweep over Snape’s expression. He
lifted his hand to stroke absently through Hedwig’s feathers and nodded once,
and Harry’s lips curved into a sad smile. He didn’t want to relive any of it.
It was over now and he wanted to forget it. He wanted to move on, and he wished
he could wipe his mind as clear as his body could be, but Snape would be the
one person who would understand. He would understand what he had lived through,
the choices he had made, what he would try to forget and what he could never
forget. He would understand everything. And Harry knew, as he gazed at him,
that they likely both needed this – someone to understand.
He looked around, searching for the elusive Madam Pomfrey, but she was nowhere
to be found. He was going to leave soon, potion or no potion. It wasn’t like he
needed it. They’d healed him very thoroughly every time, trimmed his hair and
nails and washed his body clean. And he was going to be dragging the Potion
Master along behind him back down to the dungeons, and surely, whatever potion
Pomfrey had in mind could be had just as easily from Snape.
Eventually, when they got around to it.
He looked back at Snape with a sly smile on his lips, a plan for the afternoon
developing prominently in his mind, and his eyes managed to catch Snape’s eye
in time to see him flush, rosy spots appearing on his pale cheekbones and
sliding down his neck. Snape looked away, up toward the ceiling, as if suddenly
very interested in the architecture of the room. Hedwig clacked her beak as if
chiding him and Snape glared at her.
“Are you well, Harry?” Molly spoke to him again and fussed at his collar. Her
eyes kept dipping down toward his neck, and he assumed the evidence of the
collar must be clear. He pulled back from her and did up the last two buttons
of his shirt.
“I’m fine, Molly. I promise. But… I’m tired,” he told her and glanced over at
Snape again, who was doggedly avoiding his eyes. “I think I’d like to go back
to bed.”
Snape suppressed a small sound as he looked out the windows and coughed to
cover it.
Harry held back his smile and looked around the room again. Pomfrey had not yet
appeared, but as his gaze crossed the room, he met Ginny’s eyes. She stared at
him a moment, tilting her head to the side, a small wrinkle between her neat
brows as she tried to decipher whatever information she was gleaning. She
glanced over at Snape and her brows rose sharply, and she whipped her head back
toward Harry. He smirked a little, because she got exactly what she deserved
for looking too closely. She blushed and bit her lip, and then grinned down at
the floor. Ron glanced between the two of them and then at Snape and his eyes
grew round for a moment before he rolled them and looked away. Harry grinned
despite himself.
He opened his mouth to suggest leaving and coming back later when a foul-
smelling flask was thrust beneath his nose and Madam Pomfrey said, “Down with
it, all in one.”
He twitched away from her, but she thrust the flask into his hands and folded
her arms tightly over her chest. He eyed it distrustfully – it wasn’t the
normal healing potion, it was something different – but he sighed and swallowed
it in one go. It tasted of fresh cut grass, a lovely smell but less than
pleasant on the tongue. It settled in his stomach, turning warm, and he felt it
spread along his veins, up behind his eyes and throbbing until his head swam
with the feeling of it. He felt as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of summer or as
if he stepped from a warm bath into a hot sunny day. Tension he hadn’t known
he’d kept in his shoulders relaxed and the pain in his hips and lower back from
two months on his knees relented.
Madam Pomfrey took the flask from his lax fingers briskly and nudged him off,
murmuring something to Snape about Dumbledore wanting to see them. He couldn’t
manage to hear every word that she whispered to Snape, but he saw Snape as gave
a curt nod. The Weasleys watched Harry carefully, as if he might disappear at
any moment, and he smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way as he stepped
toward Snape, but he wasn’t certain his muscles were obeying his mind. The
smile was likely very lopsided.
Harry felt far too relaxed to try to say anything, and left it to Snape to say
any final words to Pomfrey and the Weasleys before they left. He was
momentarily distracted by the shine of the sun through the windows, casting a
rainbow against the floor, and when Snape brushed Hedwig from his shoulders and
sent her away through an open window, the sight of her wings captured Harry’s
attention completely. With a final word of promise to Madam Pomfrey, Snape took
Harry’s arm, gripping gently yet insistently, and he lead him from the
infirmary. Harry took several steps, following Snape down into the corridor
overlooking the main entrance, feeling as if he might be drunk, and he leaned
into Snape’s side, tilting back his head to gaze up at Snape affectionately,
and he whispered conspiratorially, “That was some potion.”
Snape glanced down at him, a quirk in the corner of his mouth, and Harry had a
sudden, overwhelming urge to taste it. He curled his arm up around Snape’s neck
and drew him down the short distance. Snape hesitated, with a glance around
their public location. Feeling the pause, Harry stopped a breath away from his
lips and met his eyes. Snape looked down at him, excuses behind his teeth, and
then also stopped. Harry smiled at him, completely overcome with the summery
feeling travelling through his veins.
Snape gazed down at him for a long moment and then smiled against Harry’s lips
and kissed him.
===============================================================================
Lupin paced the floor of the Headmaster’s office, arms folded tightly across
his chest as he growled at the floor and the walls and the chair in his path
and in one mistaken moment, Dumbledore himself. The Headmaster had only lifted
an eyebrow and sat back in his chair, dunking cinnamon snaps into his steaming
cup of tea. Lupin rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose, pinching
tightly, fighting back a headache. Tension thrummed through his body, setting
his nerves on edge, and when the door opened, he jumped nearly out of his skin,
and turned to find Harry walking in, arm curled about Severus Snape’s.
Lupin’s words cut off on his tongue as he stared at the two of them, his nose
twitching, his senses swimming in scents. He doubted he required his lupine
senses to know that they had picked off where they had left off months ago, as
if nothing had been learned.
Harry lifted his eyes and looked at Lupin, and Lupin swallowed at what he found
there. Eyes like that did not belong on a child. There was an air about him, as
if he had aged a decade rather than a handful of weeks. He did look as if he
had been well tended during his captivity, however. His hair was longer, but
not unkempt or unwashed, and while he seemed to have lost weight, he had not
lost as much as Snape seemed to have done. He had been fed and bathed, and
Lupin could not immediately see any sign of lingering physical injury. A
hopeful part of him clung to the idea that perhaps Harry had come through
unscathed.
He glanced at Snape and winced. The man looked half-dead. Wherever he had
disappeared to, no one had bothered to remind him to eat or sleep, and Snape
had never been someone who could be trusted to care for himself.
Dumbledore stood from behind his desk and circled it, holding out a hand to
Harry, which the young man took without releasing Snape’s arm.
“Happy Birthday, Harry, my boy. Seventeen, hmm, and fully grown.
Congratulations.”
Harry released Dumbledore’s hand, and he pushed back a long hank of hair from
his face, tucking it behind his ear. “Thank you. I keep forgetting that’s what
today is. It’s been… a long day. I’m glad to be home.” He glanced over at Lupin
again and tipped his head, and looked up at Snape for a moment before releasing
his hold on the man. He took the three steps to reach Lupin and held out a
hand. Lupin stared at it a moment before it registered and he fumbled to
uncross his arms and take the hand, gripping it with far too much strength.
“Hello, Remus,” Harry said softly, watching him with cautious, perceptive eyes.
“Everything all right?”
Lupin’s eyes widened. “Everything…? Harry!” He pulled on the hand and wrapped
his arms around Harry, enveloping him in a desperate hug. “Circe’s ghost, I’m
glad you’re safe.” He pushed Harry away and gazed at him again, looking him up
and down. There was a very faint redness around his throat, a band of worn skin
that perhaps only his eyes could detect, and Harry swallowed and lifted a hand
to draw his collar farther up around his neck. Lupin met his eyes, holding
them. “Are you all right?”
Harry nodded without saying a word. Lupin held his eyes a moment longer and
then nodded, releasing him. He stepped away and looked up at Snape, eyeing him
for a moment before he took the steps over and held out his hand. Snape looked
at it with a small frown between his brows.
“Thank you for finding him,” Lupin said and Snape’s face cleared as he shook
his head.
“I didn’t. He found me.”
Lupin frowned and turned to look at Harry again, but Dumbledore chose that
moment to clear his throat. He smiled at Harry and crossed back around his desk
to sit down, motioning for the other three to do the same. “It sounds like
there is quite a tale behind this return. Perhaps you might like to enlighten
us, Harry?”
Harry sighed and glanced back at Snape quickly before sitting down, seemingly
reassuring himself of the man’s presence. He moved slowly and hesitantly, as if
unsure of how to behave after so many months with Voldemort. He folded his
hands in his lap and gazed down at them. “I don’t think I can tell the whole
story. It involves people who…”
“…are well-known to us,” Dumbledore finished, nodding. “You may speak freely.”
Harry’s forehead wrinkled uncertainly, and he glanced from Snape to Lupin.
“They both know?” He asked.
Snape frowned and glanced at Dumbledore. “Know what?”
Lupin shook his head, circling a chair to sit in it wearily. “He doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” Snape repeated sharply, coming to stand by Harry’s elbow. He
turned his razor glare from Lupin to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore sat back and steepled his fingers, gazing up and over them at Snape.
“Severus, whether or not you are aware of it, you are a member of the Inner
Order of the Phoenix.”
“Pardon?” Snape frowned, and Harry sat forward, opening his mouth to speak, but
Lupin sighed again, rubbing his forehead and spoke.
“The Inner Order has the rather specific task of seeing to Voldemort’s demise.
You, and I, and others, are members.”
Snape narrowed his eyes. “This is the first I have heard tell of it.”
“’Seeing to Voldemort’s demise’?” Harry parroted. “Isn’t that the point of the
Order itself? Why the need for another one?”
Dumbledore cleared his throat, drawing eyes toward him. “The Inner Order’s
mission is a delicate one. One which cannot be spoken of lightly. Nor,
unfortunately, can we speak of it to those who are not preordained members.”
“’Preordained members’?” Harry repeated again.
Lupin looked away, suddenly fascinated by the arm of his chair, and Dumbledore
only shook his head.
“The Inner Order cannot be spoken of to you, Harry. You are not a member.”
“Not a… Why not?” He snapped, sitting forward in his chair, arms braced. “I
think I’ve earned the right to know everything by this point. Who has the right
to know what I don’t?” He paused and then growled low in his throat, face
curving in disgust. “Malfoy. Malfoy knows.”
“Draco?” Snape looked from one person to the other. “How is Draco Malfoy
involved?”
Harry curled his lips into a snarl, sitting back. “He’s the one who found me.
He came to rescue me. Without him, I’d still be there.”
“But I had believed… You rescued yourself.”
“I did,” Harry nodded. “But Malfoy… Draco… I wouldn’t have wanted to leave
without him. He…” Harry shook his head slowly. “Can I tell you later? I don’t
want to…” He turned his head up to look at Snape and the man gazed back at him
a moment before offering a curt nod. Harry smiled a small, tight smile and
looked back at Dumbledore. His eyes narrowed and his hand tightened on Snape’s
arm.
“Draco Malfoy is a spy for the Inner Order.”
Dumbledore inclined his head.
Harry growled and looked away for a moment, but Snape startled and he demanded,
“A spy? Draco? How is it that I never knew of this?”
Lupin turned his head toward him with a smirk. “Because he’s better at it than
you are, Severus.”
Harry clenched his hand as Snape moved suddenly, and he shot a warning look at
Lupin, who had the decency to look abashed.
“This isn’t the time for that. I want to know about this Inner Order. I want to
know everything. I deserve to know everything,” he told Dumbledore, eyes
narrowed at the elderly man.
Dumbledore gazed back at him through lidded eyes, leaning forward on his folded
hands. Harry glared at him, and both Snape and Lupin eyed the Headmaster as
well, waiting for his answer. Even the portraits on the wall were silent.
“Well?” Harry demanded finally.
Dumbledore slowly closed his eyes and then opened them to gaze at Harry, and he
said, “No.”
“No?”
The man shook his head, sitting back in his chair. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are not a member. You know far too much already. Be content with
what we have told you.”
“Be content? No. Oh no, I’ve had more than enough with being content. I have
bled for this war now. I have shed blood and tears, and…” Harry stood from his
seat, staring down at the man who watched him passively. “I have paid for my
role in this war in spades. This war is mine. You can’t take it away from me.
These prophecies of yours… You put so much stake into them! But I’ve earned my
place in this, prophecy be damned. And I have earned your respect, Albus
Dumbledore. I deserve it.”
Dumbledore nodded, sitting up as if awaking. “And you have it, Harry.
Certainly, you should never doubt that. But you cannot know everything, my boy.
I know it will mean nothing to you now, but you must trust me.”
Harry stared down at him, his teeth clenched, his shoulders tight, and after a
long moment, he forced himself to relax. His eyes were still narrow, his mouth
thin. He nodded slowly, eyes locked on Dumbledore. “You have us all fooled,
haven’t you?”
“Harry?” Lupin asked in a low, cautious voice, but Harry ignored him, eyes
still fixed on the Headmaster.
“Trust you, you tell me. Be content, you tell me. I’ve heard that before. You’d
have me blind, chained and naked at your feet, if you could.” Harry swept a
hand around the still, breathless room. “You’ve done it to us all, with your
lemon sherbets and your grandfatherly smiles. You’re a knife so sharp, we can’t
know we’re bleeding to death until it’s too late.” Harry shook his head. “I
can’t trust you. I won’t. I will not go blindly, not for anyone, and not for
you.”
“Harry, you’re upset, you don’t know what you’re – ”
“Remus,” Harry didn’t turn. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m awake now. I’m
very awake,” Harry told him firmly and said quietly as he leaned over the desk,
“I can see you now, Albus. I can see you clearly.”
He took a step backward and then turned, putting his back to Dumbledore. He
looked at Snape, who stared at him with eyes open and considering. “Will you
come with me, Severus? I’ve had more than enough for today.”
Snape nodded after a short moment of consideration. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
They left the room without a backwards glance, leaving Lupin to stare dumbly at
the empty doorway for a long moment, until he finally closed his mouth and
turned to stare at Dumbledore. The elderly man had his chin in his hands again,
gazing at the doorway too. A very small smile turned up the corner of his
mouth.
Chapter End Notes
     You are all amazing. Thank you for all your support so far. Writing
     can be hard, but all your comments and kudos keep me going. I really
     appreciate it! <3 <3
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
     Well, this chapter took longer to finish than I thought it was going
     to take... Oops. :/ Thank you for all your patience!
Neville crouched, his fingers dug deep into black, fragrant earth, and he
hummed to himself as he worked at transplanting a trio of Black-Eyed Susans.
They blinked at him and one watched him with suspicion, but he just smiled at
it and kept working. They’d be happier once they’d been transferred into the
ground. More room to grow. He patted the earth and waved his wand over them to
give the soil the proper saturation, and they blinked their dark eyes at him
again in pleasure. He stood and scratched his cheek, and then brushed his hands
off, still humming a song his mother had once sung to him.
He could not remember her as she had been before she had been broken, but he
knew the song. She often sang it to herself when he visited the hospital. She
would sit, curled into a corner of her room, a pillow cradled in her arms, and
she would sing the song, over and over. She might do it for hours at a time,
with little notice of anything else. Sometimes he would sit by her and sing
along and she would smile at him. The words were rarely comprehensible, but he
knew the tune well.
The central flower, the suspicious one, turned her head and narrowed her eye,
and Neville followed her gaze and found Draco leaning lightly against the side
of the potting shed, arms crossed over his chest. The sun shone at his back,
turning his hair to silver and making him look like a young prince. He looked
smug, as if he knew precisely how he appeared, which, Neville assumed, he
probably did.
He brushed his hands off again, collected the transplantation pots, and crossed
over to the shed. He nodded to Draco as he replaced the pots on their shelf,
then washed his hands in the large, mud-spattered sink, scrubbing grainy dirt
from his fingernails. He glanced at Draco, who still leaned against the wall,
only a foot away.
“Yes?”
Draco shifted, tilting his head against the side of the shed, pale eyes
watching Neville. “You were right.”
Neville nodded and reached for a cloth to dry his hands. He took a breath
before looking back at Draco, who watched him, unmoving, unnaturally calm for a
boy known for pretentious posturing. Then again, Neville had his own
reputation, and he understood the limits of it, which parts were true, which
were feigned. Draco was a better actor than he. It was far easier to play the
mouse than the snake.
“What’s coming?”
“Everything. We can’t prevent it, now. We don’t need a prophecy to tell us the
inevitable.”
“Have you spoken to your father?”
Draco nodded, finally looking away. Following Draco’s gaze, Neville glanced
across the long garden with its neat rows and colourful flowers, and he watched
them sway in the faint breeze of early summer. The weather would turn
sweltering soon, Neville knew, as midsummer finally took hold with a vengeance.
But for now, it was only warm and pleasant. He wondered who his grandmother had
found to work their own garden, whether his roses were being properly cared
for, if the hydrangeas had wilted from neglect.
He wanted go home, he thought suddenly, but not home as it was now. He wanted
to go back in time, to before, back to when he really had been the quiet,
nervous boy on the sidelines and not… whatever he was now. He wanted to go back
and tell the younger version of himself that the Headmaster wasn’t the fun kind
of nutter as it turned out, wasn’t all sweets and colourful robes. He was the
kind of nutter who told children they would be heroes and then threw them
headfirst into the deep end of the pool. Neville dearly wanted to go back and
unknow everything he now knew.
But it was impossible. He could not escape what he knew, what he had allowed
himself to become and do. He would no doubt drown in his guilt eventually, but
for the moment, he still had hopes that he might mend or at least temper the
ruin Dumbledore had caused.
He glanced at his newly planted flowers, their faces turned to the sun. Dim
hopes for continuance. They might not live to see the summer’s end. There
wasn’t much time left.
“There isn’t much time,” Draco said, turning his own face up to the sky, as if
reading his mind. “The Mark hasn’t yet been called, but soon it will. They’ll
move very soon.”
“And come here?”
“They’ll come to wherever Potter is. Voldemort doesn’t just want him – he needs
him. If you thought he was obsessed before, you ought to see him now. They are
tied to one another, and by more than simply the stolen blood. Neither can win,
or lose, without the other.”
Neville turned to face Draco fully. They didn’t often meet in daylight, much
less in the open, preferring instead to meet under the cover of darkness. Draco
glittered like a finely cut diamond in the sun. “Are we going to lose him?”
Draco tipped his head back against the side of the shed. His throat was a long,
pale column. “I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to survive without the
other, not after the blood bond. Voldemort knows this – it’s why he wants to
keep Harry shackled at his feet. A strong wizard might be able to survive the
death of the other, a very strong wizard, but Harry… after being broken as he
was… Harry has other ties still though, ties that might help ground him. We
just have to hope they’re stronger than blood.”
Neville closed his eyes, trying not to think about just how important a blood
tie was to Harry. “How much time do we have? Before… Before this is over?”
There was a long pause. The breeze tickled the sweat on his neck, making him
shiver slightly. Neville didn’t expect an answer from Draco. He didn’t want an
answer. What he wanted was for someone to tell him it would all be okay. He
wanted Harry to live and to be happy, and perhaps, one day, to forgive him. He
wanted to escape from under the heavy burden placed on him, and be allowed a
moment to be young and to enjoy something, or even someone. He was just so
tired of it all, of feigning, of knowing truths that others did not. He was so
tired of being alone within his own lies.
Neville’s eyes sprung open as he felt a soft touch against his cheek. He open
his eyes to see Draco close, eyes on his cheek, thumb brushing away flecks of
dirt from his face, and then Draco noticed Neville watching him and his hand
dropped away. “We don’t have long enough,” he replied, holding Neville’s pale
eyes with his own.
===============================================================================
Harry opened his eyes into darkness and he sucked in a sharp breath before he
remembered where he was.
Snape’s room. Snape’s bed. Even after so many days, he still managed to forget.
He lay still for a moment, listening, and to his left he heard Snape’s soft
breath, the almost non-existent inhales and exhales as if he had trained
himself to sleep unobtrusively. Harry turned over to face him, and his eyes
adjusted quickly to the meagre amount of light which slid beneath the bedroom
door.
Snape looked peaceful as he slept, forehead smooth, lips slack. The man slept
on his side, one hand pushed under the pillow, the other curled up, fingers
against his throat. Harry watched him for a long while, wondering how the man
managed to sleep so peacefully after everything that had happened to him.
Voldemort’s favourite.
Harry tried to picture Snape then. Barely twenty, arrogant, angry, naïve and
already a master at his work, sought after by the man the world would soon fear
to name. He could almost see him: swimming in rage and bitterness, satiated
with his own self-worth, eager for the chance to prove himself. Tom Riddle had
been in his prime. Tom would have taken to Snape immediately, seen the
potential in him. Seen the worth. And Snape would have fed off that, bloating
himself on the praise like a leech.
He watched as Snape took a sudden, deep breath, his pulse twitching in his
throat. His hand stretched out, searching, and he sighed in his sleep as his
fingertips touched Harry’s arm, just barely resting against skin. His feet
tangled briefly with Harry’s before he settled back into deeper sleep, turning
his face into the pillow. Harry smiled a little and brushed his own fingertips
over his lover’s hand.
“We all loved him back then. We loved him, feared him, were in awe of him.
There was very little difference. I was different than the others and that was
precisely why I was his favourite. I never feared him. Not then. Not yet.”
Harry rolled over and slid from the bed, pulling his robe about himself as he
slipped into the washroom. He closed the door behind him and wandlessly lit the
overhead torches. He stood before the sink and stared at himself in the small
mirror.
His hair was darker, longer, curling chaotically in messy waves against his
neck and yet still barely hiding the jagged scar across his brow. His skin was
pale from sleep, pillow lines against his cheek, and he lifted one hand to
trail across his throat.
There was no sign of it anymore, nothing that eyes could detect, but he could
still feel the collar, hot and smooth against his skin, reasserting its
presence every time he swallowed, so much like a hand around his throat,
possessive and demanding… Claiming him.
He looked back at himself, meeting his own eyes.
Something about him had drawn Voldemort. It was more than the scar, more than
the prophecy, more than causing the ruin of him. There had to be something more
than that inadvertent bond, something more in him that called out to the man.
There had to be a reason.
He clutched at the edge of the cold sink as the memory of Tom’s hand swept over
him, stroking against his back and up into his hair, tangible to the point that
goosebumps rose visibly across his skin. He stared at himself, anchoring
himself on the sight of his own green eyes staring back, but as he stared, his
eyes darkened and something oily and creeping and aware stared back at him. His
breath caught in his throat and his fingers gripped tightly against the sink.
Someone who wasn’t Harry Potter was in that mirror, in his eyes, staring back
at him.
His reflection’s mouth curled up into a harsh smirk.
He jerked backward and hit his shin against the bathtub, and he clenched his
teeth into his lip to keep from crying out.
The door flew open and he flinched back from the shape in the doorway before he
realised who it was, where he was. Snape stood in the dark doorway, his left
arm clutched to his chest. His feet were bare.
“Severus,” Harry sighed in relief, but as he spoke, the man’s head jerked
around to stare at him with wild, dark eyes. Harry froze and asked cautiously,
“Severus?”
Snape stared at him in horror for a long moment, then something in his eyes
clicked and he breathed, “Harry.”
Harry took a step forward and froze again when Snape flinched for a half-
second, visibly forcing himself to relax.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Snape shook his head, but he clutched his arm to his chest, and Harry’s eyes
widened as he met Snape’s eyes.
“You felt him too.”
Snape stared at him, mouth parting, hand clenching against his forearm. His
face was paler than the white sheets on his bed.
Harry gestured to the mirror and Snape’s eyes followed the movement. “I was
looking in the mirror. The image in the mirror – I could feel him watching me.”
Slowly, very slowly, Snape brought his arm down from his chest. He glanced down
at it and then held it out for Harry to see. The mark flared a midnight black
against Snape’s pale forearm, rimmed in vicious, red-scarred skin. The sight of
it made Harry shiver all over. He wrapped his arms around himself. He felt
suddenly freezing, as if he had been plunged into an icy bath. His teeth
chattered together and every muscle in his body was tight and tense. He could
feel his pulse throbbing in his temples.
“He’s coming,” Harry said between gritted teeth and he closed his eyes. “I
shouldn’t have come back here. Of course he’d find me here. Where else would I
be?” Harry shook his head back and forth, his fingers digging into his own
skin. “He’ll take me back and I’ll be… I’ll just be gone.”
Harry startled as hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. His head
lolled for a moment, but then he snapped up, staring at Snape who had taken the
two large steps into the room to stand before him, eyes sparking with anger and
possibly fear.
“Idiot boy,” he growled and Harry stared up at him. “Idiot boy, don’t you know
what this means?” He tipped his arm, drawing Harry’s eyes down to it. Snape
shook him again. “He’s coming for us both. This isn’t a warning. This is a
promise. He’s claiming us.”
“No, he can’t have you,” Harry said, voice gaining strength. Harry had spent
months protecting Snape within the dark confines of his mind, protecting him
from this very eventuality. Voldemort had let Snape go, had let him go and had
not come after him, not like this, and Harry was not going to let it happen
now. Not now. Severus belonged to him, Harry thought wildly, and he grabbed
Snape and pushed him back against the wall with a dull thud. Harry stepped
forward into him, pressing himself against that hard, starved body.
“He can’t have you,” he snarled, holding Snape’s startled eyes furiously. “You
are mine.” He glanced at the mirror, staring at his own reflection in contempt.
“He’s mine. You lost him. And you lost me. You don’t get to have us back.”
“Harry,” Snape pushed back against him and Harry shifted his glare, holding him
firmly against the wall. Snape’s voice gentled. “Harry, if he comes to claim
us, there will be little we can do. You know that as well as I.”
“To hell with that,” Harry returned, pressing himself harder into Snape, who
shuddered slightly against him. “I can do it, Severus. I saw him. I saw his
cracks. I can do it. I can beat him.”
“You…” Snape stared at him in confusion. “But you were blind. He blinded you.”
“I didn’t see him with my eyes.” Harry rolled his eyes at that. “I did it like
you taught me, with my mind. Like this.”
Harry grasped the power flowing through him, such a tangible, wild, hungry
thing, and he opened himself to it. It flooded his mind like a dammed river
released, and his head swirled with the fullness of it. He opened his senses
and looked at Snape, and he could see the shining, blue-green outline of power
surrounding Snape, could see the threads of it running through him and
connecting them together. His own power, a brilliant emerald green, braided
itself with Snape’s energy, and Harry watched the edges of himself blur as the
two powers flowed into one another. Snape jerked as if struck by lightning, his
body taut as it arched in the small space between Harry and the wall.
Their joint power surged up through their bodies, sparking along every span of
touching skin. Harry pressed forward into Snape, who fell back against the wall
with a soft groan. Snape immediately shifted his stance, spreading his legs to
straddle one of Harry’s. The loose tie of the robe fell open and it slipped
down off of Harry’s shoulders and caught at his elbows, fanning down against
the floor. Their magics danced along their skin like the Aurora Borealis,
Harry’s emerald green and Snape’s ocean green, and the power thrummed in their
blood, a pulsing, throbbing heat enmeshing them.
Snape grasped Harry to him and arched himself forward, and he tugged Harry
against him. Harry flowed forward, sliding against Snape’s clothed thigh as a
wave crashes to shore. It felt as if they could never be close enough. Bodies
were limited. Bodies were wonderful.
Harry pressed himself down against Snape’s firm thigh, canting, his hands
gripping against Snape’s arms, fingernails scratching furrows into skin. He
lifted his head and their eyes locked. Snape yanked Harry tighter against
himself, and they rocked into one another, power pulsing, building in sharp,
needling sparks of bright colours behind their eyes, through their minds. The
small room echoed with their sounds, and their fingers slipped and tightened
against slick skin. Pressure built in Harry, in Severus, in their linked minds,
in the single joined power they became. It swelled until their skin, their
veins, their minds could not longer contain it and it broke, cascaded through
them, heat and power exploding through them as it surged down their spines, and
they cried out as the power climaxed through them.
They collapsed against one another. Snape braced his back against the wall and
held Harry against him, his arms tight against Harry’s back. Harry bent to
press his forehead against Snape’s chest and he felt limp and battered and
marvelous. He could hear the ragged breaths Snape pulled into his lungs, the
racehorse pulse of his heartbeat. He pressed a sloppy kiss into the open neck
of Snape’s shirt, and Snape’s arms tightened about him.
Harry lifted his head, moving as if through water, and they regarded each other
for a long, breathless moment. Snape tilted his head back against the wall and
Harry watched him swallow, watched him attempt to plaster a bland expression
across his face, failing laughably as he tried desperately to grasp the remains
of his shattered composure.
“Like that?” Snape said to the ceiling.
Harry shook his head, smiling, pressing his forehead to Snape’s chest again and
laughing. “No, definitely not like that.” He pulled back and laughed again,
shaking his head, and Snape’s lips twitched, then curled, and breath huffed
from him in something that might almost have been an answering laugh.
“You see?” Harry demanded, clutching his arms again, just above the mark.
“Can’t you see? He can’t have us. We don’t belong to him anymore.”
Snape shook his head, but he bent his head to rest his cheek against the
younger man’s hair. “I hope you’re right, Harry. I truly do. He doesn’t take
kindly to deserters.”
===============================================================================
The tall windows of the infirmary rattled as yet another crash of thunder
resounded through the castle. Rain-heavy winds crashed against the glass and
the outside world resembled a grey-soaked watercolour painting. Ron sat up from
his seat by Hermione’s bed and peered out at the storm. The day had been a
rainy, dark day, and while the storm had only just begun, it didn’t seem likely
to end soon.
He reached out to touch the cool glass of the window, but jerked his hand back
as the doors to the infirmary swung open. He turned to look and gave the
visitor a small smile.
“Hi, Harry.”
Harry smiled and crossed over to him, setting his hand on his friend’s shoulder
as he gazed down at Hermione. Lightning lit up the room and cast strange
shadows against the far walls.
“No change?”
Ron shook his head and thunder interrupted him as he opened his mouth to reply.
He glared out at the storm. “No. But soon, I think. She’ll wake up soon.”
Harry nodded. He stared down at Hermione for a long moment and sat himself down
on the edge of the bed. Ron held his breath, but Harry only looked up at him
again and said, “Have you eaten, Ron?”
“Yeah, I ate…” He thought a moment, and then frowned. “Yesterday? I think.”
Harry sighed and stood, tugging his friend’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go get
some food.”
Ron shook his head again. “No, I’m fine. I’m not hungry.” He set his hand back
down, brushing Hermione’s hair from her temples. “I’ll eat later.”
“You need to eat something, Ron. Hermione’ll be steamed if she comes back to
find you’ve fainted dead away from hunger.”
Ron turned to glare at him over his shoulder, but Harry seemed immune to the
look. His friend gave him a small smile and tilted his head toward the door to
the infirmary.
“Come on. What if I find someone to sit with Hermione? You know Ginny would, in
a heartbeat. Likely Neville would too.”
Ron sighed. He knew Harry wouldn’t leave him be, and frankly, now that Harry
brought it up, he might just be a little hungry. He could eat something small
and hopefully be back before she woke. He wouldn’t be gone long.
Not to mention that Harry had been captured and tortured by the Big Bad Evil
for months and had only just returned. He really ought to be spending time with
his friend, Ron thought with a stab of guilt.
“Ginny or Neville,” he agreed finally. It gave him some more time, unless
either of them were waiting just outside the door. “If you can find them.”
Harry’s mouth turned up at the corner, a pleased curve, and he lifted his eyes
to gaze blankly over Ron’s left shoulder. A strange moment passed, where Ron
could almost feel something, a stirring in the air, a gentle buzz like
electricity brushing against his face, and then Harry nodded and looked back
down at him. “Ginny is on her way and she says Neville will join her once he’s
through with Remus.”
Ron’s mouth dropped open. “How on earth… Harry, what was that?”
“I’ve been learning Legilimency for the past two years, Ron, and I’ve got the
hang of it now.”
“But you… you can just…” Ron furrowed his brows. Legilimency wasn’t supposed to
work that way, was it? Ron fumbled for words for a moment, and then something
firm in his mind clicked into place and he stared at his friend, all other
thoughts dropping away. “Harry, if you can do that… to anyone, anywhere…”
They both glanced down at Hermione, stretched out across the infirmary bed.
“Do you think – ?”
“Maybe,” Harry said at nearly the same moment, answering the question he didn’t
need Ron to ask.
Outside, the wind howled as the storm grew overhead.
===============================================================================
Snape waited until the boy was alone. The Weasley girl, Ginny, was somehow
immune to his intimidation techniques as of late, and the werewolf had never
been awed by it, having seen him at some of his lowest and most defenceless. He
was, however, good at waiting out his prey, when the situation called for it.
Ginny left the professor’s lounge, and he hung back in the shadows until she
had passed him by. Her expression was pinched and the very air about her was
turbulent. There had been no raised voices from within the room, but something
or someone had certainly earned her disapproval and they were no doubt
regretting every choice they might have ever deigned to make in their time upon
this earth.
She was followed shortly thereafter by the werewolf and Longbottom, who paused
in the hallway and traded farewells and reminders of an upcoming encounter of
their Aren’t-We-So-Secretive gathering. Neither of these three were professors
and he hoped none had encroached upon his imported teas. It was bad enough when
Sprout helped herself to his Da Hong Pao without so much as a nod to the cost,
but these three had not earned the right to so much as view his collection. It
was there to provoke envy upon the informed, not to be heedlessly sampled by
mere students.
The werewolf, as he had hoped, turned and left in the opposite direction than
the one Ginny had taken. Longbottom stood still for a moment and watched as the
man walked away, and then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed a hand over his
face. He shook his head, turned, and followed after Ginny, walking past Snape
completely unawares.
Perfect.
It took little effort to trail after the boy and make only enough noise to
unnerve him – a muted foot step, the whispered swish of his robe against his
trousers, a breath slightly louder than the quiet. The boy's shoulders rose,
his arms tensed, his weight shifted lower, his hand sought and tightened on his
pocketed wand. Snape's lips curled upward. Such return for so little effort.
Longbottom rounded a corner and Snape listened as the footsteps hesitated and
then moved away from him before he rounded the corner himself.
He nearly collided with the boy, who waited around the turn, his wand at the
ready. In the distance, the boy's shoes continued on their independent path
down the corridor.
“Oh!” The boy immediately drew back and flattened himself against the stone
wall, the whites of his eyes shining in the dim light. The grip on his wand did
not loosen, nor did his hand waver, Snape noticed, but his face still paled to
the ashen grey an early morning potions test could prompt.
Snape sneered, “Mister Longbottom, do you greet all professors in such a
manner, or should I consider myself particularly noteworthy?
The wand dipped but did not drop completely, and the boy’s eyes were washed
with a fierce rancor, fire drawn up from some hidden place.
“You s-snuck up on me while Death Eaters and Merlin knows what else might be
around every t-turn and, and…” He drew in a sharp breath and stuttered quiet as
he took in his audience, his hand dropping down to his side.
“There are Death Eaters around every turn, Mr. Longbottom, or have you
forgotten what I am?”
The boy lifted his gaze to look him in the eye. “I will never forget what you
are,” he told Snape after a moment of silence.
Whatever words he might have had on his tongue shrivelled and died, and he
swallowed them with distaste. He felt his lips pull tight, but he refrained
from the impulse to take a hundred points from Gryffindor. It would weaken his
position in this situation, and besides which, it was, unfortunately, summer.
Any impact would be greatly lessened as a result.
“Mr. Longbottom, I was not sneaking up on you and I suggest that if you thought
otherwise, your paranoia may be getting the better of you. I only wished to
speak with you.”
“My paranoia,” the boy muttered, but stowed his wand and crossed his arms over
his chest. Defensive position, good.
“Well, professor?” Longbottom said after only a few seconds of silence. “I am
on my way somewhere. The infirmary. Harry asked me to.”
“Harry Potter is precisely why I have sought you out, Mr. Longbottom.” Snape
drew himself up taller and took a step closer. It was less effective when the
children grew up and became near to his own height, but he still had a few
inches on Longbottom. The boy flinched back against the wall, but did not break
eye contact.
“You are a member of the same group as Draco and the werewolf, are you not?
Albus’ secret little group. Tell me everything.”
“Excuse me?”
“You need not play dumb, Longbottom. I am already well aware of your mental
limitations.” The boy scowled at that. “Albus Dumbledore recruited you into his
Inner Order, did he not?”
Longbottom shifted on his feet, “W-why would you think that?”
Snape rolled his eyes. “You are not as circumspect as you think you are. Only
moments ago, I overheard you confirm the time of the next meeting with Lupin,
whom I know to be in this group.”
“Maybe it’s an entirely different meeting.”
“I am not an idiot, Longbottom. Do not speak to me as if I were. You are in
this group. Lupin and Draco Malfoy are in this group. I have yet to determine
the others, but I will, in time.” Snape shifted his weight and loomed a little
closer to the boy. “The Inner Order has intentions that involve Harry Potter. I
want to know what these are.”
A stillness overtook the boy, as though he had suffered a momentary
petrification, and he said, in a new tone, “You’re trying to protect him.”
“That should hardly be new information, but yes, Mr. Longbottom, I certainly am
trying to protect him, although I have done a shoddy job of it to this point. I
have now a rather vested interest in Mr. Potter’s health and safety; thus, I
need to know to what convoluted notion the Headmaster has most recently
subscribed and ideally, how to circumvent it.”
“You don’t trust the Headmaster?” The boy tilted his head.
“Mr. Longbottom, I wouldn’t trust the Headmaster to extinguish a fire in his
own beard, much less anything less dear to his actual person, if he felt it
might satisfy some perceived grander purpose.”
Longbottom slid away from the wall, stepping firmly into Snape’s space. The boy
suddenly seemed to take up twice the space he had only moments ago, and Snape
had to fight the urge to take a step back.
“You’re also a member of the Inner Order. If you want to know the members and
the mandate, you can join anytime.”
“I have no desire to join a group before I am fully versed in its business. Not
again.”
The boy rubbed at his forehead. “Neither do I.” He let out a heavy sigh and
glanced around himself. “Okay, but not here, not in the hallway.”
Snape motioned toward an empty classroom and cast Muffliato over the two of
them after closing the door.
“There,” he said and fixed his eyes on the boy. “Now tell me everything.”
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Harry moved closer to the bed and set his hand down against Hermione’s arm. He
didn’t need Ron to know that it was really only Ginny he could manage to
contact nonverbally over a distance for whatever reason, unless the morning’s
interlude with Snape in the washroom counted, although that hadn’t precisely
been communication, and it certainly hadn’t been from a long distance.
At that thought, though, he wondered if he might actually be able to get Snape
off from across the castle. Something to consider. Although Snape might not
exactly approve, depending on where he was at the time. Or who he was with. He
wondered if he might get Snape to agree to an experiment.
Suppressing a smile, he turned his focus back to the infirmary. Hermione lay
still on the bed, cold to the touch. He closed his eyes as he thought of his
friend, as he thought of the feel of her magic – knowledge and courage with an
underlying scent of lilacs. She wasn’t near the body on the bed, that was clear
immediately. The body was disturbingly empty. He cast his magic farther and
farther, searching for the elusive feel of her magic, until he left Hogwarts
completely, and, in fact, lost track of where he might be at all. It felt as if
his body was but a memory, loosely tied to him by a spiderweb-thin filament
that trailed behind him as though he were a kite. He had to be very careful. He
could easily lose himself.
At the very moment when he knew he had gone too far and that he must turn back,
he broke through a barrier of some kind, a barrier between… worlds, maybe, he
wasn’t certain. It felt like passing through thick cobwebs, and on the other
side, everything there was insubstantial, shifting and groundless. It felt like
walking on the lake floor had, dangerous and unpredictable. He couldn’t stay
there. This was not a place he was meant to be.
As he turned back, he thought he heard a voice, faintly saying his name, but
the barrier slid closed behind him. The cord tying him to his body felt as
though it were only barely tethering him to his world, and so, he left the
strange barrier behind him and returned to his body. Although he hadn’t been
gone long, the strangeness of a physical form was nauseating, heavy and
encumbering, and he found himself vomiting nearly on Ron’s feet.
“I couldn’t find her,” he gasped.
Ron shuffled backward, away from the mess on the floor, and sat heavily on the
edge of Hermione’s bed. “You tried your best.”
He nodded and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Despite the rancid
taste on his tongue, he felt suddenly ravenous in a way he hadn’t been in a
long time, not since the Dursleys and Dudley’s attempted diet. He cast a quick
tooth cleaning spell at his mouth and another cleaning spell at the floor, and
then said, “Come on, Ron. Lunch.”
“But Ginny…”
“Is here,” Harry finished as Ginny pushed into the infirmary and came straight
toward them.
She stopped by their side and crossed her arms over her chest in a stubborn way
that made Ron think unnervingly of his mother. “Finally getting him to go eat?
About time. Don’t worry, Ron. I’ll keep a close eye on her.”
“Thank you.” He replied and allowed Harry to pull him from the room. “You can
really just… just find someone and talk to them? With your mind? It’s
possible?”
Harry smiled at him as the doors closed behind them, and he continued pulling
his friend toward the Great Hall. “Welcome to the wonderful world of wizardry,
Ron. Let me introduce you to robes and wands and something called magic.”
“Bugger off,” Ron pushed at him and pulled his arm free. “You are snarky now.
Little mini-Snape.”
Harry grinned. “Ah, but I thought you and he were chums now.”
Ron pulled a twisted face. “Me and him? Not likely. Now, you and him…” Ron’s
lips turned up. “You’re rather close, now aren’t you?
“Rather,” Harry replied with a side glance.
“I’d say it’s a bit more than rather at this point.”
“You can’t make me blush, Ron.”
“And why not?”
Harry just shook his head and averted his eyes. “I don’t blush anymore.”
Ron stared at him a moment and then lowered his eyes to the floor. “Oh.”
Harry jostled his side and pulled his elbow, leading him down the wide
staircase. “But Severus, now, he blushes.”
“Really?”
Harry pushed open the giant doors to the Great Hall and winked. “Oh yes. It’s
quite fun, actually.”
“I bet. Uh,” Ron flicked his eyes at his friend. “No details though, right,
mate? I don’t want to end up picturing… ugh, there it is. Mental picture.” He
shuddered. “Now that is something I’d like to forget.”
“What?” Harry snickered. “What did you picture?”
“Oh no. I’m not saying. I don’t even want to think about it. Oh, bloody hell,
there it is again. Harry, for the love of Merlin, I do not want to be picturing
Snape like that. Had to see enough of him while we were in Wales, don’t want to
see more, thank you.” He shuddered again and sat down hard at the Gryffindor
table. Immediately, a plate of sandwiches appeared before him and he grabbed
one and took a large bite.
Harry sat next to him and ignored the pop of other foods appearing before them
as he reached for his own sandwich, toying with the crust. “While you were in
Wales?”
“Mmph,” Ron agreed, mouth full. He reached for a glass of pumpkin juice and
downed it before speaking. “Yeah, mate. While we were looking for you.”
“You looked for me?”
“In Wales, yeah. Didn’t find much, not really.” He collected a handful of
cookies from a plate near his elbow and ate one while he continued, “There was
a house near Aberystwyth that was a bit suspicious, or used to be, since it was
one of the houses that You-Know-Who bought back twenty-five years ago, but it
was empty for a good long while, since the last time. Bit suspicious for us
‘cause it’d been active lately, but the locals expect it was bought by someone
else. It was all cleaned up and made pretty, gardens and the like. Not the kind
of place you expect Death Eaters to be roosting in.” He grabbed for a second
sandwich corner while he chewed on yet another cookie.
Harry paused as he picked at his sandwich, thinking of the man he had come to
know. The feel of him, the smell of him, the sound of him. The feel of the
breeze from the open windows. The sounds of the birds. Harry shivered sharply
and pulled his robe closer about him. Voldemort, Tom, had been different than
the last Harry had seen of him, the skeletal being, barely flesh and barely
living at all. That new man had been alive and young, easy to tell in the sound
of his voice, the beat of his heart and the touch of – But had he become so
alive as to transform the world about him? Had he changed so drastically as to
bring his environment to life as well?
Possible, Harry thought to himself. Very possible.
“Would you be able to find that house again?”
“Hmm?” Ron licked a pumpkin moustache from the dusting of ginger stubble over
his upper lip and looked over at his friend. “The house? Yeah, might be able
to. Probably. Why? Want to go throw rocks at it?”
Or burn it down to the ground, Harry thought and then felt a sudden sharp stab
of guilt over the impulse. A voice in his mind, his own voice, accused,
Traitor. He wrapped his arms around himself again and shivered, and he felt a
dangerous and insistent impulse to kneel and beg for forgiveness.
“The house, it might be where I was.” His voice sounded dry and alien, even to
his own ears.
“Eh?” Ron turned to stare at him. “Really? How do you know?”
“I don’t know, not for sure. It’s a feeling I have, though. A strong feeling,”
Harry shivered again, violently, enough for Ron to take notice. He felt the
cold stone under his knees, the warm air from windows above him, the chain
slithering down his spine. He sat up sharply and pushed his hair back from his
face. He pushed the impression down, back into the dark box, and he shoved the
box further into the shadowed recesses of his mind.
“Harry, mate, are you – ”
He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine.”
Ron hesitated and then took another slow bite of his sandwich, chewing it
thoughtfully. “So…” he asked, changing the subject to one he was equally
curious about. “You and Dumbledore?”
“Oh, yes,” Harry made a face and reached for a cookie of his own. Gingersnaps,
he noted as he bit into it and his mouth burned slightly. “I suppose everyone
wants to know about that.”
“I haven’t asked you until now.”
Harry smiled a quick acknowledgement and looked down again. “He… I don’t trust
him anymore, Ron. He’s… it’s complicated, and… You still trust him, don’t you?
And you should, I think, maybe. I can’t. He… his involvement with me, it’s too
close to… I just…” He sighed at last and let all his half-formed words fade.
“It’s complicated.”
“…Alright.”
Harry smiled bitterly, twisting his lips, and he nodded down to the food on the
table. “Just eat, Ron.”
“Are you okay? Really?”
Harry looked at him and shrugged. He scratched his thumb nail against a knot in
the wooden table. “Probably not? But eventually, right? Time heals all wounds,
and all that.”
But Ron clearly didn’t believe him, not for a second. He ate another cookie,
chewed it for a moment, and then delved into another subject change. “What’s
the Snapers like in bed?”
Harry laughed sharply and looked at him with sparkling eyes. “I thought you
didn’t want to know.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t want details, but… still.”
“He’s… uh, he’s intense. I don’t know how to explain it to you in a way that
isn’t going to make you jab a fork in your ear.” His lips upturned at the roll
of Ron’s eyes, and he continued carefully. “The way he is when he’s making a
potion, you know, the way he focuses on what he’s doing and doesn’t pay
attention to anything else, how dedicated he is to it… That’s how he is.”
Ron lifted an eyebrow. “Well, congrats, mate. Sounds like a winner. Who knew.”
“Yes.”
“But?” Ron watched his friend’s expression.
“But what?” Harry returned and kept his eyes downcast.
“There’s something else. Something not so perfect.”
Harry hesitated and glanced around the nearly empty room once before frowning
and shaking his head. “He… The way he looks at me sometimes. It’s as if he
doesn’t completely trust me. It’s like he’s seeing… someone else.”
“Someone else?” Ron tipped his head. “Who else would he be seeing?”
Shrugging, Harry reached for another cookie and turned it over between his
fingers. Sugar spun from the cookie, landing in a light cloud across the
tabletop. Harry brushed it away and set the cookie down. “I don’t know. Someone
he doesn’t trust. Almost like… someone he’s afraid of.”
“Someone like him,” Ron said and Harry didn’t need further clarification.
“Maybe. I don’t… Sometimes when I look in the mirror – ” Harry broke off and
shook his head. “Sometimes I think I see what he sees.”
“Harry,” Ron began and sat forward, leaning toward his friend. “You aren’t
Voldemort.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked twice before saying slowly, “Yes… I
know.”
“No. No, listen to me. Even with that scar, and all your blood in his veins and
his in yours, and with the Parseltongue and everything else you have in common,
you’re still not him. You’ll never be him. You’re Harry Potter.” Ron fixed his
eyes on his friend and stared at him as if his eyes could bore the words into
Harry’s skull.
“I know who I am, Ron,” Harry shot back as he sent his friend a incredulous
look, but Ron shook his head again.
“No, I mean…” Ron trailed off and sighed. “I mean, you love Snape. You love who
he is, even if that’s, you know, a bit shirty. Voldemort didn’t love him. Might
have told him so, might have even convinced him of it, but it wasn’t real. He’s
not got it in him. And he doesn’t love you, Harry.”
Harry made a small sound, but Ron pushed forward, the words tumbling from his
mouth in something like desperation.
“He doesn’t have it in him to love anyone back. He just takes from people until
they’re all used up.” Ron shook his head. “He might have convinced you
otherwise, he might have convinced you of all kinds of things, but you could
never be him. You love people. You really love people. You’re everything he
isn’t. Don’t doubt that.”
Harry stared down at his hands and swallowed around a heavy, choking feeling
lodged in his throat. “Thank you,” he said quietly and Ron reached over and put
his hand over Harry’s wrist, gripping once before moving away.
“S’what friends are for.” Harry glanced up to see his friend pick another
triangle of sandwich and take a decisive bite. “Remember, told you once before.
You can tell me anything. Anything at all. Okay?”
Harry looked down at his hands again. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
===============================================================================
Ginny tried not to look at Hermione’s body. It was unsettling, especially when
she could see so clearly how empty it was. The slow inhales and exhales, the
faint flicker of pulse – it was disturbing. She couldn’t say a word of that to
her brother, of course. He was so determined to believe the best and she could
understand that. As long as Hermione’s heart kept beating, as long as she
breathed, it was hard to think of Hermione as gone, as dead. Ginny didn’t have
anyone who meant as much to her as Hermione did to Ron, but she could imagine
it. She had friends, after all. She had family. She could understand
desperately clinging to hope.
She sat on a wooden chair with her back propped against the wall, and read her
history of magic textbook. If you read between the lines, it was really rather
interesting, she found, but that was another thing she couldn’t say to Ron.
He’d think she’d gone mad.
“Hi,” came a hesitant voice and she looked up.
Neville stood at the foot of the bed, with a book bound in green leather
beneath his arm. His eyes darted back and forth between Ginny and Hermione.
“S-sorry,” he stuttered and flushed as she sat up. “I got h-held up by Snape on
my way to get my book.”
Ginny shook her head in exasperation and said, “Neville, I have to hand it to
you, you’re good, but you know I can see straight through it, right?”
He blinked and then, in the span of time between one second to the other,
something in his face shifted. He stood straighter, held his head higher, and
his eyes lost their uncertainty and gained something that looked remarkably
like confidence.
He shrugged. “It’s a habit,” he answered, and even his voice was stronger,
deeper.
Ginny felt something deep within herself awaken and she swallowed thickly. It
was strange to remember that she had gone to the Yule Ball with Neville, years
ago. It felt like it had perhaps been a lifetime ago, rather than only two. She
hadn’t been as strong then, hadn’t been able to see through his masquerade to
what lay beneath. She had been on a date with shy, clumsy Neville, not… whoever
this was. And suddenly, whoever he really was, was almost… hot.
She flushed a little. Neville was hot. That required some consideration, she
realised and then immediately chided herself. Urgent flutters still beat in her
stomach whenever she thought of how she had stood in Draco’s bedroom, had
touched his chest and had met his eyes with her own. There was something there,
something she wanted to pursue, if he’d let her, but, of course, Neville was
suppressing those exact same – Well, he didn’t know that part yet, wasn’t
letting himself consider it yet, but certainly, she wasn’t the only one with a
secret interest in the bad boys. Precisely how tangled did she want to get that
year?
“Have a seat,” she nodded to the second chair by Hermione’s bed, and he sank
down into it with a sigh.
“I’d been planting all morning,” he replied to her unspoken question. “I’ve
managed to twist something in my back.”
“I’m sure Madam Pomfrey has something around here for that.”
“Oh, no doubt,” he nodded and set his book down on his knee. “But it hurts for
a good reason. I like it. It means I accomplished something today.”
Ginny tilted her head, wondering at the fluid change in him. “What are you
reading?”
Neville glanced down at the book and, to her surprise, he coloured a little,
pink spreading across his cheeks. “It’s, uh, it’s a potions book, actually.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “A what?”
He flushed a little more and then tipped the book to show her the spine, where
gold letters spelled out the title. “Herb tinctures and infusions,” he
explained. “It’s… well, it’s a combination of herbology and potions, and… I’m
not actually that bad at potions anymore.” He said the last with an apologetic
tone of voice.
Ginny grinned. “Really.”
“I hate Snape. I mean, I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s… you know, he’s okay and
all. He’s tried his best to redeem himself, I suppose. But, Merlin, I don’t
like him.” Neville shuddered. “I hate potions the way he teaches it. It sucks
all the fun out of it. I don’t actually mind it when it’s about brewing herbs
and useful things like that. But…” he shrugged again. “I’m supposed to be
absolutely shit at pretty much everything. So…”
“How long has this been going on?”
His mouth twitched. “A few years. The Headmaster came to me in the summer
before third year, told me he had a plan and he needed my help.” He shook his
head. “My help. All my life, to that point, I’d been… Well, I’d been a danger
to myself and everyone around me. When I was young, people would tell my Gran
that it might have been better if I’d been born a squib.” He turned the book
over in his hands. “And then, over the summer between second and third year, I
grew up a little. Late bloomer, I guess. And then Dumbledore came to visit me
and said he needed my help.”
Neville shook his head again and ran his hand over the spine of the book. He
set it down in his lap. “And now, I’m still supposed to be that same Neville,
even if I’m not anymore.”
“Did you know what the Headmaster intended you to do? What he was going to do
to Harry? Because I thought Harry was your friend, Neville.”
“He is my friend! And no! Of course I had no idea! I never would have – ” He
sighed and hung his head. “Dumbledore told me I was joining a group that would
help take down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He had me do… things. Missions. It
wasn’t long before I knew I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore, but I
couldn’t leave. He implied that, that if I did, if I said anything, he wouldn’t
be able to protect me from the aurors. I… I don’t know if that was the truth or
a threat, but it was enough.”
He shook his head and looked up at her. “I didn’t know anything about what he
had planned for Harry. Neither did Draco or Hagrid. I’m not sure about Lupin or
Moody. Dumbledore told us there was a prophecy that would be instrumental in
taking down You-Know-Who, and that the prophecy called us to help.”
“Whose prophecy is it? Was it Trelawney again?”
He shook his head again. “No, I don’t think so. He never told us, only that it
was a trusted source. It was earlier this year when he finally told us what the
prophecy was and what he thought it meant. Hagrid broke the table. This was
after Harry had… after he had, um… you know,” Neville flushed. “After he had…
in the dungeons, you know?”
Ginny nodded.
“Right, well, it was after that. We knew it was happening, Draco told us, and
Dumbledore told us he would take care of it, but…”
“I think we both know how much that’s worth.”
“Exactly,” Neville sighed. “He said it was all part of the plan. What plan, I
don’t know. He has never told us what the plan is. He gives us missions or
roles, but information? Not overly.” He sat back in his seat and opened the
book in his lap, but his gaze was turned inward. “I don’t know what to do,
Ginny. I don’t want to go to Azkaban or for my Gran to be in danger.”
She leaned over and set her hand down on his arm. An image flashed before her
eyes, vibrant and tangible – in the Shrieking Shack with the smell of smoke and
electricity all around, herself in a tight embrace with Neville, another warm
hand on her shoulder – and then she shook it off. She squeezed his arm and
said, “We’ll figure it out.”
===============================================================================
Hermione faltered a moment as she felt a tickle behind her neck. “Are we alone
here?” She questioned as she turned to scan the surroundings behind her.
Sirius turned back and tipped his head in thought. He glanced around and
finally shrugged. “Donno. Maybe. Maybe not. You’re the first person I’ve seen,
but… We’re lost. Other people must be lost too, right?”
She stared back at the shifting landscape. “I thought I heard…” She shrugged.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think we’re alone here at all.”
“Probably not. Best not to try to find them, though, right? Who knows who they
are? Could be lost Death Eaters or lost man-eating tigers. Could be anything.”
His warning fell on deaf ears. The hair on her neck stood up. Someone was
nearby. Someone was looking for… Looking for someone, anyhow. She turned in a
circle and stared into an area where the mist swirled pink and yellow, like a
blossoming bruise. As she stared into it and as goosebumps rose across her
skin, two dark spots emerged, coalescing into human shapes. Behind her, Sirius
uttered a low swear, and he tugged on her sleeve, but she shook him off. She
knew these two. Maybe.
The dark shapes came closer, like lost shadows looking for solid ground, and
just before they were too close – dark, faceless shadows, so close – just then,
she knew them. The darkness fell off them like cast-off shrouds, and they
blinked at her.
“Do we know you?”
Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, and Hermione laughed and shook her head. “No,
no, you don’t. But I know your son.”
Chapter End Notes
     I'm back to work at my full-time job after some time off from it,
     which is why things have been a bit slower, but not to worry! I love
     writing, so this story will still be getting as much of my attention
     as I can manage to give it. :)
     Thanks again for all your kudos and comments, and hello to anyone
     new! I hope you're enjoying things so far. You are all lovely. <3
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Draco fed the owl a treat absentmindedly the following morning as he glanced
over the short linen-coloured letter he’d received, and the dark brown hawk owl
nipped his finger sharply and left in a swirl of feathers, disappearing out the
partially ajar window into the deepening evening. The letter had been tied to
the owl with a short length of black ribbon, and Draco slid the ribbon between
his thumb and forefinger as he considered his next move.
The war was called.
He was glad he had managed to avoid receiving the Black Mark, claiming he could
never manage to hide something so blatant from the all-seeing eyes of
Dumbledore, and his father, the trusting, dangerous fool had agreed. If he had
received it, it would now be blazing dark enough and hot enough to singe the
fabric of his shirt, and it would certainly not be anything he could hope to
hide either from others or from himself. He wondered how Professor Snape was
coping with the call. He wondered if Harry could feel it. He was frankly
surprised the world couldn’t feel it, though, if asked in all honesty, he would
have to admit that he couldn’t feel the change himself. Had his father not seen
fit to send him that small note, he might never have known.
He contemplated the ribbon again. Thick, smooth, cool against his skin. He wove
it between his fingers, across his palm, around his wrist, and he shivered once
and only once before he held it over the single beeswax candle burning on his
desk. He dropped it as it ignited in black, spiderweb flames that tracked over
the surface of his desk, igniting the letter in its path, leaving the wood
completely unmarked.
Draco sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Trusting,
dangerous fool. Lucius Malfoy trusted no one save his son and that had always
worked to Draco’s advantage, but the ribbon… Perhaps he had only wanted to
guard the contents of the note from eyes other than his, but his father had
never bothered with such precautions before. He had always trusted Draco to
destroy any and all evidence, and Draco had always done so, committing the
information to memory rather than keeping it on parchment. Lucius trusted few.
Draco, playing both sides, trusted fewer. He did not trust his father, but he
couldn’t quite believe that the man had sent him a cursed ribbon, one cursed
with Circe-knew-what. Cursed ribbons were dangerous: they choked, they bound,
they tightened into irreversible knots. They killed. His father would never try
to kill him.
So who would? Who doubted him? Who was close enough to his father to plant a
cursed ribbon and escape notice?
He placed the questions on the edge of his mind and brushed ash from his hands
as he stood and left his bedroom, descending the few steps to the Slytherin
common room. Crabbe and Goyle sat on the floor by the large fire, playing
exploding snap, talking, smiling, worry-free, and for a moment, Draco hung back
and watched them. They were far too easy to manipulate, but far too loyal to be
disregarded. These two, he almost trusted, simply because they would never turn
against him. They followed him with the sweet simplicity of a pet’s mind, and
perhaps it was wrong to have taken advantage of it, but if he hadn’t, someone
else would have, and someone else would have been quite a bit more dangerous
than he was. Turned by loyalty to someone like his father, for instance, Crabbe
and Goyle would have teeth far sharper.
It was impossible to believe they could be dangerous, watching them playing
cards, laughing at each other’s blunders and jokes. Draco took a breath,
released it slowly, and then continued down the stairs.
“Come along then.”
The two young men tossed down their cards and scrabbled to their feet. “What
are we doing today?” Goyle asked, tilting his head eagerly. “We’ve been right
bored.”
Draco spared a narrow smile. “I would imagine. I have letters to send off.”
“To the owlry, then?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Where else, you daft bastard? To the kitchens?
Honestly.”
Goyle elbowed Crabbe mockingly, and Draco ignored them, walking to the table
where lay spare quills and rolls of parchment. He capped and pocketed a small
pot of ink, one emerald pheasant quill, and two rolls of parchment, and
narrowed his eyes at the two young men. “Well? Are you waiting for an engraved
invitation?” He spun on his heels and out through the door, into the dim halls
of the dungeons, and he heard the scampering steps of his followers behind him.
“Can we go to the Great Hall afterwards? I’m half starved.”
Draco sighed and kept walking.
They scaled the steps to the owlry and Draco left the two lounging back against
the entrance, in one sense to have them keep watch for others, but in another
to keep them out of sight and to let him write in peace and solitude.
He found an owl he’d grown rather fond of, a large, male great grey owl, who
had a silent and secretive temperament, much like his own. Its beak was sharp
enough to pass among Voldemort’s followers, but its mind was sharp enough to
think for itself. It cried out in greeting as he scaled the ladders and it
sailed down from its roost to perch by him, nipping his sleeve affectionately.
“Hello, friend,” Draco passed it a small bit of cracker, which it crunched
gratefully. “I have something important for you today.”
The owl rattled out a low noise, barely audible, and Draco smiled, petting it
gently. “Give me a moment, and you can be off.”
He retrieved the supplies from his pocket and bent to the first letter,
sketching it quickly and efficiently before starting on the second. The second,
he paused over, and it was only when the owl hooted a soft prompt that he
continued. He glanced over it, feeling uncertain about the entire thing, and he
considered beginning again. He scanned over the note, and then again, and
sighed and rolled it neatly, just as he did the first. He tied the first with a
red ribbon and the second with green.
“This is important. Very important. My life and very soul rests on it. Do not
take this lightly,” he warned and the owl hooted indignantly and ruffled
itself, doubling in size. “Don’t start that. I’d rather survive the day and I
assume you would as well.
The owl settled itself, dipping its head meekly against Draco’s hand. He
scratched it lightly behind the ears, and then held up the note tied in green.
“This is for my father. And I suggest you don’t stay around after the delivery.
He does have a tendency to shoot the messenger.”
The owl ruffled itself again and nudged his hand. Draco smiled and scratched it
again, passing it yet another bit of cracker. He gave the owl one last treat
before he stepped back and nodded. “Off you go then.”
In a swirl of feathers, the owl leapt into the air, and with a low, almost
mournful sound, it disappeared out a tall window.
Draco turned his attention to the other owls and he cast a critical eye over
them. One, a fairly small creature, hopped closer to him and cocked its head to
the side as it sidled even closer.
“Yes, well, fine, if you’re eager for it.” The owl held out a tiny leg and
Draco tied the red ribboned note to it. “You haven’t far to go with this one.
Take it up to Headmaster Dumbledore, but be sure to catch him alone,
understand?”
The tiny owl hopped twice and bopped itself against his arm. Draco fed it a
small bit of cracker and shooed it off. It flew a tight circle around his head
before it took off out the window.
Draco made his way back down to his followers, and they broke off their
conversation, turning to look at him expectantly. Goyle looked at him and then
asked rebelliously and unexpectedly, “What’s happening?”
Draco eyed him. He didn’t care for the unexpected from these two, but the
question deserved answering nonetheless. They were involved, after all. “The
war has been called. Voldemort will strike.”
“Here?” Crabbe asked.
He nodded. “And soon. Very soon. We must prepare.”
Goyle glanced at Crabbe and then around himself, and finally, he looked at
Draco and asked, “Which side are we on?”
Draco startled, staring at him, but he didn’t have to answer. Crabbe nudged his
friend and replied, “Draco’s, of course.” He looked back at the pale-haired
young man. “Right?”
Draco nodded at the display of unexpected insight and loyalty. “Yes,” his voice
rasped in his throat and he cleared it. “Right.”
===============================================================================
Neville nodded to Lupin as he took his seat at the table and he glanced across
at Draco’s empty seat. It was not unusual for it to remain empty for the
meetings, especially if he was away from the castle, although Neville knew well
that Draco was not absent. He brushed his knuckles against his cheek and the
phantom of a fleeting touch.
Moody harrumphed as he fell into his seat and took a deep drink from his flask.
“Interminable meetings, these. Are we on again about Snape and his refusal to
join us? Don’t think we need him, really. Emotions are best kept far from
battle.”
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. “Severus Snape, as I have explained numerous
times, has his part to play in this, and that part is not insignificant. Do not
dismiss him.” He carded his fingers through his beard for a thoughtful moment.
“Harry’s success does not depend on his connection to us here in this circle,
although we all have our parts to play, certainly. It is his connection to
Voldemort that matters most of all, and the role Severus plays exists in tandem
with that connection. Severus’s story is not mine to tell, but suffice it to
say that it will only encourage Harry to deepen his connection to Voldemort –
which exists, quite strongly, from what I have seen.”
“Then Harry loves ‘im?” Hagrid asked in a quiet voice and Neville looked up at
him and met his sad gaze.
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “He may fight against it, but yes, the connection,
the bond, it exists. We shall yet see this prophecy realised. Our task now is
to keep the knowledge, and to protect and guide Harry until the time comes for
him to act.”
“Then Severus would be a useful member to sit with us, wouldn’t he?” Lupin
asked, sitting back in his chair until the wood creaked mournfully. “If Harry
doesn’t trust us any longer… He obviously trusts him.”
“Harry doesn’t trust us,” Hagrid murmured in a rumble like distant thunder.
“Harry does not trust me,” Dumbledore corrected. “He is perhaps less fond of
Remus at the moment, but that shall pass. The rest of you, if you manage to
keep secret your involvement, should be fine.”
Moody sniffed and took a short draught from his flask. “Little good that serves
me. I haven’t had more than five words from the boy. It is hardly my fault that
he trusted my impostor and was in turn betrayed.”
“You almost sound bitter, Moody,” Lupin smirked.
“Bitter? Ha! That’s rich. My saviour, he may be, but my friend, he is not. I
leave such business to the rest of you.”
Dumbledore held up his hand and stilled the voices in the room, and Draco
choose that moment to appear in the doorway. He eyed them with a slitted gaze
as he paused in the entrance, expertly drawing attention, before he continued
wordlessly into the room to take his place between Dumbledore and Neville.
“Thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore began until Draco nodded wordlessly
toward the doorway once again.
Neville glanced back at the doorway to find yet another shadow lurking in the
darkness. It lingered short of view for a moment before it moved into the
flickering candlelight and coalesced into the shape of Severus Snape, who gazed
at them for a silent moment. Dark hollows rested under his eyes, which he
lowered for a moment before he took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He
settled himself into the sole empty seat remaining, which put him between Moody
and Dumbledore. Neville narrowed his eyes at him.
Snape folded his hands into his lap and took a steadying his breath, before he
finally lifted his eyes and said, “I have come.”
“Why?” Lupin asked in an equally quiet voice, and Snape closed his eyes and
swallowed deep in his throat.
“Because I cannot protect him from what I do not know.”
“Harry won’t like this much, not much at all,” Hagrid said gruffly, shaking his
head.
Snape’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “No, he certainly will not.”
“He won’t like any of us much, not when this is over,” Neville said and folded
his own hands tightly beneath the table. “But I’d rather he live to hate me.
Harry has to survive this.”
‘Yes,” Snape replied and opened his eyes once more. He gazed across the table
at Neville, who carefully lowered his eyes. “That is why I have come. Harry
must live. I would give my life for that.”
Lupin nodded and seconded, “As would we all.” His amber eyes gazed across the
table at Snape, his expression considering.
“I thought that the point of this particular circle was to ensure the death of
Voldemort, not necessarily to ensure the survival of Harry.”
“It is,” Dumbledore answered, chin resting in his hands. “Our primary task is
to see to the end of Voldemort, once and for all, as per the prophecy. That is
unquestioned. Our secondary task, however, is to see to the health and
happiness of our Harry, which now includes you, Severus. That works quite
propitiously for you.”
Neville’s eyes slid sideways to meet Draco’s briefly. Health and happiness. Of
course.
“That is not my concern,” Snape replied. “I don’t care for my own survival,
Albus.”
“No,” Dumbledore nodded, watching him. “But Harry does, as does Voldemort, and
they are both my concerns. And that makes you, and has always made you, my
concern as well.”
Snape paused and lowered his eyes to his clenched hands. “Your concern for me,
your protection of me – that has been because of my connection with either Tom
Riddle or Harry Potter.” He did not phrase it as a question. His voice was very
tight.
The room was silent as Dumbledore gazed over the rims of his glasses and
nodded. “Yes.”
Snape’s lips turned up for a quick, bitter moment. “Very well.” He nodded and
lifted his eyes toward Dumbledore. “Very well. What do I need to know?”
===============================================================================
Ron sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed again, fingers twined between hers, hand
sweeping tendrils of hair from his forehead. Her breathing was even and calm.
She could be sleeping were it not for her temperature. Her eyes didn’t flicker
in dream, and she didn’t breathe a single breath deeper or shallower than any
other. She could be dead were it not for the simple fact that she breathed at
all.
He knew that he would eventually have to face the truth. Hermione was gone.
He wasn’t willing to let go yet.
It was too easy to say he loved her. It was too easy to say he needed her. They
were young, very young, and he knew it. Too young to commit themselves for
life. He had heard it before, and he had agreed. He loved Hermione, and he
liked her too. He liked being near her. He hated being apart. And he had known
that it was too soon to feel so strongly about her. He didn’t fool himself into
thinking that she felt the same. They had fun together, they liked each other,
and to a point, they understood each other. But did he think she loved him the
way he loved her? No, not hardly. He would marry her in a second, spend the
rest of his life with her, do his utmost to make her happy, but as much as that
was his dream, he was just as certain it wasn’t hers. She had always had far
bigger dreams than him.
He had come back to her, he would always come back to her, but she was gone.
She wouldn’t come back. He had to give up. He had to let go. He knew it. He
did.
Her hand twitched in his.
He froze, stiller than Hermione had been the past few days. His breath stopped
in his throat and he had to force the word from his mouth.
“Hermione?”
She was still again, still and calm, as if nothing had happened.
He sat back and her hand slipped from his. His spine tensed as fingers of
grasping uncertainty crawled up his back, and then something he couldn’t
possibly explain washed over him. It was a creeping, oily feeling, like cold,
wet leaves dragging against his skin, and he pushed himself back from the bed
and sent the chair crashing back against the floor.
He looked up at the window in time to see a bright flash of sickly green light
fill the sky and a half second later, he heard the explosion.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry the cliffhangers lately (except, no, I'm not at all sorry). And
     sorry for how short this chapter is! The next will be longer, I
     promise.
     And thank you for all your kudos and comments. Seriously, any comment
     is amazing to me. I especially love all your theories about what's
     going to happen! I cannot keep a secret to save my life, so it's
     extremely difficult not to confirm/deny the speculations. :D
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     Well. This took a little longer than I thought it would, but it's
     done. By Merlin's saggy pants, it's done. I've even got two more
     chapters mostly finished and off to my betas, so hopefully you all
     won't have to wait another 3 months for the next post. Fingers
     crossed. (Depression and writer's block are a piss-poor combination,
     by the way.)
     This chapter is [almost] exclusively Harry/Snape, as a reward for
     your patience and for sticking around through my impromptu hiatus. I
     hope you darling people like it!
     Happy New Year!
Snape’s bedroom had no windows, unlike Harry’s own room which had windows
spelled with the same sort of magic given to the ceiling in the Great Hall.
They showed a view of the sky, as if he were still in the tower, and in his
first months in Snape’s quarters, they had been a huge relief from the
isolating darkness and the strange tension between Snape and himself.
Now, though, Harry greatly prefered Snape’s bedroom. It was warm from the
fireplace, and the mattress was the most comfortable thing he’d ever
experienced. The sheets were soft and thick and the blankets were heavy and
warm. He’d never have guessed that Snape was such a hedonistic sleeper.
He remembered when he was twelve and he and the others from his dormitory had
stayed up far too late into the night. He and Ron had nearly been caught by
Snape as they snuck back up to the tower, under the cover of his cloak of
invisibility, and they had laughed about it and speculated if Snape ever
actually slept. Seamus had suggested that maybe Snape was a vampire, that he
slept in a coffin, while Dean said that he probably just turned into a bat and
slept hanging upside down from the ceiling in the potions room. Ron had bet
that Snape slept on a bed of rusty nails and that was why he was always so
cranky. Neville thought Snape probably never slept, that his meanness powered
him through the day.
When Harry was fourteen, he overheard two seventh year girls from Hufflepuff
speculating about Snape’s sexuality, which was so startling a thing that he had
stopped dead around the corner from them and listened with a terrified sort of
fascination. One of them, a girl with long black hair, had sworn that Snape
must be a “huge dom” because “just look at him”, and the other had giggled and
said that she’d let him do a thing or two to her with his wand.
It had been a few months later before he learned what a “huge dom” meant (he
had assumed it meant something to do with the size of his cock?), but the
entire conversation had stayed fixed in his mind ever since. Snape ordering
someone about was not out of character for him and Harry could easily imagine
it happening in the bedroom. He’d only had a vague sort of understanding about
what happened during sex, based on the few wizarding magazines Ron had borrowed
from his brothers, but there had been one magazine with an article about bdsm
with pictures of wizards with whips, witches in lace-up boots. It became a
recurring fantasy of his – detention in the potions room, Snape ordering him
about. The idea had grown as he had grown, but he had always kept the idea of
Snape as a huge dom stuck in his mind. He’d never considered anything else.
That idea had influenced their first month together, as Harry had assumed that
he would always be the one on his back, on his belly, bent over the table. It
wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy it, that it didn’t feel good, because it definitely
did, but he had spent months on his back and belly and sometimes he couldn’t
manage to push all the memories down far enough and they spilled out
everywhere, infecting everything with their poison.
For the first few days of his return, they had awoken entwined, their limbs
tangled and their bodies gripped with a hunger for one another. It had been
overwhelming and unbelievable and exhausting. But there was an edge to it as
sometimes Harry couldn’t manage to contain his crazy and a harmless touch to
his back or through his hair would remind him of things he tried to forget and
he would lash out at Snape. Sometimes his magic would swell up within him and
he’d startle to realise he had flung Snape against the wall, once suspending
him four feet above the floor, pinned to the wall as one might pin a butterfly.
Every time he would apologize frantically, ashamed and aghast at himself, and
Snape would reassure him that no, it was understandable, that it would get
better with time, that he wasn’t hurt.
And so it had been one morning.
Harry had woken up to find Snape spooned behind him, his hands stroking down
his side and over his chest and belly, and Harry realised he was rocking back
into the hard length of Snape’s cock which was pressed firmly against the
crease of his thigh. Snape pressed gentle kisses against the nape of his neck,
behind his ear. Harry was already gasping when he awoke, his own cock more than
half-hard and willing, but then Snape gripped his fingers over into the dip of
Harry’s pelvis, holding him still as he rocked forward, and suddenly, Snape’s
warm, wonderful bedroom dissolved around him and Harry was tangled, not in the
warm blankets, but in that thick robe on that hard, cold floor and someone he
couldn’t see was holding him steady, pushing his face down into the floor until
his mouth and nose were buried in fabric and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t
manage to fill his lungs.
He gasped around the sharpness in his chest, his lungs clenched tight, his
heart beating madly against his ribs, and he fought for freedom. He pushed and
kicked and bit down hard on a hand that tried to restrain him. His legs wheeled
against the ground and he fell backward onto the floor, off… Off the bed.
Snape’s bed. Snape’s room.
“Fuck,” he said and pushed his sweaty hair off his face as he sat up and peered
over the edge of the bed.
Snape cradled his right hand in his left. The blankets were a disaster and he
had a clear bruise forming on his jaw.
“Shit,” Harry said and crawled back up onto the bed. He reached out hesitantly
and didn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed when Snape didn’t flinch
from him. He had bit deeply into the crook of Snape’s thumb. It was bleeding
steadily, dripping down onto the sheets, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he
had broken bones. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”
Snape shook his head and gestured toward the bedside table. “If you can reach
my wand, I can fix this easily.”
Harry scrambled for the wand and handed it over. Snape took it with his left
hand, adjusting it into the unfamiliar grip, and cast episkey and ferula over
his right hand. The skin knit itself back together and the odd, painful slant
to his knuckles straightened. He flexed his hand several times and transferred
the wand from one hand to the other. He flicked the wand once, sending blue
sparks into air, and then he nodded.
“There, no harm done.”
“No harm – Jesus, Snape, would you please just get angry at me?” He reached out
to touch gentle fingers against the bruise forming on Snape’s jaw and Snape
closed his eyes and tilted his head, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Harry’s
hand. Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest as he dragged his thumb gently
across the swollen skin. “You should get angry at me. I hurt you.”
“It’s hardly the worst I’ve endured, and I know I was not the intended
recipient of your responses.” Snape opened his eyes and looked at him. “It’s
difficult to know what will prompt these memories. May I ask what elicited this
one?”
Harry pulled back and sank his head into his hands. “Oh, I think it’s pretty
obvious what prompted it.” His words were muffled against his hands. “I’m
crazy. I can’t even give you what you want without losing it.”
“What I want?” Snape repeated. “What is it exactly that you think I want?”
A humourless laugh escaped him and Harry pulled his hands away to wipe his nose
against his wrist. “What do you think?”
“I think I asked you a question.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Sex. Obviously.” He gestured between them, flinging his
hand back and forth. “Me. You want me.”
“Yes. I do.” Snape returned slowly and adjusted the blankets over himself. “But
not if the feeling is not returned.”
Harry rubbed his forehead and sighed. Behind him, a log popped on the fire and
they both flinched.
“That’s not… It is returned. I do, I do want you. But sometimes it’s… Sometimes
it’s hard to, to just… Sometimes it’s hard to – ” He took a deep breath and
forced it out, as if he could push the words out with the same momentum. “Fuck.
Sometimes it’s hard to do what… what happened before. To have you do what
happened to me before.”
“Penetrate you?”
Snape’s voice was quiet and cautious and Harry almost smiled down at his knees.
He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t figure out what was funny.
“Yeah, um. Yeah. That.”
“I thought you wanted that.”
Harry laughed now. He couldn’t help himself. “I did. I do, even, just… Not
today, I guess. And not… I mean, why is it always me? I know I’m – I’m broken
in, but…”
The blankets rustled as Snape slid closer toward him, although he kept a few
inches of free space between their knees.
“Harry, if you wanted to penetrate me, you needed only say. I’m…” Snape’s voice
slid to silence and Harry turned up his chin to meet his eyes, but Snape was
looking away, a pink flush staining his cheeks. “I, ah, I would prefer that,
actually.”
“Wait, what?”
Snape glanced at him and then quickly turned his eyes up toward the ceiling. He
took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly. The flush along his cheeks had
spread down his neck. Harry watched it as it spread down his chest and saw that
Snape’s cock was twitching upward from where it had hid beneath the sheets, and
Harry blinked and looked back up at him.
“You want me to fuck you.”
Snape shuddered.
“You like it. You like it a lot.”
“Yes.”
“You prefer it.”
Snape nodded, his eyes still closed firmly, his hands clenching in the sheets.
Harry felt a smile overtake his face, pulling at his lips, stretching his
cheeks, until he thought he might just glow from it. He reached out again and
grasped Snape’s forearm and gave it a small shake. Snape opened his eyes and
stared for a moment as Harry grinned at him.
“Brilliant.”
And so apparently talking was something they should do more often because now,
Harry was the one who got to be the huge dom in their relationship. And he was
amazed as how much of a turn-on it was to slick up his fingers and tease them
against Snape's rim and watch the man fuck himself back onto them. Harry could
do it for hours, had done it for hours once, a memorable night when he'd fucked
Snape in the bath and then taken him to bed and fingered him and rubbed off
against him until Snape had eventually gotten hard again. And then he'd climbed
up and fucked himself on Snape's cock until he'd come once again, until Snape
was liberally coated in his spunk, and then held onto the headboard as Snape
fucked up into him like house points were on the line.
They'd both slept well that night. No nightmares. A far better remedy than
Dreamless Sleep. Not that Harry intended to let Madam Pomfrey know that.
Sometimes, though, Harry would lash out with words and these moments were
impossibly worse. It was as if the words came from someone else, fed into him
as though he were a ventriloquist’s dummy, truly terrible words filled with
anger and hatred, accusing Snape of things Harry never considered during more
lucid moments.
One such night, they had lain their sweaty twist of bodies in a pleasant,
unhurried lassitude. It had rained the day before and Harry could smell it from
the stone, and the bed smelled of the two of them and of woodsmoke and of
herbs. Snape’s chest rose and fell beneath his head, his heartbeat loud and
fast. Snape’s hand carded gently through Harry’s hair, pushing a sweaty strand
away from his cheek, and he whispered something soft and, Harry thought,
implausible against his crown.
And Harry was suddenly furious at Snape, so angry it filled him until he could
taste the sharpness of it on his tongue. He wanted nothing more than to take
his clenched fists and quiet Snape’s traitorous mouth, so filled with lies and
promises he would never keep, the same lies and promises that Voldemort had
given to Harry, promises Harry was supposed to believe because he was young and
stupid and gullible. He didn’t, he didn’t use his fists, he held himself back,
but his mouth was filled with words that spilled out everywhere, pinging off
the stone walls like bullets.
“You and Voldemort have so much in common, don’t you?” He’d said and whatever
dark part of him spoke had rejoiced as Snape froze under him. “He told you that
too, didn’t he? He whispered it to you in the dark, didn’t he, like he meant
it? And you believed him, because you were an idiot, a child, a stupid, stupid
child, and you think I’m as stupid as you were?”
He wrenched himself out from Snape’s arms and the words were sharp as broken
glass against his tongue.
“You’re exactly the same as he is! Death Eaters hate. They don’t fucking love
anyone.”
He’d pushed off the bed and stormed out, casting a wordless accio at his
clothing, but not before seeing that Snape’s face had gone as pale as bone. He
went to the Quidditch pitch and found a broom and flew, higher than he should,
faster than he should, over the Forbidden Forest, farther than they were
allowed to fly, until his muscles screamed and his body sagged over the handle
of the broom. He returned to Hogwarts and flew up to the astronomy tower. He
dropped his broom and sunk down against a wall, where he spent an hour with his
face in his hands, as he realised that the anger he’d felt, the words he’d said
now felt alien to him. He couldn’t recognize himself in them to be so hurtful
and cruel to someone who… to someone who cared about him. He was a mess. He
ruined everything good.
A small, high-pitched chime sounded near him and he looked up in time to see a
small, green pixie disappear.
“Here you are,” Snape said softly and Harry flinched. He couldn’t bring himself
to look up and meet the man’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean it,” Harry whispered. “I didn’t – ”
“I know.”
Snape pulled him up into a tight embrace, folding him into the dark warmth of
his robes, and Harry clutched at him and whispered sharp pleas. Don’t go, don’t
leave me, please. Snape hushed him and told him it was all forgotten. They went
back down to the dungeons, to Snape’s cozy quarters and his still-warm bed, and
Snape held him as he cried until he eventually slipped into sleep. And it was
as if it was forgotten – Snape never brought it up, never seemed to hold it
against him – but Harry didn’t forget. Every word he said, every spell he
flung, it wedged between them until all that was left was a cold empty bit of
mattress they couldn’t cross.
And so it had gone - the cold space between them growing larger despite their
best efforts.
Harry’s dreams had been dark and fiery lately, real enough to shake him. That
night, he had stood in what might be a field, the scent of smoke and ash in the
air, and Voldemort stood near him and spoke words Harry could not remember,
although he could remember the feel of the man’s low voice flowing around him
like silk against his skin. Nagini slid between his ankles and bit at his
heels, and when he looked down he found that he was standing barefoot on black
and white marble tiles rather than the expected grass. The large room’s white
walls rose up before him. They were ablaze, flames licking toward the high
ceiling. Behind him, tall windows cracked noisily against the heat of the room,
although he could not feel it. He could taste fruit juices on his tongue, mixed
with the scent of ash and smoke.
He found he could no longer move, frozen still as though in a body-bind. There
were shouts behind him and thunderous roars from above, as though from great
beasts, perhaps dragons. Voldemort stood before him still, and his mouth moved
with speech, but Harry could no longer hear his words. Harry felt caught behind
an invisible wall where Voldemort and the fire could not touch him. The walls,
once white, then black with ash, were now a misty sort of blue and purple and
pink. Above him, the ceiling or sky was the same – a swirl of pale colours as
though he were in a great jar of water within which some artist had rinsed
their paint brushes. The ground beneath him became diaphanous and the air took
on a strong scent of ozone.
Voldemort, mouth still moving in silent words, was translucent now, his skin as
thin as tissue, his muscles and veins pale, his bones stark white. Harry could
see the hinges of his jaw move, could see the dark hollows behind the crystal
marbles of his eyes, could see the twisted mass of brain, gelatinous within the
sheerness of his skull.
He could feel the heat of the fire now at his back, although he still floated
within the swirl of colour. He could hear Severus behind him yelling a warning
of some kind, although the words were lost to him. His body no longer felt like
his own and he could not turn to see – his muscles ignored any thought of
motion. The flames touched him and he could smell his own flesh begin to burn.
The fire roared around Harry to Voldemort, who screamed soundlessly as the
flames twisted about his translucent body. As Harry watched, Voldemort’s skin
sizzled and sloughed from him in great, black chunks. His bones blackened and
snapped, and yet still, the jaw moved in silent screams. Harry’s hair was
burning now, his glasses melted and twisted on his face, dripping down along
his cheeks, his clothes were burning, his skin was bubbling, but he felt no
pain.
Voldemort’s body was now a twisted and charred thing, and Harry watched as it
twitched and squirmed, and an old and wrinkled hand emerged from within the
pile. It scrabbled at the ground as the thing within clawed its way to freedom.
Harry was now completely engulfed in flames, but he watched as Dumbledore
crawled, naked and wrinkled, from the corpse of Voldemort, his beard a
startling white against the blackness of the burned body. Dumbledore looked up
at him and opened his mouth.
Wake up.
He woke to find Snape, sleepless yet again, staring at him thoughtfully across
that short, cold span of empty bed.
“You left last night,” he said and Severus’s gaze shifted, leaving his face and
returning, gentling very slightly before he closed his eyes and turned, laying
back against the mattress.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“I had… disturbing dreams, yes. But it is not unusual for me to not sleep an
entire night through. I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you to hear that I often
spend nights wandering about the castle.”
Harry smiled, gazing up at the ceiling above them. “From the number of times
you caught me doing just the same thing, no. I wondered if you slept at all, or
if you did it just to catch me in the act.”
Severus’ mouth turned up at the edges, but he didn’t open his eyes. “There was
an element of that, I will admit, but it has been some time since I could trust
sleep.”
Harry rolled up to his side and he reached across the space between them to put
a hand on his arm, gripping. Severus’ smile soured into a self-deprecating
smirk, but he didn’t move away, as much as the tenseness of his body suggested
he wanted to.
“I gave him everything and I loved to do it. But sleep was the one time when he
had no control over me, when I could not give willingly, and so he took. It was
not long before even the nights which passed uninterrupted were not truly so.
If he did not take me physically, I dreamt it. I learned to require very little
sleep.”
“He isn’t here, Severus. He can’t hurt you,” Harry told him, but he couldn’t
manage to sound as convincing as he wanted. The dream still lingered, and he
could still feel Voldemort like oil in his blood. Severus grimaced and rolled
away from his touch, rolling up to his feet. Harry watched as the man slung his
robe around his body and disappeared wordlessly into the washroom.
Harry sighed and got to his own feet, dressing slowly, moving as though through
water. He felt drained and exhausted with being afraid. Every mirror he passed,
every reflective surface, he expected to see Voldemort staring back at him
through his own eyes. His dreams were becoming a problem, each one worse than
the last, each one more visceral and terrible. He had seen flashes of images
that could only be memories, but not his own. Images of himself kneeling and
chained, passively accepting dripping cubes of fruit from long, narrow fingers.
Images of frightened faces, dead bodies. And once, two nights ago, a long,
flickering memory of a young Severus Snape in a white sheeted bed, arms chained
to the bedposts, head thrown back, voice begging and hoarse, bloody gashes
striping his chest. Harry had woken up sharply to find Severus gone from the
bed, robe and shoes gone from their place by the door. He had stood in the
middle of the front room, arms wrapped about his torso, shaking and cold. It
was only when Dobby appeared and insisted on stoking the fire up to a dangerous
blaze to combat ‘the cold the master is getting’ that Harry managed to shake
off his feelings and go back to bed.
Harry finished dressing, and he turned his head as Snape returned wordlessly
from the washroom, passing him with a single, tentative glance before he left,
heading for his office. The glance meant that by noon, Snape would search Harry
out and apologize with yet another wordless glance, and Harry would smile and
touch him with his fingertips, and they would go on pretending as if nothing
had happened; pretending nothing had changed.
But that would be later.
He left Snape’s rooms and made his way up through the castle, heading toward
his distant and now foreign bedroom in the Gryffindor tower to gather clothing
for Ron, as his friend couldn’t seem to be bothered to dress himself anymore.
He emerged from the dungeons and stood at the base of the main stairs heading
upward into the castle, his exhausted body protesting at the thought of the
remaining distance to the tower. It felt ridiculous to walk up the hundreds of
worn, slippery stone steps when he had a convenient shortcut, and his hand
crawled thoughtlessly into the neck of his robes to touch the medallion that
still hung about his neck.
It was then, as his fingers met with the cool metal laying flat against his
breastbone, that he felt it. The medallion sparked hot against his fingertips
and the whole of the castle shuddered. He heard a loud, grating crash, almost
as he imagined an avalanche might sound, and then he felt a breathy laugh
against the nape of his neck. It raised all the hair on his neck and sent him
down to his knees. He released the medallion to brace himself and his hands
gripped into the fabric of his trousers, but the laughter was gone as quickly
as it had come. The medallion swung free in the air, and it was cool to the
touch once more as he tucked it back into his shirt. He breathed deeply as he
knelt on the stone ground and let his heartbeat calm, before he ventured a
glance up from the ground.
There stood Professor Trelawney on the step above him, looking dazed and
confused. Her glasses were askew, her hair stood on end, and the edges of her
robes were smoking slightly.
And she was most certainly a ghost.
“Oh dear,” she said and looked down at Harry, who stared up at her before
rising hesitantly to his feet. She held up a hand and stared at him through it.
“Oh my. I think… Harry, child, I think someone’s spell may have gone terribly
wrong.”
He tried to take a step toward her, but his knees buckled under him and he
tried in vain to grasp her outstretched hand but he fell straight through her,
landing jarringly against the banister of the stairs. Trelawney wafted around
slowly in a circle and peered at him, reaching up to fix her glasses to sit
properly on her nose. They promptly slid back crookedly.
“Professor,” he began and thought desperately for what might possibly be the
proper thing to say in this circumstance. Was there a ritual to accompany this
moment, a ceremony? After all, it was, he thought dazedly, her first deathday.
“Professor, do you remember what happened?”
“’Remember what happened’?” Trelawney repeated and drew herself up as if
affronted. “I don’t teach history.”
He rubbed his forehead and winced as his scar sparked fire behind his eyes. Did
the wards fail? Had Voldemort found a way to bypass them? Had a student done
this, someone loyal to the Death Eaters? The questions sent cold shivers of
panic down his spine.
“Professor. I think we ought to go speak with the Headmaster.”
Trelawney shook out her robes, frowning down at the ragged hem of them, and
then again tried to adjust her glasses. “Yes, perhaps we should,” she said and
blinked as her glasses tilted back into misplace.
It took very little time to reach the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, less for
Trelawney who drifted in and out of walls, skipping whole hallways entirely, as
if even when she had lived, solid stone had been optional rather than enforced.
She drifted back to him periodically, poking her head from a portrait or a
door, peering at him with bobble-eyes and a lion’s mane of electrocuted hair,
and when they finally reached the closed entrance to the Headmaster’s office,
she floated through wordlessly, leaving Harry to curse and rattle through a
dozen or two names of sweets until the gargoyle finally swung open for ‘jelly
babies’.
While Trelawney moved about as unrestricted as air, Harry felt quite the
opposite. He felt like a stone dropped in deep water, and he had to force each
next step into Dumbledore’s office. A part of him wanted to beg for
forgiveness, this man who had been his guardian, his guide, his friend since
the beginning, but enough people had seen Harry on his knees, and for once, he
wanted someone to apologize to him. His rage had dulled to a quiet simmer, and
he thought to himself, as he stepped forward through the doors and into the
warm, inviting, eclectic office, that he could do this. A lack of trust doesn’t
necessarily negate the possibility of conversation, Severus’ voice said in his
head, and he agreed and smiled politely as he greeted the Headmaster, who had
stood from his desk and crossed to a window to peer out at the billows of smoke
in the air.
“Harry,” he greeted quietly, far more subdued than Harry was used to seeing the
elderly man. He turned toward Harry, who was immediately struck by how old the
Headmaster looked. His skin was a chalky grey, his eyes pale. His smile, as he
curved it at Harry, was quiet. “Thank you for bringing Sybill to me.”
He nodded and dug his hands into the pockets of his robes. His fingertips
brushed against his wand. “It seemed to be the right idea. What’s happened?”
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and looked over at Trelawney who was
desperately trying to shake the smoke from her robes. It should have been
funny, but Harry couldn’t help thinking of Nearly Headless Nick and his
Elizabethan ruff, head trapped by mere inches of skin and sinew, of Moaning
Myrtle, trapped in teenaged angst and toilets. To be forever trapped in the
moment of your murder seemed a harsh punishment.
“The Divinations tower has been destroyed,” Dumbledore said quietly and
Trelawney jerked, letting out a wrenching cry of pure anguish. She collapsed
down the floor in a sobbing heap and Harry reached out a hand to comfort her,
but then pulled back as he realised that no one could ever do so again.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter has a few scenes related to background relationships -
     FYI.
     I haven't tagged the story with all of the pairings because I didn't
     want to give everything away, but if you want to know what they are
     before you read further, message me here or on my tumblr
     (riverdenile) and I'll be happy to share the pairings. (And if you
     think I should tag this with the pairings or anything else, let me
     know that too! I'm super happy to take suggestions.)
     But don't worry - there's still lots of Harry and Severus! I think
     it'll be about 5-7 more chapters before this part wraps up and there
     WILL be a sequel.
Ginny met both Neville and Draco as they hurried down the staircase. Several
flights above them, Professor McGonagall was cursing the staircase as it moved
her from her path, and some distance away she could feel, churning in the back
of her mind, Snape approaching with fear and fury even as she tried to close
herself from the sudden storm of power that raged in the air about the castle.
She felt sick with it.
Someone had died. She had felt that sort of energy before, when Cedric Diggory
had been killed – it was a revolting feeling, like something quite slippery and
dark, a large worm, was slithering across her skin combined with the sharp
feeling of a life cut down before its time. It had been the first time she
remembered feeling power as a tactile, living thing. She had had moments
before, times when she knew she felt something others did not, but she had
known, long before the portkey had brought Harry back, long before anyone had
seen Cedric’s body and what had transpired. She had known. She had felt it.
And she felt it again today. Something had shaken Hogwarts down to its
mountainous roots.
McGonagall caught up with the three as they reached the gargoyle statue and she
spat ‘jelly babies’ at it and forced her way through it as it swung open. Ginny
glanced back down the hall and saw Snape storm around the corner, heading
toward her blindly. She slipped through the doorway and followed the others.
Once inside the office, she stumbled into Neville, who pulled her from the
doorway in time to allow Snape to charge into the room. He pushed past them and
headed single-mindedly toward Harry, who turned his head and looked at him with
an expression so tired, she almost did not recognize him. Harry allowed himself
to be manhandled, Snape’s hands grasping his shoulders and turning him away
from Dumbledore’s desk, Snape’s dark eyes taking in the whole of him.
“I wasn’t hurt,” Harry told him with a voice filled with exhaustion.
“What happened?” Snape demanded of Harry, but it was the Headmaster who cleared
his throat and nodded his head toward the fireplace separating his office from
his personal chambers. As Ginny looked, the silvery outline of Trelawney
stepped through the wall and fretfully paced two steps before turning back.
Ginny stared and her mouth dropped open. “What…?”
At the sound of Ginny’s voice, Trelawney turned back as she was midway through
the wall and her face split into a delighted smile. “Ginny!” She wafted toward
the young woman who flinched back. “Oh, Ginny. Dreadful news, I’m afraid.
Completely shocking. The tower, my precious tower… gone. Dreadful man, no
respect for a person’s home at all.”
She stopped talking abruptly as she noticed the others in the room. She glanced
awkwardly from Neville to Draco and on to Harry and Snape, and she drew herself
upright and shook out her robes, sending smoke spiralling. Smoothing back her
frazzled hair and trying to set her crooked glasses right, she amended, “I knew
it was coming, of course. I saw it in my tea leaves, just last night, I saw it.
Three, erm… circles, in a… ah… Well, it was obvious. No other outcome at all. I
just…” She frowned down at herself. “I do, however, wish they had allowed me to
change out of my slippers first.” She kicked out a foot from beneath her
blackened robes to reveal ghostly slippers in the shape of clawed dragon’s
feet.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and said quietly, “Voldemort has found a way
through the wards, if only for a moment. A moment is all he needs. He will
bring the war here, and here it will end.”
He cast his eyes down at his own clasped hands and Ginny, for a split second,
saw him opening a door into a room, the creases of his hands stained the colour
of dark rust. The vision was gone instantly, but left her shaken as he
continued, “I must go. The Order must be called. Minerva, I set you in charge
of organizing our defence. We must ready the castle for the war.”
McGonagall gave a sharp nod and she set her mouth into a hard line. “Of course.
I will speak with Hagrid. Perhaps he can gather assistance from the creatures
of the Forest. Firenze might be able to help there as well.”
“I’ll call in the trustworthy Slytherins,” Draco said, and Harry snorted.
Snape and Draco shot identical glares at him, and he held up a hand. “Sorry,
sorry. No, I know. I know they exist, but…” He shook his head with a smile.
Dumbledore turned away and stepped through Trelawney with a ‘pardon me’ and
retrieved his yellow hat from the mantlepiece. He set it on his head and said,
“I leave the rest of you to your machinations. We haven’t much time. Harry, if
you would like to call in your DA and anyone else you feel up to the task of
war, please do.”
He collected his wand from his desk and turned back to them. Ginny was struck
again by how tired he looked and how deep the lines in his face had sunk. He
hesitated, his blue eyes fixed somewhere near Harry's knees, and then he shook
his head and smiled at them.
“Good luck,” were his parting words, and he strode from his office, leaving
them to glance worriedly from one to the other.
“Oh, Harry, dear,” Trelawney said suddenly, and everyone turned to look at her.
She frowned slightly and adjusted her glasses. “You’ll have to leave it
behind.”
He frowned at her. “Leave what behind?”
She blinked owlishly through her thick glasses and tilted her head. “Hmm?
What?” She shook her head and then frowned at the ceiling above her. “Drat!”
She cried suddenly. “Peeves!” And sank down through the floor to be followed by
the poltergeist sporting a maniacal grin.
Harry stared at the ground beneath his feet and threw up his hands. “Leave what
behind?”
===============================================================================
“Something’s happening,” Ron told Hermione. His fingertips swept a lock of hair
from her forehead and he bit his lip. “This may be it. That's what everyone is
saying – that this will be war. We're supposed to ready ourselves.”
Despite the hope he held, there had been no change in her. Her breath came in
steady inhales and exhales and her face was calm and still. He had washed her
hair the day before, had combed the tangles from it, and had run a thin oil
through it with his fingers, and today it lay against the white pillow in
smooth, shiny curls. Her lips had a slight flush to them and were slightly
upturned, as though she held back a secret. She looked beautiful.
“I don’t think I’ll make it out alive. I’m not you, Hermione. I don’t know my
spells and I don’t have your confidence. And I’m not Harry, with anything near
his courage or his power. I don’t have much of anything, really, but brothers
and second-hand everything. You, and Harry, you’re all I ever had to myself. If
I die… My family will miss me, but there are enough of us that one going
missing, it won’t matter too much, not in the end.”
He sighed and took a single step away from her. “If you were here, I’m sure
you’d tell me different. And I’d probably believe you, because I’d believe
anything you told me, Hermione. Anything at all. But you’re not here. You’re
safe, somewhere. Far away from this war and all the death that’s about to
happen. I know it’s coming. I can just about smell it.” Ron looked away, out
the windows, where smoke curled angrily across the sky, twisting over the
Forbidden Forest like brambles. “I loved you. I hope you knew that.”
He bent and brushed his lips against hers, and she breathed against his mouth.
“Goodbye, Hermione.”
Ron took up his wand from the bedside table, tucked it neatly into his robes,
and left the room.
===============================================================================
People began to gather, first in drips and trickles, then in rushes and swarms.
The Weasley twins were the first to arrive, their arms filled with boxes and
bags and with several large trunks levitating behind them in a trail. “Just a
few odds and ends,” they told Harry with a wink as they set up in the Great
Hall. Angelina Johnson arrived soon after in a snappy new business robe and
clicking heels, her hair swept up smartly, her broom in a neat carry-case. She
smiled at Harry mysteriously and joined Fred and George with an exchange of
winks, smiles and thumbed noses.
Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas, who had been
following the news and trading newly discovered spells and hexes by owls,
appeared the same day Harry contacted them, and the rest of the DA weren’t far
behind. The Patil sisters arrived with glowing tans and solemn expressions, and
the Creevey brothers dashed back and forth, snapping photos at every
opportunity. “We’re like war correspondents!” They grinned and snapped flash in
his face.
The DA weren’t the only ones arriving, of course, or it would have made a
fairly shabby army. Former students of all ages came armed with wands and
brooms and house elves. Former professors, well-wishers and supporters came.
Neighbours and parents and relatives came. Hogwarts bulged at its seams. Rooms
and halls, previously unknown or undiscovered, appeared from within the stone.
Tents were set up across the surrounding grounds. Hogwarts house elves were
joined by the visiting elves, and the kitchen billowed with the scent of butter
and spices.
Harry was the eye of this particular hurricane. While McGonagall was the
official leader of the assembling army, they all looked to Harry. They all
believed in him. He was Harry Potter. He was the Boy Who Lived and this was his
army.
In the courtyard, wizards and witches of all ages dueled with one another in
small groups, the elders teaching and encouraging, the youngers pushing for
more. Flitwick stood on a stone bench and demonstrated various spells against
Spout, who held her own admirably as a semicircle of spectators looked on.
On the Quidditch pitch, brooms flew in coordinated movements and Madam Hooch
reigned, with boisterous encouragement from the ghost of Edgar Cloggs, who
offered advice now and then, between cheers. Former captains shouted orders,
forcing ranks, devising patterns and maneuvers. From a distance, they looked
like swarms of strangely coloured birds as they dove in formation.
In the lake, the giant squid was active, rising and splashing, sending waves in
all directions, as though it too wanted to join in the battle. The Merpeople,
normally quite secretive, lingered along the shores and watched the movement
around them. Those wizards who spoke Mermish, and who were brave enough to risk
proximity to the flailing tentacles, sat on the edges of the lake and tried to
explain the situation to the Merpeople, who did not seem particularly
interested in the battles of the above-ground until they were told they could
drown any Death Eaters who came too close to the water’s edge.
While there was a general air of solemnity to the people gathered about
Hogwarts, Harry could see that there were smiles amongst them. There was
laughter. On the Quidditch pitch, a snitch had made a daring escape from the
supply shed, and laughter rang out as they chased it down across the field. A
group of first and second years had discovered that the giant squid routinely
sent water arching through the air into a shallow dip in the grass, and the
children were splashing about in the impromptu pool, shrieking and giggling as
the waves crashed over them. The older faces were graver – they had seen the
first war, had survived it and had seen their friends and family die. They knew
what was at risk. But even among them, there was a sense of optimism.
The war was coming, yes, but… They had Harry Potter. They had hope.
Harry had tried very hard to discourage them from looking directly to him for
orders.
“I’m no general,” he told them and pointed to Professor McGonagall in her war
tartan. “Follow her. I’m only a fighter, the same as any of you,” he tried to
say, but they wouldn’t listen. Even McGonagall consulted with him and, while he
had no desire to be the face of the war effort, there was something very
thrilling in being so influential. He had ideas and solutions and McGonagall
listened to him. There was an empty lot under the west tower, she asked him,
what should they do with it? A slew of second years arrived, wanting to help:
where would they do the most good and stay out of harm? Charlie Weasley would
be arriving with several dragons: Hagrid wants them by his hut, but where
should they really put them?
But the worst of it was when she came to him and said, “We have to form a
retaliation strike. We cannot let the attack of Hogwarts go unanswered. Will
you come join the council? We must decide on an appropriate target.”
Harry wanted to ask her what Dumbledore would do, but Dumbledore was out of
reach for communications. Hints of him came in through various members of the
Order as they arrived, but otherwise, there was no word and no trace of the
man. McGonagall, Moody, the other members of the Order seemed to trust that he
was doing just as he said he would do – seek out the members of the Order and
to bring them into the effort – but Harry could no longer trust him. There were
not so many surviving members of the Order to keep Dumbledore gone for so long,
and most of them were already at the castle and had involved themselves in the
planning, and yet Dumbledore was still absent.
Harry didn’t trust him, but it was still a instinctive impulse to rely on the
old man’s knowledge and experience. Harry wanted to be fifteen again, when he
had believed in Dumbledore so strongly and so unshakably, because it had been
so much easier to let someone else lead.
Even if Dumbledore did have Harry’s best interests at heart, behind all the
twisted reasoning, Harry needed to learn how to stand on his own two feet. He
had an army now. The DA might be truly called Dumbledore’s Army, but it had
grown beyond those few students he had taught, and it wasn’t to Dumbledore they
looked – it was to Harry. If they wanted him to lead the army, he might have to
learn how to be a general.
The first retaliation strike was planned for three days’ time. Mad-Eye Moody
was to lead the squad, aimed at a small cottage not far from Voldemort’s Summer
House, as Harry had learned it was called. The cottage was the main supply floo
station for the Summer House. Manned by three Death Eaters and warded on its
perimeter, it wasn’t likely to be an easy target, but it was the most effective
for the first strike. Moody was confident, as always, as he gruffly ordered his
squad to readiness. He had another new Order member, an Irish woman with a
flare for offensive spells; three former Hogwarts students: an Auror and two in
training; and two soon-to-be seventh years, Michael Corner and Cho Chang. Harry
was particularly wary about Moody’s choice to include the pair. Michael and Cho
had been seeing one another off and on for a year and were known for being on a
rough off period at the moment, but Moody insisted. He said it would be good
experience for them, as they both seemed intent on becoming aurors, and so
Harry let it go. They would be with five other experienced fighters.
Most nights, he came to bed late and exhausted, when Severus was either already
asleep or was locked away in his lab, stocking up the various medical,
offensive, and defensive potions they would need. They rarely saw one another.
Harry had to be in the center of things, where he was sure to be seen. Everyone
seemed to demand it of him, and although it was rather satisfying to finally
have his experienced acknowledged, it was exhausting work. They wouldn’t let
him have a moment’s peace. Even meals were spent in consultation. If he managed
five hours of uninterrupted sleep, he was happy. For Severus, things were quite
different. No one, save Harry, was clamoring to see him. As a former Death
Eater, not everyone trusted him, even still. He kept to himself and he kept
busy. When Harry asked, forcibly taking twenty minutes away from the planning
to speak to him, Severus shook his head and said he didn’t mind. He preferred
it. He didn’t like most of the little bastards anyway and was quite content to
stay with his potions, thank you very much.
Harry missed him, though. He was exhausted and everyone needed so much of him,
they wanted so much of him. His days were filled with so many decisions that
could have lives in the balance. He wasn’t at all sure how Snape felt, whether
the man needed him the same way Harry needed Snape, like a starving man needed
food, like a drowning man needed air. Snape seemed content to brew and keep
entirely to himself, as if he only wanted to be involved in this new war in as
peripheral a way as possible.
Harry knew Snape wanted this resolved as much as he did. He wanted to see the
Death Eaters and their Lord fall, wanted to see them trampled, but Snape didn’t
seem particularly willing to compromise his bubble of solitude to get it done.
He seemed all to happy to leave the rough work for others.
But Harry needed him. One night. One uninterrupted night. If he really was the
general of an army, he could surely have one bloody night to himself.
He told McGonagall that he would be taking a night off from the preparations.
The retaliation strike was scheduled for early the next day and, while he had
been over and over the plans with Moody, at this point there was very little
left he could do. McGonagall agreed. She said he was working too hard, and of
course, he should take a break. Get some sleep. She could handle the
preparations for the night.
He told Moody, who waved him off, as he had things perfectly under control,
thank you.
He told Ron, who gave him a narrow grin and told him to have fun.
He told Dobby, who vowed upon his life to guard the entrance to Snape’s rooms.
And finally, he snuck down to Snape’s lab and told Snape that he would be
taking the night off, that they could have dinner together and a quiet night to
themselves. Snape eyed him with half-closed eyes, and he murmured that he could
be convinced to put aside his potions work for one night.
One night.
Everyone still needed him, up to and including the moment he said goodnight. He
was hounded on his way from the field, swarmed on his way into the castle, and
brought to a full-stop before going down to the dungeons.
Harry pointed anyone who approached him toward the closest member of the Order
and reminded them all that there were others who could help, others who could
make decisions. As the sun sank out of view, he finally managed to sneak away
down the long steps into the dungeons, where he breathed a full breath of the
cool, humid air he had come to enjoy.
“Harry! Harry, wait!”
Harry closed his eyes and exhaled sharply from his nose. Light steps ran down
the stairs after him, and he turned and found Cho chasing after him. She hadn’t
spoken to him for the better part of the year, although she had waved at him a
few times and had twice smiled at him in class with that same pretty smile he
had once thought meant something. Early in the year, he hadn’t been in any sort
of mindset to speak to her, and now, he didn’t particularly see any point to
it. She was never going to be a friend.
She hopped down the final step, her hair dropping like a heavy curtain against
her back, and she stopped in front of him and pinched her lip between her
teeth.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said.
“Right.”
“Early in the morning.”
Harry tilted his head at her as he waited for the punchline. She had to know
that he had been the one to approve the strike for the morning. In the briefing
Moody had held the day before, Harry had contributed what little information he
had gathered about the Summer House and the movement of the Death Eaters. Cho
had sat near him and taken notes. She could hardly think it was news to him
that she would be leaving early the next morning.
“I know. And?”
“And…” Her cheeks flushed pink and she dipped her head to look up at him. “And
I was wondering if… I mean… Harry, I…”
“What is it, Cho? Spit it out.”
She bit her lip and blinked back what seemed to be tears. “Harry, I still like
you.”
Her words were so out of context to him, he immediately assumed that she meant
she still trusted him after everything that had happened over the summer, after
Voldemort and the Death Eaters had been through with him. He knew there were
people saying he was compromised and needed to be watched, but he hadn’t had
anyone actually address it with him. He’d rather they didn’t, if it was to be
as awkward as the moment he was currently in.
“Well, okay,” he told her. “Thank you?”
“No, Harry. I mean,” she bit her lip again and left pale tooth impressions in
her pink lips. “Harry, I mean that I like you. Still.”
“Oh. Oh!” His eyes widened in surprise and he took a half-step backward. “Oh,
Cho. No.”
“No?” Her voice trembled.
He shook his head and took another half-step away from her. “I’m involved with
someone else.”
“Who?” Cho immediately demanded and stepped forward, following his retreat.
“Ginny? Is it Ginny? I knew it. I knew she – ”
“No,” Harry interrupted her. “Not Ginny. Severus.”
“Severus who – ? Wait, you mean… Snape?” Cho stared at him. “Professor Snape?”
“Yes, I really… I thought everyone knew by this point. It’s hardly been any
kind of secret.”
She flushed red. “I thought it had to be a joke,” she said. “You weren’t gay
last year.”
He rubbed at his scar and sighed. Whatever Voldemort was doing to cause it, the
scar had been leaving him with a constant headache lately and having his
romantic life referred to as a joke wasn’t helping.
“I didn’t know what I was last year. I mean, there were girls I thought were
pretty and I thought that was what it was supposed to be like. But that was
before – ” He cut himself off as he felt a flush crawl up his neck. Cho’s eyes
were wide, and he gestured his hand back and forth between them. “There wasn’t
any spark between us, Cho. Not like there is with Severus.”
She looked a bit horrified on his behalf, as if he might have taken a hard fall
and now thought he was the Queen of Spain. He sighed again. “Every minute I
spend here is a minute I don’t spend with him, and I’d much rather spend those
minutes with him. So…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry if you’re upset, but
that’s really not my problem.”
He turned and walked away, leaving her in her small circle of dull light. After
three steps, he heard her storm away, and shook his head to himself. Not his
concern, he told himself again.
===============================================================================
The sun was slowly sinking in the sky when Ginny found Neville and Draco hiding
in the potting shed.
They stood a little too close to one another, their shoulders touching, and
their twin expressions of surprise as she opened the door nearly made her
laugh. They had set wards about the shed, but they were all fairly rudimentary,
if you knew to look for them. After all, it was unlikely anyone might think the
potting shed by the smallest of the greenhouses would be a secret meeting
location for Dumbledore’s youngest spies, two of the most unlikely
collaborators of Hogwarts, but here it was. It had the same out-of-the-way
charm as the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch but clearly hadn’t yet been
discovered by the student population as a serviceable tryst location. It was a
wasted opportunity if Draco and Neville had used it exclusively for business,
but she knew the two of them were still dancing around one another.
“It’s only me,” she told them, as she closed the door behind herself. Dust
swirled from the ceiling, glimmering in the pale light cast from a charmed
moonstone that sat on a dirty worktable. The air smelled of dark, rich earth
and growing, green things.
“Ginny! Don’t you knock?” Neville had jumped back the small distance the shed
allowed him, and he glared at her from where he had wedged himself between a
large barrel and a high, narrow table, dusted with dark soil.
She rolled her eyes and pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “On a
potting shed? Honestly, it’s not like you’re using it for anything important.”
She dusted off the worktable with the sleeve of her sweater and then hopped up
on the edge of it, hooking and swinging her legs together.
“What else would we be using it for?” Neville unwedged himself from the corner
and glared up at her. “We’re not in here crocheting!”
She laughed and rearranged her skirt around her knees. “Crocheting is really
not what I thought might be happening in here, Neville.” She poked Draco’s
thigh with the tip of her toe, and then had to physically suppress her grin at
the scandalized look Draco shot the now muddy spot on his trousers. He narrowed
his eyes at her with a look that promised retaliation and she felt the shiver
that look elicited in her fingertips as she gripped her hands on the edge of
the table.
Neville glanced between the two of them as he slid a fraction closer to Draco
and he said, “What on earth are you talking about, Ginny?”
Draco’s mouth turned up and he nudged Neville to silence. “I believe the witch
is implying that there is something else between us, Neville.”
“What? I don’t – ” Neville cut himself off and a brilliant flush travelled
upward across his neck and over his cheeks as his eyes widened. His eyes darted
toward Draco and immediately away. “That's not funny, Ginny! I didn't think
you'd… I don't know why you'd… I thought, I thought we were friends!”
“We are!” Ginny exclaimed and she reached out toward him, unsure where she’d
gone wrong, but he shrugged away from her and shuffled backward again. He
crossed his arms defensively around himself and stared down at the floor. She
looked over at Draco desperately, but his face had shuttered itself away as
well. He had crossed his arms tightly across his chest, pressing deep wrinkles
into his white shirt. His knuckles were white.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean anything bad, Neville! There’s nothing bad about,
about you or Draco or, or any of that. It’s good! I think it’s great, even! I –
” She took a deep breath. “I swear, Neville.” She reached out her hand again
and his eyes flicked up at it and then toward her face. “I swear. I didn’t mean
to be funny. I was… I was just trying to, um, encourage you. A bit. Because I,
um…”
Ginny trailed off and felt her own face heating up. It wouldn’t be a good look.
She always went splotchy when she blushed, brilliant spots of bright red across
her cheeks and a mottled look down her neck. It clashed with her hair. It
wasn’t good.
“I didn’t… Oh sweet Circe.” She put her face in her hands. “I’ve royally
buggered this up.”
“What exactly did you think you were doing, then? I…” Neville had a hardness to
his voice. “I know that you can see things, that you can look into people and,
and see. And I know you’ve done it to me. I know you’ve looked at… at my
future? My dreams? I’m not sure where your power ends, Ginny. And I trusted you
with what you saw in me, because you’re my friend and what choice did I have?
And now you pull it out to mock me with it? In front of… As if I’m not pathetic
enough as it is?”
She lifted her face out of her hands and stared over at Neville. “What? I don’t
think you’re pathetic, Neville. I think you’re… I’m not mocking you! I would
never do that! I would never…” Ginny reached out again and grabbed at his arm.
She gripped it with her narrow fingers and held his eyes with the same fierce
hold. “I care about you. I care about you, and I care about Draco. And I was
definitely not mocking you! Teasing a bit, yes, but I wasn’t making fun. I
think you and Draco would be amazing together. I was just trying to, um, nudge
you a bit. That’s all!”
Neville’s mouth twisted up into an ugly smile. “Nudge me a bit,” he parroted.
“Someone like Draco would never want someone like me. I never needed to hear it
– I was fine just having a… having a bit of a crush.” He flushed red again and
shook his head. “So thank you. Because I needed someone like you to make this
real. Now we get to be awkward with one another. That’s great, Ginny.”
Her mouth dropped open, but it was Draco who finally spoke. He took a step
toward Neville, which, due to the small size of the shed, brought him nearly
pressed into Neville’s side, and he reached out with both hands to grip at the
arms Neville still held crossed against himself.
“You’re an idiot,” he said, and Neville’s chin shot up as he cast an
incredulous look at Draco.
“Don’t argue,” Draco told him as he gave Neville a firm shake. “You clearly
are.” He raised his hands from Neville’s arms and framed his face as he leaned
over the crossed arms and pressed his lips against Neville’s.
Neville’s eyes fell shut and he made a small sound in the back of his throat as
his arms uncrossed and moved hesitantly to rest on Draco’s hips.
Draco pulled away and gave him a stern look. “You’re an idiot.”
“Okay,” Neville whispered as he stared at Draco with wide eyes.
“This is what you saw, I imagine?” Draco asked Ginny and she smiled and hopped
down off the table.
“It’s – part of it.” She reached over to Neville and pulled him away from Draco
and into her arms. “I would never, never mock you, Neville. Like I said: I care
about you.” She tilted his head down and pressed her lips against his forehead.
He lifted his head and offered her a hesitant smile, one that she returned
immediately. Ginny held his gaze for a moment too long, long enough for his
smile to slip a little, for his hazel eyes to turn questioning, and for a
nervous flutter to take wind in her stomach.
She could let go and step back. It would be the easiest, the safest route. But
she couldn’t be a Weasley if she took the safe route.
So she leaned in and gently pressed her lips against Neville’s. It was a soft
kiss and Neville was likely too startled to do anything in return. His lips
were frozen under hers.
His eyes were wide when she pulled back and she patted his chest before
stepping away from him. Draco reached out and squeezed her fingers quickly as
she took another step back toward the door.
“I definitely wasn’t mocking you, Neville.” She reached behind her for the
doorknob. It was a very good time to make a retreat. Neville stared at her with
wide eyes and Draco gave her a tiny smile as he moved to pull Neville closer to
him. When Neville startled and looked up at him, Ginny took advantage and left
the shed, closing the door quickly behind her.
The sun had set and she looked up at the scattering of stars above her, before
she bit her lip to contain a grin and headed back toward the castle.
===============================================================================
By the time Harry took his well-earned night, he and Snape hadn't had sex in
nearly a week, and they were both feeling the distance between them. Snape was
his normal misanthropic self, as if nothing could ever touch him, but his eyes
tracked after Harry when they found themselves in the same room. If they
managed physical proximity with one another for more than a passing second, his
fingers would take hold of Harry’s sleeve and stroke against his bare wrist.
And once, they had passed one another on the stairs and Snape had reached out
and pressed him back against the wall and, to the backdrop of the portraits’
gasps and whispers, had kissed Harry ferociously. Afterward, Harry had to spend
a good five minutes trying to remember where he’d been heading.
He had every intention of making their night together something to remember. He
had a plan.
Of course, the plan needed Snape to have remembered the plan, to have actually
come back to their rooms so that Harry could enact the plan.
He’d taken the steps down into their rooms two at a time and burst into the
sitting room, expecting to find Snape waiting for him by the fire, reading one
of his hundreds of books, but the sitting room was empty, as was Snape’s
bedroom, his own bedroom, and the bath. He checked each room twice, just to be
completely sure, and then he stood in the middle of the sitting room and
breathed out an irate breath.
“Seriously? Are potions that interesting?” He grumbled to himself as he climbed
back up the stairs and made his way down the hall toward the potions classroom
and the attached laboratory. “I could be convinced,” he mimicked Snape’s tone
and pushed opened the classroom door. The room was empty, but there was a
flickering light beneath the door leading into the office and onward to the
lab.
“You couldn’t be bothered to – ”
There was no one in the office either and the door to the lab was closed. He
sighed and knocked four times against middle panel of the door. The latch
clicked twice as it was unsealed, and he pushed into the room, beginning again:
“You couldn’t be bothered to – ”
“You’re late,” Snape interrupted him. He set down a long, glass stirring rod on
the worktable beside him and circled one of the three enormous cauldrons
standing waist-high on the floor of the room. Each bubbled with a different
potion, the fumes of which swirled up toward the high ceiling. Several other
worktables had smaller cauldrons with other potions in various stages of
preparation. The air had an oily feel to it and the smell in the room was on
the wrong side of unpleasant. Snape was down to a white button-down and had
rolled up the sleeves to expose his forearms. The expression on his face made
Harry step backward against the now closed and sealed door.
“What?”
Snape strode forward with his wand in hand and a determined look in his eyes.
“Late. You are late. This potion is in a delicate state and cannot be delayed
further. The final ingredients must be extremely fresh and added at precisely
the right moment, as I explained to you.” Snape pushed him back against the
door and began to roll up Harry’s sleeve. Harry stared down as his forearm was
exposed and shivered when Snape slid his thumb across the skin of his inner
elbow.
“Excellent. Excellent veins. That will ease that portion of the harvest.” Snape
slid his hand through Harry’s hair and tugged lightly, and just as Harry moaned
slightly, he pulled a single hair loose. He held it up to the light as Harry
rubbed at his head.
“Ouch.”
“Your hair shaft is oblong.” Snape glared down at him as if this was a personal
affront.
“Um? Sorry?”
Snape sighed. “No matter. It will not greatly alter the formula, but I do wish
you had mentioned this to me at an earlier point. Have I not adequately
impressed upon you the delicate nature of potions?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying right now.” Harry tried to supress his
laughter and succeeded only in smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. “You know
that, right?”
“The potion, you daft boy,” Snape rolled his eyes. “The one I told you I would
attempt, not five evenings ago?”
“Was I even in the room when you told me this? I’d remember you telling me
something about a potion that involved harvesting me.”
Snape waved a hand through the air. “Irrelevant. This potion is, as I have
said, at a critical juncture, and yes, harvest you I must do, or I will have to
spend another five days repeating the work I have done, time I cannot guarantee
we have to spare. Do you or do you not want to survive your next encounter with
the Dark Lord?”
“Okay, okay,” Harry held out his arm. “Calm down. You can harvest all you want.
Within reason,” he added quickly. “I’ll still need some blood and hair left,
mind.”
“I would hardly drain you dry. I cannot save your life if you are lying dead on
the floor of my laboratory.” Snape curled his fingers around Harry’s wrist and
dragged him closer to a worktable on which bubbled a smaller cauldron. On the
worktable rested a slim, sharp knife, Snape’s bundled robes, and several rolls
of parchment covered in tightly scribbled words and notations that Harry
couldn’t immediately work out. They were in Snape’s hand, though, the way he
wrote when he was short on time and patience.
Snape brushed against him as he took his robe from the table, and Harry pushed
his sleeve further up again.
“Blood first?”
Snape tossed the robe down at Harry’s feet and reached up to pull his hair back
from his face, fastening it into a snug ponytail. “I shall spare you from
taxing your poor, neglected mind by asking you to reflect back on the lessons I
have attempted to impress upon you, but no, Harry. Not blood first.”
And Snape sank down to his knees onto the cushion of his robe and reached up to
unfasten Harry’s belt.
“Oh, hey,” Harry began and then, as Snape turned his gaze upward to meet his
eyes, he thought better of interrupting.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for interpretive Latin and a casual re-writing of Rowling's
     dragon lore. Also, a bit of death.
The morning was thick with a mist that swirled across the rough landscape. The
sky was a dusky grey to the east and nearly black to the west, and the birds
had not yet woken to greet the dawn. Moody scanned his eyes over the area, and
his mouth turned up into a toothy smile. He loved the silent moments before
battle, when everything was a held breath waiting for the exhale.
A barely detectable crunch of ground behind him had his magical eye swivelling
backward, and Maeve O’Byrne stepped up to him, her head barely reaching to his
shoulder. Her dark hair was tucked up neatly, and her sharp, black eyes took in
everything. She crossed her arms over her chest and stood still, taking in the
same scene as he, before she asked, “Wards?”
“Down,” Moody replied. “Easiest piece of curse-breaking I’ve done all year.”
“Not a good sign,” she murmured, and he agreed, though he was still pleased
with himself.
She glanced at him. “If the wards were easy, the Death Eaters won’t be.”
“They rarely are.”
“The children are anxious,” Maeve said as she drew her wand and flicked it
through the air.
Moody didn’t reply. Children were always anxious. Potter had wondered about his
choice to include the two, but they needed the experience. No one was ever
ready for war but it was important to get out and either learn or die.
Especially the girl. She had guts in her, Moody could see it. She just needed a
Death Eater hell-bent on seeing her dead to bring it out.
“How soon?”
Moody’s magical eye roved over the area, zeroing in on the small cottage
nestled in a grassy hollow. “Sentry switch in ten minutes.”
She nodded and turned away without a word.
He liked her, Maeve, liked her no-nonsense approach, despite her relative
youth. He had worked with her only twice before and had always enjoyed it. She
missed nothing at all. A good fighter and a sensible sort, with no taste for
killing but no squeamishness either. A fine balance not often seen. Prisoners
came whole for questioning, unless they needed killing and when so, there was
no hesitation. He liked her very well.
He heard the sound of the others making ready behind him, and he shook his
head, trying to shake off Trelawney and her crackpot predictions. She was worse
now, as a ghost, here and there and everywhere, spouting odd bits of
predictions wherever she went. Impossible to be free of her.
First light brings first blood and the choices made will haunt those with no
choice. While beauty – fleeting, falling, flying, fatal, fallacious – severs
the right hand of the mirror image of power.
Rubbish, he thought and looked back at his squad, faces pale, eyes wide, mouths
set. His mouth curled into a grin and warned them, “Constant vigilance!”
“And don’t get killed if you can help it,” Maeve added with a flick of her
wand.
The grass was wet with dew as they made their way toward the cottage, a
blessing as it muffled the sound of their footsteps, and the air about them was
heavy with moisture. As they neared the edge of the fallen wards, a bleary-eyed
gnome roused itself from the ground to peer at them, but the young aurors were
quick to dispatch it with methods not entirely sanctioned by the Care of
Magical Creatures department.
Moody focused on the cottage. His eye informed him that three warm bodies moved
within, two males and one female, and he wished he had had better intelligence
on the identities of the Death Eaters. He had faced nearly all of them at one
time or another over the decades, and he had found that they had vastly
differed in styles and abilities. He did not stress adaptability as a key skill
for aurors without cause. Rarely did any mission keep to plan.
As though on cue, one of the forms within the cabin lifted its head and turned
to stare through the solid wall in their direction. He tensed and, beside him,
he felt Maeve tense as well, immediately lowering herself into strike position
near to the ground. His wand vibrated in his hand, itching for a fight, and he
watched the figures within the cottage move toward the exit.
“Ready yourself,” he murmured and Maeve hissed, “Down!”
They crouched into the wet grass and Moody watched as the three figures emerged
from the cabin and gazed across the field. He wished for a magical ear to
supplement his eye as he watched them exchange a quick conversation, and then
the female, unrecognizable in her long hooded robe, returned to the cabin while
the other two stayed. They were close enough for Moody to recognize them, two
inconsequential Death Eaters, neither of whom had played a significant role in
the last war – sullen creatures with little talent but great hatred. The two
Death Eaters turned to look in their direction and drew their wands.
Moody glanced at Maeve and, in a meeting of eyes and thoughts, mapped a plan.
She gave a sharp nod and slashed her hand low through the air in a motion at
those behind her. Moody could hear the slight rustle of their robes against the
grass as they readied to move and then Maeve’s wand cut forward and a chevron
of fire burst forward, narrowing to a point on the two Death Eaters. The
younger aurors behind them flung out hexes, and the Death Eaters cried out as
their skin broke out in boils and the ground beneath their feet burned.
Moody charged forward through the smoke and steam from the burning wet grass,
and behind him came a shout of “Expelliarmus!” And the Death Eaters’ wands flew
away into the burning brush, but it was only a heartbeat later that the two
wizards summoned their wands back from the fire, holding the burning lengths
with determination.
“Crucio!” They called back and the magic brushed over Moody’s shoulder and hit
someone behind him. Agonized cries rang in his ears, but he did not spare a
moment to check. He raised his wand high and locked both eyes on the Death
Eaters, and he cast his own specialized, crafted version of Petrify at them.
The spell locked his victims behind a thin film of amber-coloured goo, which
quickly solidified into hard stone and locked them into a twisted parody of
sculptured art. Before he could do more, however, one of the young aurors sent
Ulcisci toward the stone mass and it, along with the bodies it contained,
shattered. Moody growled at the waste. They could have been interrogated; they
would have broken easily and revealed much. Now they were gone and, worse yet,
he would have to write a report explaining why.
His magical eye detected movement again as the female Death Eater stepped into
the doorway of the cottage. There was a thick aura of magic about her,
crackling with power.
“Drop your wand and surrender. You don’t have to die today,” he called out,
although he hardly expected her to comply. The other aurors circled her
carefully, and she laughed suddenly and every hair on Moody’s body stood on
end. He knew that laugh.
She tossed back her hood with a snap of her arm and dark hair tumbled down
around a familiar face.
“Don’t be a fool, Alastor,” Bellatrix laughed, because of course it was she –
disposable pawns sent ahead to distract as the queen moved to strike. He should
have recognized her immediately.
The fire snapped about her but did not reach the billowing hem of her cloak.
Her hair billowed in the breeze. She was beautiful, had always been beautiful –
even now, at her age, with Azkaban behind her, she could stop a man in his
tracks.
Maeve did not have the same history, the same hesitation, and the two women
faced one another. The flames licked higher against the walls of the cottage
and Bellatrix turned her head as she considering her adversary.
“You, I do not know.”
“Shall we underestimate one another?” Maeve suggested with a feral grin which
Bellatrix returned, seemingly pleased.
The fire cast deep shadows against Bellatrix’s face, sharpening the contrast of
her cheekbones. She looked unearthly, but Maeve was not far from the same. The
flickering light caused dark hollows beneath her eyes and lengthened her nose
into a sharp hook. The wind caught at her black robe and dragged it backward on
her outstretched arms until it seemed she had thick wings rising behind her.
“A pretty trick,” Bellatrix complimented as they circled one another. “But
pretty tricks only last so long.”
“I bow to your experience on the subject,” Maeve dipped her head and cast a
sidelong look at Moody, who jolted to attention and he was glad that Bellatrix
had her own distraction and had not caught on to his.
He gestured obliquely at the other aurors behind him, who stepped into position
in a loose semi-circle beside him. He lifted his wand, trusting that the others
would do so as well, for if the spells were not timed properly, a witch as
powerful as Bellatrix could easily deflect them. Ahead of him, Maeve and
Bellatrix traded hexes meant to impress more than damage, although each spell
had a sharper edge than any student might use in a dueling practice. These were
easily deflected by each of the women as they tested each other’s strengths and
defences.
It was a pretty display and worked precisely in his favour. He adjusted his
stance and cast Incarcifors at her robe, and the aurors were only a breath
behind him as they cast Petrificus Totalus, and the four spells slammed into
the witch from all sides. Her robe became transfigured into a full-body
straight jacket – the sleeves pulling tight behind her back and the skirt
twisting about her legs – and as the other spells combined against her, she
slammed down against the ground and lay still.
Moody quickly extinguished the flames about them and huffed out a breath as the
sun broke over the horizon and cast golden light over the smoking landscape. He
stepped closer to the prone form on the ground, nodded in approval at Maeve and
then turned his eyes down to meet the furious gaze of Bellatrix. His lips
turned up in a smirk as he pulled his flask from his robes and saluted her with
it.
===============================================================================
Harry visited the infirmary as soon he received word that Moody and his team
had returned. The younger aurors had come through unscathed, more or less. One
had a long burn up his leg and another had only barely escaped being torn in
half by a hex trap, rigged to detect the muggle-born, that had been set in the
doorway of the cottage. The auror had tripped it when she had stepped over the
threshold, and she had received a long jagged cut down her arm and across her
back. It was deep enough to slice through muscle and abrade the bone beneath.
She would have a long recovery, and she would carry the scar of it for the rest
of her life, but she was alive and would recover.
The same could not be said for Michael Corner. The dual Crucios had caused his
heart to arrest and then the fire had burned him beyond recognition. Cho was
being held in a magically-induced coma as she had tried to save Michael the
moment he fell and, due to the power of the fire, had sustained burns across
her back, legs and arms. Her lungs were so damaged, she could no longer breathe
unaided and Pomfrey was hesitant to say if she would ever regain full use of
her legs due to extensive nerve and muscle damage.
Cho would be transferred to the healers at St. Mungo's by noon, Pomfrey told
him as he stood at the foot of Cho’s bed, one hand gripping at the metal of the
bed frame. She put a hand on his shoulder and it felt unbearably heavy, as
though it were Hagrid’s hand and not the healer’s. The morning sun shone in the
tall windows and lit the gauzy wrappings swaddled about Cho’s small frame. She
looked tiny against the sheets, bundled up and hidden within the medical fabric
protecting what remained of her skin.
He had sent her out there. He had sent Michael out there. He had known they
weren’t ready, but he had let them go. He had taken a night for himself, and
now, people were dead. Because he had told them to go.
From his position at the foot of the bed, he could see the curtained area where
Hermione lay. He stared at the opaque curtains which blocked his friend from
view and then back to Cho’s prone form. He stepped away, hands clenched in the
pockets of his robe, and left the infirmary.
They shouldn’t wait for the return volley, he knew. Voldemort wouldn’t take
long to strike back, now that they had Bellatrix. Moody was already scouting
for new locations to attack, new weaknesses in their enemy, and McGonagall
found herself swamped by new recruits nearly daily. The fields were brimming
with tents to hold what the castle could not, although Hogwarts was not without
her own efforts, as a new wing of the castle had appeared one misty morning.
McGonagall claimed it had been lost nearly two centuries past. It came complete
with a large barracks and a massive open-air enclosure, which left them all
baffled for a purpose until Charlie Weasley arrived with his three dragons and
it became clear it was an aviary of sorts.
They wanted him to make decisions, but they didn’t want to risk him in the
field. Michael Corner was expendable, it seemed, but Harry Potter must be
protected at all costs. They wanted so much from him but he felt strangely
alone amidst all of their activity.
It was moments like that when he felt unbearably homesick for marble, chains,
and a steady, comforting heartbeat, but the depths of his yearning for that
terrible, peaceful, painful place left a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. He
wanted to hate it, wanted to hate Voldemort, he knew he should hate him, but he
longed for him, for his hand stroking through his hair, for the quiet presence
against his mind, for the belonging he had felt under Voldemort’s ownership. It
shamed him, the longing he felt.
He touched a hand to his throat, to a place where leather had once held him
tightly, and his fingertips touched the chain about his neck. The medallion
slid from his shirt and brushed warmly against his knuckles.
A roar sounded from the southern side of the castle, where the castle housed
Charlie’s dragons. Feeding time, Harry thought to himself, thinking of the
fenced herd of goats grazing just beyond the orchards. He dropped the medallion
back into his shirt as he considered his options.
A dragon could do quite a bit of damage. Three could do considerably more.
Certainly enough damage to reduce Voldemort’s Summer House to rubble.
He wanted to raze it to the ground himself, with his own bare hands – a notion
that should have conflicted with his desire to return to the belonging he had
experienced there, but he had no true attachment to the house. It had seen him
at his lowest, at his most subjugated, but he had never laid eyes on it and had
no desire to do so. He wanted it gone. He wanted it stripped from the earth,
until all the stones were nothing but sand, and until the wood was burned to
dust.
He wanted to tear down all of the Death Eaters also, especially those who had
ever laid a hand on him. He wanted to rip them apart. He wanted to dig down
into them and hurt them, the way they had hurt him. He wanted to break them.
Harry glanced up at the tower where Moody had imprisoned Bellatrix and forcibly
uncurled his hands from the fists they had formed.
He should pay her a visit as well.
===============================================================================
“Is he… supposed to be that close to them?” Ron shifted uneasily on his feet,
watching as Hagrid took another step toward the fenced area surrounding the
three Romanian Ridgebacks.
Charlie turned his head and then grinned. “Yeah, he’s fine.”
“Really? That fence… it’s awfully shabby. Wouldn’t hold in a kitten, I wouldn’t
think.”
Ginny rolled her eyes and nudged her brother. “Ron, have a little more faith in
your brother. I think he knows, if anyone does, how to contain a couple
bloodthirsty dragons.”
“Actually, no,” Charlie answered, still smiling. He had his hands buried deep
into the pockets of his denim jeans, and a new bracelet of pointed teeth swung
around his wrist. “A bloodthirsty dragon can’t be contained. You saw what
happened with that Hungarian Horntail at the Tri-Wizard Tournament – snap goes
the magical iron. Same would happen with them,” he nodded his head toward the
dragons that held Hagrid’s rapt fascination, “if they took a hungry fancy to
anything.”
“Then…” Ron shifted again, hand inching toward his wand pocket. “How…?”
Charlie nodded in the other direction, where, unseen by the dragons, there was
a padlock of several hundred goats. He had already had to charm the pen to open
only for himself and a handful of other trusted caretakers – too many of the
young students, particularly second and third year girls, had tried to ‘free’
the goats. Charlie didn’t want to think about what would happen if the dragons
saw the hundreds of goats frolicking about the school grounds, free and
untended, muddled about with all the students and such.
“Keep your dragon with a full belly and all is well. Run out of goats…”
Ron shuddered. “But Hagrid, I mean, he’s awfully close. They won’t, you know,
snack between meals?”
Charlie laughed out loud and shook his head. “Hagrid isn’t stupid.” At the
raised eyebrows of his two siblings, he lifted an eyebrow. “He isn’t stupid,
certainly not enough to get eaten. He may be enthusiastic enough to buy
dragon’s eggs from mysterious strangers, or raise Blast-Ended Skrewts, or keep
a giant three headed puppy where any three inquisitive Gryffindors might find
it, but, if you’ll notice, he’s never had any problems himself. He’s never
turned up without an arm, or with a giant bite-mark out of his arse, eh?”
“Not yet,” Ron muttered.
Ginny glared at him and looked back at the dragons, which watched Hagrid with a
kind of lazy indifference as they basked in the afternoon sun. The looked
remarkably content, like pampered house cats, but it was just as easy to
imagine them tearing into an army. “About the dragons, when are you going to
send them out?”
He pulled a hand from his pocket and smoothed it across the back of his neck,
where the sun had a habit of burning him, leaving his skin continuously itchy
and freckled. “When I get the word from Harry, I suppose. That’s what
McGonagall told me. She’s got her hands full with the castle, so she’s letting
Moody and Harry call the shots about any attacks. At least until Dumbledore
returns.”
“Anyone know when he’s coming back?” Ron glanced at his sister, as if she might
have his schedule at hand. “McGonagall might be okay putting all this on Harry,
but I don’t think it’s doing good things for him, especially now with what’s
happened to Michael and Cho. Have you seen him lately? He’s all bruises around
his eyes and pale, but it’s more than that. It’s like he’s…”
Behind them, the three dragons moved suddenly, hissing low as they rose to
their feet, their tails swishing in sharp arches, and the largest of the three
lifted his head to let loose a fierce roar into the sky. Hagrid jumped backward
and Charlie had his wand out, his back and shoulders tensed, his legs set apart
and sturdy. With his eyes trained on the dragons, Hagrid stumbled backward
toward them, and then he looked at Charlie with wide eyes.
“Yeh got them, Charlie? Something’s scared the life right out of them. Must be
somethin’ big,” he warned as he drew out and clutched at his umbrella and
Charlie gripped his wand with the same intensity.
However, just as suddenly as they had roused, the dragons settled. They huffed
out smoky dragon breaths of adrenaline release, and they settled back to rest
against one another, curling together drowsily.
“What – what happened? What was that?”
Charlie shook his head as his let his body relax once again. He slouched back
against the wall, giving an impression of ease, but his mind was trained on his
dragons and their behaviour. There were few things that could aggravate a well-
fed, sun-drunk dragon, and as no one was visibly stealing from their dragon
hoard or endangering an egg or a hatchling, it could only be one thing.
There was dark magic at Hogwarts.
===============================================================================
Bellatrix had not yet talked. Moody insisted she wouldn’t, not without what he
referred to as ‘encouragement.’ The aurors had people for this, he said, and he
had gone to firecall them. It would take them time to arrive, and so Moody had
insinuated that anyone with the inclination might have an attempt at her,
though entering the room in pairs was something he had strongly suggested.
Snape had provided a potion that deadened a person’s magic temporarily, but
Bellatrix was a fighter – she would still be extremely dangerous.
Harry stood outside the door to her cell, a cheerfully sunny little room in the
Gryffindor tower, as he considered his options. He hated her for all that she
had done to him, to his friends, to his family. For what she had done to
Sirius. He wanted to rip her apart and make her feel what it meant to have
everything she loved gone. He wanted her to have nothing left.
Snape had somehow known and had caught up to him before he’d ascended the
stairs to the tower.
“Don’t,” he’d warned and had gripped his fingers into Harry’s arm. He had been
in his lab too much lately; his face was colourless. “Leave it for someone
else. This is – it is a very different thing from the other side, Harry. It
won’t bring you any kind of peace.”
He wasn’t looking for peace though.
He tapped his wand to the center of the large knotted symbol carved into the
stone and the symbol unravelled to uncover a door, which opened to allow him
into the cell.
It was warm in the room, smelling of sunlight, clean surfaces and freshly
laundered bedding. The lock snapped shut behind him and the door disappeared,
leaving Harry standing in a room with no exits save the two windows leading to
a plunging demise. Bellatrix sat on one of the two plush, burgundy chairs by
the unlit fireplace, with one leg tucked under her body. Her hair, dark with
streaks of silvery white, spilled down her shoulders, and the profile of her
face was smooth and perfect. She turned her head and looked at him wordlessly.
Her lips were blood red and her eyes were hard and furious.
He closed his eyes for a moment and looked at her in his mind. As with
Voldemort, her magic was a sickly colour, green and yellow and purple, like a
deep bruise. She was extremely powerful, as even with her power paralyzed by
the potion, she had still managed to maintain the glamour she used to ensnare
so many. Behind it, Harry could see what she used so much energy to hide – her
dark hair gone limp and grey, sagging lines around her mouth and eyes, jagged
scars across her cheeks and deep, unhealing wounds around her mouth. Her eyes
held the same look that Sirius’ had – crazed and desperate and unfathomably
hungry. Azkaban had not been kind to her.
“Come to kill me?”
It didn’t surprise him that she spoke to him. It was what she had always done
before, when he had been Voldemort’s captive. She had never touched him, had
never cast a single spell, but she would whisper stories to him in his
darkness, stories of those she had tortured, those she had killed, stories
about Neville’s parents, about his own parents, about things she had done to
Severus when he had been in Harry’s place. Now that their positions were
reversed, it did not surprise him that he would be the one to whom she chose to
speak.
He moved into the room and sat in the chair opposite her, mirroring her
posture, tucking one leg under himself. “No, I’m not here to kill you, but you
knew that. Pointless question.”
She smiled sharply. “Yes. It was, at that. Tell me, what do you think you’ll
accomplish?”
He shrugged. “I hope that you’ll talk to me and answer my questions, tell me
what I need to know.”
Her laughter was as sharp as her smile. “Do you think that I will betray my
master? I owe him my life and I have pledged it to him. I am loyal to no
other.”
Harry smiled to himself and closed his eyes again to see her as she truly was.
From her arm and from the gaping wound of her mark blazed a blood-red chain of
magic stretching out the window and away. He could see the flow of magic as it
moved back and forth along the chain, as it connected her to Voldemort. The
chain was thick with dark red energy, like a fattened leech.
He heard her chair creak as she shifted uncomfortably in it, and he opened his
eyes.
“Loyalty is important. I understand.”
She sneered at him. “And you, loyal to Dumbledore. Following that doddering old
man like a fool.”
He didn’t argue. She could believe what she would. Her anger at Dumbledore left
her mind open and vulnerable, and he pressed beyond her defences, worming
through the tangled brambles of her mind. For one used to Voldemort’s blunt
force, his invasion was akin to a scalpel sliding across skin.
“Dumbledore is a powerful wizard. It isn’t surprising that people would choose
to follow him. As people follow Voldemort.”
“And as people follow you?”
Harry laughed softly. “Perhaps. Would you follow me?”
She sneered again, showing teeth. “I would rather die.”
“You will,” he promised easily and she jerked suddenly in her seat, as though
startled. “You killed my godfather. You tortured the parents of my friend. You
tortured me. You’re remorseless and dangerous besides. Of course you’ll die.”
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and Harry wormed farther into her mind as he
selected nuggets of information. If Lucius was Voldemort’s right hand,
Bellatrix was his left. In her mind, he saw Voldemort’s face, the face of which
he had only dreamed, the face that haunted him in the mirror. He was handsome,
this new Voldemort, having reclaimed his stolen youth – by stealing it from
others, he saw. He shone with magic and power, and his angled face bore a
sensuous mouth and high cheekbones, but yellow, slitted eyes, like a snake.
“What of Azkaban?” She cut into his exploration of her mind. “Surely you do-
gooders prefer to send us back to that place than to get your hands dirty.”
He shook his head. “Clearly not good enough. How many of you have escaped? It
would not take you long to escape again, I’m sure. I’d have considered the
Dementor’s Kiss for you, but I’d rather do it myself.” And with that, he
borrowed her spell and swept a glamour over his own features, twisting them
into the image of a ghostly Dementor. Bellatrix paled and her foot slipped from
beneath her to hit the floor.
He lifted the glamour with a shake of his head. “But I won’t kill you,
Bellatrix. After all, you’re almost family.” And he smiled.
Bellatrix shivered and twitched, and she reached a hand up to scrape at the
base of her skull where Harry had found a secret cask of information: the names
of Death Eaters and of supporters, the movement of spies, and locations where
Death Eaters met and where they planned to attack. He went deeper, abandoning
finesse, and Bellatrix dug at her skull, pulling hair from her head, screaming
a desperate cry. He took everything she had to offer, and when he pulled back,
she slumped down and slid from the chair to pool on the floor in a heap of
unconsciousness.
Harry stood and crouched down over her. He brushed a hand over her face and
pulled her glamour away, and then swept his hand against her arm. The magic
there was strong. He knew he couldn’t pull the mark from her arm, but what he
could do was unravel the chain of energy that linked her to Voldemort.
The chain of red energy snapped like an elastic band and disappeared from the
room, pulling with it all remaining magic from Bellatix. Her skin sank down
against her skull, paper-thin and dry and splitting at her mouth and nose. The
wounds at her mouth stank of infection.
He levitated her to the small bed and laid her head down gently on the pillow,
letting her grey, lifeless hair spill out around her.
When she woke, he thought to himself as he left the room, she would choose the
southeast window.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Snape picked himself off the floor of his dungeon laboratory, set his robes to
right, and went about cleaning up the mess.
The arm of his robe had burned clear away. The scar beneath raged a red so
bloody and throbbed with such pain that it felt as though it was newly
imprinted into his flesh. Voldemort was angry. Extremely angry. Snape did not
know what had caused it, but he was exceptionally glad not to be anywhere close
to the man. Voldemort’s rage had managed to provoke such intense pain, even at
this distance, that it had caused Snape to collapse unconscious against his
boiling cauldron, sending the whole lot crashing to the floor.
He found his wand, which had sprung from his pocket and rolled under a corner
of his worktable, and he set the large, cast-iron cauldron back on its feet and
cast a scouring spell across the floor. Fourteen hours of careful and diligent
potions work, gone to waste. He was glad he had not fallen into Harry’s potion,
as it was nearly ready, would be so by nightfall, if all went well, and he
certainly didn’t have the time to begin again.
His body shook from Voldemort’s cry and he felt nauseated and ill. He would
give it an hour, perhaps two, and then restart the healing potion.
Snape left his lab and stripped from his outer layers on the opposite side of
the door, leaving the clothing in a heap by the door. The house elves were
forbidden to enter his laboratory, but since the incident and subsequent
fallout of early 1987, his office had been declared fair game to their
meddling. No sooner had he dropped the heap than it disappeared. In his stained
trousers and ruined shirtsleeves, he headed directly to his liquor cabinet. Two
shots of Bartholomew’s Burgundy Bourbon, and he finally released a long, heavy
breath.
From her perch on his chair, Hedwig let out a querying sound, and Snape turned
to look at her.
“Long day,” he said simply. He stripped from the rest of his ruined clothing
and dressed quickly and minimally in clothes he kept in his office for off-
chance disasters, in clean black trousers and a soft white button-down. Over
this, before he ventured into the world, he would put on several more layers, a
stiff vest, an austere jacket, and long, voluminous robes, but for now, he kept
his comfort and went to sit in his chair, letting his head fall back to touch
the owl’s feathers.
She tilted her head and clacked her beak, shifting her footing, and Snape
closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “No. There’s certainly no need to
bother him. He is busy enough by far without having to run to my side for
every…” He sighed again. “He is busy enough. I will see him later. Tonight.”
Their nights together had been few and far between, had been nearly non-
existent. Save the night before, Snape had only caught glimpses of Harry out
windows and across fields and down hallways. He reminded himself often that it
was a war, and that he was busy, that they were both busy. He reminded himself
that Harry seemed to think that he loved Snape, that he, in fact, seemed to
want Snape, as unbelievable as that might be. He reminded himself that he had
gone forty years without needing Harry by his side. He reminded himself, quite
sternly, that he was Severus Snape, that he didn’t need anyone, that he
certainly didn’t miss anyone, let alone Harry Potter. Snape reminded himself of
these things, but he was tired and lonely, and he had always been tired, but
lonely was quite a new thing.
He supposed he might have been lonely as a very young child, but he had quickly
learned that being alone was preferable to being in company, and when one wants
to be alone, one isn’t lonely.
Snape looked down at his hands, folded carefully in his lap, and smiled
bitterly, and then he stood and laughed quietly at himself, while the owl gazed
back at him curiously, her head tilted and her eyes wide.
“Well. Let’s find him, shall we?”
She hooted loudly in agreement and flew circles about the room while he
retrieved his many layers and dressed in them, shielding himself for the world.
Hedwig hooted again in pleasure and perched heavily on his shoulder, digging
her claws into his thick, unyielding layers of cloth. She nipped at his hair,
tugging it fondly, and he smiled and opened his door.
Trelawney’s ghost stood outside his door, staring around herself with a bemused
expression, seemingly lost. She turned to look at him as the door opened, and
her face broke into a wide grin.
“Severus, dear, how are you?”
He stepped through her, closed the door, and kept walking.
“Severus? Severus!” She floated along the hallway, following him closely. He
could hear her panting for breath, as if winded, and he rolled his eyes in
annoyance. Forever posturing, would it never cease? How many years had he
longed for this woman’s death… How stupid he had been. In death, she was far,
far worse. He should have wished for his own death.
Hedwig hissed and the ghost made a startled sound.
“Goodness, that creature is possessed. You should have that checked. Wouldn’t
want it to get worse. Why, I remember once, I knew a man whose cat became
possessed by the spirit of Napoleon Bonaparte. The poor thing didn’t know what
to do with itself. It was really quite disastrous for the furniture, as you
might imagine.”
Snape growled under his breath as he climbed the stairs to the main hall and
pushed open the heavy door.
“How are you, Severus? You never said.” She floated beside him, keeping pace
despite his best efforts. Her hair kept brushing against his face, leaving
trails of icy tickles against his skin, which he forced himself to ignore. “I
haven’t seen terribly much of you lately, dear. Are you quite well?”
Snape clenched his teeth and headed through the Great Hall toward the small
exit hidden in the anteroom behind the main table. It lead out toward the side
gardens, and he knew that Harry often spent much of his time there, for it was
where Moody and McGonagall had set up a large war tent.
“You seem pale, Severus dear.” Trelawney laughed and then continued, “Of
course, so do I. But you, at least, aren’t dead. Not yet anyway.” She stopped
still in the doorway, directly in his path, and she held out a hand toward
something only she could see.
Snape walked through her again and then growled angrily to discover that
someone had stacked the anteroom full of crates and boxes. A narrow path wound
through the crates, but he had far too much self-respect to wedge himself
through that mess. He brought out his wand and the boxes began to arrange
themselves in high stacks against the walls.
“Oh, Severus, they’re so beautiful…”
He glanced back at her in irritation and found her staring into dead space, her
expression as soft and awed as her voice. Her hand seemed to trace something in
the empty space. She smiled.
“And so powerful. Your blood, his blood, and oh! The Snake and the Poison will
make you immortal.”
Several boxes dropped to the floor, spilling out contents that exploded in tiny
puffs of blue and green smoke, as Snape turned to stare at the ghost who
startled as if from deep sleep. She blinked and looked at him, taking in the
smoke and the upturned boxes, and her face crinkled in confusion.
“Goodness, what happened here? What a mess! Can’t you move things better than
that, Severus? Honestly.”
She shook her head in disappointment and moved past him, out the still-closed
door.
Snape turned his head to follow her, and when she disappeared through the door,
he cursed loudly and pushed through the ruins of boxes for the door.
It opened into sunlight and Trelawney was nowhere to be seen.
“Bugger all,” he said sharply, and McGonagall, exiting the large tent directly
ahead of the castle’s exit, shot him a hard look.
“Severus, there may be children about.”
He growled at her as his eyes scanned the area again, unsuccessfully, for the
alleged seer. Only twice in life had her predictions been worth the air they
used, both of which had had disastrous results, but her ghostly status had
imparted upon her, as well as everyone else within ear’s range, predictions of
uncanny accuracy.
It was not the first that Snape had heard of the Snake and the Poison, and he
was unsettled to have the specter of that prediction return to him. He had been
seventeen and nearly free of Hogwarts and had only just recieved notification
that his mother was once again overnighting in a muggle hospital, when he was
approached by a cheap, street fortune-teller, smelling of the same sort of wine
his father drank when he could not afford beer. The Snake and the Poison will
make you immortal, the fortune-teller had told him and had clung to his sleeve
with a desperation Snape had assumed was owing to whatever coin he might offer
in exchange for the pitiful prediction. He had shaken off the elderly man, but
had been unable to shake the prediction with the same ease.
The Snake was likely Voldemort. And the Poison – it was what he did best.
Voldemort had loved his inventive poisons. Severus had thought the prophecy
spelled success for both Voldemort and himself, by his master’s side.
The outcome hadn’t been quite so successful. Certainly, his experience as a
Death Eater hadn’t equalled immortality. If that prophecy had, in fact,
reflected his time with Voldemort, it had drastically shortened his life-
expectancy. He had no desire to be drawn into prophecies and predictions once
again. They were a siren’s song for those who placed their faith upon them.
Albus Dumbledore had always been a fool for them, each more destructive than
the last. The old man had taken a infant of prophecy and raised it to die a
hero’s death, and had then decided to throw sexual torture and subjugation on
top of that, as if Harry had not already resigned himself to death.
No, Trelawney and her predictions could go hang for all Snape cared.
He shook his head and turned back toward McGonagall. “Where is the war hero
now?”
“Planning,” she replied and tossed a glance over her shoulder, past the command
tent, toward a small, scraggly-looking tent which housed the whole of the
Weasley clan. The eldest Weasley boy had been sent out some time ago on one of
Dumbledore’s secretive missions, yet to return, and the rest kept by Harry’s
right hand, save the one child who remained sequestered at the Ministry.
He had avoided the tent thus far and had no desire to venture within. It was
filled with Weasleys. And while he could think of worse places to be, it
certainly held no appeal whatsoever. He nudged the owl, still seated on his
shoulder, and she nipped his ear warningly and took off through the air into
the open doorway of the Weasley tent.
“What does he plan now?” Snape asked McGonagall, who sighed with all the long-
suffering of a woman who clearly wished she had retired some time ago.
“Goodness only knows. Something to do with the wretched dragons, I believe, and
with whatever the blasted twins have been planning, for all the good that’ll do
us.”
“As they have managed to redirect their miscreant tendencies into a successful
enterprise, perhaps they might yet prove formidable foes for the Dark Lord.
They were certainly that for the faculty during their time here.”
McGonagall’s lips quirked into a smile. “Why, Severus, that was very nearly
complimentary. You’ve gone soft.”
“I have done nothing of the sort.”
“Ah, but you have, my friend.” She tilted her head and the sun glinted off the
silver of her hair. “It’s a relief to see you happy, Severus. I do admit, I had
my reservations about your, ah, your connection to Harry, but it does seem to
have done wonders for you both.”
“My connection to Harry,” Snape repeated as he stared down at her, and she
coloured under his gaze.
“Oh pish, leave an old woman alone,” she elbowed him and her eyes crinkled in a
smile. “I was an unfortunate vintage by the time the Sorting Hat fell on your
wee head, and I’ve gone full vinegar at this point. The boy is half your age.
That is no secret, and these things are no longer en vogue. You’re well set
that he’s now of age and the Ministry will no doubt let him write his own rules
if this doesn’t all go pear-shaped. Some will find fault with that, the age
difference, I mean, but I’ve known you since you were nothing more than a dark
wisp of a child, and this is certainly the healthiest connection that I have
ever seen you fall into.”
She reached up to pat at his cheek, a liberty he would never have allowed had
they not been hidden from view by the castle wall and the large tent. He could
tell she was well aware of the weight of her presumption. He did not shake her
off, but rolled his eyes instead, and the corners of her lips rose as she gave
him a knowing smile.
“You may keep your opinions to yourself, you old tabby,” he told her and her
smile widened. “I have more important things to do than listen to you prattle
on.”
“I would expect you do, with a young man like that.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but her expression gave away nothing untoward.
“As I said, he is with the Weasleys in their tent, but don’t monopolize too
much of his attention today. From what I’m to understand, we’ve a long day
ahead of us and a much longer one tomorrow.” She patted his arm and disappeared
into the castle.
He took a deep breath and marched into the Weasley’s tent.
As typical for a wizarding tent, the interior was deceptively large, and as
ramshackle as one might expect of a Weasley domicile. The furnishings were
eclectic, although warm and inviting, if one cared for that sort of thing.
Harry sat at a heavy wooden table, along with Ron, Charlie, the infamous twins,
and their mother, and to a head, they all looked up in surprise to see him
enter. Perched on a Victorian china hutch, Hedwig let out a low cackle and he
shot her a level glare, traitorous beast.
“Severus,” Harry stood and smiled at him. “Hi.”
Snape stopped still and, for a moment, allowed himself to be dazzled by this
powerful, beautiful creature who smiled at the sight of him, who had, only the
night before, been taken apart by his mouth and by his hands, before he
remembered their audience. He swept his eyes over their faces and was annoyed
by the soft look on Molly Weasley’s face and the knowing look shared by the
twins. He glared at the twins and ignored Molly. She had come to his aid enough
times in the past that he graced her with indifference rather than disdain.
“Harry, if I may have a word with you?” He glanced again at the Weasleys and
narrowed his eyes as the twins grinned at him. “Alone.”
“Anything you say to Harry, you can say to us. We’re all family here, Severus,”
Fred saluted him with his cup.
George elbowed him sharply in the side. “Speak for yourself. There are things
we definitely don’t need to hear. Squishy things. Anything to do with pants.”
“George! Fred! Mind your manners, for the love of Merlin. I am sure that I
raised you better than that!” She nudged at Harry’s shoulder. “Go on, Harry
dear. I’ll keep the tea hot.”
Harry nodded and, as he stood, he turned to Charlie, and said, “I’ll see you
later, yeah? We’ll want to send them out before their evening meal.”
Charlie waved him off with his cup. “There’s time yet. They’re ready whenever
you are.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Harry rounded the large table and Snape spun on his heel and left the tent. He
made an abrupt left and led Harry to the side of the tent, hopefully far enough
to keep them out of ear’s range, although with the twins, Antarctica might not
be far enough. He was well-aware of their ongoing efforts to patent their
Extendable Ears. They were, thankfully, still a controlled product for the time
being.
Harry moved into him as he came to a stop – his hand held Snape’s arm and he
leaned up for a kiss, which Snape couldn’t help but return, despite their
public location. His own hand came up and stroked against Harry’s cheek, and
his heart clenched painfully in his chest as he pulled back and looked into
Harry’s bright eyes. He was a fool for this boy. An utter fool.
“Are you okay?”
Snape blinked at him for a moment and then shook himself. “Yes. No, I am, I was
–” He stopped and sighed, and he rubbed at his forehead as he took a step back.
“The Dark Lord has sent a message across the Death Eaters. He is… He is
extremely angry, more so than I have felt in a very long time. I don’t know
what has prompted it.”
He trailed off as Harry’s eyes slid sideways and then sighed at the look on his
face. “What have you done now?”
“Bellatrix is dead.”
Snape froze for a moment. They had only captured her the morning before. It was
rather speedy for a trial, even a battlefield one. “Did you – did you do this?”
Harry shook his head, his mouth slanted in a miserable downturn. “Not… not
directly? She…” He took a deep breath and Snape could see a faint tremor in his
hands. “She deserved to die. She was a terrible, terrible person. There was no
heart in her. None. There was only sickness. Deep, rotting sickness, all the
way through her. She deserved to die.”
“How?”
“I – I broke her connection to Voldemort. He’d tethered himself and his magic
to her, through her Mark. She could use his magic through it. She was so
strong. Moody had given her that paralyzing potion, but she had kept her
glamour so she was still dangerous. I tore it out of her, his magic, and sent
it back to him. I…” Harry faltered and looked away. “I took what we needed from
her mind. I stripped her of her glamours and her magic and her connection to
Voldemort. They… they found her this morning. She had, um. She jumped.”
“From the tower.”
Harry nodded.
“Bellatrix Lestrange has killed herself because of you… because you stripped
her of her powers.”
Harry dipped his head and, as his cheek flushed, he scrubbed his hand through
his hair. “I know it’s a bit not good. But it felt right at the time? She was
such a terrible person. She really was. Putting her in Azkaban wasn’t going to
do anything. She was just going to escape again. You know she would. And she
was never going to talk. Not to say anything useful anyway. She’d talk and talk
and drive us all out of our – ”
He took a deep breath again and looked up at Snape. “I didn’t really kill her.
I just… I let her choose. I know it’s not… I know that that’s a pretty slim
point but –”
Snape reached out and collected Harry against him. Harry’s heart was pounding
in his chest. Snape could feel it reverberating in his own ribs. “No, no. You
weren’t wrong. If anyone deserved to die, it was certainly Bellatix. It’s a
relief to know she is gone. She was… She was not well.”
“You aren’t… Molly was really disappointed in me.”
“This may come as something of a surprise to you, Harry, but I am not Molly
Weasley.”
Harry’s lips turned upwards hesitantly. “You might look good in an apron.”
He gave him a long look and Harry’s smile broadened, as though a sliver of
sunlight after a long night.
“I thought you and the Weasleys were friends now.”
“What on earth could lead you to that belief? I have no strong apathy toward
them, save the infernal twins, but friends is most certainly a stretch.”
Harry smiled. “I thought for sure that you and Ron were friends now.”
Snape rolled his eyes. “That is a significant stretch. I would better say we
have a mutual short-lived tolerance for one another.”
The young man grinned. His eyes shone. “Fine. And Ginny?”
“Miss Weasley? What of her?”
“How do you get on with her?”
Snape shrugged. “Decently.” She was a fair student, seemingly dedicated to her
studies and self-improvement, and with an interest in potions besides. He could
very nearly excuse her from her Weasleyness.
A secretive smile tugged at Harry’s lips and he pushed himself upward to take
Snape’s lips gently with his own.
Snape cleared his throat as they parted. His heart was a traitorous beast.
“Minerva made some allusion to a plan involving the dragons?”
“Mm, yes. I’m sending the dragons out tonight to torch the Summer House. I’m
hoping they won’t have too much of a forewarning. He won’t be killed, but it
might reduce their numbers somewhat.” Harry shook his head. “He’ll retaliate. I
think if we manage to destroy that house, we can expect the attack tomorrow,
perhaps even by dawn. He found some way around the wards once. I can only
assume it wasn’t a fluke.”
Harry looked up at him and asked, “Is that potion ready? That, uh, that special
potion? You never did tell me exactly what it was for.”
“I’m certain that I did.”
“Well, remind me? I gave some pretty personal bits over to it, so… I ought to
know what that’s about.”
Snape glanced around himself. In the distance, he could see several people on
brooms flying over the pitch, but there was no one nearby. He took a halfstep
closer and lowered his voice as he said, “It’s a potion of my own devising,
based in part on the disused Felix Conubium, which, when consumed by the two
individuals for whom the potion was crafted, would provide the pair with
success on, originally, their nuptuals. I have tinkered with the formula,
enhancing it with aspects of Felix Felicis and the now controlled Iunctu
Praecantatio, which will allow us to create and share a pool of magic. If all
proceeds as expected, we will both benefit from enhanced magic and a hefty dose
of good fortune, which should last two to three days. It may, in fact, join our
thoughts so we may act in tandem. That is one potential effect of a well-
crafted Iunctu Praecantatio, after all.”
Harry blinked twice and then a beautiful smile curled his lips. He reached over
the short distance and laced his fingers between Snape’s and pulled their
shared fist to his chest. Snape could feel Harry’s heartbeat against his
knuckles.
“You invented a potion for me?”
“For us, yes,” Snape nodded. “We will need all the luck we can manage, I
believe.”
“We will, at that,” Harry’s smile slid from his lips and he ran the fingers of
his free hand through his hair, which now fell nearly to his shoulders. While
he kept it to himself, Snape missed the short messiness of his previous
hairstyle. The longer style lent Harry a shadowed look. The dark circles under
his eyes seemed darker and hollower – he looked quite haunted. It did not agree
with him.
“ – will be ready by tonight?”
“The potion? Yes. It ought to be ready shortly after the evening meal, although
if it is bottled properly, it should keep for another fortnight. But, if what
you say is true, the timing is fortuitous.” Snape raised the hand that wasn’t
clasped within Harry’s and touched his fingertips to Harry’s jaw briefly. Harry
closed his eyes, but before Snape could lean in, Mad-Eye rounded the corner of
the tent and glowered at them both, and so Snape stepped back and reluctantly
shook his hand loose.
“I expect you will be occupied for the remainder of the afternoon, but can I
expect you will allow yourself time by this evening?”
Harry smiled at him, ignoring Mad-Eye completely, who harrumphed noisily.
“It may not be until late, but yes, of course, I will be there, Severus. And
tomorrow night…” He trailed off and his eyes slid away again.
Yes, Snape thought, tomorrow night. By then, it would be a different world
entirely, regardless of the outcome.
===============================================================================
Harry watched as Snape disappeared into the castle and he tightened his hand
into a fist, as though he could capture the electric feeling Snape’s touch had
left in his fingertips and keep that feeling locked away beneath his skin. He
wished that feeling was enough; he wished he could somehow amplify it and make
it loud enough to drown out how much his skin craved another’s touch.
He had accidentally caught his own reflection in the mirror that morning and
his heart had pounded so loudly in his chest, he was sure he would wake Snape,
who slept on in the adjacent room. He could see Voldemort hidden within his own
gaze, dark, slitted eyes behind his own, staring back at him with a proprietary
smirk dancing in the corner of his lips. There were times when he would almost
swear that his hands, his movements, were no longer his own. He found himself
gripping onto his medallion, with no memory of reaching for it, or, worse yet,
he found himself standing in the field and overlooking the growing army, as
though mapping them. He felt as though he might be losing his mind entirely.
He wished he could go back, far back, as far back as he could, and escape who
he had managed to become – but he couldn’t imagine at what point of his life he
could restart where it would not all end up such a disaster once again. Was
this future so inevitable? Had he been born for this? Was Dumbledore right? Had
he truly only been born to be the foil to a man that no one else could kill?
Could he not have made other choices and have managed to not feel so empty, not
feel so bruised and exhausted, and not feel so… damaged?
Harry gave a minute shake of his head and turned his attention to Moody, who
also stared after Snape, but with an ugly sort of curl to his mouth.
“What do you need, Moody?”
“Boy, I have no place to stick my foot into your business –”
“Well, we can agree on that, at least,” Harry cut him off sharply. His fist
tightened against his thigh again.
Moody took his flask from his jacket to take a short quaff of it. He wiped his
mouth with the back of hand and said, “Well, it’s your life, I suppose, but
that man has always been a strange one. A bitter brew.”
“Amazing,” Harry snapped back at him as his patience broke. “Please, tell me
more about this man I know nothing about.”
Moody laughed, a dry, cracking sound, as though it was rarely produced. He took
another, deeper drink from his flask and pocketed it again.
“Like I said, it’s your life, lad. It’s no skin from my nose if that’s the arse
you want to chase. I’ve seen better arses in my time, is all, but it takes all
types, they say,” Moody shrugged dismissively. “Well, now that’s over and done,
Firenze has just arrived at the war tent and is looking for you. Afterward,
we’ll be needing to go over with Hooch the plans for her unit, and then I’ve
got word that the Merpeople have some sort of queen who wants to talk to you
for whatever good that’ll do us. And I’ll be needing to know when those dragons
are going out, and how, exactly, we’re expecting to get them back afterward. Do
dragons come when you call? Does that Weasley have a whistle for them?”
Harry took off his glasses and pinched at the bridge of his nose as Moody
listed his schedule for the afternoon. He slid the glasses back onto his nose
and, with a resigned nod, said, “Let’s get on with it then.”
===============================================================================
Neville spent the majority of his afternoon with Professor Sprout. They’d
catalogued each greenhouse and then had done their utmost to soothe the plants’
agitated spirits. Plants, like animals, knew when disaster was imminent, and so
Neville had spent a significant part of his afternoon convincing his plants
that they would not be trampled, or set on fine, or crushed beneath a collapsed
house of glass.
It approached evening, as he catalogued Greenhouse 17, when he felt something
bump against his arm and looked down to find a scrap of parchment, folded into
the shape of a miniscule frog. He tapped it with his wand, and the parchment
unfolded to reveal two words.
Stars below.
He brushed his hands against his thighs and stood slowly, rising from a crouch
that he had held for long enough, his ankles protesting the sudden movement. He
picked up the significantly longer piece of parchment on which he had written
out the contents of Greenhouse 17 (four varieties of tomatoes, seven of
peppers, three of sage, as well as borage, calendula, marigolds and
nasturtiums, some of which were magical strains, most of which weren’t), and
rolled it up tightly. He would deliver it to Madam Pince for the security
archive before he answered Dumbledore’s call. The note hadn’t been written in
red ink, thus likely wasn't an emergency summons, although the timing would
indicate otherwise.
Dumbledore had always had the most dramatic of timing. He had been away on his
mysterious mission for weeks only to return now, on the eve of what would
likely be a vicious confrontation.
He wanted to put his faith in Harry, he wanted to believe in him and their
chances, but in satisfying Dumbledore’s prophecy, they had ruined him. He was a
shadow of his former self, and Neville hated himself for it. Harry had come to
his defence time after time, and Neville had ruined him.
Draco kept trying to remind Neville that he shouldn’t hate himself – he should
hate Dumbledore – the one who had put his faith in the prophecy, who had
orchestrated people as though they were pawns on a chessboard, who had allowed
Harry to be captured. Who had manipulated them all so skillfully and then
blackmailed them into silence. Draco hated Dumbedore and he did so with a
seething undercurrent of emotion, carefully banked, that would one day break at
precisely the moment Draco decided was best timed. That was a thing Draco could
do, but Neville’s emotions were forceful and wanted to be expressed. He
couldn’t conserve his feelings until the appropriate moment the way Draco
could, but he had been forced to do just that and the result was that his anger
and disgust had begun to bleed within himself and were slowly poisoning him
with self-loathing. He couldn’t help it.
One day, Harry was going to learn about the prophecy and he was going to kill
them all. They had ensured that he would be put in a position to break down the
walls around his full magical potential, and now he was the most powerful
wizard since perhaps Merlin himself. What guarantee did they think they had
that Harry wouldn’t turn that magic on them when he learned of their betrayal?
None. What they had all done was unforgiveable.
Neville didn’t have any illusions that anyone would speak in his defence
either. The only ones who might were the same people who he would meet in that
small room beneath the Astronomy Tower, and they would all be in the same boat.
He left the library behind and, as he neared the Astronomy Tower, encountered
Remus, and Neville offered him nod in greeting. The man did not look well at
all. He was pale and drawn, with dark, purple hollows beneath his eyes, and his
scars stood out a deep pink.
“How are you?” Neville asked him as he scratched at a recessed stone with his
wand. The door swung open for them.
“Tired,” Remus answered and rubbed absently at one of the long scars along his
neck. “I’m not particularly in my element. War, any sort of conflict, has never
been my forte. Were it not for the times in which I have found myself, and for
the people with whom I have associated, war would never have been a thing I
sought.”
“I don’t think anyone seeks out war, not anyone in their right mind.”
Remus’s lips turned up and his small laugh had a bitter tone to it. “Well, I
wouldn’t say he was ever in his right mind, but Sirius would have loved this. I
can do war, if I must, and I have done. I’m no coward – I’m a Gryffindor and a
Marauder besides, but Sirius… Sirius could fight like a demon, and honestly, he
loved to do it.” Remus shook his head. “Sirius hated to be bored and when he
was, that was when the worst of him emerged. He always had a bit of a cruel
streak, a viciousness that I could never match, not that I wanted to do so. But
war, battle… it may be many things but it is not boring. He was well suited to
it.”
Neville didn’t quite know how to respond to that, and Remus seemed to sense his
hesitation.
“You wonder how I could stand by someone with such a viciousness to them? How I
might be able to love someone who could find joy in the ruin of others? First,
tell me,” Remus tilted his head and offered him a wry smile, “How is Draco
these days?”
Neville flushed and opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn’t certain, when
Hagrid pushed into the room and stomped to one of the undersized wooden chairs,
which creaked dangerously under his weight.
Blind to the strange tension in the room, he said, “The dragons were just sent
off, then, poor things. Beau'iful creatures, they are.”
“Are you worried about the dragons, Hagrid?” Neville asked, grateful for the
interruption to Remus’s question.
He and Draco were… Well, they were something. He wasn’t entirely sure what that
something was, and even less sure about Ginny, but he knew the press of each of
their lips against his own, and he had bruises on his hips from Draco’s tight
hold as they had kissed and kissed again. Ginny had been right – the potting
shed was an excellent location for a snog.
Hagrid settled back further into the chair and said, “I’m a tetch worried. So’s
Charlie, even, but these are dragons. They don’t mind a bit o’ death. They like
it – like the killin’. All good fun for them. Goats aren’t much challenge, so
you can tell they’re excited to be sent out for somethin’ with a bit more bite
to it.”
“A bit of viciousness to them, then?” Remus asked with the same wry smile on
his lips, and Neville dipped his head as he felt himself flush again.
“Oh aye. More ‘n a bit, I’d say,” Hagrid returned easily, innocent to their
previous conversation. “Can’t judge that. They’re dragons. It’s what they were
born to do. I understand a bit, meself.” And he lowered his voice, as if the
room was not already secure and soundproof. “I am half-giant, yeh know, and
giants – they like a bit o’ destruction too. Not me, I like a good cuppa and a
night in with Fang at my feet or good friends at the door, but I’m won’t deny
it anyone else, if it’s what they were born to do.”
“Besides, which,” Remus interjected, “I imagine that viciousness is rather
sexy, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hagrid glanced over at Neville and raised his eyebrows as he shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. The wood made an ominous creaking sound. “The… the
giants? Sexy?”
Remus’s eyes widened and he cut his hand throught the air, but Hagrid didn’t
notice the frantic gesture.
“Not t’judge but I’m not sure I follow yeh there, Remus. Full-blooded giants
are…” Hagrid’s nose wrinkled. “They’re not very good at bathin’ or, or… or
anythin’ to do with hygiene, really. But!” Hagrid shrugged and gave Remus a
friendly smack on the shoulder. Remus pitched forward against the table under
the blow. “I can see how tha’ might be sexy for some. I’ve still some contacts
in amongs’ them, if you want t’meet one or two. Didn' know you was interested!”
Neville buried his face in his hands and shook with restrained laughter.
“Did I miss a joke?’ Draco said as he slid into the room and settled into the
seat beside Neville, who felt himself flush warmer against his palms. He
wondered if he could manage to keep his face covered for the entirety of the
meeting.
“By the looks of things,” Moody’s gruff voice broke in, “I’m glad to have
missed this supposed joke.”
Neville heard him flick open his flask and take a deep drink, and Draco elbowed
him gently in the side.
He swallowed heavily and then lifted his face from his hands. While Snape was
still missing from the table, Dumbledore now stood at the head of the table and
his hands, covered by thick leather gloves, rested on the back of his seat. His
face was grey and worn and his long hair hung lank around his face. Neville had
never seen him look as exhausted as he did now. The skin of his face seemed as
thin as paper, as though he was wasting away. Neville felt his voice catch in
his throat, holding back whatever greeting he might have expressed.
“Thank you for joining me,” Dumbledore rasped in a voice thick with dissuse.
Neville glanced around at the others, and he could see that they all, in their
own ways, were shocked by Dumbledore’s appearance. Where had he been? What had
happened to him?
Below the line of the table, Draco’s hand slid over to Neville’s knee and
gripped it with a hand that trembled ever so slightly, and then he asked, in a
deceptively steady voice, “Do we wait on Professor Snape?”
“No. Severus has other matters to attend to tonight.”
Dumbledore began to round his chair, but they could all see the tremor shaking
through him. Remus moved as though to get up, but Dumbledore waved off the
assistance with one hand while keeping a firm grip on his seat with the other.
His robes hung from him as they would from a mannequin.
“I trust you have all kept well during my absence?”
“You left us with very little instruction. We’ve made the best of it, as we
could,” Draco told him.
“As well you have. As well you have,” Dumbledore smiled at him. “I have yet to
speak with Minerva to update myself on the preparations, but things do seem to
be coming along well. I’m pleased.” He settled gently into his seat and he
seemed smaller, somehow, than he had before he had left.
Neville glanced around the table again, unsure if someone should comment on his
appearance, but Draco’s fingers dug into his knee and he bit back the questions
poised to spill over his lips.
“Bellatrix is dead,” Moody broke in to the uneasy silence. “That’s something
your boy managed while you were off gallavanting or whathaveyou. Tore her mind
in two and ripped near all of You-Know-Who’s secrets out. Filled a penseive to
overflowing. If he manages to kill him tomorrow, we’ll still have everything we
need to hunt down the rest of the Death Eaters and take down their networks.
Who knew the saviour would turn out to be a top-rate mind-flayer? Too bad he’s
going to die tomorrow. We could have used him in the aurors.”
“You absolute arse.” The words escaped Neville before he could stop them. “How
callous must you be? He isn’t here to die for you.”
Moody blinked at him and then reached for his flask and opened it one handed.
“I’ve heard two prophecies that indicate otherwise. Why are you here, if you
don’t believe in them?”
And Neville, quite suddenly, had had enough.
“Because he,” Neville jabbed his finger out toward Dumbledore and ignored the
urgent grip Draco suddenly had on his leg, “failed to mention your goddamned
prophecy until after I had stolen Ministry secrets for him, after I had
committed fucking treason for him, and then, when I told him I wanted nothing
to do with him or this bloody group, he told me that that was a shame, but
being in this group was certainly better than being in Azkaban, wasn’t it?”
Neville pushed himself out of his chair and towered over the seated Dumbledore,
who watched him back unmovingly. “Wouldn't it be terrible if my Gran ended up
in Azkaban for harboring a terrorist? That was what you said, wasn't it?
Because threatening me wasn't enough, you had to go for her too. Merlin only
knows what you have over Hagrid, because he loves Harry. He’d die for Harry.
He’d personally kill a hippogriff for Harry if he had to.”
Through the haze of his anger, he heard Hagrid mutter, “I’d kill a hun’red fer
Harry, I would.”
“And you,” Remus flinched as Neville rounded on him. His anger tore through him
and he bled out his rage. He couldn’t staunch it – nor did he want to. This had
been building in him for nearly four years and it was a relief to let it loose.
“What would his parents say if they knew you were doing this to him? What would
his mother say? What do you think Sirius would say?”
He turned his anger back at Dumbledore but found the man observing his angry
outburst as if nothing unusual were happening at all. The placidity of his
expression, the calmness of his posture, the easiness of his hands folded on
the table – Neville abruptly lost all wind from his sails. His shoulders
dropped and he knew, very clearly, that nothing he said or did would have any
effect on the Headmaster. His anger did not even merit the rating as an
inconvenience. He was a fly and Dumbledore was a dragon.
He knew someone who might listen. There was still one person who had power,
power that even Dumbledore could not ignore.
Neville spun on his heels and stormed out of the room. He couldn’t be certain
where Harry might be – it was late, he wouldn’t still be out in the war tent.
Visiting Hermione in the infirmary, perhaps, but most likely, he was in the
dungeons.
He had no idea where Snape’s private rooms might be, but he knew who could find
them, and he knew where to find her.
He had gotten only as far as the end of the hallway before he heard footsteps
running up behind him, and Draco caught him by the arm and spun him back
against the wall, mashing him against the portrait of two women sharing a
single slice of pie.
“Let me go,” Neville pushed back, but Draco gripped at his forearm with one
hand and held him pinned at the shoulder with the other. “I’m done. I don’t
know how I made it this far, but I am done. I have to go tell Harry everything.
He has to know. He has to know what we did to him.”
“You are the epitome of Gryffindor, you absolute idiot,” Draco said and he
pressed into Neville, full-body, and slid his hips in against Neville’s as he
captured his mouth.
Neville gasped and arched into the sudden heat of Draco’s body against his own,
and Draco took the advantage and pushed his tongue into Neville’s mouth, slick
and possessive, and his hips jerked forward as the electric feeling slid
through him. Dimly, he was aware of the sharp oh my! from the two portraited
women, but he pushed his hands into Draco’s fine hair and grabbed fistfuls of
it to pull Draco closer. He tipped back his head and gasped as Draco slid his
mouth down his jaw and bit at his neck, and his vision greyed as a hand slid
under the edge of his shirt and along the small of his back.
“Wait,” he gasped but Draco pulled his head down and took his mouth again, and
Neville’s head spun as he felt Draco press in against him, at the hard weight
which thrust against his hip. His own cock jumped against the thigh Draco gave
him and his hands scrabbled at Draco’s hips to hold him as closely as he could
manage.
The sound of a door opening brought them apart sharply. Draco turned to look
down the hall and Neville stared at the state of him – his lips were bruised
and bitten, his cheeks and neck were flushed and his eyes were blown wide, the
grey near black with lust. He looked illegal, a marble statue brought to life
and turned wanton.
The image of Draco spread out across dark sheets came to his mind and he closed
his eyes and thumped his head back against the portrait.
“We should go elsewhere,” Draco said and Neville opened his eyes again.
“We need to find Ginny.”
Draco’s eyebrows rose and he pressed in again, his eyes fixing on Neville’s
mouth.
“A wonderful idea,” he purred and Neville felt his whole body flush hotly.
“No, no, I – ” The Draco lying across the dark sheets in his mind was joined
suddenly by a slim, freckled body, red hair spilling across Draco’s pale chest.
Neville shivered all over.
“Merlin, no, I mean,” he sucked in a deep breath. “She’ll know where to find
Harry.”
Draco nipped at his jaw and said, “Potter isn’t invited.”
“No, I,” he set his hands on Draco’s shoulders and gave him a small push. “We
need to tell him, he needs to know.”
Draco took his face in his hands to still him. “What good will that do, at this
point? What will he benefit from that?”
“He deserves the truth!”
“Maybe,” Draco’s eyes held his own. The silver-grey of his eyes was flecked
with strands of dark blue, like an ocean storm. Neville’s breath caught in his
throat. “But what good will it do him? He’s already cut himself off from
Dumbledore. He already knows he’s been groomed as a weapon to kill the Dark
Lord. He already knows he’s likely to die. What good will it do him to know
that the Headmaster sacrificed him further to the altar of prophecy?”
“He should know what I did,” Neville whispered, and Draco closed his eyes
briefly.
“It will only hurt you both. But yes, we can tell him. Afterward. He does not
need more distraction now.”
Neville slumped back against the wall and he closed his eyes against the truth
of Draco’s words.
“Come,” Draco slid his hand to the nape of Neville’s neck and pulled him away
from the wall. “Let’s find Ginny and have the house elves deliver us a
camomile. You can both come to the Slytherin common room, if you wish. It’s
near empty, save Crabbe and Goyle, and those two shouldn’t be left alone for
very long.”
Neville nodded tiredly and he let Draco take him by the arm and guide him away.
Chapter End Notes
     I've updated the chapter numbers. Only 3 more to go!
End Notes
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