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Chapter Text

Harry Potter was, decidedly, not having a good summer. Between Petunia’s constant chores, Vernon’s incessant hounding and the general bleakness of Privet Drive, Harry was teeming with boredom by the end of June. His only solace, absurd as the thought may be, was Dudley; his cousin had generally ignored him for the first summer Harry could remember and they had managed to coincide remarkably peacefully. But, Harry reflected as he scrubbed Petunia’s kitchen counters for the third time this morning, the lack of ‘Harry Hunting’ this year provided ample amount of time for him to drown in his subconscious -- and Harry had been trying his best to ignore all his thoughts since Sirius’ passing. Dudley typically offered a distraction, and with his cousin’s strange avoidance Harry found himself wishing the torture would resume; anything to avoid thoughts of the Ministry was bliss.

He shook his head, turning to focus on the counters before his aunt could berate him for laziness, and increased the back and fourth of his scraping. Why she insisted the house be sterile at all hours of the day, Harry never understood. Regardless, he gave the kitchen a once over, trying to ascertain what crevices he had missed before deeming the area ‘up to Petunia’s standards’ and moved outside to begin work on the garden.

Life at the Dursleys was always tolerable at best, but this summer Harry didn’t seem to mind the work; he had tried to keep himself as busy as possible, residing to do Petunia’s chores by day and his summer homework by night, welcoming any possible solution to numb his persistent guilt. His belongings, by sheer miracle alone, had not been banished to the cupboard under the stairs -- despite Vernon’s threats -- and Harry had been on his best behavior to avoid the inevitable fate his trunk would meet. He knew he was on borrowed time, there was always some excuse given before he lost access to his things, and he was doing his best to ensure that he was granted as much time with his schoolwork as possible.

Harry grimaced as he suppressed a yawn, multitasking had come with a price, of course -- devoting time to his summer work had resulted in a serious loss of sleep. Not like I mind, though, Harry frowned as he revved up the lawnmower, not sleeping is better than the nightmares.

He sighed and the mower roared to life. Surrendering himself to another monotonous task, Harry began work on the lawn, making sure the rows he cut in were as even as possible -- it was pointless to try to irk the Dursleys. He had learned that lesson years ago.

Harry had not missed a task on his chores list since he was a child, and when he wasn’t in pain, he took pride in his work. He could admit satisfaction when the house was thoroughly cleaned, knowing it was spotless by his hand was a fulfilling feeling. But the amount of work he had been assigned this summer was insurmountable and his dry hands had begun to split and crack under the intensity of the cleaning products he was given. Keeping up with Petunia’s ever-increasing drudgery had been a difficult feat in itself, and his body was beginning to protest his working habits. His skin and lungs burned from the constant contact with bleach, his stomach clawed at him, desperate for food he was unwilling to provide and his eyes drooped horribly from restricted sleep. He looked horrid, Harry was sure of that though he’d avoided mirrors. He undoubtedly appeared worn out and frail, his body on the verge of collapse.

Just weed the planter then you’re done, Harry reminded himself as he returned the mower to the shed. Just one more thing then you can rest. But he felt his limbs challenge him with every step he took towards the planter and decided to appease his nerves by rehydrating.

Annoyed, Harry moved into the house quickly, chancing a look around the first floor before he allowed himself a drink of water. He filled the glass in the sink, relishing the cool relief the water provided his parched throat. He had been working since dawn, as was his usual routine, but couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to sit down and eat a full meal, or have a full glass of water. He hadn’t bothered to indulge in much of anything since Sirius-

Don’t think about that, Harry reminded himself, pouring the remaining contents of the glass in the sink; he needed enough water to get through the day, not make him lazy. It wouldn’t bode well with Petunia if he was nauseous. Harry washed out the glass, frowning at the thought of his aunt catching him relaxing, and placed it back in the cupboard. Better to let them think I don’t exist, he huffed as he methodically erased any evidence he had been in the kitchen at all.

Refreshed, he made his way over to the back door before glancing back inside the house out of habit. He locked eyes with Dudley who had emerged from the living room, his cousin eyeing him cautiously while moving towards the fridge. Harry observed in silence, waiting for Dudley to do something less than amicable. His cousin's massive build had transformed over the year Harry was at school. Dudley had slimmed considerably, putting on more muscle instead of pure fat -- a result of more boxing, Harry had guessed -- but he could never be considered small. He still took up an intimidating amount of space in any room he occupied and Harry often found himself shrinking away from Dudley’s daunting frame.

“If you’re gonna be in there,” Harry chided as Dudley turned to face him, “don’t make a mess. They’ll have my head if it's dirty.”

His cousin nodded and, deeming the conversation over, Harry returned to the garden and bent over the flower beds to begin weeding. He dug his hands around the first pigweed he saw, making sure to loosen the roots before pulling up, taking comfort in the labor. I wonder if Sirius likes gardening, his mind wondered absently before his frown deepened. Liked gardening, Harry reminded himself, I wonder if he liked gardening.

Harry shook his head, a feeble attempt to dispel the thoughts warring for dominance of his mind. He exhaled slowly, attempting to exude calmness, but despite his efforts, his hands shook as he reached into the planter again.

"I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black!" Her voice rang out in his head.

No, don’t think about that.

"Come out, come out, little Harry!" Bellatrix’s mocking pierced his skull. He tried to steady his breathing, his thunderous heartbeat pounding in an accelerating metronome.

"There’s nothing you can do, Harry-" Lupin’s words ripped through him as his shaking grew in intensity.

"It’s too late, Harry." His breath was coming in searing gasps. Try to breathe.

"He’s gone."

NO! His body screamed for release. Harry felt his panic rise and his breathing quicken, unable to inhale the oxygen around him. He clamped his eyes shut, focusing his mind on the rise and fall of his chest. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

He pressed his palms together, willing them to stop shaking as memories of the Ministry came flooding back in relentless waves: Voldemort’s mocking face, the violation he had felt when they shared a body, the blank stare Sirius had given him when the curse hit, how Harry had watched as the light drained from his Godfather’s eyes.

He wanted to scream. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, he clawed desperately at the wooden frame of the planter needing to grasp something physical. His heart beat faster still, unshed tears threatening to spill over as his anxiety built upon itself. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’tthinkaboutitDon’tthinkaboutitDon’tthinkaboutit.

Harry opened his eyes, gasping for breath, and jumped in shock at the green light in front of him. He hadn’t heard anyone shout an unforgivable. But the bright green surrounded him, its threatening neon invading his sight from all angles. This was the moment he was going to die, unprotected and alone, his wand still buried in his trunk.

“BOY!” A shout from the kitchen.

Harry shook his head, where was the killing curse? Surely it would’ve hit by now. “Boy! Come inside this instant!” Harry swiveled in time to see his uncle stomping toward him, arm outstretched. Vernon wrenched him from the ground, his grip firm on Harry’s bicep, parading him through the garden as they marched to the house. Harry turned his head and searched in alarm for any sign of Death Eaters, but all he saw was a half-finished planter and a few ripped weeds sprawled across the lawn. The green must have been the tulip stems, he thought miserably as his panic slowly subsided, how pathetic is that?

Vernon flung him from his grip as they entered the kitchen and Harry stumbled back to regain his balance. “Look what you’ve done, boy, you’ve ruined Petunia’s prized garden!” His uncle bellowed, his face turning a sickly purple. “After all we’ve done for you this summer! Let you have your trunk, I did! And what’d you do with our generosity?” Veron grabbed Harry by the shirt, shaking him violently. “You spit on us! Give us cheek and muck up your chores! You should be grateful you even have a roof over your head!” He pushed him backward causing Harry to lose his footing and trip painfully into the counter behind him, the back of his shoulder colliding with the corner of the marble top. Harry groaned and clutched his arm, knowing he would have a nasty bruise tomorrow.

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed. Wanted to be rid of you, did they? Well I don’t blame them!” Vernon roared down at Harry. “Get up, useless boy. Get up. GET UP!”

Harry scrambled to his feet, leaning away from his uncle and he clutched the counter for support. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix the garden as soon as I can.”

“You're damn right you will.” Vernon spat, waving a large finger alarmingly close to Harry’s face. “AND you’ll trim the hedges. AND you’ll mow the lawn, or so help me that blasted bird of yours will never see the light of day again.”

“Sir, I already mowed the lawn today-”

Harry had barely enough time to register his uncle’s raised hand before he was knocked back into the counter with a harsh, ringing slap. “You dare disrespect me in my own house when I’ve been good to you this summer, boy?” Vernon hissed as Harry clutched his cheek in shock, the force of the blow rendering him momentarily silent. Vernon hadn’t struck him in a long time -- hated him, sure, but very rarely took his anger out in violence. “We’ve got to go back to what worked then, don’t we?” His uncle proclaimed, “go pack up that trunk of yours, you’ve got no right to it when you abuse our kindness.”

Harry’s eyes widened, without his school work to sustain him he knew he would succumb to the urge to sleep. He pried himself loose from the counter, running his hands through his hair in distress, “No, please Uncle Vernon, I need it.” Harry wracked his mind for an excuse, “I have a Charms essay I need to write, I have-”

“Char- You- YOU FREAK!” His uncle shouted, his face turning a shade of purple that could only mean Harry said the wrong thing. “YOU DARE TO DISCUSS THAT IN MY HOUSE!”

“Sir, please-”

“ENOUGH!” Vernon dragged him by the arm and flung him into the hallway with such force Harry promptly fell to the floor. Not the cupboard, he pleaded internally, staring at his childhood prison beside him, anything but that. Vernon huffed in the doorway and Harry snapped his attention back to his uncle who loomed over him like a God deciding his fate. “Get to that room of yours, pack the trunk and bring it down here,” Vernon spat. When Harry made no move to get up he added a stern, “NOW!” that sent him scurrying up the stairs.

He climbed up to the landing like a dog, scrambling to get as far away from Vernon as quickly as possible. It was humiliating knowing his uncle was watching him panic, worse still that Vernon knew he still had power over him. Harry saw Dudley in the upstairs hallway, his cousin sporting a dumbfounded look that could only mean he had heard everything. They studied each other in silence, Dudley’s gaze falling squarely on where Vernon had hit him -- Harry assumed it must be red or slightly bruising to attract the unwanted attention; he couldn’t bring himself to care what Dudley thought either way.

He found himself waiting for his cousin to deal the final blow as he usually did, Dudley had always taken pride in joining his father. Harry decided he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the both of them. “You gonna do anything?” He growled, sending Dudley a glare he prayed exuded confidence.

His cousin looked shell shocked -- and nervous?-- as he fiddled lamely with the ends of his large shirt. “Nah, I’m not.”

“Good. Fine.” Harry muttered, shoving Dudley’s shoulder with extra force as he pushed past him into his room.

His body shook with white-hot rage, the humiliation eating him alive, fueling his anger. Harry seethed quietly, nearly slamming the door before he thought better. No use provoking him, he grumbled to himself, opting to kick his dresser instead and immediately regretting it. He sighed as he looked around, thankful he didn’t fully unpack -- it was bad to keep his uncle waiting. He tossed his books and quills into his trunk haphazardly, bottling his ink before returning it to its rightful place as well. It wasn’t worth it to push his luck and smuggle his homework into his room, frowning Harry resided to write his essays on the train like he always did. So much for trying to get ahead.

He worked methodically, stripping his room of everything he might want packed just in case he wasn’t allowed access to his belongings until the train arrived: all his clothes that weren’t Dudley’s cast offs, the Gryffindor memorabilia that lined his walls, the scrapbook of his parents and anything else he could see until he was satisfied. He left Hedwig’s cage resting in the corner, he would need somewhere to keep her when she returned with a letter from Ron, but besides that the room was barren. He gazed longingly at his wand before shutting the hood of his trunk and buckling it closed. Harry hesitated when his eyes fell upon the broom pushed into the corner, the Firebolt was a gift from Sirius and one of the few things that reminded him of his Godfather. But after a seconds debate, he decided it wasn’t worth it to risk Vernon’s wrath and grabbed it on his way out of the room.

The trunk thudded heavily against the stairs as Harry dragged it, his heart sinking each time he heard it crash against the stair tread. Veron was waiting expectantly in the hall, his arms crossed as he glared at Harry’s broomstick. “Is that everything?” His uncle hissed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Leave it here,” he nodded to the trunk, “and give me that.” Harry’s stomach dropped as he tracked his uncle’s gaze to his Firebolt and he clenched his first around it protectively. Veron sensed his hesitation and glared, extending his meaty fist in obvious command, “Give it here, boy.”

Harry glanced around for an escape, his eyes settling on Dudley who stood in the entrance to the kitchen. But as strange as his cousin had been this summer, Harry knew he would not help him with this. Closing his eyes and exhaling slowly, Harry surrendered the broom, unwilling to give his uncle the satisfaction of hearing him beg to keep it. The broom was snatched greedily and Harry cringed as Vernon pushed it roughly into the floor, ruining the aerodynamic shape of its bristles.

“Get to your room and stay there.” His uncle snarled, sending Harry a menacing look. “Petunia will have no problem spacing your dinner when she hears what you’ve done with her tulips.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded solemnly, glancing at Dudley before bounding up the stairs to his room. He was getting off easy tonight, he knew that. Tomorrow he would be greeted with a chores list of impossible length and intense ramifications for not not completing it; given his inevitable demise, Harry knew going to bed without dinner was by far the least of his troubles. But the chores were future problems, he grimaced, closing the door to his room behind him and shutting off the lights -- the Dursleys tended not to bother him if they believed he was asleep. Flopping onto the bed, Harry groaned as his shoulder screamed out in agony. Definitely gonna leave a nasty bruise, he thought as he kicked off his shoes, I’ll find some time to ice it tomorrow.

His body sighed with relief as he relaxed into the mattress, his tired muscles melting into the fiber instantaneously. Bracing himself for the morning he would endure, Harry decided he could afford a few hours of sleep before he resumed his efforts on the house, and the world faded to darkness.

Chapter Text

Harry was back in the graveyard, his champions jersey encrusted in a vile mix of blood and dirt, his hand gripping his wand in anticipation of the worst. He knew what would happen here: he had relived this particular horror a thousand times, each nightmare more painful and grotesque than the last. Instinctually, Harry looked downward, planning to see Cedric’s corpse beneath him, his friend’s dead eyes staring up in accusation. But Cedric was not there. Much to his surprise, all Harry could see at his feet was rotting turf, Cedric’s reserved spot disturbingly vacant. Kneeling, he ran his hand through the grass at his feet to make sure.

“Harry.”

He whipped around, slowly rising as he adjusted the grip on his wand for safety, searching for whoever called his name.

“Harry.” The voice came louder this time, a faint echo resounding through the otherwise empty cemetery.

“Lumos,” he called out desperately, the tip of his wand reflecting light off the gravestones nearest to him. He spun, squinting as he attempted to see past the light’s meager radius. “Who’s there?” A figure emerged from behind a statue, approaching him steadily. Harry raised his wand, “Who are you?”

The man moved into the light, unmasking himself as his arms extended in an embrace. Harry recognized him immediately: the mischievous smile that danced across his face, the shoulder-length hair both frazzled and controlled, and the unyielding love he could see swimming in the man’s eyes were all too familiar. Sirius.

Harry heaved a sigh of relief, running forward and melting into his godfather’s arms, hugging him as tight as he possibly could. His heart heaved with great sadness, though Harry couldn’t remember why he would be sad, as he clung to Sirius’ chest aggressively. “Come now, pup.” His godfather spoke sweetly, “There’s no need to crush me, I’m not going anywhere.”

His words only made Harry cling tighter as he racked his brain for some semblance of logic. There was a reason he hadn’t seen his Sirius for months, and Harry knew something was wrong. Something had happened.

“Sirius, oh Merlin, where have you been?” He positioned his arms around his godfather’s middle.

“You know where, Harry.” Sirius said, rubbing circles on his back to calm him. “You know why I can’t see you.”

Harry let himself relax, tracking the feeling of Sirius’ fingers along his jersey. “I don’t remember,” he exhaled, “Is it Order stuff?”

His godfather chuckled, deep and hardy, his reverberating chest thudding around Harry’s ear. “No, pup. Nothing for the Order.” Sirius collected himself, his hands continuing their motion, “You really don’t remember? After all, it was you who got me killed.”

Harry pulled away from the embrace suddenly, his stomach plummeting in fear. “Wh- what? What do you mean?”

“You know it’s true, Harry.” Sirius continued sweetly. “It was your fault I went down to the Ministry.”

The Ministry…He stared up at his godfather, of course I haven’t seen him. The veil-

Sirius smiled down at him, stroking the side of Harry’s face. “None of the Order members would have shown up if you hadn’t fallen for Voldemort's trap, you know.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry. He's gone."

He felt himself falter, retreating further away. “I- I know, Sirius. But-”

Sirius cocked his head, “But you don’t think it’s your fault?”

“No, no I-”

“Why can’t you just take the blame?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he walked forward in calm pursuit. “You’re not the one that died, you clearly didn’t suffer the most.”

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

Harry backed away, lowering his wand. “Well Dumbledore said-”

Sirius snorted, “And you blindly accept everything that old man spews?”

“Well, no-”

“Then stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!” Sirius shouted, moving closer. “Even James could admit when he was wrong -- when a prank had gone too far.” Harry ducked behind a headstone for cover, drowning in his thoughts as his breathing began to quicken. “I had such hopes for you,” Sirius rounded the stone, facing him once more. “But you’re nothing like him.” He spat on the ground as Harry retreated. “You are nothing, Potter. You hear? NOTHING!”

“Stop it, please.” Harry begged as he stumbled backward. He hated how his voice cracked, how weak he sounded as his unshed tears threatened to pour over.

“You’re just a FREAK,” the figure morphed into Vernon, his uncle’s hulking frame shaking with anger. “First you kill off your parents and burden us with your unnatural affliction,” he spat, marching forward. Harry tripped over the Triwizard Cup behind him, falling over. His heart racing, he crawled away from his uncle as fast as he could. “Then,” Vernon hissed, “you decided two deaths wasn’t enough for you, didn’t you boy?”

Harry shook his head frantically, tears streaking down his face. “No, no,” Vernon’s face twisted in disgust, “You had to go and do that.” He pointed his meaty finger at the ground and Harry tracked his gaze to the corpse beside him.

Cedric’s eyes peered up at him, the bright grey of their irises dull and lifeless. No no no no no. Harry cringed away from it, raising his arm to shield his gaze. The eyes moved, his friend’s dead stare boring into him. No no no no no no. Cedric's hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, Harry flinched away from the cold fingers but Cedric’s grip was firm.

“Get off of me,” Harry moaned, forcing all his strength into pulling away from the fallen champion, begging to be released.

“You said you’d bring my body back.” Cedric spoke quietly.

“I did, I did. I swear it.” Harry pleaded as he ripped his hand away.

“Kill the spare!” Someone shouted in the distance.

Harry’s eyes widened, “NO!” He screamed, heart pounding in his chest. He knew he was too late.

Green light flared in front of him and Harry awoke with a start, thrashing violently. He tossed in his bed, clawing the blankets off of him, struggling to separate himself from the sheets as memories of the graveyard consumed him. He sat up panting, clutching the bed frame as his body shook with panic. Don’t think about it, Harry, he reminded himself, Just don’t think about it.

He squinted his eyes shut, focusing his attention on his breathing -- in, out, in, out -- but his chest cramped and his eyes burned, most likely from tears, and he could not bring himself to concentrate. Harry rubbed his hand over his chest, hoping desperately to extinguish the burning in his lungs. He scraped it back and forth over his torso, directing his attention to the sensation of skin-on-skin, grounding himself in reality. Breathe, Harry. In, out, in, out.

He continued in this fashion until his heart rate steadied and he trusted himself enough to stand. Defeated, he ran a hand over his face and sighed, knowing he wouldn’t fall back asleep tonight.

His mind made up, Harry dressed quickly and pried open his door, thankful Vernon had forgotten the locks in his rage, and stepped out into the hall. He made his way down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaking steps he knew would wake his relatives, and walked silently into the kitchen. As fast as he could, Harry reached out for a glass, clasping his trembling hands around its base before filling it with water from the sink. Any distraction from his nightmare was welcome -- he hoped his body would relax if given the hydration it hopelessly craved.

He lifted the glass to his lips with both hands, desperately trying to contain what little water there was as his hands quivered. He tried to quell his panic but Sirius’ words rang out through his skull, harsh in their accusation: “After all, it was you who got me killed.”

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.

“It was your fault I went down to the Ministry.”

Stop it. He shook his head, dispelling the thought. That’s not true, Harry. Dumbledore said it was his fault, not yours.

The sound of movement in the other room caused him to freeze and Harry cursed himself for not checking the ground floor was uninhabited. He spun to face Dudley, his cousin’s face the picture of surprise. Harry set the glass down on the counter in surrender, clasping his hands behind his back and hunching over to make himself as small as possible. “Sorry,” he muttered weakly.

Harry had let himself become so distracted by the nightmare he had forgotten how dangerous it was for him to leave his room at the Dursleys. The last time he had attempted to take anything from the kitchen he had been eleven, and Petunia had given him enough chores to thoroughly compensate for the bread he had stolen. Harry shuddered at the memory, watching Dudley in fear as he waited for him to alert the rest of the Dursleys of his presence in the kitchen.

“What’re you doing?” Dudley settled for instead.

Thoroughly confused, Harry held up his glass and gestured at its contents, “Just, erm, some water.”

His cousin nodded, moving solemnly to the fridge where he yanked open the door, harsh and loud. Harry’s stomach plummeted at the sound and his eyes darted towards the hall to make sure no one had heard it. “Shhhh! Dudley!” He whispered harshly, waving his free hand frantically, “Don’t make a lot of noise, you’ll wake them up.”

Dudley watched him carefully, his eyes intensely focused on something below Harry’s eye before he closed the door to the fridge lightly and he turned to face him completely. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” Harry muttered, shifting on his feet awkwardly. He wasn’t used to this behavior from Dudley and any interaction with him this summer had turned unsettlingly unpredictable.

Dudley cleared his throat, straightening himself, “Uh, I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Ya?” Harry took a sip of his water cautiously, waiting for his cousin to swat it away at any given moment.

“Ya, um, look- about last year-”

“It’s fine, Dudley,” Harry interrupted immediately, “I won’t do magic in front of you again. Don’t worry.”

His attempt at reassurance seemed to further unsettle his cousin who awkwardly fiddled with the ends of his shirt. At least neither of us want to have this conversation, Harry noted dully. “It’s not that,” Dudley continued. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

Harry snorted, bringing the glass up to his lips once more. “Actually, I did. The patronus charm is the only way to get rid of the dementors.”

“You mean the deer you called?” Dudley looked up, his brows knit together in confusion.

Harry choked as he drank, the water bubbling back into the cup as he coughed it up. He chanced one more look into the hall before turning back to his cousin. “You could see that?” He asked as he composed himself.

“Ya,” Dudley shrugged. “It was all I could see. Though you said there were some kind of mentor things, right?”

Harry nodded in affirmation, “And you knew I cast it?”

“Dunno,” Dudley glanced down at his feet. “It just -- it felt like you, if that makes sense. Like it had your magic, the deer I mean.”

“It’s a stag.” Harry muttered, studying his cousin's face. “It was my father’s patronus as well.”

Dudley nodded awkwardly, leaning up against the counter, his face twisting uncomfortably as if trying to grasp a difficult concept. “I guess what I’m saying is, I know you saved me last year. Even though,” he took a breath, bracing himself, “Even though you didn’t have to.”

Harry froze in place, discomfort writhing its way up his spine. “It’s fine, Big D,” he squirmed, “Don’t mention it.”

“I, I just wanted to say thank you. I don’t think -- with everything that was going on and all -- I don’t think I managed it last summer.”

“It’s fine, Dudley.” Harry spat, “It’s not like-” I could save everyone.

Dudley continued rambling, stuttering through what Harry supposed was an apology but he wasn’t listening. The sound filtered into his ears muddied and indistinguishable as Harry’s mind drifted back to the Department of Mysteries. His eyes fogged over as he replayed Sirius’ death on loop: the way his godfather had arced through the air before sinking back through the veil, how his face had frozen in surprise as Bellatrix’s curse hit him, how he’d disappeared just out of reach-

CRASH!

He blinked back tears and steadied himself against the kitchen counter, the sound of broken glass grounding him in the room once more. Don’t think about it. You’re not there anymore.

“Harry?” Dudley asked suddenly. “You okay?”

Harry blinked rapidly, taking in his surroundings as if in a daze. He followed Dudley’s gaze to the floor where his glass had shattered. I must have dropped it.

His body was frozen in shock, staring at the mess of scattered shards at his feet. He hadn’t broken a glass in years -- the last time had resulted in a week in his cupboard. I have to get out of here, he chanced a glance at the empty hall, knowing he had seconds before his aunt and uncle came bounding down the stairs.

“Dudley.” His voice shook as his breath came up short and painful. “I, erm- you could finish what you gotta say later, ya?”

Dudley looked a little sick but nodded in agreement as Harry moved towards the door anxiously. “Oh and, uh,” Harry added, turning back to look at his cousin, “You broke that, okay? I was never here.”

“Right, ya.” Dudley fidgeted nervously.

Harry made his way down the hall before unlocking the door and making his way outside as fast as possible. It was too risky to attempt to make it to his room, he knew he would undoubtedly run into his aunt or uncle. Seeing either of them right now would ensure punishment beyond what he could bear with the graveyard so present in his mind. Shaking off the thought, he moved across the lawn impetuously, gazing back at the house and quickening his pace when he saw the downstairs lights switch on.

He walked forward and down the street, trusting that his legs would lead him somewhere he needed to be. He walked by house after house, not knowing where he was going but feeling immensely better the second the cool breeze picked up and brushed over his face. He focused on the sensation of the wind hitting his face, noticing how thinking about nothing but the chill of the summer night made him the calmest he had felt in months.

He felt like he had walked for miles, his forehead lightly covered in sweat, by the time he arrived at the playground. Harry laughed as he approached the gate, of course this was where he would find himself, he mused. Nobody ever bothered him here; the small, nearly abandoned yard had become his solace over the years. It was the only place Dudley and his gang rarely ever ventured and over time it had become the only place in Little Whinging where he felt truly safe -- the only place where he could afford a moment of peace.

Sighing, Harry closed his eyes and sat on his usual swing, listening to the breeze as he pushed back and forth absentmindedly. It was nice to escape, if only for a little while. The calm would fade when he returned the Dursleys, Harry knew, but any chance to avoid the punishment which had undoubtedly increased tenfold since the glass broke was a blessing. He could postpone his suffering for a few minutes of freedom.

“Potter, desist in this childishness at once.” An immistable, gruff voice in front of him drawled.

Harry opened his eyes, alarmed by Snape’s presence a few paces in front of him. His professor, who donned his typical dark robes and equally dark expression, seemed so out of place in the playground Harry had to blink to remind himself he was, in fact, awake. “Snape?” He questioned as his professor’s face pinched together tightly in disgust, “What’re you doing here?”

“I am your professor, Potter, and you will address me with the respect that title demands.” Snape's eyes set in a fiery glare, “Now, sit still and act your age or I shall make you.”

Harry stilled himself on the swing, flinching from the loathing which coated each of the man’s words, “Sorry, professor. But, erm, why are you here,” the intensity of Snape’s glare increased and Harry added a swift, “sir.”

Snape huffed in obvious annoyance, “I am here, Potter, because you cannot do your one job and stay within the boundaries of the wards that have been carefully established to ensure your protection.”

“Sir, I-”

“I am here, Potter,” Snape barreled on, “because I am the Order member who has been tasked with the misfortune of watching you tonight. And I am here to remind you that despite what you may think,” he spat, leaning down to Harry’s eye level, “the world does not revolve around you.”

“I don’t know where the boundaries of the wards are, sir. They’ve never really been explained to me.” Harry said meekly.

“And you didn’t think to ask about the one thing that ensures your survival without Dumbledore’s constant surveillance?” He snapped.

Harry fidgeted with the loose strands at the end of his hoodie, ducking his head to avoid his professor’s furious gaze. “No, sir.”

“Idiot boy.” He snarled. “Where is your wand?”

Harry’s eyes widened in recognition as he curled into himself. How could I forget my wand? “It’s, uh, at my house, sir.”

“It’s at your house,” Snape enunciated every word. “So I am to believe that you, without knowing the boundaries of the wards which protect your very life, just decided to go for a walk in the middle of the night without your wand?”

“Yes, sir.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Cease in your cowardice, Potter, and look up.” Harry obeyed, raising his eyes to meet Snape’s obsidian black. The professor studied him, his face settled firmly in revulsion, “Have you made a habit of picking fights this summer, boy?”

Harry stared back in confusion before his eyes widened and he ducked his face out of sight again. The bruises…He had forgotten about the bruises.

Harry clenched his jaw as he gripped the underside of the swing, “I didn’t pick a fight.”

“Amend your speech.”

He glared up at Snape’s looming figure, “I didn’t pick a fight, sir.”

Snape bent down to Harry’s level, his tone icy and deliberate. “Then where, Mr. Potter, did you acquire such egregious injuries?”

Harry shifted his gaze, avoiding eye contact, all the fight leaving him almost instantaneously. “I, um,” think of an excuse, “I fell down the stairs.”

Snape paused, his frown deepening. “You fell down the stairs,” he drew out the words, spitting them back at Harry like daggers. He scowled, “Countless sacrifices have been made on your behalf and you selfishly choose to repay them by roughing up helpless schoolboys on your holiday.”

“I didn’t-”

“I do not appreciate lies, Potter.”

“It’s not a lie.” He bit out, glaring up at his professor.

“No? I do not typically concern myself with how you cope with your grief,” Snape lips curled into a sneer as Harry flushed a vibrant red. “But when you descend into degeneracy, I am obligated to issue the discipline I see fitting.”

Harry looked up suddenly, “sir?”

Snape stared down at him with a fury Harry had never yet seen. “Should this behavior continue when you are under my care, -- as I am apt to think it will -- there will be no benignity. Am I clear, Potter, or must I use simplistic diction to get the message through your thick head?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Good,” Snape leaned back, momentarily satisfied, “Come here.”

Harry rose from the swing and approached the man with caution, making every step slow and deliberate. Snape extended arm, “Grab hold. We’re apparating from here.”

He stepped away, “What? Why?”

“Potter,” Snape bit out in a dangerous tone.

Harry’s mind swam with worry and he looked around wildly for an escape. “What, uh, what was the first thing you saw when we did Occlumency lessons last year?”

Snape raised his eyes skyward, exasperated, “Now is not the time to exhibit caution, Potter.”

“What was it?” Harry questioned, backing away slowly.

“Need I remind you, boy, that you have ventured here tonight wandless?” Snape lashed out like a whip. “If I wished to hurt you, believe me you would be in a great deal of pain.”

“What was it?” Harry matched his professor’s expression.

“For Merlins- Fine, Potter. It was a memory of your deplorable aunt’s idiot dogs chasing after you. Now are you quite satisfied? May we leave before the Dark Lord is alerted of your presence here?”

Cautiously, Harry took his professor’s arm before he was wrenched through the air in a sea of colors, feeling a familiar tug behind his naval as he moved through space. They landed suddenly in what looked to be a gloomy muggle neighborhood populated by sand lime brick houses and broken street lamps -- the unending street was lined with identically depressing buildings, each house seemingly more miserably begrimed than the last. Petunia would have a stroke if she ever saw this place, Harry thought glumly as he took in his surroundings.

“Sir,” he turned to Snape who was walking briskly towards one of the nearby houses, “Where are we?”

“Spinner's End, Potter. Get inside.”

Chapter Text

Harry was thrust inside the grim house abruptly, struggling to regain his balance as he distanced himself from his professor. He moved swiftly into the sitting room while Snape slammed the front door behind him, the blanket of dust coating the floor swirling angrily at their feet as if annoyed to be disturbed. Harry took in his surroundings and nearly gagged in disgust. The house was a mess: cobwebs lined the tattered walls, accenting the peeling olive-green wallpaper that adorned the den; the furniture in front of him was old, splintered, or otherwise unappealing to look at and, from what Harry could see of it, the kitchen was useable at best. There was no doubt in his mind that the depressing, wretched house he found himself in was some sort of abandoned safehouse for the Order as it was clear no one had lived here in a long time.

“You will find your accommodations for the remainder of the summer lacking in your usual comfort, Potter.” Snape drawled as Harry turned to face his professor at last.

“What? I’m staying here?” He gaped, cringing away from the green walls.

Snape glared at him, his posture tense with loathing. “Yes, Potter,” he spat menacingly, stalking closer as Harry backed away from his hated professor. “Despite both your protests and mine, Dumbledore has requested you relocate here if you were to unexpectedly cross outside the boundaries of the wards another time.”

“But that’s not fair!” Harry felt his anger bubbling over, “No one ever bothered to tell me how far I could go!”

Snape was on him in an instant, his fury evident as his elbow pressed Harry firmly against the wall. “Such a Gryffindor concept: fair,” Snape sneered, increasing the pressure of his hold. Harry flinched as he felt the peeling wallpaper, weak from age, tear beneath him from the abrupt force. “Had you bothered to inquire after the one thing that ensures your survival we may not have found ourselves in this predicament.” Snape released him harshly, his fury still pertinent as moved across the room. Harry tried uselessly to regulate his breathing.

Snape turned to him. “Did you or did you not see the Dark Lord in the flesh last month?”

Harry’s mouth went dry. He met his professor’s gaze as a large stone of despair settled itself deep in the pit of his stomach. He nodded bleakly, breaking eye contact as his eyes darted swiftly to the stained wooden floor beneath him.

“A verbal response, if you would, Potter.”

“Yes, sir. I saw him.” Harry muttered, clamping his hands together to quell their shaking.

Snape scoffed at his meek reply. “I was beyond certain that Black’s loss at the Ministry would leave its impression on you,” he spat, resuming his movement around the room. “Particularly to demonstrate the severity of the Dark Lord’s return to power. And yet, to my dismay, you have decided to repay your precious Godfather’s sacrifice by indulging in delinquencies and running amuck your neighborhood unprotected and wandless.” Snape turned to him, eyes blazing, as Harry cringed away. “I admit, even I thought you above such reckless stupidity.”

Harry caved into himself, his back hunched over unpleasantly, hoping to make himself as small as possible while his professor continued his monologue. “Could you imagine the onslaught that would have occurred had one of the Dark Lord’s servants encountered you before I did?” Snape threw up his arms in irritation. “While you were outside the protection of your home and without any means to defend yourself?”

Harry blinked away his mounting tears that begged to spill over as memories of the Ministry flooded back in daunting waves. Lucius Malfoy’s intimidating snarl, hoards of Death Eaters surrounding their meager party, his friends in pain, Bellatrix Lestrange… How the curse had hit Sirius squarely in his chest.

Harry felt his pulse quicken as his vision blurred. He willed himself not to cry in front of Snape.

“I-”

“You what, Potter.” Snape snarled viciously. “You weren’t thinking? I cannot say that I am surprised.”

Harry rubbed his hands up and down along his arms as his body began to shake, “I just needed-”

“Needed to be kidnapped?” Snape raged, his robes flaring around him as he spun to face Harry. “I thought you would have learned to dispel your degenerate urges, Potter, and I am disappointed to learn my assumption was incorrect.”

“I just wanted - everything there was,” Harry shook his head, his words failing as his nightmare of the graveyard began to consume him. “It was your fault you got me killed,” Sirius’ voice rang out through his head.

“Everything there was what, Potter?” Snape snarled.

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!”

Harry squeezed his hands tighter. “It was overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming.” He echoed mockingly. “You mean to tell me you endangered your safety because you were feeling slightly uncomfortable?” Snape’s robes billowed behind him as he quickened his pacing around the small living space.

“Sir, I-”

“Of all the spoiled, arrogant-”

“I know it was my fault, sir.” Harry pleaded. “It was a mistake.”

“Yes, Potter.” Snape glared, stilling himself. “And you will be rectifying that egregious error by remaining here. With me.”

Harry looked up to meet his professor’s gaze, startled. “What? For the rest of summer?”

“Believe me, I take no pleasure in these arrangements.”

“But,” Harry sputtered, searching desperately for an excuse, “I thought I was safest at the Dursleys!”

“You are!” Snape shouted, turning to face him completely. “But you continuously insist on leaving the comfort of your home in Little Whinging and therefore cannot be trusted to reside there any longer! We are at war, Potter, I fail to understand how you cannot comprehend that.”

“I’ll be good,” Harry pleaded desperately, “I promise I won’t leave the house again.”

“I did not volunteer to be your babysitter, Potter,” Snape bit out, leaning down to match his height. “Believe me when I say I would be glad to be rid of you were I not forced into this.”

“What about Headquarters, then?” He supplied frenziedly.

“Absolutely not,” Snape seethed. “Even without the Order’s frequent meetings, Dumbledore has dismissed it as an option for you on the grounds that living there would further perturb your adjustment to grief.” He spat, his face the picture of disgust.

Harry felt queasy. “The Weasley’s, then.”

His professor scoffed, “Unprotected and ill-advised. The Burrow will be the Dark Lord’s first assumption when he learns you have been moved.”

Harry flushed, “Well there has to be somewhere-”

“It is out of my hands, boy.” Snape thundered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “When you continuously mock the protections that have been instilled at Privet Drive the Order has no choice but to place you in my care. Suffice to say it is unfortunate for you that they did,” he rasped. “For weeks we have slaved over where to house you and unanimously decided Spinner’s End is the only place capable of satisfying your unique requirements.”

“Sir, I really think-”

“Because of your bullheadedness, you are to remain here, in the filth of this place, while you clean, polish, and restore it for the remaining month of your vacation.” Snape glared down at him. “As far as I am concerned you are undeserving and will be deprived of your holiday given the burden you have been on the Order of late.

“You will begin at dawn, shining every inch of this mess to my satisfaction, and you will continue your suffering each day until I release you, Potter. I expect you to apply yourself to your tasks to ensure that you fully embrace the consequences of your actions.” Snape straightened, “When I am certain you have thoroughly understood the enormity of your mistake, should that happen before the start of term, you will be returned to Privet Drive to do as you wish. Although,” he hissed, “I would not get your hopes up.”

So just like the Dursleys, then, Harry grumbled to himself, stifling the urge to groan. Work until I can’t anymore and it still won’t be enough.

“You will begin first thing tomorrow morning. There is a guest room where you may sleep while you are here, but before you go,” Snape paused, fixing his dark eyes on Harry. “You will tell me what happened here.” He withdrew a small, dark-blue container from his garms before extending it in offering.

Harry grimaced in instant recognition as he accepted the tin cautiously. Bruise balm.

“If you did not acquire these markings from a fight, as you claim, then you will tell me how you came to be so thoroughly marred. I expect answers, Potter -- truthful ones, this time.”

He fiddled with the canister lamely, feeling his anger rise. “I told you, sir.” Harry bit out, gritting his teeth as he strengthened his hold on the balm. “I fell down the stairs.”

“So you have said.” Snape sneered, his face contorting in a calculating rage. “And yet I find myself unable to believe that. You are familiar with the effects of veritaserum, Potter, are you not?”

Harry stiffened, darting his eyes to the floor once more. Vernon’s words thundered through his head -- “You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed.” -- he recalled his uncle’s hand on his cheek, and how he had fallen into the kitchen counter. He remembered his fear when he saw the cupboard under the stairs. He hardened his gaze, Snape can’t know about that.

“Yes, sir.” Harry glared. “I’m familiar with it.”

“Then you know I have extraordinary methods of extracting the truth from you, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So,” Snape leveled, his voice a deadly calm, “Are you prepared to give me the information I require?”

Think, Harry, think. “Yes, sir.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“Then speak.”

“Um,” an excuse -- any excuse. He raised his eyes and met Snape’s gaze, determined. “My cousin Dudley and I were messing around, sir. It wasn’t really a fight, we just got a little carried away. I ended up falling down the stairs.”

Snape was silent for a moment as Harry awaited his verdict, clutching the bruise balm intensely. “It is astounding how little you are able to grasp, Potter.” He spat after a moment's pause.

“Sir?”

“I am a Legilimens, boy, I am able to discern when you are lying. Though you are so thoroughly atrocious at it I would be able to gather as much regardless,” Snape hissed.

“Professor, I-”

“You what, Potter?” He rounded on him. “Are you so incapable of grasping the basic fact that you are in my vancity without the use of your wand? I have my methods of extracting the truth from you, boy, and I intend to utilize them.”

“But, sir, I swear I didn’t-”

“You are an insufferable child.” Snape roared.

“Insufferable waste of space,” Vernon’s voice roared in his head. “Useless child.”

“Potter, you are not in control here. You are not the adult. You do not get to hoard vital information.”

“Pathetic.”

“Ungrateful.”

“Disgusting freak.”

“Potter.” Harry could have sworn he heard Snape shout but the sound was muffled. He stared at the floor, lost in thought, consumed by Vernon’s voice.

“Disrespectful.”

“Abnormal.”

“POTTER!” Snape roared. “How were you injured?”

“Murderer.”

Harry shuddered. "You decided two deaths wasn’t enough for you, didn’t you boy?” Vernon shouted in his head, “You freak!”

Stop it.

Harry shook his head slowly, focusing on his surroundings once more. Snape loomed over him, scowling.

“You won’t say? Very well, Potter, I suppose it is late. Upstairs, the third door on the left is where your room is. I expect you to stay in it until morning, understood?” Harry nodded and Snape glared down at him, fixating on the bruise balm, “I trust you can apply that to all of the impacted areas?”

That’s it? “Yes, sir.”

Harry migrated slowly towards the stairway, staring back at his professor confused. “If I cannot extract an answer out of you, Potter,” Snape smirked, straightening to his full height, “I’ll just have to ask your relatives when we visit them tomorrow morning.”

Harry froze, dead in his tracks. Snape was a bully -- a vindictive, exacting tyrant on his best days. But Snape taking tea with the Dursleys? A shiver ran down Harry’s spine at the thought.

“What do you mean, professor?”

“We will need to collect your things from Privet Drive if you are to stay here.” He spat as if it were obvious. “We will leave at seven on the dot, meet me in here tomorrow and do not be late.” Harry gaped in horror, surely he cannot be serious. But before he could press Snape for answers, his professor swept from the room in a flurry of black robes, slamming a door behind him.

Great, Harry thought glumly. Tomorrow will be even more fun than I thought.

Chapter Text

Harry looked alarmingly horrible. He had migrated from the den on sheer will alone, clumsily herding himself up the creaky wooden stairs and into the washroom on the second landing, stumbling about in a dreamlike trance. The room he found himself in was small, barely large enough to contain more than the bare necessities, and looked clustered with the vanity cabinet, which hung lopsidedly against the dirty, stained white tiles. Harry had wasted no time removing his shirt and applying the bruise balm to his injured shoulder, exhaling in relief as the paste worked its way into his tired muscles. Leaning against the far wall for support, he turned his gaze to the cabinet mirror and gasped in shock. He was emaciated, his ribs jutting out in uniform angles, his bruised skin tugging over his pecs, pulled back like a skeleton due to his lack of food. Worse still was his face -- adorning his hollow cheeks were ghastly eyebags, making him appear worn and frail, and he noticed a rather large red blemish from where Vernon had hit him earlier. He hated what he saw and tugged his shirt back on defiantly.

Thoroughly embarrassed, he applied the balm to his face hurriedly before ducking out of the washroom and moving down the hall. He had avoided mirrors all summer and had no interest in encountering another one.

Stupid stupid stupid, Harry grumbled to himself. It wasn’t uncommon for him to look starved or otherwise debilitated during his summers with the Dursleys, but Harry always made sure to hide whatever souvenirs he received over the summer. He never angered Vernon enough to provoke violence that could not be easily concealed.

As far as Harry was concerned, no one knew the extent of his pain while residing with the relatives. And he had intended to keep it that way.

Idiot, he pushed into the room Snape assigned him, Why couldn’t you have just taken your stupid punishment for the glass and gone upstairs? He shook his head, trying to shake the image of Snape fixated on his bruised face. His professor knew too much, Harry had decided.

Glancing around, he took in the bleak room; the walls were painted the same olive green -- much to Harry’s dismay as he had grown to hate the color -- with enough room for a worn-down wooden desk, dresser, and shabby twin bed. It was by no means spacious, but it was better than his room at the Dursleys, and he kicked off his trainers and settled down on the bed greedily.

He was tired, there was no use denying it. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to sleep, knowing the horrors he would be subjected to if he closed his eyes. Staring up at the ceiling above him, pinching his wrist every time he began to doze off, he recounted the conversation he had had with Snape -- his mind buzzing, unable to shut off.

“Could you imagine the onslaught that would have occurred had one of the Dark Lord’s servants encountered you before I did?” Harry cringed at the thought. Snape had been right: of course, it was idiotic to leave his relatives' house without his wand. But he remembered the paralyzing fear that had engulfed him when he broke the glass in the kitchen; how his mind had raced and his body shook, knowing the punishment that was to come.

He tossed in his bed. It had been the best idea to leave.

“You mean to tell me you endangered your safety because you were feeling slightly uncomfortable?” Snape sneered at him in his mind.

I was scared, he rolled over again.

Of uncle Vernon? A voice echoed in his head. Gryffindor courage my ass.

Harry groaned. The only thing he had concerned himself with at that moment was his safety -- and he had protected himself by unintentionally endangering his life.

Stupid, idiot, Potter. Always messing everything up. He shifted positions again. Snape’s right, we’re at war. Why couldn’t you face Vernon like a man?

He remembered the lights flickering on as he left the house -- he knew exactly what would’ve happened if he had stayed. Never too old for the cupboard, Harry pouted.

It was the best idea at the time, he argued with himself, more sure of his decision. No it wasn’t, Potter. He groaned, knowing his thoughts were going in circles, and twisted in the bed once more.

I wish Sirius was here. He'd know what I should’ve done and he’d offer advice.

Harry inhaled sharply, hugging his arms to his chest and squeezing harshly. He clenched his eyes shut. His mind couldn’t touch the thought of Sirius right now, he was exhausted enough for one day.

“It was your fault,” His godfather’s voice was difficult to ignore -- Harry pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

No it’s not. Dumbledore said Sirius’s death was on him. I had nothing to do with it.

Nothing, Harry? His mind fought back. Even you can’t be that dense.

Stop it.

“You got me killed.” Harry wanted to scream. He rolled back and forth in the cramped twin bed, drawing his knees into his chest as his arms clung to his chest desperately.

No I didn’t.

You know you don’t believe that.

Harry choked out a sob, shoving his face deeper into the pillow. He couldn’t risk Snape overhearing his misery and willed himself to be silent, shutting his mouth abruptly and covering it with his hand in an attempt to stifle the noise. He had learned to cry silent tears a long time ago.

His body shook as he wept freely, the salt from his eyes staining the fabric beneath his face. He welcomed the misery, sinking further into his grief until he was overcome by exhaustion.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Harry pleaded until he fell asleep.

“Potter.” Snape pounded on his door the following morning. “It is half past six, wake up and meet me in the kitchen.”

Harry blinked awake, drawing himself up from the fetal position he slept in and reaching for his glasses. The pounding continued as he drew himself up from the bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The door flung open to reveal his professor, who adorned his usual dark robes and scowl, standing in the hall. “I expect you to meet me downstairs at once,” Snape growled before stalking off down the hall, leaving the door ajar. Harry sighed, turning to lace his shoes, and stifled a yawn. He was impressed he had managed to sleep at all, despite how little he had rested.

He made his way down the hall drearily, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to wake up and flattening his hair best he could, and found the kitchen with ease. In the same vein as much of the rest of the house, the kitchen was painted a forest green with broken-down wooden cabinets and other various withered furniture that made it generally unappealing. The countertops, if not completely coated with dust, were splintering or otherwise unusable and the white tile floor was barely visible beneath the grime that had built up from neglect. Petunia would really hate it here, Harry fidgeted in the entranceway.

His professor was seated at the oak table, hiding his face behind a copy of the Daily Prophet, black coffee in hand. He did not appear to register that Harry, who was waiting patiently to be allowed into the room, had made his way downstairs at all.

After sitting in silence for several moments, Snape sighed. “Sit down, Potter. We haven’t got all day.”

Harry moved quickly, opting to sit at the opposite end of the table, his head bowed and his eyes locked pitifully on the floor. Snape waved his hand and Harry flinched, sinking further into his chair as a bowl of porridge, a plate of toast, and some cutlery appeared in front of him. “Eat,” Snape commanded. “Then we will leave.”

Harry stared at the meal, repulsed; it had been so long since he had allowed himself to succumb to the weakness of hunger. Except for the occasional drink of water, Harry had avoided the kitchen at the Dursleys like the plague -- every failed attempt to abstain from food met with an unnervingly cruel inner voice that repeated its mantra: You don’t deserve to indulge in anything after his death.

Harry picked at his food, mushing the oats around with his spoon before receiving a dangerous glare from his professor. Frowning as Snape watched him, Harry forced himself to take a bite of the nauseating meal. The food tasted like viscous ash as it churned and coated his tongue. It had an indigestible, putrid sensation and he fought hard to swallow through his discomfort. Harry grimaced once he had gulped it down and, unable to stomach any more of the glue-like oats, opted for the toast instead. The bread was easier to digest, but after half a slice produced the same result, Harry found that he could stomach no more.

Snape rose from his chair, folding the paper and eyeing him skeptically. “Does the food I have given you not satisfy your usual standards, Potter?”

Harry shrunk in on himself, not eager for another fight. “No sir, it’s not that. I’m just not very hungry.”

Snape tutted, throwing the paper on the table. “You are skin and bone, boy. Eat.”

Harry glared at his professor before attempting to eat more toast. He stared at the plain bread glumly before painfully choking down a few bites. Weak, Harry. Why are you always so weak? Feeling his nausea return, he set down his remaining breakfast.

Snape, who had been watching him carefully, sighed deeply and scowled at him across the table. “It makes no difference to me whether you eat or not, boy. Come, we’re apparating from here.”

“Coming, sir.” Harry rose wearily, relief flooding through him as Snape vanished his meal, and they made their way outside the house. The surrounding neighborhood was as wretched as Harry remembered from the previous night, the overcast sky not helping to alleviate the mirthless woe that Spinner’s End produced. Snape walked some distance outside the front gate before turning to Harry, raising his arm in a clear command. He met his professor in the street, grabbed hold, and they were gone.

The world spun around them as Harry felt the familiar tug of apparition. They landed roughly on the familiar concrete that decorated Little Whinging, Harry stumbling for balance as Snape dropped his arm. The nausea clung to him, weighing him down as Harry distanced himself from his professor. Staggering slightly, he vomited on the side of the road, this is humiliating. Snape scowled, pulling his robes closer to his frame, but said nothing as Harry righted himself.

Rejoining his professor, Harry noticed they were a few streets away from number 4, Privet Drive. This must be the boundary of the apparation wards, Harry thought glumly as he followed Snape along the street.

They passed by house after identical house, Harry’s anxiety growing the closer they drew to the Dursley’s family home. He pictured horrid things: Snape and Petunia laughing at his uselessness, Snape and Vernon berating him about his father’s untimely death -- worse still, Snape smirking in the corner while the Dursleys took turns telling him off as if he enjoyed watching the spectacle of it.

Stop it, Harry chastised himself. Snape wouldn’t do that.

He wasn’t entirely sure that he believed Snape wouldn’t indulge the Dursley’s wickedness, but the lie helped calm him all the same. And Harry needed calm; he felt himself begin to sweat at the prospect of Snape meeting his relatives and he clamped his hands together firmly to diminish the shakiness that was likely to begin at any moment.

Snape turned down Privet Drive and they quickly began to approach the house. Calm down, Harry, he hunched in on himself, just calm down.

Snape turned to him as they reached their destination, raising an eyebrow as Harry tried to make himself as small as possible. “Do you have a key, Potter?”

Harry looked up and scanned the yard. Vernon’s car isn’t here -- good. “Sir?”

“Do you have a key to the house, boy?” Snape huffed.

“Er, no sir.” They don’t think of me as family enough for a key.

“Then how were you planning on returning home after your escapade in the park had I not collected you?”

“Uh,” Harry rubbed the back of his head uneasily. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

Snape’s scowl deepened before he marched up to the dark-wood door and pounded harshly. Harry braced himself for the worst.

Silence.

Snape knocked again.

Harry felt himself relax, “Maybe they’re not-”

Dudley swung open the door a moment later, staring at them with wide, uncertain eyes. He noticed Snape’s strange clothing first, instantly palling at the sight of such an obvious wizard.

The tension was palpable, increasing as seconds passed in silence. Harry coughed, fidgeting slightly. “Could we come in for a sec?”

“Oh, um,” Dudley squirmed, stepping aside promptly. “Ya, ‘course.”

Harry pushed past him, leading Snape into the entrance way. “I presume this is your cousin?” His professor questioned. Harry nodded as Snape turned his attention to Dudley, eyeing him suspiciously. “Where are your parents?”

“Dad’s at work,” Dudley’s gaze flickered to Harry and he was sure Snape noticed. “Mom’s running errands, I think. She’ll be back soon.”

“We’re um..” Harry began, knitting his brows together as he searched for the right words. “I’m not going to be staying here the rest of the summer.”

Dudley regarded him carefully, scanning over Harry’s meek frame before fixating on his cheek. “Good.”

Snape huffed in oblivious annoyance, “Go to your room and collect your belongings, Potter. You have chores to do.”

Harry ignored him, staring intensely at his cousin. “Was everything put in the shed or the cupboard?” Dudley nodded to the cupboard under the stairs, his gaze stoic and difficult to read, and Harry felt his heart skip a beat. “Do you have the key?”

“Unlike you, I have a wand, Potter.” Snape growled, Dudley flinched. The professor stocked over towards the cupboard, unsheathing his wand from his robes.

“NO!” Harry yelled, stepping in front of the door. He knew what it would look like: army toys flung haphazardly on shelves, piles of books and tattered old clothes littering the floor beneath a small cot, the handmade sign taped to the far side of the wall that read ‘Harry’s Room” in a child’s messy script. The cupboard looked lived in; it looked like his bedroom. He’s seen enough.

Dudley seemed to follow his lead, understanding the enervating embarrassment and muttered a quick “I got it,” before scurrying into the kitchen, emerging momentarily with a small silver key.

Harry took it and moved to the door swiftly, his hands quaking as he turned the lock, feeling his professor’s gaze burning in the back of his head. Dudley stood behind him silently -- though Harry didn’t miss his sharp intake of breath when the door latched open -- and Harry found himself relieved he would not be divulging this particular secret to anyone who didn’t already know.

His trunk had been thrown haphazardly on top of a pile of books, his broom pushed into the small space with equal callousness. Unwilling to spend another moment near his childhood prison, Harry fished out both as fast as he could and locked the door, returning the key to Dudley.

“I’m just missing Hedwig’s cage, sir.” Harry muttered.

Snape scowled at the Firebolt before his eyes landed on the trunk. “Your wand is in there?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded, suddenly very grateful he had packed the night before.

Snape nodded and Harry bolted up to his room on the second floor and seized the metal owl’s cage urgently. Glancing around his room one final time, he grabbed his remaining owl treats in his spare hand, and he ducked into the hall once more.

“So Dursley,” Snape’s voice carried up from the bottom landing. “How did Mr Potter acquire the bruise on his cheek? I’m sure you know.”

Harry froze in place, his heart sinking. Surely Dudley wouldn’t…

“Um, well-”

Think, think, think. “I already told you, sir.” Harry called as he made his way down the stairs. “Dudley and I were fighting and I fell.”

Snape seethed with rage, broadcasting his loathing. “Potter,” he hissed, “Enough of this.”

Harry shrugged, “That’s what happened. Right, Dudley?”

His cousin looked queasy and said nothing, his eyes darting between the pair of them.

Harry sighed, placing the cage on his trunk, “This is everything, professor.”

“And you just so happen to be fully packed in the middle of summer, do you?” Snape’s brows disappeared into his hairline.

Harry summoned his courage. “I packed last night, actually.”

“To go where?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, sir.” He spat.

Snape raised his wand. “Don’t give me cheek, Potter, or I will silence you.”

Harry straightened and heard Dudley whimper slightly. He lowered his head, “sorry.”

Snape flicked his wrist and his trunk, broom and cage shrunk beside him. Without hesitation, Harry picked up his belongings and placed them in his pocket, relieved to have them in his possession once again.

“Dudley,” he turned to his cousin who was staring at the space on the floor his trunk had previously occupied. “I know that we never got to finish that conversation-”

“It’s fine,” Dudley cut in, seeming to recover from his state of shock. “We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do. Erm, I do want to, that is.” Harry scratched the back of his head awkwardly, “I just don’t know when we’ll get the time.”

His cousin nodded briskly, “That’s fine.”

Harry glanced at Snape, who had narrowed his eyes as if trying to understand, before returning to Dudley. “I, er, I wanted to let you know that I forgive you. I don’t know if that’s what you were looking for but, uh…ya, I do.”

“Oh,” Dudley looked stunned. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No problem, Big D.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe I’ll send Hedwig or something if you wanna get in touch…Maybe.”

“Ya,” he nodded, “sure.”

Harry gave a curt nod before turning to his professor who glared at him furiously. “I’m ready to go now, sir. Just had to say that.”

“Fine.” Snape grumbled, “Come along, Potter.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s arms hurt. A dull ache that demanded his focus, unyielding in its consistency. He had been cleaning the kitchen of the house in Spinner’s End relentlessly since his return from the Dursleys, and the endless back-and-forth of his arms as he wiped down the counters had begun to take its toll.

“You may begin in the kitchen, Potter,” was all his professor had said once Harry was finished unpacking his trunk in the guest room. He had no idea how long Snape intended him to remain in the kitchen, and no idea if he was supposed to -- or even allowed to -- move on to the other rooms without explicit permission. After five years of potions, Harry knew his professor had exacting standards; Snape had made it clear he valued an unachievable level of efficient, precise cleanliness in his classes. But Harry had also lived with Petunia for long enough to know what a spotless kitchen looked like, and after around five hours he supposed he got as close as he could given the disrepair the furniture had fallen into.

Harry had found the old, rotting cleaning supplies in a cabinet under the sink -- a few decaying dishrags, some expired muggle bleach wipes, and a nearly empty bottle of disinfectant. From hours of grueling work, the white tile floor, once camouflaged in dirt, now sparkled marvelously; the wooden cabinets, which were significantly more difficult to renovate, had been sanded thoroughly using a nail file he found in the bathroom down the hall -- it had taken ages but Harry was proud of his work; the counters no longer risked food contamination, and the sad, black metal of the stove no longer seemed as if it wished to collapse in on itself. Harry was pleased with his work. It was gratifying to watch the kitchen spring to life from his hands. He did his best to ignore the sickening green of the walls and what that color reminded him of, focusing solely on the task at hand and quieting his ruthless mind.

He hoped Snape would like it, his cleaning skills far exceeded anything he had ever brewed in potions and he wanted to put his best foot forward, desperate to avoid another argument. Once he couldn’t see anything else he could possibly clean, Harry reclined back in one of the old wooden chairs around the dining table exhausted. He sighed, closed his eyes, and finally let himself relax.

“Potter,” Harry looked up immediately, his gaze snapping to Snape as his professor stood dumbfounded in the doorway. “What is the meaning of this?”

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. Have I done something wrong? “Sir?”

Snape scanned his features, his eyes searching for an answer to something Harry couldn’t pinpoint. “Have you been working the whole time?” His professor asked pointedly.

“Yes, sir.” Harry muttered. “You told me to begin in here…I didn’t know if you wanted me to move on or-”

“For Merlin’s sake, I asked you to clean the kitchen not sterilize it.” Snape’s eyes flitted around the room once more, Harry ducked his head in shame. Stupid stupid stupid. “You didn’t need to be so…thorough.”

“I- I’m sorry, sir.” He muttered meekly. “I’ll move on next time.”

“No need,” Snape tsked as he moved across the room, “I am merely surprised you are capable of following basic instructions.”

Harry fiddled with his hands lamely, avoiding his professor’s scrutinizing gaze. As he hadn’t made any scathing remarks, it seemed as though his work met whatever standard Snape had set.

“Have you eaten, Potter?”

Harry shook his head, “No sir.”

“Well then,” Snape tutted, moving swiftly towards the fridge. “It’s time for lunch. You will eat before resuming your work.”

Harry felt his lungs constrict and his breath catch. No.

“It’s okay, professor,” he stammered quickly. “I’m really not hungry.”

Snape swiveled, staring at him in frustrated disbelief, his eyes burning with barely concealed rage. “You emptied yourself of that pathetic breakfast when we apparated then labored over this kitchen for hours on end and you claim that you are not hungry?”

Harry flinched as Snape raised his voice, cowering slightly from his menacing professor. “Potter your stubbornness never fails to amaze me but I cannot understand what you hope to gain from being deliberately obtuse.”

“I’m not being obtuse!” Harry shouted, raising his head and meeting Snape’s eye. “I said I wasn’t hungry and I’m not.”

“That’s absurd. You’ve eaten next to nothing today.”

“It’s not absurd, it’s the truth!”

Snape glared at him and hissed, “You disgust me, Potter.” Harry reeled back in shock, staring up at his professor. “You continue to spit on my generosity, even after I allowed the Order to send you here, and it is pathetic.”

“Petunia opened up our home to you. We’ve been so generous, you ungrateful boy. You don’t deserve it.”

Harry felt his anger bubble over, engulfing him.“Well maybe ‘spoiled, arrogant Potter’ doesn’t mind missing a few meals!”

“Freak!”

“We never wanted you here anyway!”

“Maybe I don’t want to spend another minute watching you study me like I’m some sort of experiment, sir!” Harry slammed his fist into the table in front of him, the air crackled with pent-up magic.

“Potter, behave yourself.” Snape snarled, his gaze challenging.

“Behave myself?” Harry puffed angrily. “As if that wasn’t what I was doing all summer. But no, you’ve got to make me some villain, huh, Snape?” He recognized vaguely that he was shouting, his voice sounding eerily distant with his heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Always going on about ‘Prince Potter and his lazy father.’ And maybe I am like him, or maybe I’m not. I’ll never know. But at least Sirius would tell me what he was like. At least Sirius would-”

“Enough!” Snape drew his wand and flicked his wrist swiftly, his gaze icy cold. “I am not your mutt godfather. I will not coddle you, Potter.” Harry opened his mouth to continue his tirade, but to his horror, found that he could not make a sound. He froze, his eyes wide and frightened as he grasped an arm around his throat. I can’t say anything.

“If you are unable to restrain yourself and keep your voice at an appropriate volume then you will be deprived of the right to speak.” Snape sneered, returning his wand to his robes.

Bastard.

Harry nodded, hoping the intensity of his glare broadcasted his displeasure.

“Good. Now,” Snape turned to the freshly cleaned fridge behind him, “We have sandwich meat in the fridge. I presume you are okay with that?”

Fuck. You. Harry huffed silently in annoyance, crossing his arms and slouching further in his chair.

“Good,” Snape smirked menacingly, conjuring a small plate in front of him. He made a small sandwich quickly, grabbing meat, cheese and bread from the fridge before placing the dish in front of Harry. “Eat.”

Harry grimaced, sinking further into his chair and poking lamely at the food in front of him. He watched as Snape took his place at the opposite end of the the table, his professor’s eyes boring into him, fixating on his every move. Harry pushed the plate away frowning.

Snape’s eyes flared with rage, “Fine, Potter,” he spat. “It makes no difference to me whether you eat or not. By all means continue to wallow in your obstinate, childish behavior and starve.”

Harry glared back at his professor. Maybe I will.

“Go to your room.” Snape sneered viciously. “You are to remain there for the rest of the afternoon. Unless I give you express permission, you are not to leave. Understood?”

Harry rolled his eyes and pointed at his throat in annoyance. Snape smirked, “You won’t be regaining the right to your voice until you’ve had something to eat, Potter.”

Harry pushed from the chair violently. Fine, fucker. If that’s how you want to play it. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and made his way to the guest room upstairs.

Harry hated magic sometimes. He could cope with muggle punishments perfectly fine -- he was no stranger to being sent to bed without dinner or a few extra chores. But wizard punishments were different, more creative, and tortuous. It wasn’t as if he wanted to speak, it was the principal; Harry felt violated, being unable to make a noise. He hated Snape.

He slammed the door to his room. He kicked the dresser harshly, needing to relinquish some steam. He screamed, but no sound escaped his lips.

Stupid, vindictive, arsehole.

He wasn’t even sure why he had chosen to pick a fight. Stupid, he thought unhelpfully, kicking the dresser a second time. Why do you always get yourself into trouble?

He paced around the room, listening to the irritating creak of the wood flooring beneath him. He flung his pillow across the room. He pulled his hair, clutching his scalp harshly.

Harry screamed again, willing his voice to return.

It did not.

Harry panted in exhaustion. Stupid, good-for-nothing, sadistic, motherfucking prick-

A tap on the window triggered his attention and Harry turned to see Hedwig hooting happily on the sill, her white feathers stark against the dreary backdrop of the street below, a letter from Ron attached loosely to her foot. A smile broke across his face and he moved to open the glass for her quickly.

Hedwig leaped forward into the room, nipping happily at his finger as he stroked beneath her chin. Hey girl, he smiled to himself as she nuzzled the crown of her head into his chest, I missed you.

She cooed as Harry withdrew the letter attached at her foot and opened the sealing.

Harry - it read.

So glad to get your letter. I was worried, with the Dursleys being pricks and all, that you wouldn’t be able to write this year. Happy you found a way to send Hedwig -- don’t worry I gave her plenty of treats.

Diagon Alley sounds good, dunno when you were thinking but I’ll ask mum to see if we could get you away from the muggles for a bit. I’ll say it's for your safety or something, ya know?

Anyway, Hermione says hi -- and before you throw a whole fit about it no, you haven’t missed much. She’s only been round once or twice and we really just did homework because it’s ‘such an important year and we need a headstart,’ or something like that. Honestly I’m bored out of my mind.

Missing you loads and wish you were here,

Ron

P.S. I know you’ll hate me for putting this bit in, but if you need to talk about Sirius at all let me know. I’d be happy to listen mate, I’m sure it must be hard.

Harry clutched the letter to his chest heaving a sigh of relief. Hedwig had been gone for so long he’d thought Ron had forgotten to reply. But all was well, his friend was okay.

He grabbed some spare parchment and a quill from his trunk and hastily composed a reply.

Ron,

Great to hear from you and sorry Hermione’s got you wasting your summer. Don’t tell her I said that.

I don’t know how easily I could get to the Burrow this summer. The war’s crazy, I’m sure. (The Prophet isn’t saying much - does your dad know anything about that?) But the Order’s gonna be on my case for at least the next month of break. I messed up, apparently, and walked outside the wards at the Dursley’s enough times to warrant relocation. I’m being forced to stay with the greasy git himself -- can’t say his name in a letter, obviously, I’m not that dense. You know who I’m talking about, though.

Don’t know how often I’ll get to write, and he’s made it very clear I’m not to be having any fun. Sounds like Diagon Alley is out of the question unless I suck up to him. And that’s bloody unlikely given how the last day has gone.

Don’t worry about me, though. See you when I can.

H.J.P.

Harry sealed the letter, satisfied with his reply, deliberately ignoring his friend’s postscript. He tied the note to Hedwig, feeding her the remainder of his owl treats before shooing her away to the Burrow once more.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry noticed when he awoke the following morning was that he was still unable to access his voice. He tried to say a few words, straining his silenced vocal cords, but eventually gave up, recognizing defeat. Fine with me, Harry grumbled, frowning as he dragged himself out of his meager cot, I would’ve been screaming last night, anyway.

He had dreamt of the graveyard again, watching Cedric die repeatedly throughout the night, waking sporadically as the the sounds of his friend’s screams consumed him. By this point, Harry was convinced he couldn’t accurately remember what had happened in that dark, desolate place. He could easily recall the nightmares, the screams, and the horror, but it all warped so frequently that the only things he could be sure of were that Voldemort had returned and Cedric was dead. He didn’t like to dwell on either of those things.

Harry dragged himself over to his trunk, picking out some jeans and a muggle band t-shirt -- something he knew Snape would disapprove of -- and made his way downstairs. He hadn’t been told when, or where to start cleaning; Snape had made it clear he was done with the kitchen but beyond that, had failed to give him further instruction. Shrugging to himself, Harry moved into the den and gauged his surroundings: the room needed to be dusted, that was certain, the floorboards could be shined, the bookshelf reorganized and the entire room completely dowsed in bleach. Resigning himself to his task, Harry sighed and began looking for a duster.

“Potter,” Snape’s voice barked from the hall. “What are you doing in here?”

Harry swiveled towards his professor, sending him a menacing glare. You know I can’t answer you.

“Ah,” Snape smirked, his dark eyes seeming to understand. “I had nearly forgotten. Come into the kitchen and eat, then, if you would like your voice back so badly.” Snape turned abruptly and strode down the hall, clearly expecting to be followed. Harry huffed in annoyance, fuming silently before he marched into the kitchen, following his professor’s billowing robes.

Snape lowered himself into a chair at the far end of the dining table, raising a copy of the Daily Prophet to shield his face and sipping on what Harry assumed was black coffee. At the other end of the uneven wooden surface sat an untouched plate of scrambled eggs and toast, clearly intended for him. Harry’s frown deepened as he took his assigned place.

Just eat something and he’ll get over whatever grudge he has and give you your voice back, Harry thought as he poked at his food lamely. Do what you’re told and keep your head down, Potter. You know how to do that.

Harry raised a spoonful of eggs to his mouth, forcing himself not to choke as he swallowed. To his horror, Harry realized he was hungry -- despite his efforts to ignore the feeling. He scooped bite after bite into his mouth, trying desperately to ignore the mounting guilt that threatened to overtake him. Weak, useless, undeserving, his mind screamed with each swallow.

After a few minutes, Harry stared down at the empty place in shock, surprised he had managed to force down the small breakfast. Surely I’ll throw it up later, he shrunk into himself, caging his arms around his torso in a tight, constricting embrace. There’s no way my stomach can handle that much food when I haven’t properly eaten in-

“Potter.” Snape’s biting voice drew him from his thoughts. “I see that you are capable of biting your tongue and following orders when it benefits you.” His professor’s smirk grew as he folded the Prophet and placed it on the table. “Here,” he waved his wand, “you are permitted to speak again so long as what you say is appropriate.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry rasped, his voice painful and grating from disuse, the lingering effects of the spell causing his throat to feel as if someone forced a knife down his esophagus.

Snape stood and walked towards the sink, levitating the dirty mug and plate to follow him, his back to Harry. “I shall be out today,” he spoke in a monotone, “You will continue to work on the bathroom in my absence. When I return, I will gauge if your work is satisfactory.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“That, Potter,” Snape turned to face him slowly, leveling him with a hard glare, “is none of your concern.”

Harry nodded, fixing his gaze on the tiled floor. Stupid, he grumbled. You’re not entitled to answers from him.

“You will preoccupy yourself with your cleaning and summer homework.” Snape continued, his gaze unwavering. “My bookshelves and potion lab are off-limits -- and believe me when I say I will know if you have touched anything.”

“Wait,” Harry blinked, “your bookshelves? Does that mean- Do you live here?”

Snape stared down at him in barely concealed disbelief. “An astute observation, Potter,” he drawled sarcastically. “How else would I know of this place?”

“Well, it just seemed like it had been abandoned.” Harry scoffed, “I mean it really doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here in years, given the work I did on the kitchen yesterday. I mean it’s filthy! I assumed it was a safe house or-”

“Enough,” Snape raged, grabbing Harry by the collar and pulling him up from his chair. “Your astounding lack of wit continues to impress me, Potter.” Harry stumbled back as his professor released him harshly, placing a few meters between them. “Heed my warnings and do not touch what isn’t yours,” Snape seethed.

“Ye- yes, sir.” Harry backed away towards the corner of the small room, his mind screaming at him to run.

“Finish your cleaning, feed yourself sufficiently, and take a shower while I am gone, boy.” Snape righted himself, smoothing his dark robes. “I shall return late tonight.”

“Is it something for Voldemort?” Harry blurted before he could stop himself. His voice was small and quiet, but of course, his professor had heard.

Snape had his wand raised instantaneously, his fury evident as his robes whipped around him, “Never say the Dark Lord’s name in my presence, Potter. I have told you this.”

Harry cringed away from the wand, shrinking back into himself, moving further into the corner. He hated that he cowered from Snape, hated that his professor made him feel small and trapped. “I’m sorry, sir, it slipped my mind.”

Tense silence lapsed as Snape lowered his wand.

“I just-” Harry fidgeted with his hands, his eyes remaining glued to the floor. “I’ve been really out of the loop, sir. I’m not told much while I’m at the Dursleys, and if it’s about the war I’d like to know.”

Snape studied him for a moment, his eyes flitting over Harry’s face analytically -- his professor’s eyes boring into his skull, dissecting him. “You are told all you need to know. If I am made aware of information that concerns you I will divulge it to you promptly.”

“Concerns me?!” Harry snapped his head up to meet his professor’s gaze. “With all due respect, sir, all of it concerns me.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, “I have given you my answer, boy. Must I silence you again?”

No! Harry’s eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut.

“No, sir.” He muttered.

“Good.” Snape swept from the room.

As the day drew to a close, Harry was thoroughly exhausted. He had cleaned the bathroom, as Snape had asked, making sure it was spotless to Petunia’s standards. He had used the last remaining bleach wipes while scrubbing at the tile flooring and, after attempting to find more cleaning products -- with no results -- he had resigned himself to scrub the rest of the tiny bathroom with a tremendous amount of soap, time, and effort. With the work finally complete, and the bathroom shimmering, Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the wall of the bathroom.

Snape’s bathroom, he reminded himself. This is Snape’s house.

It was a depressing thought, given the state of the home he found himself in. No wonder he’s such a moody git all the time. I would be too.

Harry sighed, setting his glasses on the sink and moving towards the shower. It had been so long since he had let himself relax beneath warm water. He was never permitted to indulge in long showers at the Dursleys and therefore never let the water get too hot, lest he get too comfortable and forget his place.

Don’t think about that, Harry chastised. You’re not there anymore.

He brushed a hand through his hair, letting the water drip down his face and to the floor. It was serenity, feeling his body relax and his aching muscles sag in relief. He reached for the bar of soap, rubbing it generously into his rough skin, feeling the sting of the open cuts on his hands, cracked from hours of cleaning. He stood still, letting the hot water wash over him and the bathroom fill with steam.

“How dare you waste our water, boy!” Petunia had yelled at him harshly, barging into the bathroom while he remained in the shower. He had always hated that there wasn’t a lock on the door. “You good for nothing brat,” she had shrieked, yanking him out of the shower and turning off the tap.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia.” Harry pleaded, desperately covering himself as her eyes scanned over his meager frame. Her face had twisted into a menacing sneer and Harry let his eyes fall to the floor; she always knew how to make him feel small.

“I told you to clean yourself up not shoot up our water bill!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt-”

She had hit him then, a quick, efficient slap -- harsh and to the point, just as she always was. Harry tried his best to remain still, keeping his head bowed and his posture hunched, embarrassment eating away at him as he stood naked before her.

“After all we’ve done for you I would’ve thought you’d’ve learnt some respect.” She straightened, towering over him. “You are a useless, pathetic child. I’ll never understand how my sister put up with you.”

“It won’t happen again-”

“It better not.” She had practically seethed in rage. “Dry yourself off. I don’t want you dripping on my carpet.” Petunia shoved a towel into his chest firmly before dusting herself off and stalking from the room.

Harry had felt tears build up behind his eyes, threatening to spill. He had willed himself not to cry. He hadn’t given the Dursleys the satisfaction of seeing him break in years.

Stop thinking about this, he scolded himself. It doesn’t matter.

Harry brought his hands to his face, digging his palms into his eyes, holding his breath beneath the water from the shower. Don’t think about it.

“Useless, pathetic child,” her shrill voiced echoed in his mind.

Stop it.

“How dare you waste our water, boy!”

Stop it.

He turned his face up towards the faucet. Is that how Snape will feel? His mind spiraled. Harry shook his head, an attempt to dispel his raging thoughts. No, Snape told you to shower.

But so had aunt Petunia.

Stop it, Harry. He’s different.

Is he, though?

Harry sighed, turning off the tap and stepping from the shower. He didn’t want to give his professor another reason to hate him, and he certainly didn’t want to see if Snape was anything like his aunt.

Harry dried himself quickly, fleeing the bathroom as fast as he could.

Tonight, Harry was in the Shrieking Shack. The walls swayed around him, the old, scraped wood bowing beneath his weight as he moved around. He crept up the stairs, his mind telling him that he needed to see whatever was at the top of the landing.

He pushed open the door, excepting the little cot pushed into the corner with the rest of the broken-down furniture that littered the room. Instead, in its place stood the archway from the Ministry, it’s soft whispers still heard despite the continuous creaking of the shack.

Harry watched the veil awestruck; it was just as beautiful as he remembered.

“It’s alright to stare,” a voice echoed behind him. Harry spun rapidly, turning to face the figure. Remus smiled down at him wearing his usual gray cardigan, his eyes creasing slightly. “It is something, isn’t it?”

“Ya,” Harry returned the smile, facing the archway once again -- the black curtain blew slowly despite the lack of a breeze. “It is.”

Lupin placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I don’t blame you, Harry, for what happened back there. There are always casualties in war.”

“You - you don’t?” Harry faced his old professor again.

“No, Harry.” Remus sighed, his smile faltering. “I do not. You are a child, and you are bound to make mistakes. I cannot fault you for that.”

Harry released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, calmed by Lupin’s presence.

“I do, however, resent you for his loss.” Remus crossed the room, extending his arm and placing it on the grand archway. “While I cannot believe it is your fault, I also cannot disregard the fact that we had such little time together after he escaped. And you,” his professor struggled for the words, his face contorting with grief, “you took him from me.”

“Professor, please,” Harry moved closer, his arms outstretched. “I know he meant a lot to you-”

“Oh do you, now?” Remus snarled at him, his eyes settling in a cold glare. Harry retreated hastily, alarmed by Lupin’s change in demeanor. “You know what he meant to me, do you?” Remus growled. “He was my world, Potter! My everything!”

Harry drew into himself, cringing towards the wall behind him. “I’m sorry, Professor. Really I-”

“Don’t apologise, Harry. It isn’t your fault.” Remus sighed, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose, his momentary anger dissipating. “His death is on the Headmaster’s hands -- his, and the rest of the Order.”

“Sir-”

“It’s not your fault, Harry.” Lupin turned to face him, teary-eyed and emanating despair. His face was sunken and grief-torn, he looked much older than Harry remembered. “It isn’t your fault and I can’t blame you.”

Suddenly, the arch glowed and his parents and godfather walked through, huddling around Remus protectively. Sirius reached for his professor’s chin, turning his head so they faced each other. His mother and father placed their hands on Lupin’s arms, his mother let her head fall on his shoulder. They all stared at Harry as if he were nothing -- as if he were intruding on some private affair.

“I don’t blame you for their deaths, Harry.” Lupin turned to face him once more, tears spilling from his eyes. “But I will never stop hating you for them.”

Harry choked on a sob, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth and shaking his head slightly.

Remus’ eyes dulled slightly, staring at nothing in particular. “I hate you every day, Harry.” His professor’s gaze snapped back to meet his. “And I hate you even more because I know you’re just a kid; I know it isn’t your fault.”

“Professor, I’m sorry-”

“Who are you to stand where they stood?” Remus shouted, his voice cracking as he grabbed Sirius’ hand, James and Lily hugging him tighter. “What makes you special? What makes you different?” He spat.

“I don’t know- I don’t-”

“James was ten times the wizard you are! Lily filled with much more kindness! And Sirius-” Remus broke down, a horrible cry gushing from his throat as his body shook with grief. Harry cried with him as Sirius and his parents retreated through the arch again, gone just as quickly as they had appeared.

His professor sunk to the floor, clawing at the black curtain, reaching for something unattainable.

“You’re all I have left, Harry.” Remus muttered quietly, his eyes remaining fixed on the archway. “And I hate you every day.”

“Sir-”

“Leave, Harry.” Remus turned to face him, his eyes cold and unforgiving. “LEAVE!!”

“Profess-”

“I never wanted you here!” Remus shouted, raising his arms above his head, enraged. “I wanted them! I wanted them!” He cried.

“Remus, stop. Please stop-”

“GET OUT, POTTER!”

Harry woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his cot at Spinner’s End. He took a few panting breaths, his lungs shuddering with each expansion as the grief overtook him.

“I’m sorry, Remus,” he choked out as tears flooded down his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

His breath came in retched gasps as he curled over. He couldn’t bother to quiet himself this time. His professor’s words buried into him, washing him in guilt: “I hate you every day, Harry.”

He brought his pillow to his face, bawling uncontrollably. His body shook as he wept, his breaths short and frantic.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

He couldn’t deal with the nightmares anymore. Harry vowed to never sleep again.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Harry changed back into his jeans and loose shirt before making his way downstairs and into the den. With Snape nowhere in sight -- just as he had suspected -- Harry set to work probing the house in search of disinfectant. He rummaged through the remaining cabinets in the kitchen, in any drawer he could find, and all three closets he had stumbled upon on the first floor, careful to remain as silent as possible. By the time he had gotten to the third closet, Harry was beginning to lose hope. But to his surprise, he found a duster and a bottle of spic-n-span stuffed in between two large, disfigured brown boxes.

Harry set to work on the den, scrubbing, wiping and dusting everything in sight. He worked on everything but the bookshelves, making sure to heed Snape’s warning and stay far away from anything deemed off-limits. When the sun began to rise, he heard footsteps on the stairs and paused, listening.

He knew Snape was staring at him, he felt attuned to his unshakable presence. Harry blinked owlishly at the dark-robed man, setting down his supplies, dusting off his clothes and righting himself. “Professor,” he nodded as Snape scanned the polished room.

“How long have you been up, Potter?”

Harry shrugged, turning back to the duster and resuming his work. “I thought you said you wanted me working from dawn to dusk.”

Snape fumed, his fists clenching at his sides. “Yes, you are to start cleaning at dawn. Not earlier.”

Harry shrugged again, pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose. “It’s not a big deal, sir. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, but I do.” Snape hawked. “I’d rather not have you roaming about the house doing Merlin knows what when you should be sleeping!”

“I was only cleaning-”

“Yes, I can see that, Potter. I’m not daft.”

Harry huffed, placing the duster down and surveying the room. He was impressed with the progress he had made since the early morning. “Sir, do you have a washing machine?” He turned back to his professor. “I didn’t see one, but I’d like to know if I should wash the throw pillow covers by hand or if there’s another way.”

Snape sighed, bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose. “Breakfast first, Potter. Then you may discuss the remainder of your chores.” He stalked out of the room, his robes flaring behind him dramatically, their muted, dark colors sucking the light out from the small hallway he disappeared down. Harry followed him quickly.

“Would you like me to make you something, sir?” Harry asked, rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck.

Snape turned to face him, his brows knit together, a question lurking in his eyes. “Why would you do that? You’re a child, Potter, not a house elf.”

Harry stiffened, dropping his arm to his side. “Ya, but it’s really no trouble.”

Snape’s eyes roamed over him for agonizingly long seconds, his face contorted as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Sit,” he spoke finally. “There’s no need for that.”

Harry took his usual place cautiously, keenly aware of his professor’s gaze as he clasped his hands together, rubbing his thumbs back and forth.

“Is there anything specific you would like?” Snape grumbled quietly.

“Hm? Oh, erm, no. Just whatever’s easiest.”

Snape flicked his wand and eggs and bread soared towards the stove, immediately beginning to cook themselves. Snape raised his wand again and the kettle screamed as the water boiled.

“Do you drink coffee?”

Harry fixed his glasses, watching as a levitated spatula tossed the eggs in a pan rhythmically. “Er - no, sir.”

“Tea?” He began to pour the hot water into a coffee filter.

“No, thank you.”

“Very well,” Snape took his usual seat across from him. “Your breakfast will be ready soon.”

Harry fidgeted under his professor’s unwavering gaze, pressing his palms more firmly together. “Are you not eating, sir?”

Snape remained silent, sipping on his drink casually. Harry felt his cheeks flush at his professor’s dismissal.

Why are you trying to talk to him?

“Your bruises have faded nicely. I trust you applied the balm?”

Harry stopped the relentless back and forth of his hands, frozen momentarily. “Yes. I did.”

“Good,” his professor remarked nonchalantly. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

Harry scoffed, meeting Snape’s eyes. “No.”

Snape leaned forward slightly, winding his fingers together and placing his hands on the table. “So you didn’t just -- how did you put it? -- ‘fall down the stairs?’”

“No, obviously not.” Harry glared. “I thought you knew that.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, tensing slightly. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” Harry growled. “It’s not as if you’ve been the epitome of trust, sir.”

“Don’t be bullheaded, Potter.”

“I'm not!” He shouted, crossing his arms. “Maybe I just want your large nose out of my business-”

“I am at least affording you the decision to disclose whatever happened at your leisure.” Snape bit out venomously. “I could legilimise you, boy, don’t forget that. And, given how poor you are with occlumency, you should trust that I could find what I am looking for.”

“Ya, well whose fault is it I can’t occlude?”

“Quiet, Potter.” Snape barked, his tone bordering on dangerous. “Eat your food.” With a flick of his wand the eggs flew out of the pan and the bread from the toaster, landing gracefully on a levitated plate which flew towards the table.

Harry grimaced, glancing at the full plate before raising his eyes to meet his professor’s vicious stare. “I’d rather not eat with you watching me, sir.” He remarked.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Harry poked the food on his plate dully, frowning as he pushed around the egg with the tip of his fork.

“What did you fix yourself for dinner while I was out last night?” Snape spoke evenly as Harry snapped his head up, startled by the question.

“Sir?”

“I told you to feed yourself sufficiently, did I not? What did you make yourself to eat?”

“Erm-”

“It’s a simple question, Potter.”

“I forgot to eat, sir.” Harry scratched the back of his head. “I was cleaning.”

Snape hummed and took a sip of his coffee, “Well, then tonight you won’t forget. Eating sufficiently, Potter, means three meals a day. I expect you to stick to that schedule.”

Harry felt nauseous. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you eat lunch yesterday?”

Harry felt his anger begin to rise, hot and white. “No, sir.” He spat.

“Then is there a reason for your newfound adversity to food?”

“What do you mean-”

“Potter, you have barely eaten since we arrived here two days ago. If you are attempting to make me pity you by taking on a hunger strike, I can assure you it will not work.”

“Hunger str- what?” Harry blanched, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to pull anything. I’m not scheming to get you to like me, believe me, I know that ship has sailed, sir.”

Snape glared at him from across the table. “Then why?”

“Why what?” Harry huffed in annoyance.

“Why is it that you’ve only eaten one full meal since you’ve left the Dursleys?”

Harry felt his anger course through his veins passionately. He wanted to scream, to pull his hair, to do something, anything drastic. “Merlin,” he scoffed, trying to quell his mounting anger, “Would you give it a rest? This is normal for me.”

“Really?” Snape drawled, his brows raising in suspicion. “I’ve seen you eat in the Great Hall, I know that’s not true. What is the motive, Potter? Attention?”

“There is no motive!” Harry slammed his palm down onto the table making his untouched breakfast jump as the plate leapt briefly up into the air. “There is no plan, there is no scheme, it’s just what is. Gods, you Slytherins always try to make a show out of everything-”

“Don’t chide me, Potter.” Snape scowled. “I know you never do anything without a reason; no matter how deranged your plan might be, you always have one.”

Harry rose from his chair, burning hot with rage. “I’m not some- some calculated, overthinking-”

“Precisely.” Snape raised his eyes skyward. “You aren’t a strategist, boy. You don’t think about future consequences, just short-term benefits.”

“If this is about the wards again-”

“You are impossible,” Snape seethed, rising from his chair. “These are clearly different subjects. What do you hope to gain by not eating? Is this a desperate play to keep your pride intact? I cannot see how that would-”

“It’s not about that.”

“So it is about something?” Snape spun, his eyes narrowing in calculation.

“What- No, it’s not.”

“You are a terrible liar.” His professor clenched his fists at his side, shaking with rage. “Why do you insist on abstaining from something you need to live?”

“I’m not -- I don’t.” Harry fumbled through his rage, his heartbeat pounding thunderously in his ear.

“Have the meals I've prepared for you lacked in your usual quality?” Snape crowed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No! Merlin-”

“Is it your impenetrable Gryffindor stubbornness?”

“No!” Harry reached his boiling point, clutching his hair and tugging hard. “Stop bloody guessing!”

“Is it because you’ve been deprived of the rest of the summer? Is this stupidity to try and spite me? I can assure you, Potter, that that-”

“IT’S BECAUSE HE’S DEAD, SNAPE.” Harry screamed, slamming his fist into the table beneath him. “BECAUSE HE’S GONE AND I’M STILL HERE.”

Snape gaped at him, his tense shoulders dropping slightly as Harry barreled on: “It’s because he’s dead and I’m standing where he stood, doing what he should be doing…He’s gone because of what I did and that eats away at me everyday.”

Snape watched him with an unreadable expression, his eyes cold as they dissected him. Harry couldn’t take it.

“There’s your bloody motive.” He turned on his heels and stalked out of the room.

Harry stormed around his room, his mind swirling with anger. He kicked the side of his bed. He clawed at his hair, pulling it back from the scalp. He let out a frustrated groan -- he wanted to scream.

How dare he! His mind shouted at him repeatedly. How dare he! How dare he! How dare he!

He paced around the small room, eventually forcing himself to sit on his unmade bed and take deep breaths.

Pouting like a child isn’t gonna solve anything, Potter. What's said has been said.

Harry bit his lip, hugging his arms to his chest and hunching in on himself.

He knows now, anyway.

He knows…

Harry clamped his eyes shut, his chest rising rapidly as his breaths became short, quick, and shallow. He rubbed his hand along his chest, focusing on the feeling it provided; inhaling as his arm tugged downward, exhaling as it pushed upward towards his collarbone.

A soft popping sound came from the other end of the room and Harry raised his eyes to find his uneaten breakfast sitting on a silver tray on his desk. Scowling, he made his way over to the plate, noting that the food was accompanied by a small piece of parchment, a message in his professor’s neat script: ‘I know you’re upset. Please eat this anyway.’

“Upset.” Harry scoffed, ignoring the tray as he moved back to the cot. Piss off, Snape. You don’t know anything.

He sat down, tapping his fingers on his thighs and staring out the window for as long as he could take the quiet before he moved to his trunk and collected his summer homework.

Harry started with the remainder of his Charms essay -- an excruciatingly boring theory paper on nonverbal spells -- which, given what he had managed to accomplish at the Dursleys, he was more than halfway done with. He began scratching at his parchment, writing sentence after sentence and losing himself in his work. When he finished his paragraph, the tray of eggs disappeared. Harry found he could concentrate better without the reminder that Snape was somewhere in the house, dwelling on his missed meals.

By the time he was done with his essay, a second silver tray had appeared -- this time carrying a turkey sandwich and some water. Harry relented and downed the contents of the glass, frowning when he saw his professor’s second note: ‘Potter, I am trying my best to be patient with you, but you have to eat.’ He returned to his paper.

Once he was finished with his essay and nearly all of his Herbology reading, which had proven to be even more insufferable than Charms, the sun was beginning to set and the sky was darkening rapidly. He committed himself to his work, powering through his exhaustion and plowing onward through the dull text. A soft, familiar pop echoed throughout the room and Harry turned to find the same dreadful tray appear on the far end of his desk carrying some kind stew and another glass of water.

Groaning, Harry made his way over to the desk and glanced down at the note Snape had left him: ‘Harry, you can’t go on like this forever. Eat, please.’

He paused, staring at the practiced handwriting of his professor. ‘Harry,’ the message read. He blinked, expecting the words to change on the paper before him. They did not.

He sighed, downing the water and forcing himself to swallow each painful bite of stew until the bowl was empty.

Harry waited until he was sure Snape had gone to bed to make his way downstairs. He had listened intensely at his doorway until he heard his professor walk down the hall to his quarters. Once he heard the door had closed, Hary made sure to wait at least half an hour before he left his own room and made his way down the stairway to the den.

He wasn’t nearly done cleaning, but he was determined to keep his mind occupied and his hands busy; the challenge the room provided was a welcomed distraction from the increasing urge to rest his eyes.

He worked methodically, finishing his second round of dusting and wiping before tackling some of the dirtier areas with a third round of bleach. He found a broom and swept, then tied a wet rag to the end of it and mopped the wood flooring. He moved furniture as silently as he could, making sure to clean underneath anything that stood atop the paneling. When the sun began to rise, he wiped his brow and moved swiftly to the comfort of his room, unable to stomach another encounter with his dreadful professor.

Harry did not go down to breakfast that morning. Instead, he opted to remain holed up in his room, his head buried deep in his Herbology textbook and fiercely determined to finish the reading.

Blast that infernal tray, Harry groaned as his breakfast materialized on the desk across from him. He ignored it, pushing his nose deeper into his book and willing the food to vanish.

Once he finished Herbology, he moved on to Transfiguration and began the riveting reading on the history of human transfiguration.

He fell asleep within minutes.

When he woke up, Harry was panting from the exertion of the nightmare -- his mother’s screams still in the forefront in his mind. He had ventured to the graveyard again, and it had been particularly gruesome. Harry forced his eyes to stay open and desperately tried to cement himself in reality -- what was that thing Hermione always said? Find three things you can see, three things you can smell and three things you can touch. Ya, you can do that.

My trunk, my books, my clothes, he stared down at the middle of the room. Smell…I smell a cheese toastie? Harry turned his head to the desk where he saw the silver tray waiting for him.

Oh.

He scowled and returned to his Transfiguration textbook, pinching himself when he noticed the urge to sleep threaten to overtake him.

When Snape sent him dinner Harry ate it begrudgingly, pointedly ignoring the note. Once the tray vanished he moved on to his Transfiguration essay, scribbling away until he heard his professor move down the hall to his room. Harry waited with baited breath, setting aside the remaining foot of parchment needed for his paper and moved to the door to listen for Snape’s footsteps.

The house was silent after his professor closed his door. Harry waited regardless, needing to be sure. Once he was certain Snape was asleep, Harry moved silently down to the first floor landing and resumed his work on the den.

His eyes scanned the room: he had pointedly ignored the bookshelves in his deep-clean and they now stood out as the only remaining furniture that appeared neglected. Harry debated dusting them, surely Snape won’t mind-

“Potter,” his professor’s low drawl echoed in the quiet room. Harry spun, shocked to find Snape standing at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed and his expression sour. “I thought I told you not to clean when you should be sleeping.”

Shit.

Chapter Text

Harry stood frozen, unable to move as his professor’s eyes bore into him. He fidgeted nervously with the end of his shirt, avoiding eye contact as Snape moved across the room, surveying Harry’s hard work.

“This has taken time.” Snape tutted astutely, crossing his arms as he turned to face him. “When have you been sleeping?”

“I, uh…”

“Enunciate, Potter. Mumbling is a wretched habit.”

“I haven’t been sleeping, sir.” Harry growled, feeling the spark of his frequent rage prickle beneath his skin as he glared up at his professor.

“Yes, I can see that.” Snape’s eyes flitted over his face, his features drawn up in disgust. Harry looked away, focusing on the floor. “Do you wish to explain yourself?”

I would rather stick my wand through my eye. “No, sir.”

Snape sighed, lowering himself into the moss-green armchair beside the fire. “And you intend to keep up this ploy for how long exactly? Until you break?”

Harry shrugged, “That sounds about right.”

“Is there any reason you’re so adamant in your refusal to sleep?”

“Funny thing, that,” Harry grated, turning his head to his professor, “I thought I said I didn’t want to explain.”

Snape stared at him intensely; Harry shuffled from foot to foot, squirming under his gaze. “Plus,” he added, “It’s not actually the sleeping that I have an issue with.”

“After all, it was you who got me killed.”

“Who are you to stand where they stood!”

Don’t think about that.

“Freak!”

“Useless boy!”

Harry shuddered as the familiar voices swirled in his mind.

“Do you have nightmares, Potter?” Snape asked calmly, his tone bordering analytical as opposed to his usual harsh, patronizing condescension.

Harry flicked his gaze to meet Snape’s obsidian black eyes, his professor was leaning forward in the armchair, his hands folded on his lap, looking extremely invested in the conversation.

“Yeah,” He spoke evenly. “I do.”

“I thought as much,” Snape conceded. “I would be surprised if you didn’t, given the events of the last two years.”

Harry cringed away, wrapping his arms around his torso protectively, Bellatrix’s voice ringing in his ears: “I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

“Why did you not say anything?”

“Why would I?” He knit his brows together in confusion.

Snape rolled his eyes, “I am a potions master, you silly child. I have methods of alleviating nightmares.”

“Oh,” Harry paused, his shoulders sagging. “Guess I didn’t think of that.”

“Clearly not, given your solution.” Snape drawled. “May I ask what you dream of?”

“Um,” he rubbed his thumb along his arm soothingly, “The graveyard, mostly. But it switches.”

“You revisit Mr. Diggory’s death?”

“Yeah, always.”

Snape nodded, “And why did you feel the need to clean so thoroughly?”

Harry shrugged again, “It was just something to do to keep myself busy. You said it needed to get done anyway, and seeing how I didn’t clean all of yesterday-”

“You were upset, and rightfully so. I did not expect, nor need you to exert yourself in this way.”

Harry paused, turning over his professor’s words in his head. “So when I’m mad I don’t have to work? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps that is because it is not what I’m saying.” Snape scolded. “I only mean that I aggravated you when we spoke in the kitchen, and that was wrong of me. I assumed you would want some time to yourself and therefore did not expect you to resume the work I set for-”

“Are you apologizing?”

“Yes,” Snape straightened himself, sitting upright and tense. “I am. It was deplorable of me to act in the way that I did.”

“Oh.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, his discomfort evident. “Well, I don’t forgive you.”

“I did not think that you would. I am not apologizing to obtain forgiveness.”

“Oh.”

“I am letting you know that my approach to the situation was wrong and I will attempt to contain my temper in the future.”

“Oh.”

“Potter, stop that. Do you have nothing else to say?”

“Sorry, “ Harry flushed, “I suppose I just didn’t expect that.”

Snape hummed to himself. “You would not be opposed to sleeping if you did not experience the nightmares, then?”

“Wh- No, sir. I guess not.”

“Very well.” Snape stalked out of the room and down the hall, leaving Harry to shuffle nervously where he stood by the bookshelf.

Professor Snape apologizing for aggravating me, Harry scoffed to himself. There’s something you don’t hear every day. He pushed his glasses further up on the ridge of his nose. Surely, I must be dreaming. I must have fallen asleep and this is a dream.

He pinched his arm and experienced nothing more than a jolt of pain.

Snape returned briskly, clutching a small vial filled with a shiny, purple liquid. “Dreamless Sleep,” his professor announced as he extended the glass to Harry. “This should alleviate your problem.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry mumbled, taking the potion in his hand and clutching it to his chest protectively.

“A warning, Potter: this potion is highly addictive and can only be administered at a maximum of four days in a row.”

“O- Okay.”

Snape sighed, “If these nightmares infringe upon your sleep so severely I would suggest seeking out an alternative method of dispelling them.”

“Like what?” Harry tightened his grip on the vial in his hands.

“If you would like a more permanent solution, Occlumency has proven to be effective.”

Harry blanched. “No. I’m not doing that again.”

Snape shrugged dismissively, “I will not be providing you with Dreamless Sleep more often than is recommended. It is your decision to take up lessons with me again.”

“Are you offering lessons again?” Harry scrunched up his face.

“I am willing to teach you if you find your rest substantially impacted.” Snape conceded, nodding his head slightly. “Do you anticipate developing a reliance on the potion?”

“Uh-”

“It was your fault I went down to the Ministry.”

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

“An honest answer if you would, Potter.”

“You decided two deaths wasn’t enough for you, didn’t you boy?”

“I don’t blame you for their deaths, Harry. But I will never stop hating you for them.”

“Ya,” Harry spoke quietly, his eyes focused absently on the wall in front of him. “I might need it for more than four nights.”

Snape nodded, “Then we shall start lessons in the morning-”

“The morning?!” Harry was startled, whipping his eyes to his professor. “But- but I thought-”

“You thought what, Potter?” Snape bristled. “Occlumency is a skill that takes time to develop, and if you are truly suffering then the faster you are able to control your mind the better.”

“That’s not what you said last term!” Harry shouted, his anger flaring like a fire beneath his skin. “You were mad I didn’t get it instantly.”

“Potter-”

“No!” Harry yelled, louder still. “I don’t want you in my head, Snape. I’ve always had nightmares, it’s not like it's actually that bad.”

“Harry, I am not in the mood to fight you right now!” Snape bit out in exasperation, his tone brokering no room for argument.

Oh.

Harry deflated, feeling his anger melt out of him just as quickly as it surged, replaced with a strong feeling of guilt that clung to him like honey. Snape clamped his hand around the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes in frustration. “You are tired and it is making you erratic. Go to sleep.”

Harry puffed, “I’m not ti-”

“You are fifteen and have been awake for nearly three days. You are tired. Go to sleep.”

Harry glared up at his professor, “Fine” he spoke calmly. “I’ll go.” But not because you told me to.

“Thank Merlin.” Snape rolled his eyes, returning to the armchair. “Do not return downstairs until morning.”

Harry slugged up the stairs, closing the door once he managed to slip inside the bedroom, and breathed a sigh of relief as he uncorked the vial clutched in his hand. He collapsed onto the uneven mattress, drinking every drop of the purple liquid (which tasted like sugar and lavender) and within minutes of lying down, found himself in a deep, undisturbed sleep.

When Harry woke up the following morning sunlight was spilling from his window, filling up the room with a warm, golden glow. He yawned, stretching his arms high above his head before snuggling back into the comfort of the blankets huddled around him. He was calm, fully recharged, and relaxed.

Harry let his eyes flutter closed, burying his face deeper into the comforter to avoid the sunlight. If it were only a little darker I could fall back asleep easily, he murmured to himself. He cracked his eyes open in irritation, squinting out the window and trying to gauge the sun’s position. It looks like it’s pretty late.

Harry’s eyes widened suddenly and he shot out of bed in an instant, flinging back the remaining sheets and darting over to his trunk as quickly as possible.

I was supposed to start working at dawn, Harry shook his head, attempting to mitigate the fogginess of sleep. Snape is gonna kill me, his mind screamed as he pulled on an oversized hoodie and jeans.

He told you to start working at dawn specifically, Potter. Harry adjusted his glasses with one hand as he tugged on his shoes with the other. He’ll silence you again for acting out.

He rushed out of his room and down the stairs. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Harry shot into the kitchen quickly, panting slightly as he straightened himself. Snape was sitting in his usual place at the far end of the table, the Prophet in hand and an eyebrow raised as he scanned his eyes over Harry’s flustered frame.

“What could possibly be the matter with you?” His professor remarked amusedly.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Harry blurted, scratching his head.

“Whatever for?”

“Well, you said I was to start working at dawn, and I know that I’ve overslept, but I can make it up today by working really hard-”

“Don’t be daft, Potter.” Snape drawled. “You were supposed to sleep. That is why I gave you the potion.”

Harry blinked rapidly, “But- but the den-”

“The den can wait, boy, for Merlin’s sake.” Snape tsked, rising from his chair and moving across the room to lean against a cabinet. “It is not the end of the world.”

“Oh…” Harry relaxed slightly. “I’m not supposed to be working?”

“If you choose, you may do so later.” Snape conceded.

Harry nodded. “What time is it anyway?”

“Nearly three, if I’m not mistaken.”

“THREE?!”

“Yes, yes.” Snape waved a hand dismissively. “I am surprised you didn’t sleep longer.”

“Wh-” Harry reeled back in shock. “I don’t think I’ve ever- I mean I’m just surprised I-”

“In full sentences, if you would, Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry flushed. “I’m just a little taken aback, is all.”

“Mmm,” Snape nodded, “I am sure your body needed the rest.”

Harry shrugged. “Ya, I guess.”

“I assume you haven’t given any more thought to my proposal last night?” Snape clasped his hands behind his back, straightening his back, sizing Harry up.

“Erm, what was that again, sir?”

“Occlumency lessons, Potter.”

“Ah,” Harry shuffled nervously. “No sir, I haven’t. But I’d honestly rather not start back up again.”

“Your alternative solution being…What?” Snape drawled in monotone.

“Uh, Dreamless Sleep?”

“I have told you that I am unwilling to provide you with that particular brew consecutively, have I not? I’d rather not share the remainder of my summer with an addict.”

“Yes, but sir-”

“Don’t be dense, Potter.” Snape reeled on him, leaning forward as his face screwed up in rage. “I have told you where I stand on the matter.”

“Fine.” Harry growled. “I get it. But I don’t want you in my head either.”

“That is entirely the point!” Snape huffed. “You would push me out, Potter. You are supposed to defend yourself from attacks, not give away your darkest secrets.”

“Well I don’t know how to do that!” Harry yelled, crossing his arms defensively. “You were never very good at explaining!”

“I am trying to help you, you idiot boy!”

“Well, maybe I don’t want your help! Did you ever consider that?”

“So what’s your plan, then? Hm?” Snape sneered, crossing the room and approaching him swiftly. Harry held his ground, his eyes narrowing in a vicious glare he hoped matched his professor’s. “Suffer in silence forever? Keep yourself busy until you inevitably fail?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s worked before.”

“How uncharacteristically dimwitted,” Snape droned sarcastically. “I cannot say that I am surprised.”

“Shut up!” Harry cawed. “This is exactly why I don’t want to work with you! You’ll only make me feel like I can’t get it right.”

“All the more motivation to continue practicing.”

“That is not how I learn.” Harry glared up at his professor’s dark eyes. “I can’t work like that, it only makes me spiral.”

Snape leaned back, studying him. “And how would you propose I teach you?”

“I dunno,” Harry huffed in annoyance, “How about you actually give me instructions this time?”

Snape seemed to consider this, his unyielding gaze focused solely on Harry. “If I were to give you more thorough instruction you would be open to resuming our lessons?”

“Er, ya. I guess.”

“Excellent.” Snape nodded curtly. “Then we shall begin after you have eaten.”

Chapter Text

Much to his dismay, a bowl of yogurt with honey and a few slices of toast were placed on the table in front of Harry. Resigning himself to the horrid meal, he took his seat glumly while his professor retreated to his usual place at the far end of the room. Harry poked lazily at his meager breakfast, readying himself to digest the unappealing, viscous food as he stole glances at Snape who had resumed his position in a chair across from him. His professor was ignoring him entirely, opting instead to divert his attention to a piece of parchment which he scrawled on relentlessly.

“Potter,” Snape tutted after Harry glanced at him the third time, “You are to eat, not watch me.”

“Sorry,” Harry flushed suddenly, snapping his head down to stare intensely at the yogurt as he swirled his spoon around the bowl.

Snape sighed, halting his movements and placing his quill on the table while he fixed his eyes on Harry. “If you would feel more comfortable without my being here, you may say so.”

He paused, “Sir?”

“I need you to eat, Harry.”

“I’m going-”

“I am aware you have not taken your meals down here since our rather… unpleasant altercation.” Snape bristled, his face contorting uncomfortably. “If you need space, I will grant you that. But food is non-negotiable.”

“Oh,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, setting down the spoon. “No sir, it’s okay. It’s not you.”

“Wonderful.” Snape nodded slightly, looking alarmingly discomfited. “Then you should have no trouble finishing your meal.”

I wouldn’t say no trouble, Harry grimaced, frowning as he picked up a slice of toast. He ate slowly, forcing down each pitiful bite as Snape studied him; his professor’s unfaltering, hawk-like gaze unsettled him as he desperately tried to ignore his swelling grief. He choked down bite after bite, cringing as the yogurt fought its way down his throat, coating his mouth with its irksome thickness. Snape continued to watch him, the parchment on the table all but abandoned; Harry tried not to squirm under his stare. When he had finished, his plate void of the toast and the bowl scraped empty, Snape stood and left the room briskly, returning with a rather large black, leather-bound book.

“Follow me, Potter.”

Snape led him to the office -- a small, rather dim-lit room with dark, over-pouring bookshelves lining the walls, a small desk haphazardly pushed into the corner, and an armchair -- and took a seat by the small wooden desk, nodding for him to do the same. Harry approached cautiously, and sat across from his professor in the graying armchair, adjusting his glasses and pushing his wild fringe from his face.

Snape handed him the enormous book (which was exceedingly heavy) and leaned back, surveying him. “This is ‘Mental Magics and the Art of Defense’ by Azalea Leveret. Her writing will help to lessen some of your confusion.”

Harry nodded, running his hand around the spine, tracing the engraved lettering of the title.

“As I have explained before, Occlumency requires rigorous practice and dedication. I expect you to apply yourself to your studies and take these lessons as seriously as you are able. Am I understood?”

“Studies?” Harry bristled, “Are you giving me homework?”

“Obviously,” Snape tutted. “Do try to listen, Potter. You will need to practice, as I have just mentioned.”

Harry sighed. “Understood, sir.”

Snape nodded curtly. “We will begin with an exercise from chapter one.” Swiftly, he withdrew his wand and tapped the cover of the book which flipped open in Harry’s lap. He glanced down at the text before him -- “The Benefits of Distancing Emotion” -- before returning his gaze to his professor.

“When you are angry, Potter,” Snape began again, levitating the book onto the desk before sheathing his wand, “What do you do to calm yourself?”

“To calm myself? Uh, I dunno,” Harry shrugged, “I scream, I guess.”

“Let me be more specific: what do you do to regulate your heartbeat? When you are angry, or upset your body courses with adrenaline. What do you do to dispel that energy?”

“Erm,” Harry scratched his head, scrunching his nose slightly. “When I’m upset? I usually try to focus on touch, ya know? Counting my breaths with my hand and whatnot.”

Snape's eyes flashed with something Harry couldn’t place as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Elaborate.”

“I dunno, uh… Like when I’m really stressed, or panicky I rub my hand across my chest and focus on my breathing. Is that what you mean?”

“That is precisely what I mean, Potter.” Snape nodded. “That skill will be extremely beneficial to your Occlumency practice.”

“Skill, sir?”

“Mental arts take a calm, but focused mind. Often the best way to enter that space is through practiced breathing. It seems you are somewhat aware of what that entails.”

“I suppose,” Harry shrugged, his discomfort growing.

“I would like you to re-enter that calm focus now.”

Harry raised his brows suspiciously. “You want me to sit here and breathe?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Snape conceded. “Close your eyes and sit up straight, feet flat on the floor, if you would, Potter.”

Harry let his eyes flutter closed, arching his back as he straightened his spine, shifting to the edge of his chair.

“Good. Now place your hands on your knees with your palms down -- yes, just like that -- and focus on the contact between your hands and your legs. I want you to fix your mind solely on the sensation of touch. Tune everything else out.”

Harry breathed slowly, letting his shoulders sag as his body relaxed. He spread his fingers on his leg, anchoring himself to the weight of his hands and their presence on his body.

“Calm your mind, but keep your focus” Snape continued as Harry exhaled heavily. “I want you to begin to count your breaths. When you get to ten restart at the one. Continue to focus on your hands.”

Snape’s voice was low and soothing, Harry let himself melt as he inhaled, “One-”

“In your head, if you would, Potter.”

“Sorry.”

Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale.

“Continue to focus on your hands.” Snape continued. Inhale, three, exhale. “Feel your magic course through you and begin to work with it, not against it. Relax but do not break your focus.” Inhale, four, exhale.

Harry felt his magic surge, like a river pouring through him, swelling around his hands as he focused on the buzzing sensation of his fingers on his leg. Inhale, five, exhale. He deepened his concentration, allowing his magic to take over as he surrendered to his building serenity. Inhale, six, exhale.

“Good,” Snape sounded further away. “Do not break your focus.”

Harry concentrated on his breathing as the silence resumed, letting himself count through five whole rounds of ten before Snape spoke again. “Now, Potter,” his professor began slowly, “I want you to channel this focus into a memory.”

The ministry-

“Wait,” Snape commanded, “I have not specified.”

Oh.

“I would like you to pick a memory you have a strong emotional connection to -- something that happened recently is typically easier for this type of exercise.” Harry heard Snape shift around the room. “I would prefer if you chose something that was not traumatic as you may find it more difficult to occlude.”

Harry inhaled deeply, “Is there a specific emotion you want me to focus on, sir?”

“It is entirely up to you, Potter, what you wish to spotlight.” Snape spoke lightly. “Although stronger emotions such as joy, anger or fear tend to be most easy to conjure.”

“What about-”

“No, Potter.” Snape sighed. “Do not pick grief. It will be much more difficult to dispel.”

Harry nodded, frowning slightly. A recent memory with a strong emotion that isn’t grief. That’s bloody unlikely; I only think about grief. He scoffed, then frowned again. Focus, Harry.

Something at the Dursleys? Nothing with Dudley, everything with him’s been off this summer. Petunia, then? Nah, she’s just been her usual self -- horrid as that is.

Vernon…?

Now there’s a thought.

“Have you picked your memory, Potter?”

“I think so.” Vernon, the last day, in the kitchen, raging at me for ruining the garden.

“Good. What is the emotion you’ve chosen to highlight?”

“Fear.” Harry said immediately.

He felt Snape still beside him, “Potter, it’s not-”

“No,” Harry opened his eyes and met his professor’s gaze. “It’s not the Ministry.”

Snape nodded, “Close your eyes, then. If the emotion is strong enough, we will use it.”

Harry followed the directions, straightening his back and returning to a meditative calm as he redirected his focus to his breath once more.

“Don’t lose your concentration,” Snape began, “but shift it from the contact between your hands and legs to the memory instead. I want you to rebuild the scene in your mind and focus on your five senses as they were when you experienced them. Transport yourself back to when it happened. Spare no detail.”

Inhale -- I am leaning up against the counter, my hands clutching the countertop for support, I feel the sting of Vernon’s hand on my face -- exhale.

Inhale -- I hear my uncle raging. He’s yelling about how useless I am, and how awful my parents are. I hear my heartbeat in my ears -- exhale.

Inhale -- I see Vernon in front of me, his face purple with anger and his massive arms raised above his head -- exhale.

Inhale -- I smell sweat and dirt and bleach on my skin from a long day of chores for Petunia -- exhale.

Inhale -- I taste the dryness of my mouth and feel how desperate I am for more water -- exhale.

Inhale. I feel too much. I’m worried about my trunk; I’m surprised he actually hit me; I’m embarrassed he still has power over me, no matter how old I get. But above everything else, I’m scared. Really, really scared. Exhale.

“Good, Potter.” Snape breathed with him. “Channel your focus appropriately and let the memory consume you as you concentrate on these sensations. Ground yourself in your fear and let it fill you completely.”

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed. Wanted to be rid of you, did they? Well I don’t blame them!”

Fear, focus on the fear -- focus on feeling small and helpless in front of him, shocked by his violence, thinking he’ll do it again.

“Now,” Snape continued. “I want you to distance yourself from the emotion. Stay present in the memory but mute the feelings attached.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “Sir, how do I do that?”

“Eyes closed, Potter,” Snape commanded as Harry snapped his eyes shut. “To harness control over this particular memory you need to embrace your fear entirely. In giving yourself over to the feeling, you lessen its control over you and make it easier to command. When you feel you have accomplished this, alert me and I will assist with the rest.”

Harry breathed, bracing himself slightly. Vernon looming over me, the dread creeping up my spine, my heart thudding in my chest, the burn in my cheek. Focus on the fear, Potter -- seeing the cupboard when I fell into the hallway. Knowing I wasn’t too old for punishment, that I’m still just as helpless.

“I’ve got it, professor.” Harry croaked, his voice breaking slightly.

“I am going to look into your mind to gauge your progress with the next part of this exercise. Stay focused on the memory and the feelings attached to it, I will be able to feel everything you do.

“I want you, Potter, to redirect your fear and attempt to return to the state of calm you were in at the beginning of this assignment. You will attempt to do this while remaining present in the memory.”

“Wait, you’re gonna be in my head?” Harry shifted uncomfortably.

“You dare disrespect me in my own house when I’ve been good to you this summer, boy?”

“Just to see how far you are able to get.”

No, no no. Pick a different memory. He can’t see this. Harry blanched, attempting to divert his concentration, but his uncle’s rage was too present in his mind -- his senses completely absorbed in the memory.

“Brace yourself, Potter, and focus on the task at hand. As you are aware, this will be slightly uncomfortable.”

Change memories, change memories. Change right now!

“Legilimens!”

Harry felt Snape’s presence, harsh and invasive in his mind as his thoughts swirled around him in a blur of tangled memories. Focus, Potter, he felt his professor’s voice in his head as the scene began to clear around him.

No, no, no.

The presence in his mind increased its intensity and Harry found himself consumed by his memory once more. Vernon materialized in front of him, the kitchen cemented in his vision, and he was trapped there again. Harry dimly registered Snape’s shock at the setting they found themselves in, he was much too focused on his uncle’s menacing frame and the fear that engulfed him to think about anything else.

“Look what you’ve done, boy, you’ve ruined Petunia’s prized garden!” Vernon bellowed, his face turning a sickly purple. Harry cringed, gripping the countertop with more force than was necessary, his knuckles turning white. “After all we’ve done for you this summer! Let you have your trunk, I did! And what’d you do with our generosity?” His uncle began to shake him violently.

Harry tried in vain to fight off his professor’s overbearing presence, but Snape fought viciously to stay present in his mind, forcing him to relive the memory in full. “You spit on us!” Vernon continued, “Give us cheek and muck up your chores! You should be grateful you even have a roof over your head!”

Get out, Snape. Please get out.

Harry felt like crying, his mounting terror making it much more difficult to expel his professor from his mind. He knew what was to come and Harry could do nothing to stop it.

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed. Wanted to be rid of you, did they? Well I don’t blame them!”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix the garden as soon as I can.” He remembered saying.

“You're damn right you will.” Vernon spat, waving his meaty finger. “AND you’ll trim the hedges. AND you’ll mow the lawn, or so help me that blasted bird of yours will never see the light of day again.”

“Sir, I already mowed the lawn today-”

Vernon slapped him, harsh and swift. Snape increased his hold over Harry’s mind.

Please leave. Please, please, you’ve seen enough.

Snape’s presence intensified tenfold, no longer simply observing the scene Harry provided, but deliberately sifting through his memories with the Dursleys. The exercise wholly abandoned, his professor attacked his mind, intense and practiced. Harry was now entirely at Snape’s mercy, any semblance of control he once possessed gone completely. Images flashed before his eyes:

Harry stood naked before aunt Petunia’s scrutinizing gaze. “After all we’ve done for you I would’ve thought you’d’ve learnt some respect.” She spat at him, her hawk-like face the picture of disgust. “You are a useless, pathetic child. I’ll never understand how my sister put up with you.”

Harry was running from Dudley and his gang in a game of Harry Hunting. They caught him and beat him until he lay bleeding on the pavement.

Harry was in the kitchen. “You’ve burnt the food!” His aunt wailed, raising a frying pan towards his head.

It was winter and Harry was tending to the garden outside without a jumper, shivering in the cold as he watched the Dursleys sit down to eat a dinner he had prepared, consumed by sadness and hunger.

Please, Snape. You’ve seen enough.

Harry was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, much younger than he was now. “Aunt Petunia, I’ve finished all my chores. May I please have something to eat?” She stared down at him in disgust and pushed him from the kitchen.

Harry was in the living room, his uncle a mess of purplish rage in front of him, belt in hand. “Petunia cuts your freakish hair, boy,” Vernon snarled, “and then you grow it out by the next day! She’s trying to make you look presentable, you useless, ungrateful, brat!”

“No please!” Young Harry cried, raising his hands in defense. “Uncle Vernon, I swear I don’t know what happened! It was like magic-”

“MAGIC!?” Vernon shouted. “There’s no such thing as magic! You ought to remember that!”

The scene shifted again and Harry was being dragged down the hallway by his arm, his uncle holding him firmly as Harry beat against his grip. “You know what happens when you’re bad, don’t you, boy?”

Harry froze in paralyzed shock, he could feel his tears begin to pour again as he turned his head to see the cupboard under the stairs.

NO! Harry gasped in protest. YOU DON’T GET TO SEE THAT!

He summoned his strength, forcing all his energy into expelling Snape from his mind, screaming as their connection was severed suddenly, a burst of pain shooting through his skull. He fell out of his chair, landing harshly on the floor of the office in Spinner's End, his professor standing in front of him with a dumbstruck expression.

There was a tense moment of silence as Harry struggled to regulate his breathing, clawing at the floor as he gasped for breath.

“Potter-”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking, tears threatening to spill over as he scrambled up from the ground. “HOW COULD YOU?! YOU HAD NO RIGHT, SNAPE!”

“I only looked for what I thought was-”

“NO RIGHT!” Harry clawed at his hair, pacing around the room furiously. Snape stood in the corner, his eyes tracking over Harry’s movements while he kept his distance.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“I don’t believe you!” Harry pressed the heel of his palms deep into his eyes. “I trusted you to do that assignment! I trusted you in my head!”

“Once I observed the initial memory, I decided to press for other necessary information-”

“NECESSARY INFORMATION?!” Harry whipped around to face Snape.

“You’ve experienced abuse. I needed all the facts to discuss this in depth with the Headmaster.”

“You don’t think I’ve told him!?” Harry shouted. “I begged him to let me stay at Hogwarts over summer break, but he said it was for my own safety that I had to go back!”

“I am certain that if he knew the extent to which-”

“NO, SNAPE!” He screamed, his vocal chords contracting as his volume increased. Tears spilled from his eyes, hot and messy. “IT’S MY CHOICE TO TELL PEOPLE! MY CHOICE!”

“Harry-”

“You took that from me! You- you just- and I- UGH” He clawed at his hair, pulling it harshly. “Fuck you, Snape. Fuck you.” He spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

Harry ran up to his room, anger and embarrassment clinging to him as he shut the door and collapsed to the ground. He discarded his glasses, throwing them across the room as his tears poured down his face in unstoppable waves.

“Freak!”

“Ungrateful brat!”

“Pathetic child!”

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed.”

He whined, choking on sob after sob, tearing at his skin while he cried. He tried lamely to stifle his tears to no avail, knowing that the sound of his blubbering sobs was almost always followed by punishment. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he would stop his foolish weeping. He did not. Harry mewled in protest, sobbing again.

“You dare disrespect me in my own house when I’ve been good to you this summer, boy?”

“Please, please, stop it, please.” Harry wailed, his arms clutching his chest protectively as he caved into himself. He pushed his head to the floor, bending over his knees in a fetal position, his tears puddling beneath him as he struggled for air.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He cried. “I’ve been good! Please, please, I’ve been good!”

Chapter Text

He could hear the boy sobbing. The sounds of Harry’s wails echoed throughout the decaying house, weighing him down as Severus collapsed into the chair beneath him. Letting his hand fall to the bridge of his nose, he clamped his eyes shut and tried in vain to block out the boy’s cries.

How could he have known? Where were the signs? By all accounts, Potter’s memories made no sense. The boy was filled with arrogance and unwavering bravado at school, a replica of his father. Severus had believed that confidence was fostered by a cushioned, spoiled childhood. What he saw in Potter’s mind that afternoon had been the antithesis of his assumptions.

How could I not see it before? Severus ran a hand over his face. Where were the signs?

There were easy connections to make: the bruises Potter had refused to explain were most likely a product of his uncle’s violence, the boy’s insistence that he continuously clean a product of childhood with Petunia, and his unease around his cousin clearly cemented in years of bullying. But those were things the boy could easily conceal when away from his relatives. Severus strived to find the little hints Potter would have trouble hiding -- the subconscious behaviors instilled in a child of abuse.

He rarely makes eye contact, choosing to focus on the floor instead. Severus noted, racking his brain for other examples.

He huddles into himself as if he’s trying to erase his presence from the room he occupies.

He flinches when I raise my voice.

He requires explicit permission to do anything around the house, whether that be chores, or showers, or meals.

He doesn’t ask for help and doesn’t expect it. He simply tries to conquer his problems head-on, like the nightmares. I had assumed that was due to his ‘Gryffindor pride,’ but-

Potter’s wails drew him from his thoughts and Severus sighed solemnly, rising from his chair and pacing around the room. He rifled through the memories he had seen, each of them revealing a new layer to the boy he hadn’t considered.

Potter doesn’t fight back. How unlike his father.

Potter’s strange relationship with food most likely predates his godfather’s untimely death as Petunia didn’t seem to allow him to indulge himself. What was it the boy said? “This is normal for me.”

“MAGIC!?” His obscene uncle had shouted. “There’s no such thing as magic!” -- Potter had not been told he was a wizard and seemed to be punished for common, accidental magic.

Wandless, accidental magic develops in children who feel the need to defend themselves consistently….Potter struggles with his academics at school, insecure in his abilities unless he is in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Does he feel his magic is abnormal in some way? Has that disgust been instilled in him?

Severus increased the speed of his pacing, his brows drawing together in concentration.

Potter is most comfortable when he is in control, and if he is backed into a corner he lashes out.

He seemed deeply distressed when I silenced him. Severus paused his movement suddenly, freezing. I silenced him… He groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair. Upstairs, Harry sobbed again.

I have to apologize, Severus thought to himself, for that and for today. The boy was right, I should not have burrowed myself that deep in his mind. I never wished to know this much about him.

Severus turned and the room was engulfed in an intense, white light as Dumbledore’s phoenix patronus appeared next to him. He blinked as his eyes adjusted, shielding his gaze with his hand slightly. The graceful bird’s wings flapped majestically as it bellowed in the Headmaster’s voice: “My office, now.”

Severus moved quickly as the bird dissipated, pushing his thoughts of Potter’s behavior to the side, darting to the fireplace in the den, and flooing to Hogwarts. As he stepped into the golden office he immediately noticed Dumbledore’s stricken frame: the Headmaster was hunched over in his throne-like chair, semiconscious and brandishing a blackened, burned hand. Severus’s eyes absorbed the scene, fixating briefly on the ring that lay atop the desk, allowing himself a moment's pause before he retreated into the fireplace hastily.

He ran to his potions lab the second he arrived back at Spinner’s End, cursing loudly as he rummaged through his various emergency stashes. Irresponsible, impulsive, imprudent old man, Severus grumbled to himself uselessly as he pocketed vials. Why did he not inform me he had found the blasted thing? The last time Dumbledore had mentioned he was seeking out the Dark Lord’s ring Severus had prepared all possible curse-breaking concoctions. But as he raced back to the floo, potions in hand, he worried his brews might not be enough.

He was back at Dumbledore’s side in an instant, muttering incantations as he pointed his wand at the Headmaster’s wrist, his free hand pouring a goblet of bright gold potion down Dumbledore’s throat.

Idiot, he grumbled to himself as he placed the empty goblet on the desktop. Marvolo Gaunt’s ring was cracked, the sword of Gryffindor beside it. The Headmaster’s eyes fluttered open drowsily and Severus felt himself sag in relief before his rage simmered hotly.

“Why,” he began, his anger evident, “why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”

Dumbledore grimaced, “I… was a fool. Sorely tempted…”

“Tempted by what?”

Dumbledore did not answer.

“It is a miracle you managed to return here!” Severus stood in frustration, pacing around the room. “That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being-”

“You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?” Dumbledore’s tone was conversational as he raised his blackened, useless hand, and examined it with great curiosity.

Severus hesitated, “I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting the spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.”

Dumbledore smiled as if this news was of no concern. “I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus.”

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!” Severus huffed in frustration. “Or better still, if you had given me a warning, some foreknowledge of what you were attempting, we might not be in this situation at all! You know I cannot just leave the boy unattended-”

“Harry will be fine, I assure you, Severus.” Dumbledore smiled.

“Yes but you will not, that is precisely my point!” He snarled, looking down at the cracked ring and sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?”

“Something like that… I was delirious, no doubt…”

Severus scoffed, crossing his arms. Absurd.

With an effort, Dumbledore straightened himself in his chair. “Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling slightly, “I refer, of course, to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around my murder at the hands of the poor Malfoy boy.”

Severus bristled, taking a seat opposite the Headmaster, his gaze lingering on Dumbledore’s injured hand. Sensing his hesitation, Dumbledore held it up in polite refusal, effectively ending the conversation.

Severus scowled. “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” Dumbledore remarked. “Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

Silence stretched, tense, and brief.

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?”

“He believes the school will be in his grasp, yes.”

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” Dumbledore continued nonchalantly, “I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students of Hogwarts?”

Severus nodded stiffly.

“Good. Now then. Once the school year begins, your priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you-”

“- much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s position.”

“All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of the plans Draco might develop. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath.”

Severus’s brows disappeared into his hairline. “Are you intending to let him kill you?” His voice was ripe with sarcasm.

“Certainly not,” Dumbledore dismissed. “You must kill me.”

There was a long silence, broken only by an odd clicking noise from one of the Headmaster’s many golden trinkets.

“Would you like me to do it now?” Severus asked ironically. “Or would you like a few moments to compose your epitaph?”

“Oh, not quite yet,” Dumbledore smiled. “I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight,” he raised his withered hand, “we can be sure that it will happen within a year.”

“If you don’t mind dying,” Severus felt his rage begin to bubble over, “why not let Draco do it?”

“The boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Albus? Mine?”

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved -- I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.”

His tone was jovial, but his obscenely blue eyes pierced Severus, brokering no room for argument. Dumbledore waited expectantly for an answer. Finally, after a moment's pause, Severus gave another curt nod.

Dumbledore seemed satisfied, his stare diminishing in intensity. “Thank you, Severus. Now,” he brightened considerably, “let us move on to lighter conversation. What are you making of young Harry?”

Severus straightened in his chair. “That is precisely what I wished to discuss with you. The boy is…”

“It’s my choice to tell people! My choice!” Harry’s screams rang out through his head. Severus could picture him so clearly: his green eyes muddled with tears, his breathing erratic, his hands trembling as he tried to compose himself.

He cleared his throat, “The boy is still heavily affected by the loss of his godfather. I have resumed instructing him in Occlumency in an attempt to lessen his nightmares.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled mischievously, “Forgive me if I am surprised, Severus. I did not expect you to continue your lessons given what happened last time.”

“The boy was up for nearly three days to avoid sleep, what do you propose I should have done?” Severus bit back defensively, crossing his arms.

“You have done well in all regards, Severus. You know how pertinent it is that Harry begins to grasp the mental arts.”

He nodded, recalling how the boy had managed to expel him from his mind without the use of his wand. “Potter has shown a remarkable affinity for the subject.”

“Harry is bright,” Dumbledore smiled. “I am sure that he has.”

Severus did not dispute him.

When he returned to Spinner’s End the boy had stopped crying and the house had lapsed into silence. Sighing and running a hand down his face, thankful for the quiet, Severus made his way upstairs and towards his chambers. The moon was high overhead and he was exhausted.

He trudged down the hall, pausing when he heard shouts coming from Potter’s room. Pressing an ear to the door and drawing his wand, Severus heard the boy muttering to himself. He knocked quietly. There was no indication that his presence was noted; Potter continued his rambling.

Severus cracked open the door and peeked inside. It was dark, illuminated only by the light from the hall, and completely silent save for the boy’s incessant muttering. Approaching cautiously, he noticed that Potter lay on the floor by his open trunk, hugging his limbs to his chest and jerking back and forth. He appeared to be asleep despite his rapid movements, and Severus stiffened when he noticed that the boy's face was stained with dried tears, the events of that afternoon flooding back to him suddenly.

“No, Cedric… don’t take the cup, please… Sirius, tell him not to…” Potter babbled as he hugged his arms tighter around his torso. “Please, please, run away, please…”

Severus watched curiously as the boy continued to flail atop the floor.

“No… no don’t…”

“Altum Somum,” Severus muttered, pointing his wand at Harry.

The boy stilled, melting into the ground beneath him, his mouth falling open slightly as his breathing leveled and he fell into a deep sleep. Once he was sure Harry had truly relaxed, Severus levitated him across the room slowly, lowering him onto the small bed. The child sighed in relief, nuzzling himself into the soft padding as Severus removed Harry’s shoes and set them beside the cot. This will be the only time, Potter, he grumbled as he tucked the boy gently beneath the covers.

He scanned the room for Harry’s glasses, summoning them from the floor and placing them on the bedside table. He spun then, grabbing the letter opener from the desk drawer and transfiguring it into a small glass cup. Muttering a quick “Aguamenti,” he set that on the small table too.

Severus turned to face the boy once more, sitting down at the edge of the bed and studying him. It was strange to see him so at peace -- he looked so much like James with his eyes closed and his features relaxed. Before he thought better of it, Severus let his hands brush over Harry’s forehead, gently pushing his fringe from his eyes. The boy hummed contentedly.

“I will have to discuss today’s revelations with you at a later time,” his voice fell on deaf ears. “My behavior today was inexcusable… I did not know…” He sighed. “Had I not let my preconceived notions cloud my judgment I would have recognized the signs. You did not hide them, I was simply blind. I assumed you had grown up with a loving, doting family. But not all families are loving, as I well know.”

He brushed the boy’s hair from his face once more, his eyes lingering on the lightning bolt scar. For her, I’ll watch over him.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

Chapter Text

Harry awoke the next morning buried deep in a mountain of blankets, stretching as he wiped the crust of dried tears from his face. He sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and letting a cool wave of numbness wash over him. He was much too tired to dwell on the events of the previous day and opted instead to lay back in the cot and stare up at the greying ceiling with unfocused eyes.

Wait, Harry blinked away the sleep, why am I in bed?

He sat up and reached for his glasses. They were beside him -- how odd. He looked around, surveying the room; everything was where he had left it, the contents of his trunk still strung across the floor in a lazy effort to unpack. I must have crawled to bed last night, Harry decided as he rubbed at his scalp, Everything was a bit overwhelming anyway. Maybe I just don’t remember it.

A tapping sound drew him from his thoughts and Harry looked up to see Hedwig pecking happily at the window, a letter attached to her foot. A smile broke out across his face as he rose from the bed clumsily and moved to the sill, cracking open the glass and letting her waddle inside. Hedwig nuzzled up to his chest and hummed blissfully.

“Hey, girl.” Harry cooed as he stroked her feathers lightly. “It’s good to see you. Has the Burrow been nice?”

Hedwig chirped in affirmative, holding her leg out slightly and presenting him with the note. Harry untied the binding and sliced open the letter as Hedwig moved closer to him once again.

Harry -- it read.

I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE STAYING WITH HIM! How could Dumbledore do this to you?! Have you tried contacting him and telling the old bat that he’s finally gone insane??

Harry laughed to himself as he stroked the top of his owl’s head.

I mean it’s absurd! It’s an outrage! It’s abuse! I’ve asked Dad if you could stay with us but he’s been vague. It’s strange, he seems to think this is best for you or something. As if he couldn’t trust me, your best mate, to know what’s really good for you!

Can’t imagine the git could be worse than the Dursleys, though. From what you’ve said, I’m glad you could at least get away for a bit. If he is worse, write back as soon as you can, mate. If he’s being an arse I could probably have a better chance convincing Dad to get you out.

Speaking of Dad, he hasn’t told me much about the war -- just the usual stuff that you know already: it’s gotten worse on both sides, people are going missing more frequently and the Ministry isn’t really all that safe anymore. Sorry, I can’t be more helpful on that front.

Honestly though, if you have anything to report about the greasiest servant to he-who-must-not-be-named then don’t hesitate to write. Let me know you’re doing well if you can, your last letter scared me a bit.

Miss you,

Ron

Harry folded the letter and placed it beside him on the window sill, turning back to Hedwig once more. She blinked up at him, listening attentively as he sighed. “I missed you, girl. How quickly did he write that when you got there?”

Hedwig moved her head to press into his touch, shutting her eyes softly.

“I bet it was fast,” Harry laughed. “Hearing I’m staying with Snape must’ve been a shock. I can picture it now: he’d read the first few lines, get to the part where I talk about where I am, then drop everything to reply instantly.” He chuckled, shaking his head affectionately. “Did he even remember to feed you when you got there?”

Hedwig shook her head slightly, staring up at him with her large brown eyes. “Go on then,” Harry nodded. “You know where I keep your snacks.”

She flew from his lap across the room, landing in her cage and pecking at the full bowl of food at the bottom. Harry relaxed, running a hand through his hair as he watched her eat, “I don’t wanna reply right now so feel free to rest. I actually can’t be bothered to deal with Snape right now.”

Hedwig halted her movement and turned to face him swiftly, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. She took off, flying across the room to hover mid-air in front of him, her eyes scanning over his frame as if she were assessing him for injuries.

Harry pat his outstretched leg, an invitation for her to perch, “I’m fine, Hedwig. Honestly, you don’t need to worry about me.” Cautiously, she lowered herself onto him, her gaze still intensely serious. Harry sighed and stroked her chest lightly, “He hasn’t done anything, I’m okay. But… He knows about the Dursleys. He saw my memories.”

Hedwig’s eyes widened suddenly and she nuzzled into him, moving along his leg and lowering her head into his chest. Harry breathed out in relief, running his hands through her soft feathers. “I didn’t want him to know… But I- I can’t change the fact that he does now. It happened yesterday, I haven’t seen him since.”

As if on cue, the silver tray appeared before him on the desk and the smell of eggs, toast, and fresh fruit wafted through the room as Harry noticed his breakfast waiting for him.

He scowled, “I don’t want to see him today. And apparently he doesn’t want to see me either,” he scoffed, his voice dripping with barely-concealed anger, “seeing as he decided not to summon me for breakfast.”

Harry turned back to Hedwig, willing the tray to disappear. “It’s alright, girl.” He muttered as he stroked her head lightly. “I’m not mad he doesn’t want me downstairs. I’d rather not eat with him anyway.”

Hedwig cooed in approval, sinking into him as he scratched at her chest. They stayed huddled together on the sill for minutes as Harry watched the sun rise high above the depressing buildings of the street below him.

He smelled the tray’s absence before he noticed it. As the tempting aroma of fresh eggs, toast, and fruit slowly dripped out of the room he turned to see the desk bare once more. Harry let out a sigh of relief. “See?” He turned back to Hedwig, her eyes wide with interest. “I can spend the rest of the day like this. I don’t even need to talk to him if I don’t want to.”

Suddenly, a loud knock rang throughout the room and Harry whipped his head around to face the door. Snape stood in the entranceway wearing his usual dark robes and carrying the sickening silver tray which, much to Harry’s dismay, was still stacked high with breakfast.

“You did not touch your meal.” His professor remarked casually as he strolled into the small room and placed the tray on the desk once more.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Harry frowned, turning back to Hedwig and avoiding Snape’s stern gaze.

“I do not recall asking you if you were, Potter.”

Harry glared at nothing in particular, his eyes trained on the windowsill in front of him as he continued stroking the soft feathers of Hedwig’s chest. “I wasn’t in the mood to eat, then. So I didn’t.”

“That makes no difference-”

“Why are you here, Snape?” Harry turned suddenly. “You don’t usually come up.”

His professor bristled, straightening slightly, his expression completely unreadable. “I need to verify that you are eating properly. While you are in my care it is my responsibility to ensure that you are healthy.”

“You never cared before.”

“You were never my ward before, Potter.” Snape bit back, crossing his arms.

“It doesn’t matter.” Harry tutted in frustration. “I’ll just eat later.”

“And when will that be?”

“I dunno,” he huffed, running one hand roughly through his hair and gesturing vaguely with the other. “Later.”

Snape sighed. “One meal a day is not sufficient, Harry.”

He turned to meet his professor’s obsidian-black eyes as Snape leveled him with his gaze. His professor’s arms remained crossed, his expression dark. “I have told you numerous times that eating sufficiently consists of three meals a day and you continue to ignore me. I need you to eat, for your sake and mine.”

“I don’t want you here.” Harry fidgeted with his hands in his lap as Hedwig adjusted herself on his leg. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I am sure that you are.” Snape’s gaze softened slightly. “I will leave you alone once you have eaten to my satisfaction.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he attempted his most menacing glare, “I’m not eating.”

“Then I will not leave.” Snape stalked across the room and sat down on the edge of the small, unmade bed. “You may do with that information what you will.”

Harry scoffed, turning back to the window, his hand falling to Hedwig’s head once more. Snape continued to watch him, his intense gaze difficult to ignore. Harry tried desperately to focus on the rising sun and the orange haze overtaking the tops of the crumbling buildings. He fidgeted uncomfortably, unable to shake the feeling of Snape’s eyes on the back of his head.

He groaned in frustration, fine, you arse. Rolling his eyes and shaking Hedwig off his leg, he moved across the room to the desk, sending his professor another glare.

Harry took his seat, picking up the fork and shoveling some egg into his mouth. The taste was sickening, coating his mouth in unpleasurable waves as he fought hard to swallow. Snape’s gaze was tied to him exclusively; his professor watched in silence as Harry struggled through bite after bite, studying him.

Harry swallowed, grimacing as the food fought its way down his throat. He’s dead, his mind screamed. He’s dead and you’re still here.

Stop it, he stabbed at his breakfast once more. Don’t think about that right now.

He swallowed. You’re pathetic, doing what he should be doing when it’s your fault.

It’s not my fault.

Harry loaded his fork up with eggs again. You don’t believe that.

He swallowed harshly, his eyes watering.

You know it’s your fault.

Murderer.

Harry choked as forced another bite down his throat. Snape sat up straighter on the bed, his professor seemed to be keenly aware of Harry’s discomfort.

Murderer. His mind screamed as images of the Ministry flashed before his eyes.

Murderer. Sirius had fallen in an ark, graceful and slow, before he was absorbed by the Veil.

Murderer. Sirius’s eyes had relinquished their life gradually. He hadn’t even looked dead.

He gasped for breath, tears pooling in his eyes generously. You’re a murderer, Potter.

Stop it. Stop thinking about this.

“I can’t do it.” Harry muttered, dropping the fork and clutching his hands to his head.

Weak, always so weak.

He pulled at his hair painfully, his eyes darting around the room in frantic uncertainty. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can’t do-”

“Calm down,” Snape was at his side in an instant, kneeling on the ground before him. His professor tentatively placed a hand on his thigh. “You need to calm down, Harry.”

“I can’t-” his body trembled aggressively. He shook his head back and forth, his vision clouding with unshed tears. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, please-”

“It’s alright,” Snape waved his wand suddenly and the silver tray vanished into thin air. “You don’t have to. You’ve eaten enough for now.”

Harry sobbed, hunching into himself as he pressed his hands deep into his eyes beneath the round frames of his glasses. He focused on the pressure of his palms, pressing firmly to stopper his cascading tears from continuing their tirade. He felt the absence of his glasses as they were cautiously removed from his face.

“I need you to occlude. It will help.” He could barely register Snape’s voice over the sounds of his own shuddering breaths. “Return to the state of calm we practiced yesterday.”

Harry sobbed harder as his breathing increased in irregularity, his lungs eager for air they could not obtain. “I can’t, Snape. Please, I can’t.”

He felt a vial pressed firmly into his hand and clutched it gratefully. “Drink,” his professor spoke calmly over his cries.

Harry uncorked the bottle and drank its contents gratefully. Immediately a wash of serenity flooded through him and he felt his heartbeat begin to steady. Harry’s lungs swelled with oxygen and he took a few shaky breaths, feeling his panic recede with each inhale.

“A calming drought,” Snape said casually, withdrawing his hand from Harry’s thigh. “I will continue to provide them as needed until you are able to occlude successfully.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry wiped his eyes meekly, curling into himself, hugging his arms to his chest tightly.

“May I ask you a question?” Snape knelt before him; Harry avoided his eyes.

“I guess.” He shrugged, rubbing his hands across his bare arms.

“I wish for honesty, Harry.”

He nodded, eyes focused on the desktop.

“Is your posture right now a result of your upbringing with the Dursleys?”

“Sir?” Harry flicked his eyes to Snape’s. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Then I shall elaborate,” his professor sighed, his shoulders sagging. He looked much older than Harry remembered, his eyes more sunken and his features tired and worn. “When you lived with your relatives, did making yourself physically smaller help to… protect you?”

Harry stared down at Snape blankly, scouring his professor’s features, his gaze flitting over concerned obsidian eyes. “I- erm,” Harry shook with nerves, increasing the speed at which he rubbed his hands along his arms. “I guess, yeah.”

“Could you say more?”

He hesitated, locking eyes with his professor. “Erm, no, I-”

He already knows, Harry.

What’s the point in not talking?

You…you want him to.. To what?

To help?

He shrugged, clearing his throat. “They didn’t like to be reminded I was there, you know? And I get it, I was never supposed to live with them. It’s not like they were prepared for my parents to die.”

Snape inhaled sharply, returning his hand to Harry’s thigh gently.

“I don’t think it started consciously.” He continued, shifting his weight in his chair. “It was just easier to try to be noticed less when I was in front of him.”

“Him?”

Harry paused, his eyes glossing over. His body began to go numb as he lost focus, disconnecting entirely. “Don’t you dare disrespect me in this house, boy!”

“Yeah,” he muttered meekly, “him.”

“Your uncle?” Snape shifted closer, his thumb rubbing along Harry’s leg comfortingly.

He nodded, averting his gaze and staring at the floor beneath him. The wood panels began to blur as he vision shifted out of focus. “It was just…it was…easier.”

“Freak!”

“Ungrateful brat!”

“Useless boy!”

“They never asked for me anyway,” he shrugged.

“Potter, I want you to listen to me when I say this,” Snape began, his grip firm on Harry’s leg. “You are not a burden to take care of. It is not your responsibility to determine how your relatives should have treated you. I want you to know that.”

Harry scrunched up his face in confusion, moving to look at his professor, “But you said-”

“Doesn’t matter what I said,” Snape dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “It is in the past now.”

“Professor, I don’t understand-”

“Harry,” Snape grabbed his hands, clutching them gently. “You are not a burden. You are a child who deserves to be taken care of. I am sorry it took the adults in your life this long to see reason, but I promise that you will not go back there.”

Harry’s gaze darkened and he withdrew his hands from his professor’s grasp. “I’ve heard that argument before, professor. I know where I’m safest.”

“No, Potter.” Snape sighed. “You will not go back there, the Order can make other arrangements just as they have for you this summer. I will ensure it.”

Snape stood, dusting himself off while moving across the room to the bed once more. “If you are still unsure we may discuss this at lunch.”

Harry shivered and Snape halted his movements, his professor’s eyes locked on him intensely. “Was the food what triggered this outburst from you, Potter?”

Harry cringed away, shrinking into himself once more. “No,” he muttered. “I mean that was part of it, I just…”

“Go on.”

“It’s just, ugh, it’s just all very fresh in my mind right now.” Harry shrugged, rubbing a hand along the nape of his neck. “It’s a little intense.”

“What is?”

“All of it,” he shrugged again. “I’m still mad at you.”

Snape sighed deeply, “I know you are. I am-”

“Could you leave, please?” Harry turned to face his professor blankly. “I’d really rather be alone right now.”

After a moment's hesitation, Snape nodded curtly and left the room in a flurry of dark robes. Harry sighed, staring at the blank wall in front of him, his vision shifting in and out of focus as he surrendered to the numb sensation building inside him.

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure how long he sat in his room staring blankly at the moss-green, decrepit wall in front of him. His mind swirled, consumed by a persistent, hazy fog that made it impossible for him to move his limbs. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t move. At some point, Hedwig had flown over to him from her cage, but he couldn’t remember when she landed on his lap. Lazily, he stroked her head as she cooed in pleasure, nuzzling into his empty chest. He sat on the edge of the chair for a long time, his hand working down her head methodically, his mind a sea of overpowering, unending numbness.

Hedwig shoved her head into him with more aggression, demanding his attention. Groggily he turned to face her, his hand falling limply down her back as he stroked her feathers. “Hey, girl,” Harry mumbled softly. “I’m alright, you don’t have to worry about me.”

She hummed in reply.

“Really, Hedwig. I’m fine, I always am.”

She bit his hand and Harry jerked away from her quickly, shaking out in fingers in agony, his mind immediately focused.

He blinked rapidly and shook his head, adjusting to his surroundings as his vision cleared. “What is wrong with you, you bloody bird!? I said I’m fine.” Her dark eyes stared up at him suspiciously, her pupils roaming over every inch of his skin, assessing him. “I said I’m fine, Hedwig. I’ve already told you it’s not your job to take care of m-”

A loud knock thudded throughout the room and Harry swiveled his head to the doorway. “Potter,” Snape’s raspy voice echoed from beyond the wall, “I would like you to join me downstairs for lunch.” Already? Harry heard his professor’s footsteps recede down the hallway once more.

Surely it can’t be time yet. He paused, adjusting his glasses before slowly drawing a hand down his face and sighing. “It’s alright, girl. I’ll be back soon.” Harry rose from his chair, shaking Hedwig off as he walked tiredly towards the door. After a short glance back, watching as his owl fluttered gracefully back to her cage, he left the comfort of his room and made his way through the hall. With tremendous effort, his legs slugging uselessly beneath him as he clung to the wooden railing for support, Harry tugged himself forward down the stairs and towards the kitchen.

Snape was busying himself with something on the stove, tossing a variety of herbs into a steaming pan when Harry entered the freshly-cleaned room, ignoring his presence entirely. “I can help with that, professor.” He spoke quietly, twisting his hands together as he walked through the entranceway tentatively.

“Don’t be absurd, Potter. That won’t be necessary.” Snape summoned bowls from the cupboard across the room, his eyes still focused on the pan. “Do sit down.”

“Oh, erm, sorry, then.” Harry muttered, scratching the back of his neck as he lowered himself into the closest wooden chair.

“That’s quite alright.” Snape tutted, turning to face Harry as he placed a bowl of salad on the table. “I suppose you’re used to working in the kitchen,” he scraped a few slices of grilled chicken from the pan into the bowl as Harry cringed away, “It’s a perfectly reasonable remark.”

“Right.” Harry grimaced, staring down at the food in disgust as Snape moved swiftly across the room to the chair opposite him.

Harry poked his fork into the bowl, smushing around his meal and fidgeting awkwardly in his seat.

Snape sighed, locking his hands together and placing them on the table. “Do you enjoy cooking, Mr Potter?”

Harry blinked up in surprise, “Um, I’ve never really thought about it.” He shrugged, “Of all the chores I’ve had to do for Petunia I guess it’s one I don’t mind doing.”

Snape watched him intensely, “Cooking is quite similar to potions, you know. If you applied yourself to your studies I am sure you could be a capable potioneer.”

Is that a compliment? “Thanks?”

Snape nodded. “You may cook if you like, although I would appreciate it if you prioritize your other chores.”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “I can clean later if you want.”

Snape studied him, a question lurking in his dark eyes. Harry bowed his head, staring intensely at the fork clutched firmly in his hand.

“Um, professor,” he squirmed uncomfortably under Snape’s harsh gaze. “You said earlier that I wouldn’t go back to the Dursleys. You - you said that the Order could just move me somewhere else and provide the protection necessary.”

Snape straightened, inhaling swiftly as if to brace himself. “I did.”

“Did the Order always have the power to do that?”

His eyes narrowed but his voice remained calm, “The Order has just reformed after years of being disbanded. Until recently they did not have the means to-”

“Did they always have the power to move me, sir.” Harry growled as he clutched the fork in his palm with more force. “It’s a simple question.”

Snape’s eyes scanned him over. “Dumbledore is your magical legal guardian, it is ultimately his decision where you-”

“You’re avoiding the question!” Harry felt his familiar rage begin to burn beneath his skin. “Did they have the power to move me? Yes or no.”

Tense silence ensued as Snape’s mouth clamped shut in a firm line. “Yes,” Snape spoke evenly, his eye contact unwavering. “They have always had the power to move you.”

“Ha,” Harry choked out his breath, dropping the fork and running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “So they- they could get me out and they just -- they left me there?”

“Potter if they had been warned…If you had given them a reason-”

“Given them a reason?!” Harry shouted, turning to his professor with a deathly glare. “I gave them reasons! I complained!”

“I’m sure if they had been made aware of the full extent-”

“Oh don’t put this on me, Snape.” Harry pushed out of his chair suddenly, raising himself to full height. “I did my job. I told people.”

“Who?” Snape watched on analytically, peering up at him from the chair at the far end of the room. “Who did you tell?”

“Sirius!” He shouted. “I told Sirius! Not like he didn’t already know.” Snape leaned in, moving to the edge of his seat as Harry continued, his professor’s expression rich with interest. “He knew the second I met him that something was off. I dunno how.” Harry’s eyes turned about the room frantically as he tugged at his scalp. “Maybe it was because I was so eager to go with him, though he gave me a talking to before summer about my home life. He asked so I told him,” Harry shrugged, “He was the only one who ever asked.”

“And what, exactly, did he ask?”

“Well, I don’t remember specifically,” Harry puffed, rolling his eyes as he paced around the small kitchen. “He asked how the Dursleys treated me and if I liked living with them. Things you’d expect, I guess.”

“What did you say to him?” Snape sat before him, the pinnacle of composure, his expression neutral.

Harry threw up his arms in frustration. “I told him I hated them and the way they treated me. What did you expect?” He puffed, “But I told him it had been better since I-” got my own bedroom.

Harry shook himself. “Stop it, Snape.”

“I’m sorry?” His professor reeled back in confusion.

“You’re - you’re doing that thing you do,” Harry increased the speed of his pacing, “when you want information.”

“Asking you questions?”

“Yes. Er, no? Merlin,” he clutched at his hair.

“Calm down, Potter.”

“Calm dow-”

“Occlude. It is the only way.”

“I don’t know how to do that.” Harry growled in annoyance.

“Sit,” Snape commanded, his eyes moving to Harry’s abandoned chair.

“I don’t wan-”

"Sit, Potter.”

Harry huffed, plopping back down into the chair and crossing his arms in defiance.

“Place your hands on your chest.” Snape spoke evenly, infuriatingly undisturbed by Harry’s anger. “Focus on the sensation of touch. That technique seemed to work well enough for you last time.”

Harry seethed in rage but did as he was told, placing his right hand over his heart and his left directly below it. He breathed in deeply, still buzzing with anger, attempting to school his mind into thinking only of the weight of his hands and the position of his fingers.

“Count to ten just as you did before, Potter. Let the frustration drain from your body.”

Harry let his eyes flutter closed, timing the rise and fall of his chest with the numbers in his mind. Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale.

He counted up to ten three times before Snape spoke again, his professor’s voice closer than it was before. “You may open your eyes now, Potter.”

Harry did as he was told, letting his eyes adjust to the light pouring into the room. Snape stood a few paces in front of him, his professor’s inquisitive gaze focused on him intensely. Harry swayed slightly as he immersed himself in his surroundings, pushing his glasses up from the edge of his nose.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel…” nothing. Harry struggled for the words. “I feel empty. But- but not in a bad way?”

“You do not feel empty, Potter.” Snape tsked. “Find another word.”

Harry schooled his mind into focus, blinking away the haziness and letting his hands fall back to his side. “Quiet.” He settled on, more sure of his answer. “I feel quiet.”

Snape nodded contentedly. “Would you like to resume our exercise from yesterday?”

Harry paused, hesitating. “I- I don’t know.”

“If you chose the same memory,” Snape began, straightening himself, clasping his hands behind his back, “I would not probe your mind for anything else. You do not need to show me anything I haven’t already seen if you are uncomfortable.”

“The problem is that you’ve seen it, not that you’re giving me a choice now.” Harry crossed his arms, his emotions slipping back into the forefront of his mind.

Snape bristled. “You need to grasp the mental arts if you wish to alleviate your nightmares. I cannot gauge your progress unless I am in your mind.” His professor turned his eyes skyward in annoyance. “You may choose to show me whatever you would like, that does not negate the fact that I will see it. Stategise if you must, I am trying not to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Harry pouted. ‘Trying not to make me uncomfortable’ my ass.

Snape sighed. “What memory are you choosing, Potter?”

“The same one.” Harry crossed his arms. But not because you told me to.

“Shall we then?” Snape lowered himself into the chair beside him. “Return your hands to your chest and re-enter that same state of calm you possessed before.”

Harry rolled his eyes but raised his arms once again and let his eyes fall shut. He eased into his serenity, feeling his body grow heavier in the chair with every inhale. He let the peacefulness of his magic and its persistent, reliable thrum flow through his body as he connected to the fire inside him.

“Now,” Snape spoke slowly after a moment, his voice calm and patient. “Let the fear consume you. Let it overtake you completely; it is only when you’ve accomplished this that you can dispel it entirely.”

Harry nodded slowly. Fear, he scolded himself. Focus only on the fear.

“Tell me,” his professor continued. “What are you afraid of in this moment?”

Harry snapped his eyes open, his gaze settling in a cold glare. Snape raised a brow in silent authority. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Potter. Remember that.”

Harry’s glare intensified as his professor matched his expression.

“Are you afraid to say it out loud?”

Harry tsked, “I’m a Gryffindor, Snape.” He rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. “I’m not afraid of words.”

“And yet,” he mused, “here we are.”

Harry shut his mouth in a firm line as Snape leveled him with his stare. He summoned his confidence, pushing out his chest. “I am not afraid.”

Snape shrugged. “Then say it. What are you afraid of in this memory? Why was fear the emotion that came to mind so immediately?”

“Because…”

“Wanted to be rid of you, did they? Well I don’t blame them!”

“Because..”

“Freak!”

“Useless brat!”

“Take your time, Harry.” Snape’s voice seemed far away. “You need to admit your fear if you want to stand any chance at besting it.”

He sucked in a breath. “Be- because I was afraid he would hit me again.” Harry muttered, his eyes glued to the floor. “I was shocked…He hasn’t… He hadn’t…” He shrunk into himself, clinging his arms to his chest and bowing into his lap. His voice was small, barely above a whisper, and strained as if he hadn’t spoken in days. “It’s been a long time since he last…”

Snape rose from his chair slowly, his robes flaring as he moved across the room and knelt beside him. “Breath, Potter. Sit up straight.”

Harry shook his head viciously in protest, clinging tighter to himself.

“That wasn’t a request.”

He cringed away slightly then, and resigning himself to defeat, inhaled for a long moment, then straightened his back as he exhaled. He took deep breaths, expanding his lungs to their full capacity, rubbing his hands along his arms which remained folded in his lap.

Snape reached out his hand and placed it on Harry’s arm, halting the back and forth of his movement. “Stop this,” his professor muttered, “It will only heighten your anxiety. Breathe, Potter. Occlude if you can.”

Harry let his arms fall to his side lamely. “I am not afraid.” He said, his voice shaky and small. He needed his professor to hear regardless; he needed him to understand.

Snape’s eyes softened slightly as he stroked his thumb comfortingly along Harry’s forearm. “It’s alright to be-”

“I am not afraid.” He bit out, his fingers clutching the underside of the chair with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Harry glared at his professor, “He does not have that kind of power over me,” he spat.

“Being afraid doesn’t make you weak, Harry.” Snape patted his arm gently. “It makes you human.”

“Then I don’t want to be human.”

“That,” his professor’s brows raised in skepticism, “is a foolish sentiment. And one I do not think that you believe.”

Harry scoffed, shifting his weight in the chair beneath him.

“There are a great many things I am sure you are afraid of, Potter.” Harry met Snape’s dark, serious eyes. “What matters is that you do not run from them. Shall we begin again?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry nodded, and let his eyes fall closed.

“Immerse yourself in the memory once more. Focus on your senses, yes, but highlight your fear. Just as you did before.”

Harry nodded again, conjuring the kitchen in his mind. His uncle loomed over him, Vernon’s purplish face covered in a sickly peel of sweat. Harry cowered internally, feeling smaller than ever.

“Have you got it, Potter?” Harry nodded meekly in reply. “Brace yourself. Legilimens!”

Harry felt Snape’s familiar, protruding presence in his mind as the Dursley’s home solidified around him. Vernon’s large frame obscured his vision of anything else, but Harry had spent enough time in the kitchen at Privet Drive to know exactly what it looked like. His uncle huffed in violent frustration before him and Harry felt himself begin to unravel, his adrenaline spiking, the metronome of his heart pounding at a demanding tempo.

“Look what you’ve done, boy, you’ve ruined Petunia’s prized garden!” Vernon bellowed, his face tinting a darker shade of purple. Harry cringed, gripping the countertop.

“Potter,” Snape’s voice echoed throughout the memory. “Focus. Do not let this fear control you. You have power here.”

“After all we’ve done for you this summer! Let you have your trunk, I did! And what’d you do with our generosity?” His uncle began to shake him violently.

I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

“Yes you can.” Snape’s voice came through smoothly.

“You spit on us!” Vernon continued, “Give us cheek and muck up your chores! You should be grateful you even have a roof over your head!”

No, no, no, no.

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed. Wanted to be rid of you, did they? Well I don’t blame them!”

I can’t do this, Snape. I can’t.

“Stop doubting yourself, Potter. Focus on your breath.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix the garden as soon as I can.” Harry remembered saying.

“You're damn right you will.” Vernon spat, waving his meaty finger. “AND you’ll trim the hedges. AND you’ll mow the lawn, or so help me that blasted bird of yours will never see the light of day again.”

Harry’s body shook with fear, his hands quivering as he gripped the countertop. “Sir, I already mowed the lawn today-”

STOP IT, SNAPE. I CAN’T DO THIS.

Vernon slapped him, harsh and swift.

“Yes, you can, Harry. Embrace your fear and don’t run from it. It’s alright to be afraid. Control your breathing.”

"You dare disrespect me in my own house when I’ve been good to you this summer, boy?” Vernon spat. Harry turned his attention to the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on the sensation of his hands against the side of the counter. “We’ve got to go back to what worked then, don’t we?” His uncle proclaimed, “go pack up that trunk of yours, you’ve got no right to it when you abuse our kindness.”

Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale.

“Good, Potter.”

“No, please Uncle Vernon, I need it.” Harry’s memory-self said, “I have a Charms essay I need to write, I have-”

“Char- You- YOU FREAK!” He felt his heart pump faster as his uncle raged.

“Calm down, Harry. You can control this.”

He tightened his grip. Inhale, three, exhale. Inhale, four, exhale.

“YOU DARE TO DISCUSS THAT IN MY HOUSE!”

His heart rate steadied and his breathing leveled. Harry relaxed his arms as Vernon yanked his memory-self from the kitchen and into the hall.

Harry was flung to the floor, his body thudding to the ground violently. He sensed Snape’s presence assert itself slightly, his professor’s interest peaked, but Harry felt a wave a calm flood through him as his emotions began to fade. He felt in control despite his lack of feeling -- the numbness providing a sense of security. In his memory, Harry stared at the cupboard under the stairs and felt…nothing.

“Not nothing, Potter.” Snape’s voice echoed in his head. “Quiet, as you put it before.”

Harry felt his professor’s presence recede and he allowed himself to open his eyes, blinking away the memory as he found himself in the kitchen at Spinner’s End once more. Harry exhaled in relief, still overwhelmed with his strange, newfound sense of meditative control.

“You were able to successfully separate your emotions from your memory and occlude.” Snape scowled at him, his expression sour and angry.

“Is- isn’t that a good thing?”

“Yes, Potter.” He spat in disgust. “It is a fantastic thing.”

“I don’t under-”

“Did you even try last year?” Snape stood, pacing around the room in a rageful frenzy. “Did you put in any effort at all?”

Harry adjusted the round frames of his glasses. “Well, if you had told me what to do I’m sure I could have done it.”

“Oh spare me, Potter.” Snape turned to him, his eyes alight with fury. “You completed that assignment with such ease it was absurd.”

“You- you wanted me to fail?”

“Merlin,” Snape raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. “No, boy. I wanted you to struggle. That was not meant to be easy.”

“It wasn’t easy, professor.”

“Somehow I doubt you mean that,” Snape hissed.

Harry recoiled and his professor sighed. “Leveret’s book is in the study where I left it. Commit yourself to reading chapters two through six for the rest of the day, Potter.”

Harry fidgeted in his seat. Snape raised his eyes and nodded his head to the door. “I meant now, boy, not at your leisure.”

Without a second thought, Harry pushed out of his chair and fled the kitchen hastily.

Chapter Text

Harry sat himself down in the study, hearing the resounding thud of his beating heart echo in his ears as he opened the cover of the large book. Making himself comfortable, he flipped to chapter two, ‘The Mental Formations of Consciousness,’ and sighed, bracing himself for the difficult read.

“Did you even try last year?” Snape’s voice reverberated through his head. Ya, I tried. Harry grumbled to himself unhelpfully. This is just really hard stuff. I’m not gonna apologize for not mastering it instantly.

His eyes danced across the page beneath him and Harry ran a hand over his face in ill-concealed frustration. You haven’t even started reading yet, Potter. Harry dug the heel of his palm in his eye. You can’t give up now.

Resigning himself to his grueling task, Harry began to read:

“Formations that exist in consciousness are called mental formations. When there’s contact between a sense organ (eyes, ears, mouth, nose, body) and an object, sense consciousness arises. And at the moment your eyes first gaze on an object, or you first feel the wind on your skin, the first mental formation of contact manifests. Contact causes a vibration that enables consciousness, just as we explored in the last chapter.

If the impression is weak, then the vibration stops, and the current of store consciousness recovers its tranquility; you continue to sleep or you continue with your activities, because that impression created by touch has not been strong enough to draw the attention of mind consciousnesses. It’s like when a flying insect lands on the surface of the water and causes the water to ripple a little bit. After the insect flies off, the surface of the water becomes completely calm again. So although the mental formation manifests, the current of the life continuum vibrates, there’s no awareness born in mind consciousness because the impression is too weak.”

Harry blinked in confusion, pushing his face closer to the text and scanning the opening two paragraphs a second time. He knit his brows together, rubbing his temple with his right hand as he tried to absorb the information before him.

This is useless, Harry frowned after rereading the text. None of this makes any sense. I can’t believe Snape is making me read this bullshit.

“In this chapter, I will be highlighting the first layer of consciousness: mind consciousness,” the book continued. “Mind consciousness is the first kind of consciousness. It uses up most of our energy. Mind consciousness is our ‘working’ consciousness that makes judgments and plans; it is the part of our consciousness that worries and analyses. When we speak of mind consciousness, we’re also speaking of body consciousness, because mind consciousness isn’t possible without the brain. Body and mind are simply two aspects of the same thing. A body without consciousness is not a real, live body. And consciousness can’t manifest itself without a body.

We can train ourselves to remove the false distinction between brain and consciousness. The great occlumens of history have achieved this separation easily and have written numerous works on the benefits of doing so in their practice. In keeping with their work, we shouldn’t say that consciousness is born from the brain because the opposite is true: the brain is born from consciousness. The brain is only 2 percent of the body’s weight, but it consumes 20 percent of the body’s energy. So using mind consciousness is very expensive. Thinking, worrying, and planning take a lot of energy.”

Bored, and overwhelmed with frustration, Harry flipped forward a few pages, giving up on the first half of the chapter.

“There are two forms of Occlumency: repressive and expressive. Repressive occlumency, the focus of chapter one, is when the occlumens wishes to repress or restrict the mind in its emotional range, hiding or excluding the legilimens from true thought. Expressive occlumency requires more effort. As opposed to restraining the mind, expressive occlumency opens up the four layers of consciousness” -- since when are there four layers? Harry balked. -- “and projects desired thought to the forefront of the mind, persuading the legilimens that they are experiencing pure candor when it is distorted truth.

Restrictive occlumency keeps us in the present moment and allows our mind consciousness to relax and let go of the energy of worrying about the past or predicting the future. We, as beginner occlumens, can economize this energy by focusing our magic in the narrow pathways of restrictive occlumency.”

Harry rested his head in his palm, trying to make sense of the words that danced across the page before him. He skipped forward in the chapter again.

“The fifty-one mental formations are also called mental concomitants-”

“Nope.” Harry groaned in frustration, flipping through more pages until he saw a list of bullet points.

“Chapter Two Exercise:” -- the page’s header read. “1. Pick a strong central emotion from the list within this chapter.” Damn, Harry thought to himself. Too late to go back now. “2. In keeping with restrictive occlumency, picture a light stemming from the center of your mind, encapsulating your presence, and detach your emotion from your sense of self. 3. Release the elusive notion of ‘I am,’ as discussed in the chapter, and occlude by relinquishing yourself of the emotion.”

Damn it, Harry sighed. How am I supposed to do this?

He straightened his back, moved to the edge of his chair, and placed his feet flat on the floor. Lowering his hands to his thighs, Harry began to steady his breathing, focusing on the metronomic expansions of his chest. He let his eyes fall closed.

Pick an emotion. Okay, I guess I’ll just go with fear again.

He began to count his breaths. What am I afraid of? Anything trying to kill me, I suppose. But that seems to be everything.

Harry frowned, focus, Potter. Think about a light. Is that what it said to do? He opened his eyes, peaking at the page. Ya, okay. Think of a light.

Clenching his eyes shut, Harry strained his focus, his mind reaching for something he could not grasp. Light, think of light.

He groaned in frustration, throwing his head back against the armchair and breaking the little concentration he held.

“I assume this means your studies are not going well?” A voice drawled from the opposite corner of the room.

Harry opened his eyes to see Snape standing in the doorway, his professor’s arms crossed in front of his chest, his robes as dark as his expression. “I don’t get it,” Harry whined. “The writing’s too confusing.”

“How far were you able to get?”

“Not even through chapter two!” Harry threw his arms up in annoyance. “I don’t get how you can separate brain and consciousness. That doesn’t make any sense. And,” he rubbed at his temple, “I don’t get how I’m supposed to picture light, or how I’m meant to ‘release the elusive notion of ‘I am.’’” He scoffed. “This book isn’t helpful at all.”

Snape watched him, his eyes searching for the answer to a question Harry couldn’t place. “I suppose it would be confusing to someone who has no prior experience in the subject. Do you have specific questions or anything you wish me to elucidate?”

Harry groaned, “If you could clarify all of it, that’d be great.”

“Come now, Potter,” Snape bit out, “You are capable of basic reading comprehension, are you not? Formulate a direct question, if you would be so kind.”

Harry pushed himself to sit up straighter. “I dunno, professor.” Snape raised a brow and Harry huffed in annoyance, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Am I meant to be focusing on restrictive or expressive occlumency?”

“You will master both, in time.” Snape nodded knowledgeably. “For the immediate goal of repressing your nightmares, restrictive occlumency is best. But, given your unique connection to the Dark Lord, a wizard who happens to be a formidable legilimens, comprehensive knowledge in expressive occlumency would be beneficial.”

Harry nodded solemnly, sinking into the chair once more and playing with the cover of the book lamely.

Snape sighed in defeat, his shoulders sagging. “In my anger this afternoon, I neglected to give you time to eat lunch. Please join me for dinner, Potter, so I may rectify this error.”

“Oh,” Harry blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Honestly, sir, I hadn’t even noticed.”

“That is not an impressive feat, Mr Potter.” Snape’s face set in hard lines, his professor’s sour face returning instantaneously. “Join me for dinner.”

Harry sighed, dragging himself from the chair and following his professor out through the hall and into the small kitchen. He approached his usual chair before pausing and turning back to Snape who was lowering himself in the chair opposite. “Sir…Would you like me to make you some-”

“Do not finish that sentence, Potter,” Snape drawled tiredly, running a hand down his face, “it is already taken care of.” He waved his wand and two plates piled high with grilled chicken, mashed potatoes and broccoli levitated from the countertop to the dining table. Harry bit his tongue and took his chair, stabbing his fork non-committedly into the meal before him.

He shifted uneasily in the chair, mushing around the food on his plate and trying his best to force himself to be hungry. Stabbing at a piece of broccoli, Harry raised the fork to his mouth before a wave of nausea rushed through him and he set the cutlery down again. After a tense few moments of silence, broken only by clattering silverware as his professor ate, Snape lowered his utensils and stared at Harry intensely. “Desist in this childishness. You are beyond the age of playing with your food, Potter.”

“Sorry, sir.” Harry mumbled, loading some chicken onto his fork and repressing a shudder as he swallowed it.

Snape nodded as he resumed his eating, his professor momentarily satisfied. “I’m sure you would prefer to be aware that I have met with the Headmaster since our first lesson in Occlumency.”

Harry paused as he raised his fork to his mouth once more, his mind catching up to his professor’s statement. That means…

“I would also like you to know,” Snape continued nonchalantly, seemingly unaware of Harry’s unease, “That I did not tell him about the… rather unpleasant memories of your relatives I witnessed in your mind.”

Harry blinked in confusion, dropping his fork onto the plate in front of him sharply and staring at his professor who had looked up at the noise. “You- you didn’t tell him?”

“I did not.” Snape spoke calmly.

“But- but-” Harry’s eyes darted around the room quickly, focusing on nothing in particular as he tried to reign in his spinning mind. “But you said that you would. You- you said you had to discuss everything in depth.”

Snape sighed. “I would like to initiate that discussion, believe me. But you were correct: it is your decision what you wish to disclose to Professor Dumbledore.”

“It’s…” Harry shook his head in astonishment, “You’re giving me a choice?”

His professor nodded again seriously, his expression firm. “I am.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Well,” Snape rolled his eyes, “Have you been contacted by the Headmaster in any way?”

Harry scrunched up his face and shook his head. “No.”

“Has he visited you since I learned of your abuse?”

It wasn’t abuse. “No.”

“So he has in no way attempted to verify that what I may have said was at all truthful?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Then that is your answer.” Snape shrugged. “I can assure you Professor Dumbledore would do at least one, if not all, of those things had he been properly informed of the situation.”

Harry knit his brows together, trying desperately to think of some kind of excuse for Dumbledore’s absence. “But I think-”

Snape held up a hand to silence him, continuing, “I implore you to go to the Headmaster and discuss your living situation while at Privet Drive because he will be able to help you far more than I am capable of doing so. But,” Snape conceded, “I will leave that decision up to you.”

“You said you would get me out of there next summer,” Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Now you say Dumbledore stands a better chance at helping me? Why would I go to him if you’re already doing something?”

“Because, Potter,” he spat, “Professor Dumbledore is a powerful wizard and head of the Order -- the very Order that decides where you spend your every waking moment. I am simply a member. I do not have direct authority-”

“So you can’t guarantee I get out next year?” Harry wrung his hands together beneath the surface of the table. “You said I wouldn’t go back there. You promised me the Order could find another solution.”

Snape released an exasperated breath. “Yes, but-”

“You promised me, Snape.” Harry felt his anger begin to surface, his breath hot and frantic. “Did that mean nothing to you?”

“Potter-”

“Did you say that so I’d shut up? So I wouldn’t complain?”

“No, but-”

“Was it an empty promise?” Harry pounded his fist on the table. “Just words? It meant something to me when you said that, Snape. Now you're saying that it was all fake?”

“NO -- Merlin’s sake, boy, would you let me finish my thought?” Snape stared him down and Harry reluctantly leaned back in his chair, signaling for his professor to continue. “I cannot be a source of stability in your life and I encourage you not to think of me as one.”

Harry scoffed. As if I’d ever.

“As you are aware,” Snape glared at him, “I have other obligations which demand at least at least half my time and focus. I may not always be a member of the Order, especially since the war has begun to grow more serious, and you cannot expect me to advocate for your needs as often as someone who is more involved -- namely, Professor Dumbledore -- can, and most assuredly will.”

Harry let his eyes fall momentarily to his professor’s covered left forearm where he knew the Dark Mark rested, shifting uneasily as he pictured the twisting black snake. “I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!” His mind screamed as Bellatrix’s voice cut through his thoughts, briefly transporting him to the Ministry where he found himself surrounded by dark-robed, hooded figures; the black, absent eyes of their skull masks boring into him-- Stop it. Harry blinked, returning his gaze to his professor’s eyes.

Snape cleared his throat. “I have said that I will be able to secure you a different means of residency next break and I can procure that. But you cannot expect me to do more, Potter. It is far too unlikely I will be able to make effective changes beyond what I have already promised you.”

“What more would I need?”

“I don’t know,” Snape threw up his arms in exasperation, “Someone to talk to, someone who could listen. Merlin knows how much you have internalized-”

“I don’t need a therapist.” Harry cringed at the thought. “I’m fine.”

Snape turned his eyes skyward in annoyance, “I am only saying if you would like that option it cannot be me. I’m sure Lupin would be more than happy to entertain the possibility.”

Harry scrunched up his face in distaste. “I hate you every day, Harry.” He shuddered. “No, thank you.”

“It was merely a suggestion,” Snape shrugged, though Harry could swear he saw his professor’s lips quirk up slightly at his open disgust. “There is no need to act on it.”

“May I be excused?” Harry glared across the table. “I’m not feeling very hungry right now.”

“Well then it is unfortunate for you that I do not care,” Snape replied smugly. “You may be excused when you finish your plate.”

Arsehole.

Asleep, Harry found himself in the Dursley’s kitchen. His small frame was huddled over the edge of the countertop, scrubbing furiously at the mess before him. Rotten, molding food stained the counter, filling the room with an unyielding stench as Harry tried desperately to return the kitchen to Petunia’s exacting standards.

His aunt’s figure loomed over him, inspecting his work as Harry increased the back and forth of his scraping, his arms weak and hurting from overuse.

“You disgusting welp of a boy. I taught you better than that.” Petunia snarled, her hawk-like face turned upward in haughty distaste. “You should know not to spill in my kitchen!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia.” Harry struggled to maintain the taxing pace he had set, his arms slowing as his exhaustion grew. “I’ll clean it, I promise.”

“Yes,” she spat, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, “you will. Because if you don’t, I’ll call him in to set you straight.”

Harry felt his arms go slack with fear, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Petunia smiled down at him menacingly, her features contorted in sickly triumph as if she knew the full weight of her words. Harry turned back to the counter with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain of his overworked muscles as he scrubbed.

Anything but that, his mind screamed as he willed himself to work harder. Please, anything but that.

“Not good enough.” Petunia inspected as Harry panted from the effort. He scraped harder, faster, but no matter how hard he tried, the mess wouldn’t disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out as unshed tears pooled in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening, I’m really trying to-”

“It’s okay,” his aunt placed her hand on his shoulder maternally, rubbing her hand in small, comforting circles just as he’d seen her do to Dudley over the years. “It’s alright, Harry. It’s okay.”

He blinked up at her, relaxing his shoulders and meeting her eyes. Petunia never let him get away with a mess this bad. “I- I don’t underst-”

“There’s nothing to understand.” She spoke softly, her voice dripping with sweetness. “You can’t clean up your mess, and that’s okay. You’ll just have to be punished for it.”

“What?” Harry reeled away from her. “But you just said-”

Her smile widened and she dropped her arm, “It really is for your own good, you know. Nothing good ever comes from your freakishness.”

“Wait, Aunt Petunia,” Harry retreated, backing away, “I can still fix it. I can try, at least.”

She shook her head sadly, her mind made up, as Harry backed into something behind him. He spun to face his uncle, Vernon’s large frame purple with rage. Harry felt himself go white, the blood draining from his face as he noticed the belt in his uncle’s hand.

“No,” he begged, raising his arms in defense. “No, no, no, Aunt Petunia I can still fix this. Just give me time, please just give me time.”

“No,” she shook her head. “It’s for your own good. You know that.”

“No please-”

Vernon raised his arm, Harry shielded his face. “You ungrateful brat!” His uncle bellowed, his arm swinging down, the leather belt clawing forward.

Harry shot up in bed, fully awake and panting breathlessly as he re-immersed himself in his bedroom at Spinner’s End. He tugged at the skin of his chest, bunching his shirt as he tried to absorb himself in something tangible. It’s not real, he gasped, clenching his eyes shut. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

A loud hooting drew him from his thoughts and he turned to see Ron’s owl Pigwidgeon hovering outside his window. Composing himself, Harry moved slowly to the sill, shaking his head in an attempt to dispel his raging thoughts.

He raised a shaky hand to let the owl in, heaving a sigh of relief as he lowered himself onto the ledge and untied the scroll at the owl’s foot.

He recognized Hermione’s neat script immediately and began to read:

Dear Harry,

I’m terribly sorry to bother you as I know you are most likely busy and have your reasons for not replying to Ron’s letter, but we’re worried about you. Ron told me where you’re staying and it’s just awful. I simply cannot believe Dumbledore could ever allow it!

Please write back saying you’re okay. Ron’s lost his mind with worry -- he’s starting to sound like his mom, but don’t tell him I said that.

With much love,

Hermione

Harry smiled fondly at the note, letting himself relax as he stroked the feathers on Pigwidgeon's head. The small owl cooed happily, nuzzling into his touch before a loud knock rang throughout the room, causing them both to jump with shock. Harry snapped his head up to see Snape standing in the doorway, his professor adorning long, black night robes and an expression unusually sour.

“Another owl?” Snape remarked deadpan. “I do not wish this house to become a zoo, Potter.”

“Sorry, sir.” Harry flushed. “Ron got worried since I didn’t reply to him and sent Pigwidgeon with a letter from Hermione.”

Snape released a long, deep sigh, his eyes drooping slightly in exhaustion. “You can write to them with your reply in the morning. You need to rest. It is absurdly late.”

“Erm, sorry.” Harry ducked his head into his chest.

“It is alright.” Snape shook his head. “I suppose you have no control over when your friends decide to send their mail. Did the owls wake you?”

“No, sir.” Harry tensed. “I, um…I was already awake.”

“Another nightmare?” His professor raised his brow slightly.

“Ya…” Harry shrugged. “It’s really not a big deal, though. I got enough sleep.”

“Potter, you've been in your room for no longer than five hours. You cannot have possibly gotten enough sleep.”

He shrugged again, raising his hand to scratch behind his neck. “Ya, but that’s alright. I mean, it’s not that-”

“Do not say this is normal for you or that a lack of sleep is not alarming, I beg you.” Snape spat, his harsh tone bearing an air of finality. “You need at least eight hours per night. You are a teenager.”

I don’t think I’ve ever slept that much. “Honestly, sir, it’s fine-”

“Potter,” his professor bit out sharply, “Do not fight me on this. You are a child.” Snape ran a tired hand down his face, suddenly looking much older than Harry remembered. “Please, just come to bed.”

Harry sucked in a breath and set his glasses down on the sill, surrendering to his professor’s command as he moved across the room to his little cot, crawling beneath the comforter and shifting to find a comfortable position. Snape watched him steadily, his piercing eyes scanning over Harry as he made himself comfortable. “Sir,” he spoke quietly, avoiding eye contact by staring at the empty space in front of him, “Could I have some dreamless sleep?”

“No,” Snape sighed. “I’d prefer if it didn’t come to that. Try to occlude first.”

Harry pouted, I don’t know how to do that.

“Focus on your senses again. Lay your hands on your chest and feel the weight of your fingers as you breathe.”

Harry rolled his eyes but complied, shifting so that his arms were positioned across his chest as he lay on his side.

“Count in your head just as we were doing before.”

Harry steadied his breath, directing his mind to focus solely on the slow rise and fall of his chest. Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale. His eyelids fell heavily shut as Harry began to feel a wash of calm rush over him, the allure of sleep dragging him further into the uneven mattress.

“Sleep well, Harry,” Snape muttered, his voice distant and airy. Harry sighed in reply as the world faded to black.

Chapter Text

Severus lay awake in his chambers, his back flat against the mattress as he stared up at the greying ceiling before him. He wished for sleep -- for the stress of the last few days to melt off him like water. But sleep did not come. His consciousness was too thinly stretched, his thoughts chaotic and disorderly. Annoyed, he ran a hand down his face, sighing as he let his eyes flutter closed heavily.

Just go to sleep, he muttered to himself. The boy is fine.

He calmed his mind, allowing himself to succumb to the familiar feeling of numbness that accompanied his occlumency. His heartbeat steadied, his body relaxed, and Severus felt himself begin to drift into an uneasy rest.

The boy is fine, his mind echoed. He is asleep.

The boy is fine.

A louder, more present voice posed the question: Why do you care?

I don’t. Severus clenched his jaw. His presence is irritating. He argues, he is disrespectful and his mental well-being is far, far too fragile to be placed in my custody. He scoffed. The very notion is absurd. No, I do not care about the boy.

And yet you reassure yourself he is fine?

Severus groaned, admitting defeat and opening his eyes, blinking as his pupils adjusted to the dim light of morning flooding through his window. I do not care about the boy, he repeated angrily. I am his guardian and am therefore in charge of his health. (A task that I am not properly qualified for, as the Order well knows.) I must be aware if he isn’t fine.

Severus pushed himself up, sitting at the edge of his king bed, and rested his head in his hands. The boy’s presence is much too irritating; he takes up so much of my time and focus it is astounding. He requires emotional support I cannot provide, and counseling that I am not equipped for, I -- surely Albus must know that somewhere, anywhere else would be better for him.

He launched across the room swiftly, pacing with his unruly mind. Hurriedly, Severus opened the dark wooden closet and removed fresh long, black robes, running his hands along the fabric. The boy is severely traumatized, anxious beyond belief, and clearly under the impression that I am all but too eager to maim him at any given moment. He frowned, scowling as he changed. I am not qualified to properly tend to him given the state of his deteriorating mental health.

Severus folded his old clothes and placed them on his bed, turning up the covers and tucking the comforter into the seams of the wooden bed frame. Straightening, he looked around the room; it was bare, nothing more than the essentials: a dresser beneath a small window, a large bed with two meager nightstands on either side, an old, shedding green carpet on the floor and a standing mirror pushed into the corner. The room looked abandoned save for the small piece of silver jewelry that sat atop the dresser -- his mother’s wedding ring.

Merlin, I hate it here, he deepened his scowl.

Severus turned to face the mirror, brushing his hair from his face. The boy needs a confidant. Or, and Lord forbid it, at the very least some help from one of his friends. I’m sure Granger would be more than happy to apply herself. He rolled his eyes.

Rustling from down the hall disturbed him from his thoughts and Severus paused to listen to where the noise had come from. The boy was moving, no doubt. The sound of Harry’s door creaked open as the child pushed it forward, angering its rusty hinges. The boy moved down the hall, his hushed steps mutilated by the groaning of the old floorboards, the noise nearly deafening. Severus sighed deeply, clamping his right hand down on the bridge of his nose as he listened to Harry’s clumsy journey down the stairs. He waited a moment, letting the boy move down to the first floor before calmly exiting his chambers and following Harry down the hall.

The boy was not cleaning -- that was the first thing he noticed upon arriving at the foot of the stairs. Severus had expected the child to be occupying himself with inane tasks or otherwise engaging his obsession with disinfecting the house, but Harry was nowhere to be found. The sound of crashing metal pans caught his attention and Severus turned to the hallway. Ah, he thought to himself glumly, I’ve found you.

He moved down the hall silently, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen where he noticed the boy moving pans from the cupboard to the stove.

“What are you doing, Potter?” He asked casually, crossing his arms over his chest disapprovingly. “It is not yet six in the morning, it’s far too early for you to be awake and moving around downstairs.”

The boy flinched, jumping back in shock and before turning to face him fearfully. “Sorry, sir.” He muttered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Severus growled harshly. “Did I not specifically say you were not to roam about the house before dawn?”

“Erm-”

“Let me ask again since you failed to answer my question adequately the first time: What are you doing?”

“Oh,” Harry turned back to the stove, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “I was, uh, gonna make some breakfast.”

“You were going to eat?” Severus couldn’t hide his surprise, leaning against the doorframe as he raised his brows skeptically. “Of your own accord?”

“I uh,” Harry fidgeted nervously, shrinking into himself. “I was gonna make breakfast for you.”

“For me? Why would you think that would be necessary?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, raising a hand to scratch the nape of his neck and lowering his eyes to the floor. “I just- I just thought it was something I could do.”

Severus paused. “Something you could do?” He enunciated, drawing out every syllable. “Why on Earth would you need to do that?”

“I don’t-”

Severus threw his arms up in exasperation. “I am not your idiot aunt, Potter. I do not require household assistance.”

“I know, but-”

“Nor are you a house elf.” He barked, teeming with rage. “It is unnecessary, boy.”

“I get it!” Potter yelled frustratedly. “You’ve made your fucking point.”

“Language.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “I just- I dunno, okay? I don’t know why I thought to do it, I don’t know why I came down here, and now that you’re here I really don’t know why I thought to do something for you.” Harry rubbed at his temple, clenching his eyes shut. “I guess it’s just habit at this point.”

Severus inhaled sharply, pushing off the door as he stared at the cowering boy before him. Oh Merlin, he thought as Harry squirmed under his gaze, I can’t do this. I am not qualified.

“If food were prepared,” Severus began cautiously, “Would you eat it?”

Harry shrugged, “Maybe?”

He nodded. “Would you like to cook?”

“Well I’m good at it,” Harry righted himself, walking over to the fridge. “I mean I can really make you whatever you want, you know. It’s not a big deal, really-”

“I didn’t ask if you were good at it, Potter.” Severus bit back his anger. “I asked if you would like to cook this morning. Seeing as I have prepared all other meals if you truly wished to fulfill this one task, I would let you.”

“Oh,” the boy muttered. “Yeah, I guess.”

Severus moved to the far end of the table and lowered himself into the chair, gesturing for Harry to continue. The boy moved hurriedly back to the stove and Severus noticed he moved with grace around the kitchen, much more skilled and at ease than he had ever seen from someone of his students’ age. For the first time since he had arrived in Spinner’s End, Harry appeared completely relaxed -- engrossed in his work as he shifted around the small kitchen, the smell of fresh bacon and eggs wafting through the air as Harry prepared the meal.

“Tell me,” Severus began, his eyes glued to the child’s back as he worked at the stove, “How often did you cook for your relatives while you resided at Privet Drive?”

“All the time.” Harry replied easily. “Pretty much every meal.”

Severus sat up straighter, schooling his expression into neutrality. I am not qualified. I cannot do this, his mind screamed.

“From how young did this begin, Potter?”

The boy shrugged. “Dunno. As long as I can remember, really. So probably when I was big enough to reach the stove.”

BIG ENOUGH TO REACH THE- Merlin, I really can’t do this.

“And,” he cleared his throat, “You don’t find that at all concerning?”

Harry turned to look at him then, his green eyes brimming with confusion. “No.” He scoffed, “Lots of kids have chores.”

“Did your cousin?” Severus returned. “Did he have chores?”

Harry’s eyes darkened as his face morphed into a menacing glare. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Dunno,” he turned back to the stove, shrugging. “Just is.”

“I just find it hard to believe there was no ulterior motive if only you took the brunt of the work-”

“Would you just leave it, Snape?” Harry said forcefully. “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”

Severus leaned back in his chair, content to just observe. The boy continued his work, his posture more rigid than it previously was.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to complete chores beyond those which I have already assigned to you, Potter.” Severus remarked after a moment's silence. “Do not feel pressured to keep yourself busy, you have summer homework that demands your attention. It would be remiss of me not to ask you to divulge the majority of your time to your essays.”

“Right. Got it.” Harry grumbled angrily. “It was stupid of me to think I could be doing anything.”

“Potter, that is not what I meant and you know that-”

“No, no, it’s fine professor.” Harry began shoveling eggs from the pan onto a nearby plate. “For the record, I’ve done my essays.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.” Harry slammed another plate down next to him and began rationing a second portion. “Just because you didn’t tell me to do them-”

“You don’t need explicit permission to do everything, Potter.” Severus growled, “In fact, I would prefer it if you did not.”

“How about I just don’t do anything then, hm?” Harry spun to face the table, carrying both plates in his hands, his expression lined with fury. “You’re telling me not to do things you haven’t told me to do and also not to need permission to do anything I want. Which is it, Snape? I’d prefer it if you made up your damn mind!”

Of all the disrespectful- Severus rose from his chair. “Quiet your tongue, boy, or I will do it for you.”

“Do I need your permission to speak now, too?” Harry snarled. “Are we really back to that?”

“You are insufferable.”

“Just tell me what you want from me!” Harry shouted, throwing the plates onto the table with so much force they cracked upon impact.

The boy stilled, startled by the noise as Severus jumped back in shock. He blinked in surprise, staring at the broken plates as if they were alien before turning his attention back to the child.

Harry had begun to shake profusely, his eyes glazed over as if he couldn’t see his surroundings and he began to back into the corner slowly. “Potter,” Severus began, raising his arms as if to calm an animal and approaching the boy slowly. “It’s okay. They’re only plates.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry muttered, his eyes glued to the broken shards of porcelain which adorned the table -- the splintered fragments congealed with the eggs in a splattered mess. “I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean to, I-”

“I know, Potter,” Severus continued his approach. “It’s okay.”

Harry shook his head, hunching in on himself and retreating further away. “I’m sorry.” He repeated. “It won’t happen again, sir. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Severus reached him, grasping his hand around Harry’s shoulder. The boy flinched beneath his hold, his head bowed in submission as if afraid to meet Severus’s eyes.

“Please,” his voice was small -- begging. “Please don’t.”

Merlin, I am not strong enough for this.

“It’s okay, Potter.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes welling with unshed tears. “Please don’t. I can fix it, please.”

“I am not going to punish you, Harry.”

The boy let loose a choked sob, raising his hand up to cover his mouth as his tears began to stream down his face. Severus spun Harry to face him and clung the child to his chest, cradling the boy as Harry grasped at his robes.

“You’ve never not been mad before.” The child sobbed, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“Come again?”

“In class,” Harry mewled. “You’re always mad at people when they break things in class. There’s always a punishment.”

Ah. “There is no punishment, Harry. This is a mistake that can be easily corrected.” Severus unsheathed his wand and raised his arm. The child’s eyes went wide and he cringed away as Severus waved his hand and repaired the plates before them on the table. “See?” He turned back to the boy, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Fixed already.”

Harry sobbed with renewed intensity, shaking his head in disbelief. “I- I still- I still broke them, though. And- and I can’t break things without punishment.”

Merlin. “And who told you that, Potter?”

Harry shook his head. “I’d been good. I hadn’t broken anything in years. I- it’s why I left.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Why you left where?”

“The Dursleys.”

He moved to hold Harry at arms length, his shock evident. “You left because you broke something?”

Harry nodded.

Severus felt his temper begin to flare. “In the middle of the night? You left in the middle of the night because you broke something?”

He nodded again, his tears streaming down his face uncontrollably.

“Without your wand?!”

“I didn’t have time to grab it!” Harry cried. “They would’ve seen me go upstairs!”

“And what would’ve happened then, Potter?” Severus raged. “Why was their seeing you motivation enough to leave the protection of the wards secured around your house!”

“They would’ve sent me back!” Harry clawed at his hair, tugging it backwards as his breathing increased in irregularity. Severus dropped his hold on the boy’s shoulders. “I had to leave before they sent me back!”

“Back where?”

“To my old room! I'm never too old to go back there!”

“And why was fate so unappealing?” Severus tsked. “Your relatives have done far worse than send you to a room.”

“It’s not a room, it’s-” Harry broke down, shaking his head frantically as he sobbed harder. “It’s-”

“Where was your room, Harry?” Severus spoke authoritatively, staring down at the cowering child. “Tell me.”

The boy shook his head raising a hand to cover his mouth in protest as tears streamed down his cheeks.

“You won’t say?” Harry shook his head. Severus sighed. “Fine.”

He closed his eyes.

“NO!” The boy had yelled upon returning to the Dursleys, flinging himself in front of the cupboard under the stairs. His arms were outstretched as he shielded Severus from opening the small, locked wooden door -- so sure in his decision to keep his professor away.

Surely not, Severus thought to himself. That would be cruel.

“You know what happens when you’ve been bad, don’t you, boy?” Harry’s memory of his uncle had yelled when Severus looked into his mind.

The boy had turned to face the cupboard again, his fear consuming him momentarily. “You don’t get to see that!” Harry had yelled internally, pushing Severus from his mind with an alarming, impressive force.

“How long, Potter…” Severus began hesitantly, opening his eyes once more. “For how long did they keep you in that cupboard I saw beneath the stairs?”

Harry turned up to look at him, his green eyes wide with fear. “How did you know?” He spoke so softly Severus nearly missed it.

Oh Merlin, I can’t do this.

“I didn’t,” he narrowed his eyes. “I had a suspicion -- and I thank you for confirming it -- but you didn’t answer my question, Potter. How long?”

“I-” Harry trembled in shock, his head returned to its bowed position, his eyes focused on the floor. “Until I went to Hogwarts.”

Merlin…Severus reeled back in shock. I am not qualified for this.

“Come with me, Potter.” He spoke calmly, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Harry tensed under his grasp as Severus herded the boy into the living room, pushing him onto the couch. “Sit,” he commanded harshly.

Harry shuffled nervously but complied as Severus handed him a blanket from the edge of the sofa. “Lie down, Potter.” He spoke roughly. “And drink this.” Outstretching his arm, Severus extended a vial from the inside of his pocket. “It is Dreamless Sleep, Potter. It will help you calm down.”

Hesitantly, Harry reached a shaky hand towards the vial and downed the potion without protest, breathing a sigh of relief as his muscles relaxed.

“Sleep now.” Severus spoke calmly, nodding for Harry to lie down across the couch. The boy nodded before blinking groggily and laying back against the old cushions, snuggling beneath the worn, wool blanket.

When the boy’s eyes were closed, Severus cautiously removed his glasses and placed them on the floor. He exhaled in relief as Harry’s breathing stabilized and exhaustion began to overtake him completely.

Eleven years in a cupboard…Merlin, I am not equipped to deal with this.

Chapter Text

Harry blinked his eyes open groggily, pushing himself into a seated position on the sofa. Rubbing at his eyes, he ran a hand across his lap in search of his glasses, patting himself down with more urgency when he could not locate them.

“Potter.” His professor’s voice echoed from across the room, his tone betraying a hint of surprise. “You’re awake.”

Squinting, Harry turned to the blurry figure.

“I believe your glasses are at your feet.” Snape remarked, his fuzzy outline moving further into the room.

Harry reached down and found them easily, positioning the round frames in their usual spot and turning back to his professor who wore an expression of slight concern.

“Are you feeling well?” Snape asked, inching closer.

Harry shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”

Nodding, Snape took the chair opposite the couch, his professor’s eyes studying him with punishing intensity. “Is there anything you wish to…discuss with me, Potter?”

Flushing with embarrassment, Harry brought his arms to his chest, dropping his gaze to fixate on the blanket draped across his body. “Not really, sir.”

Snape shifted uncomfortably in his periphery. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” Harry said forcefully through clenched teeth.

“I would appreciate it, Potter, if you told me any other relevant information regarding your relatives' abuse. As your professor and current guardian if there’s anything I need to know-”

“You don’t need to know anything.” Harry growled, narrowing his eyes as he picked at the blanket. “I don’t actually have to talk to you.”

“No,” Snape sighed, “I suppose you don’t. But it would be useful if-”

“Why?” Harry turned to face him. “Why would it be useful? What’re you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything, Potter,” he dismissed, “I simply mean that it would benefit you to talk to someone.”

“I’m not a headcase.” Harry said harshly. “I don’t have to talk to anyone.”

“I’m just presenting you with an option,” Snape bit back impatiently. “There’s no need to get defensive.”

“I’m not getting defensive!” He glared. “I just don’t need your help, Snape. Just ‘cos you’ve seen me cry a few times doesn’t make me weak. And it certainly doesn’t mean I need to talk to you.”

“Merlin, Potter, I wasn’t accusing you of fragility!” Snape cursed, crossing his arms.

“So you agree that I don’t need to talk to someone?”

“No, I’m just, ugh - look, Potter,” Snape tsked, running a hand down his face in exhaustion, “If you don’t have anything specific you’d like to discuss, do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Upon Harry’s visible skepticism, Snape continued, “You have the ability not to answer if you so choose.”

Harry pushed himself to sit up straighter. “Fine,” he muttered, forcing himself to hold his professor’s eye contact.

“You know, of course, what I wish to ask you about?”

“For how long did they keep you in that cupboard I saw beneath the stairs?”

Harry willed himself not to curl into his chest. “I have an idea.”

Snape nodded solemnly. “Then let’s begin. What prompted your relatives to move you from the cupboard under the stairs to the bedroom on the second floor?”

“My Hogwarts letter.” Harry answered easily. “It was addressed to the cupboard and they thought the wizards were watching them.”

Snape’s expression remained impassive. “And were you punished for being the recipient of the letter? Were you somehow blamed for the recorded address?”

Harry said nothing, his gaze flickering to the floor, his bravado fading quickly.

“You told them, boy!” His uncle had yelled when he saw the letter. “You told them, didn’t you?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly at Harry’s silence but he moved on. “What was the longest period you were ever confined to the cupboard?”

Harry picked at the blanket awkwardly, remaining mute.

His professor continued, unfazed. “Was there ever a time your basic needs such as food, water, and restroom use were denied because you were locked beneath the stairs?”

Seconds of silence stretched between them before Snape sighed in resignation. “Harry, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he spoke quietly.

Harry hesitated, stalling his relentless fidgeting and inhaling sharply -- bracing himself. “Yes,” he mumbled, squirming again beneath his professor’s surveying stare. “Basic needs were denied when I was locked up.”

“And for how much time did the longest period last?”

Five days.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Snape nodded, deep in thought. “And this behavior from your relatives stretched from when you arrived at Privet Drive to when you received your acceptance letter?”

Harry shrugged. “As far as I can remember.”

“Were similar tactics employed as punishment when you were moved to your new room?”

Harry scrunched up his face. “Sorry?”

Snape shook his head slightly, “I apologize for my ambiguity. Were you ever locked in your new bedroom and denied your basic needs as a form of punishment?”

“Oh,” Harry blinked. “Yeah, definitely.”

“And did you ever inform anyone of this treatment?”

Harry scoffed, “Well Ron saw the locks on my bedroom door when he and his brothers took me away from the Dursleys' second year. But he never asked about it.”

Snape bristled. “And you’ve never spoken at length with either Mr Weasley or Ms Granger about your home life?”

“No,” Harry shook his head, “they know I don’t like to talk about it.”

“And they’ve never-”

Suddenly a loud, piercing ring erupted from the upstairs of the house, cutting off the last of his professor’s questions, and Harry clutched his hands to his ears to block out the shrieking noise. Snape, however, completely unfazed by the loud disturbance, flicked his wand in the general direction of the second landing and quieted the piercing yell.

Harry dropped his hands when the house fell quiet. “What the hell was that-”

“Someone has just apparated near here.” Snape said urgently, his eyes turning about the room as if deep in thought. “They triggered my alarm.”

“That’s your alarm?”

“Get up, Potter!” Snape said hurriedly. “I am not expecting anyone today.”

Harry adjusted his glasses, “So then what’s the problem?”

“Up, Potter.” Snape grabbed him harshly by the forearm, dragging him from the couch. “Now!”

“I don’t understand-”

“I am a Death Eater, you dolt!” Snape shouted, his eyes wild. “And you are not supposed to be here!”

“Well you’re also an Order member,” Harry argued. “Couldn’t the visitor be one of them?”

“An Order member would have told me!” Snape raged, waving his wand frantically about the room and dismantling Harry’s makeshift bed.

“Maybe they forgot-”

“Go, Potter, to your room.” His professor turned to him, his long hair windswept from his rapid movement. “Go to your room and stay there until I have determined the situation to be safe.”

“Professor-”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

Harry shuffled hurriedly up the stairs, watching as his professor moved quickly into the kitchen, presumably to clean. Tearing his eyes away, Harry raced to his bedroom and shut the door, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily.

Death Eaters, Harry’s mind raced and he ran a hand along his chest, Death Eaters in the house…

His eyes drifted to his trunk, his belongings spewing out of its open lid, and he fixated on the silvery fabric of the invisibility cloak. There’s an idea, he thought, inching further into the room, Snape would never know.

His decision made, Harry lunged and grabbed the cloak without hesitation, throwing its thin fabric over himself and moving silently from his bedroom through the hall.

A loud knock reverberated through the house as Harry moved back into the den. Hanging back by the entranceway, concealed by the cloak, he spied his professor moving swiftly from the kitchen to answer the front door.

“Narcissa.” Snape remarked surprisedly as Harry crept nearer. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Severus,” a harsh, strained whisper came from beyond what Harry could see. “May I speak with you? It’s urgent.”

“But of course.” He stepped back and allowed her to pass him into the house. A second hooded figure entered without invitation.

“Snape.” The figure said curtly as Harry’s face drained of color.

No…surely not.

“Bellatrix.” His professor replied as he closed the door with a snap behind them.

No, no, no, she can’t be here.

Not now.

Please, not now.

Harry followed as the three figures stepped into the old office, his heart pounding relentlessly in his ears as he eyed Bellatrix’s hooded form. Snape whisked his wand through the air, sending the large book on occlumency flying back into one of the nearby shelves, and gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak hastily, letting what little light there was catch on her blonde hair, and sat down, staring at her trembling hands which sat clasped in her lap.

Bellatrix lowered her hood more carefully, turning her eyes about the room as Harry held his breath under her stern gaze.

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

“What can I do for you?” Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair nestled into the corner.

Murderer, Harry boiled with rage as he watched her pace around the room. Murderer, murderer, murderer!

“We…we are alone, aren’t we?” Narcissa asked quietly.

“Of course,” Snape replied without hesitation despite Bellatrix’s narrowed eyes. “Could I offer either of you a drink?”

Narcissa nodded mutely and Snape rose from his chair, sweeping out into the hallway and entering the small kitchen. Harry followed, careful to remain as silent as possible as he kept his professor within his line of sight.

Look at me, Snape. Harry glared. Tell me what she’s doing here. He watched as his professor removed a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets, taking a cautious step forward into the kitchen. The wooden floor creaked beneath him loudly and Harry paused in his advancement, cringing at the noise.

Snape spun to face him, his professor's eyes darting around the room carefully before narrowing in vaguely concealed rage. “Do you have a death wish?” He whispered harshly. “I explicitly told you to go to your room, did I not?”

Harry remained silent as Snape’s eyes scoured the empty room, his professor oblivious to his current position. “Do not follow me, Potter.” He snarled as he stalked out of the kitchen.

Harry tiptoed behind his professor as he made his way down the hall, making sure to keep a good amount of distance between them.

“My apologies,” Snape announced upon returning to the study, closing the door seconds after Harry managed to sneak into the room. His professor poured out three glasses of dark red wine and handed two of them to the sisters. “To the Dark Lord.” He said, sipping from the glass.

The women echoed him and Narcissa, who clutched her glass with such force Harry thought it might shatter, spoke hurriedly: “Severus, I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me-” she took a great, shuddering breath and willed herself to continue. “I know I ought not to be here, I have been told not to say anything to anyone, but-”

“Then you ought to hold your tongue!” Bellatrix snarled. “Particularly in present company.”

“Present company?” Snape repeated sardonically. “What are you implying, Bella?”

“That I do not trust you, Snape, as you very well know!”

Narcissa released a guttural sob and let her head fall into her hands, her hair cascading down towards the floor.

“Come now, Narcissa. We really must let Bellatrix air her concerns so that they may be addressed properly.” Snape smirked, sipping from his glass. "Why do you not trust me, Bella?"

“Why don't I - A hundred reasons!” Bellatrix replied loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. Harry jumped at the noise and moved soundlessly to the far end of the room, hovering near his professor’s chair. “Where to start!” She huffed. “Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? What have you been doing all these years that you’ve lived in Dumbledore’s pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord from procuring the Sorcerer’s Stone? Why did you not return when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the prophecy? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive when you have had him at your mercy for five years?”

Harry felt his pulse stop as he watched Bellatrix’s chest rise and fall rapidly, her cheeks pink from exertion. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still in her hands.

Snape smiled.

“Before I answer you -- oh yes, Bella, I am going to answer. You have full permission to carry my words to the others who whisper false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord behind my back. Do you honestly think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions before? And do you really believe that, had I not given satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you now?”

She hesitated. “I know he believes you, but--”

“You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard and most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?”

Bellatrix said nothing but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited. Harry shifted nervously around the room, pushing himself further into the corner.

“You asked me where I was when the Dark Lord fell,” Snape continued. “I was where he ordered me to be, at Hogwarts, because he wished me to spy on Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord’s orders that I took up the post.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, opening her mouth to speak before Snape forestalled her.

“You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius” -- he nodded slightly to Narcissa -- “and many others did not attempt to find him: I believed him finished.” Snape shook his head sadly. “I am not proud of it, I was wrong. But if he had not forgiven those of us who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left.”

“He would have me!” Bellatrix exclaimed passionately as Harry cringed away from her raised voice. “I, who spent many years in Azkaban for him!”

“Yes indeed, most admirable.” Snape responded in a bored tone of voice. “Though you were of little use to him in prison, the gesture was undoubtedly fine-”

“Gesture!” She shrieked, her face lined with fury. “While I endured the dementors you remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore’s pet!”

Harry forced his rapid breathing into submission, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence himself as he watched Bellatrix pace before him.

She’s here and you’re doing nothing. His mind screamed.

She’s right there!

She killed him!

She killed him…

“Why did you stay there all this time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?”

Murderer, murderer, murderer!

“Hardly,” said Snape, “although the Dark Lord is pleased I never left my post. I had sixteen years worth of information on Dumbledore to give him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back than endless reminiscences of the unpleasantries of Azkaban.”

“But you stayed-”

“Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed.” Snape spoke sternly, his tone betraying a hint of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were rounding up Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore’s protection kept me out of jail. But I repeat: the Dark Lord has no complaints with my staying so I fail to see why you do.

“I believe you next wanted to know,” he pressed on, a little more loudly, for Bellatrix clearly wished to interrupt, “why I stood between the Dark Lord and the Sorcerer’s Stone. That is easily answered,” Snape dismissed with a wave of his hand. “He thought, like you, that I had turned from faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore’s stooge. He was in a pitiable condition, very weak, as you well know, and did not dare reveal himself to me out of fear I might turn him over to Dumbledore or the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me as he would have returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I only saw greedy, unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I admit, I did all I could to thwart his efforts.”

Bellatrix’s mouth twisted sourly, “But you didn’t return when he came back. You didn’t fly back to him at once when you felt the Dark Mark burn-”

“Correct. I returned two hours later on Dumbledore’s orders.”

“On Dumbledore’s-”

“Think!” Snape bit out, impatient again. “By waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy. By allowing Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord’s side because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information to Dumbledore and the Order ever since.”

Harry felt himself swell with anger at his professor’s betrayal. He felt his breathing grow hot and intense beneath the cloak as he glared at Snape’s casual posture, his professor completely at ease while he talked of feeding lies to the Order.

I was there during those two hours! He fumed. You watched me mourn Cedric -- you helped me with Moody! You traitor!

Harry felt his hand drift to his left pocket where his wand stayed tucked away unused. At the sound of his audible movement, Snape’s eyes momentarily flitted across the room as if in search of something.

“The Dark Lord’s initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, I assure you, when I explained that I remained faithful to the cause despite Dumbledore’s foolishness. Yes, the Dark Lord thought I had left him forever, but he was wrong.”

You bastard! Harry screamed internally as he clenched his hands in outrage. You lying, bastard! He trusts you!

“But where have you been?” Sneered Bellatrix. “What useful information have we had from you?”

“My intelligence has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord himself.” Snape replied. “If he chooses not to share it with you-”

“He shares everything with me!” She cried out passionately. “He calls me his most loyal, his most faithful-”

“Does he?” Snape jeered in disbelief. “Does he still, after that fiasco at the Ministry?”

No. Harry felt his heart drop as he took a few steps away from his professor, pressing himself into the bookshelf behind him. Stop it, Snape. Don’t go there -- please, don’t go there.

“That was not my fault!” Bellatrix flushed.

Her laugh echoed through Harry’s ears.

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

“The Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his most precious -- if Lucius hadn’t-”

“Don’t you dare -- don’t you dare blame my husband!” Narcissa spoke in a low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister.

“There is no point apportioning blame,” Snape spoke smoothly. “What’s done is done.”

Stop it.

Stop it.

You liar! You bastard! I trusted you!

I let you in my head!

I told you things!

“But not by you!” Bellatrix cried furiously. “No, you were absent again while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?”

“My orders were to remain behind.” Snape shrugged. “Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order. And -- forgive me -- you speak of dangers…you were facing six teenagers, were you not?”

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

“They were joined, as you very well know, by half the Order before long!” Snarled Bellatrix. “And while we’re on the subject of the Order, you still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their Headquarters, do you not?”

“I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of that place. You understand how the enchantment works, I presume? Unlike the information Wormtail provided on the Potters, it is not as easy as it was fifteen years ago to break the fidelius charm. We simply do not have access as only Dumbledore can reveal the location of Headquarters.”

Stop it. Harry clenched his hands tightly. You don’t deserve to mention them!

Wormtail was a coward, and so are you!

“The Dark Lord is satisfied with the information I have given him on the Order.” Snape pressed on. “It led, as perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it certainly helped dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit for finishing him off.”

Harry had his hand on his wand instantaneously. Fuck you, Snape! He wanted to yell. How dare you! HOW DARE YOU! He was a better man than you’ll ever be!

He raised his hand, his wand aimed directly at the back of his professor’s head. Fuck you, he raged. You don’t get to mock his sacrifice in front of me.

Snape flicked his arm casually, the gesture completely lost on Bellatrix who’s expression had not softened at the praise, but Harry noticed swirling clouds of dust begin to form in the air behind the sisters’ heads. Quick and silent, the dust clumped together to form two short sentences which hung midair for Harry to read: “Calm yourself, Potter. I can hear you.”

Fuck. You. Harry raged, placing his wand in his back pocket as the dust fell back to the floor.

“You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry Potter. You could have killed him at any point in the last five years and you have not. Why?”

Harry watched as his professor straightened in his chair. “Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?” Snape raised his brows skeptically.

“He…lately, we…I am asking you, Snape!”

“If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his blood to regenerate, making him invincible-”

“You claim you foresaw use for the boy!” she jeered.

“I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have already confessed that I believed the Dark Lord dead. I am merely trying to explain why the Dark Lord is not sorry Potter survived, at least until a year ago…”

“But why did you keep him alive?”

“Have you not understood me, Bella? It was only Dumbledore’s protection that was keeping me from Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his favorite pupil might have lost me his favor? But there was more to it than that. I should remind you that when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts there were still many stories circulating about him, rumors that he himself was a great Dark wizard, which was how he survived the Dark Lord’s attack.”

Impossible. Harry studied his professor’s infuriatingly neutral expression. There’s no way you believed that.

“Indeed, many of the Dark Lord’s old followers thought Potter might be the wizard around which we could rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot in the castle.

“Of course, it became apparent he possessed no extraordinary talent at all.” Snape smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “He has fought his way out of a number of tight corners by a simple combination of sheer luck and more talented friends. Potter is mediocre to the last degree, and just as obnoxious and self-satisfied as his father before him.”

Harry burned with rage, utilizing every ounce of his self control to resist strangling his professor. “I have done my utmost to have him thrown out of Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs,” Snape continued. “But kill him, or allow him to be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore close at hand.”

You selfish brute! Harry shook with fury. You lying, cheating, go-for-nothing coward!

“And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never suspected you?” Bellatrix folded her arms across her chest. “He has no idea of your true allegiance and trusts you implicitly still?”

“I have played my part well,” said Snape.

Too well, thought Harry.

“And you overlook Dumbledore’s greatest weakness: He has to believe the best of people. I spun him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff and he embraced me with open arms. Dumbledore has been a great wizard -- oh yes, he has,” (Snape defended, for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise), “the Dark Lord does not dispute it. I am pleased to say, however, that Dumbledore is growing old and the duel with the Dark Lord at the ministry shook him. He has since sustained a serious injury because his reactions, fortunately, are slower than they once were.” Harry perked up, studying his professor seriously as Snape barreled on. “Though in all these many years he has kept his trust in me, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord.

“Now,” Snape said, taking advantage of Bellatrix’s momentary silence. “You came to me for help, Narcissa?”

“Yes, Severus.” She turned to look up at him, her face the picture of despair. “ I - I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and…” She closed her eyes as two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids. Drawing a large breath, she seemed to urge herself to continue. “The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it. He wishes none to know of the plan. It is…very secret. But-”

“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak.” Snape spoke authoritatively. “The Dark Lord’s word is law.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

Narcissa gasped as though she’d been doused with cold water and Bellatrix appeared satisfied for the first time since she entered the house.

“There!” she said triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so. You were told not to speak so hold your silence.”

Snape strode to the small window overlooking the dower street and closed the curtains with a jerk. He turned, then, to face the sisters with a frown, his eyes roaming over the room and pausing where Harry stood for a fraction of a second.

“As it so happens, I am aware of the Dark Lord's plan,” he spoke in a low voice. “Nevertheless, had I not known, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.”

“I thought you must know of it!” Narcissa relaxed, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus.”

“You know of the plan?” Bellatrix gaped in disbelief, her brief expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “You know?”

“Certainly,” Snape dismissed her hesitancy with a wave of his hand. “But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind then I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”

“Severus,” she whispered, silent tears streaking down her pale cheeks. “My son…my only son…”

Harry scrunched up his face in confusion, his eyes darting between the sisters and his professor.

“Draco should be proud,” Bellatrix sniffed indifferently. “The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And Draco isn’t shrinking away from his duty,” (of course he isn’t, Harry scowled), “he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect -”

Narcissa released a guttural sob, staring up at Snape with pleading eyes. “That is because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store!” She cried. “Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius’s mistake, I know it!”

Snape said nothing but averted his eyes from her tears, staring once more at where Harry remained concealed by his cloak.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under Snape’s dark stare, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” She persisted unfazed. “To punish Lucius?”

“If Draco succeeds,” Snape began, still looking at Harry, “he will be honored above all others.”

“But he won’t succeed!” Narcissa sobbed. “How can he when even the Dark Lord himself-”

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa clutched her hair in exasperation.

“I only meant…that nobody has yet succeeded. Severus, please…You are, you have always been, Draco’s favorite teacher…You are Lucius’s old friend…I beg you…You are the Dark Lord’s favorite, most trusted advisor,” (Harry scoffed silently and crossed his arms), “Will you speak with him, persuade him-”

“The Dark Lord will not be persuaded and I am not stupid enough to attempt it,” Snape spoke flatly. “I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius -- Lucius, who was supposed to be in charge before failing to retrieve the prophecy. Lucius, who got himself captured and the Dark Lord’s ploy exposed. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed.”

“Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!” she choked. “He does not mean for him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!”

When Snape said nothing, Narcissa, who had lost what little restraint she still possessed, staggered over to him and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears spilling onto his chest, she gasped, “You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us--”

Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands with a look of disgust. Staring down at her tearstained face, he said slowly, “He intends for me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my role as a spy.”

“In other words, it doesn’t matter to him if Draco is killed!”

“The Dark Lord is very angry,” Snape repeated quietly. “He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.”

She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor as Harry retreated further into the corner in shock.

“My son,” she wailed on the ground. “My only son…”

“You should be proud!” said Bellatrix ruthlessly. “If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!”

Narcissa screamed in despair, clutching at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms and steered her back onto the sofa.
“Narcissa, that’s enough. Listen to me: It may be possible for me to help Draco.”

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes brimming with hope, “Severus -- oh, Severus -- you would help him? Would you look after him, see that he comes to no harm?”

“I can try.”

She threw herself off the sofa at once and kneeled before him, seizing his hand in hers and pressing her lips to it.

“If you are to protect him…Severus will you swear it? Will you make the unbreakable vow?”

Snape’s face remained unreadable, however Bellatrix let out a cackle of triumphant laughter and Harry watched her smile cruelly.

“Aren’t you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he’ll try, I’m sure. The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action -- oh! On the Dark Lord’s orders, of course!” She mocked.

Snape did not look at Bellatrix or Harry. His eyes remained fixed upon Narcissa’s teary face as she continued to clutch his hand.

“Certainly, Narcissa. I shall make the unbreakable vow,” he spoke quietly. “Perhaps your sister will be our bonder.”

Bellatrix and Harry’s mouths fell open in unison as Snape lowered himself to kneel opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix’s astonished frame, they grasped right hands.

“You will need your wand, Bella.” Snape said coldly, his face stern.

She drew it in silence, still looking astonished.

“And you will need to move a little closer.” He said.

She stepped forward so that she stood over them, placing the tip of her wand on their linked hands while Harry inched closer, curiously.

Narcissa spoke first: “Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

“I will,” Snape nodded.

A thin, white flame shot from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.

“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from any harm?”

“I will.”

A second bright flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.

“And, should it prove necessary…if it seems Draco will fail…” whispered Narcissa as Snape’s hand twitched in hers. “Will you carry out the deed the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?”

There was a moment’s silence while Bellatrix and Harry watched their clasped hands in suspense.

“I will,” Snape said finally.

Bellatrix’s astounded face glowed in the blaze of a third flame, which shot from the wand and twisted with the others like a rope before disappearing into their skin. “It is done.” She muttered under her breath.

The two rose from the floor and silently, Snape gestured for the sisters to exit the room. Narcissa walked shakily, swaying slightly on her feet as she moved down the hall. Bellatrix followed her hastily, intertwining their arms as if to keep her sister from falling.

Harry quickly followed in their stead, stopping when they reached the end of the hallway and peering out into the foyer.

Snape bowed slightly and opened the front door, his face the picture of calm composure. “If there’s nothing else I can do for you, Narcissa, I believe remaining here for too long might arouse suspicion.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Severus.” She nodded, her eyes still glossy. “Thank you again, for everything.”

“Of course.” Snape spoke evenly. “It is a shame I cannot do more.”

“You’ve done enough,” interrupted Bellatrix. “Come, Sissy.”

Lifting their hoods, the sisters moved quickly from the house, walking down the garden path in long, great strides. Snape stood watching them in the entranceway until they crossed the street then shut the door quietly and locked it.

“Are you insane, Potter?” he snarled, turning to look out into the room with a scowl.

Harry moved into the foyer and removed his cloak, glaring at his professor with unabashed fury. “What the hell was that?” He yelled, watching as Snape’s eyes fixated on the cloak in his hands before darting back to his face. “What did you just agree to?”

“I don’t believe that is any of your concern, boy.” His professor shook with rage. “Did I not explicitly tell you to go to your room and stay there?”

“Did you think I wanted to hear that!” Harry continued louder. “Wanted to hear you mock and insult me! Insult Sirius’s death! His death?!”

“Then why in Merlin’s name did you follow me?” Snape shouted. “Can you imagine what would have happened if you’d have been discovered!”

“I think you’d rejoice, Snape! Since you’re so eager to hand over other Order secrets. Just think about how much he’d reward you if you handed me in now!”

“Damn it, Potter! Why didn’t you listen to me just this once!” Snape raged, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“Why do you care? Whose side are you actually on, Snape?”

His professor lunged forward, his face red with anger. “Do you really think if I were truly loyal to the Dark Lord you would still be in this house alive?”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged, “You are his most favorite, most trusted advisor,” he mocked, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe this is strategy.”

“Are you daft?” Snape yelled. “How can you believe that?”

“How can you claim to be on the side of the Order when you let Death Eaters into your house? When she walks through your door?”

“I did not know they were coming, as I made quite clear!” Snape paced in front of him.

“You said you told Voldemort the Order’s secrets -- that you got someone killed!”

“I do not have to argue war strategy with a fifteen-year-old!” Snape huffed. “I do not have time for this conversation right now, I must speak with the Headmaster.”

“The same Headmaster who’s currently seriously injured? When were you planning on telling me that?” Harry crossed his arms and watched as Snape summoned his patronus.

“I wasn’t planning on telling you, you impossible child.” Snape rolled his eyes as a bright, silver doe materialized beside him. Harry shielded his eyes from the light. “We must meet urgently.” Snape spoke swiftly to the creature before waving his arm and sending the deer to deliver its message.

“I told you already, Potter,” his professor turned to him as the house lapsed into darkness once more, “I will tell you things about the war that concern you and nothing else.”

Harry tugged at his hair. “And this thing you agreed to do -- this - this task that Draco’s been assigned? That has nothing to do with me?”

“No,” Snape growled. “It does not.”

“And how am I supposed to believe that--?”

A large white phoenix patronus appeared before them, filling the dim room with a blinding, white light. The graceful bird nodded once before disappearing completely, its message delivered, its purpose satisfied.

Harry blinked in shock as Snape rushed past him. “I don’t much care if you believe me, Potter.” His professor shouted as he rushed towards the fireplace.

Harry darted after him, watching as the fire roared a vibrant green from floo powder.

“Potter,” Snape whipped around to face him seriously, halting Harry in his pursuit. “If I leave you now, promise me you won’t do anything stupid while I’m away.”

Harry knit his brows together, his anger fading slightly at his professor’s expression of concern. “What’d you mean?”

“Do not panic, do not hurt yourself, do not go anywhere.” Snape said sternly, his eyes roaming over Harry’s face. “I must inform Dumbledore of this new development and I am asking you to stay still until I return.”

“But I-”

“And do not follow me.”

Without waiting for his reply, Snape stepped through the fireplace, which burned harshly around him, and was gone.

Panting, Harry steadied himself as the fire dimmed to ash. The wind blew harshly outside as he clutched at his hair, tugging it back at the roots and listening to his pounding heartbeat.

Suddenly, Harry found himself very, very alone.

Chapter Text

Harry’s eyes moved frantically around the room as the fire extinguished itself and the house returned to darkness. He felt his heart rate increase as he retreated from the den, his mind swimming with disconnected, unfinished thoughts.

She was right here, he screamed internally. She was right here and you did nothing.

Harry shook his head.

“Come on, you can do better than that!” Sirius had jeered at Bellatrix while they dueled. He had laughed at her -- the pinnacle of composure and grace. He had been confident…and he had been wrong to drop his guard.

Stop it. Harry clutched at his hair, pulling it back at the root as his heart beat erratically.

Stop it. Don’t think about that.

She was here!

The laughter had died from Sirius’s face as his eyes widened in shock. Bellatrix’s spell had hit him square in the chest and he had fallen slowly, carefully, arching into the veil behind him with seemingly-practiced grace.

She was right here.

You did more to stop her at the Ministry, Potter.

“Come out, come out, little Harry!” Bellatrix had called in her mock-baby voice as he chased her through the Department of Mysteries. “Thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin?”

“I am.” He had shouted, boiling with fury.

“Did you love him, little baby Potter?”

Stop it!

She was there! Right there!

“Crucio!” He had bellowed, jabbing his wand forward and aiming at her chest.

Bellatrix had screamed and fallen to her feet, clutching her side and no longer laughing. “Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?” She had yelled, abandoning her baby voice. “You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain -- to enjoy it -- righteous anger won’t hurt me for long!”

I should have meant it then. Harry grabbed at his arms, his chest, his neck, seizing his hands around any flesh he could feel, tugging at his skin -- clawing at it. I should’ve meant it. I could’ve meant it today.

I should’ve done it today.

She was right there.

Images flashed before his eyes: Sirius’s smile, Sirius’s loving embrace, Sirius’s supportive talks, Sirius’s laugh.

Sirius.

Sirius.

Sirius.

Sirius.

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!” His Godfather had shouted in his dream.

My fault. Harry curled into himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso and doubling over towards the ground. I know it’s my fault.

It’s my fault we went to the Ministry.

My fault the Order had to step in.

My fault Sirius showed up.

My fault that he…

It was my fault-

Harry choked out a guttural moan, collapsing to the floor and scratching at the wooden paneling beneath him like a caged animal, gasping for breath as his lungs constricted.

My fault. His nails burned as he scraped at the ground, desperate for something to hold on to.

My fault.

My fault!

MY FAULT!

Harry pounded on the floor as the air around him crackled with magic. His vision blurred as his pooling tears began spilling down his face, hot and messy.

She was right there! His hands shook as reached for something, anything tangible. She was right there and you did nothing!

You messed it up again just like you always do, Potter!

Useless, freakish, brat!

Harry sobbed, bringing his hands to his tightened chest as his skin burned hot from pent-up magic. His blood was fire, ripping through his body with the power of a phoenix, his skin hot to the touch.

Useless.

Stop it He dug his fingers into his flesh, the skin beneath his nails turning pink from the intensity of his grip.

Freakish.

Stop it, please. His glasses slid down off his nose and fell to the ground as he kept his head bent. His body curled into the floor.

Brat.

Harry screamed, his voice fighting its way from his throat as he became overwhelmed with the need to make it all stop. The unbearable tightness in his chest seemed to explode outward, electrifying every nerve in his body with white-hot lightning.

Magic burned through the air as Harry lay curled on the floor, shaking through his rasping breaths. His body trembled as he buried his head in his hands, wetting the sleeves of his shirt, his tears puddling in the fabric.

He dimly registered the sound of roaring flames from the fireplace before the house lapsed into silence.

“Potter,” his professor remarked in astonishment, “what happened?”

Harry pressed his hands together to quell their shaking and raised his head from the floor, gasping in shock. The room had exploded into chaos. The books that had once lined the shelves had fallen to the ground, their pages ripped and covers destroyed; the couch had been pushed up against a caved-in wall as if something had thrown it with tremendous force, the blankets from Harry’s make-shift bed lying crumpled at its foot; the floo powder, which had rested on the mantle of the fireplace, now decorated the floor uselessly, the jar it once rested in reduced to splintered glass.

Harry straightened himself, staring into his professor's dark, concerned eyes as Snape moved to stand in front of him. “Harry,” he whispered, “what happened here?”

“Don’t call me that,” he sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You don’t know me.”

“Fine.” Snape said impatiently, his eyes narrowing. “Potter, will you tell me what happened here?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Harry pushed himself up from the floor uneasily, grabbing his glasses and returning them to the bridge of his nose.

Snape raised his brows.

“I mean… I didn’t mean to do anything.” Harry huffed, crossing his arms across his chest as he corrected himself. “It was an accident.”

“This,” Snape gestured vaguely to the room, “was the result of accidental magic?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. And?”

“A display of magic like this is typically triggered by something.” Snape said, his eyes boring him as Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot. “What happened?”

Harry scoffed. “What happened? You brought Death Eaters into the house, that’s what happened!”

“And as I have made quite clear, I did not know that they were com-”

“And then you rush off to Merlin knows where-”

“I met with the Headmaster, like I told you.”

“-And you leave me here alone to deal with this shit!”

“Language.”

“Oh piss off, Snape!” Harry yelled. “That’s twice now I could’ve done something and I didn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Snape hissed venomously. “What would you have done?”

“I dunno,” Harry ran a hand through his hair, shrugging. “Used an Unforgivable and meant it -- like she told me to.”

“Like she told you to?” He crossed his arms.

“Like last time.”

“Last time?” Snape looked alarmed.

“I used Crucio back at the Ministry and it didn’t even work!” Harry roared, pacing hurriedly. “It was pointless.”

“Maybe that was for the best, Potter.”

Harry spun to face him. “She’s a murderer,” he glared.

“She’s a person. And that curse is torture.”

“Stop defending her-”

“You know it’s wrong, Potter! That’s why it didn’t work before.”

“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind!” Harry shouted, clenching his hands into fists at his side.

“Oh please.” Snape glowered at him. “You haven’t been on the receiving end of that particular curse-”

“Yes, I have!” Harry glared, flushing with rage. “And believe me I wanted her in so much more pain.”

Snape stared down at him with an unreadable expression, his eyes studying Harry carefully. “Your anger is justified,” his professor remarked stoically after a moment's pause, “however your solution is misguided. That curse is an Unforgivable for a reason, Potter, and torture is never the answer.”

“But-”

“I do not care how unfortunate a loss you have suffered!” Snape spat. “It is unjust.”

“Unjust? She should pay for what she did!” Harry growled, crossing his arms harshly.

“I am not disputing that.” He nodded. “And in time she will. But not by your hand.”

“But she-”

“Not by your hand.” Snape said harshly, his dark eyes intense and focused. “Your soul is not yet tainted enough for that.”

Harry scoffed. “My soul? You don’t know anything about my soul.”

“Oh, sure I do.” Snape tsked, waving his hand dismissively. “But that is beside the point. Tell me, Potter, how often do you experience these kinds of attacks?”

Harry reeled back in surprise. “Sorry?”

“Panic attacks. I assume that was the cause of this outburst?” -- he gestured to the dismantled room -- “have I come to the wrong conclusion?”

“Panic at- what?” Harry retreated slightly, shaking his head. “I already told you, professor, I’m not some headcase, alright?”

“Potter-”

“I don’t get ‘attacks’ or whatever. I’m not weak.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “I have never called you that, you silly child.” He shook his head tiredly, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I mean these bursts of severe anxiety that you seem to suffer from -- anxiety that parallels the physical sensations of fear like shortness of breath or a racing heartbeat. You experience episodes like that, do you not?”

Harry puffed out his chest in feigned confidence. “Why do I need to tell you anything? What are you gonna run off and spill my darkest secrets to Voldemort? Tell him I’m so ‘affected’ by Sirius’s death?” He mocked. “Gonna tell Voldemort I’m a coward for leaving the Dursleys? Tell him about my uncle-”

“POTTER!” Snape shouted, his face alight with fury, his expression fixed in a menacing scowl. “You are not to utter the Dark Lord’s name in my presence, I have reminded you of this!” Harry retreated as Snape’s harsh voice boomed throughout the small room, his professor wild with anger. “You are to answer questions to my satisfaction when you are asked them! Nothing more! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry cringed, letting his eyes drift down to his feet.

Snape seemed to relax, dropping his shoulders. “Do you experience episodes of intense anxiety?”

Harry hesitated, prolonging the silence, and Snape crossed his arms expectantly. “Yes, sir.” He spoke meekly, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt.

“And how regularly do they occur?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugged. “Pretty regularly.”

“Are they often accompanied by bursts of accidental magic or was this a unique instance?”

He kicked at the floor, shifting his weight awkwardly. “This was unique.”

“And for how long have you experienced these regular episodes?”

“Since,” Harry paused, squinting at the floor in thought. Since Sirius…no, that can’t be right.

“Potter?” Snape prompted.

Since…“Since Cedric’s death,” he replied finally.

Snape nodded in his periphery, moving about the room. “And was the graveyard where you were subjected to the Cruciatus curse?”

“Yes,” Harry replied instantly.

Snape nodded again, deep in thought. “Do you find that your hands shake either during or after these episodes of anxiety?”

“Yes.”

Snape stalled in his questioning and Harry looked up to meet his professor’s eyes. Snape’s scrutinizing gaze scanned over every inch of his meager frame and Harry shrunk inward feeling small. “Do you find that your hands tend to shake even when you have not felt anxious, Potter?”

Harry shrugged, rubbing at his arm. “Sometimes, I guess.”

“Since that night in the graveyard?”

“Yeah,” he nodded slowly.

Snape’s eyes flashed with anger. “And you thought to tell no one about this new development?”

Harry scrunched up his face. “Development?”

Snape raced past him, his dark robes billowing as he disappeared down the hall. “Follow me.” His professor called over his shoulder.

Sparing one final glance around the room, Harry took off after Snape briskly, nearly running to keep up with his professor who had darted into a small room off to the left of the hall.

Harry walked through the door and into Snape’s potions laboratory, pausing in the entranceway as if afraid to intrude. Several large cauldrons sat in the middle of the room magically stirred by various utensils; herbs, knives and several animal limbs dandled from the ceiling, and the walls were completely lined with dark shelves of potions, bottled creatures and haphazardly stored books. Snape stood in the middle of the room, tugging a loose strand of hair behind his ear as grabbed a vial filled with a dark purple ooze from the back of a shelf, extending it to Harry.

“Drink this, Potter. I cannot believe you were not given it before.”

Harry took the vial hesitantly, staring at its contents with disgust. “What is it?”

“It helps to regrow the nerves that may have been severed or damaged by an Unforgivable.” Snape watched him with narrowed eyes. “Although not typically administered to Hogwarts students, Madam Pomfrey has several vials available to her and the fact that you have not been issued this particular brew is frankly-”

“Wait, sir, my nerves are fine.” Harry glanced at his professor, raising his arm to return the vial. “I don’t need this.”

“Mere moments ago you confessed your hands have been shaking since you were in the graveyard last spring.” Snape clasped his hands behind his back and sighed in exasperation. “How can you claim your nervous system does not need salvaging if that is true?”

“Well, sure, they shake,” Harry rolled his eyes, “but that’s from my ‘episodes’, or whatever,” he scoffed. “Nothing else.”

“They are related issues!” Snape fumed. “Why are you so infuriatingly resistant to my offers of help!”

“Why are you trying to help me?” Harry crossed his arms.

“Because you are a child!” Snape raged, pacing back and forth in between the various bubbling cauldrons. “You should not have to do everything on your own. Despite what you may think, I am capable of helping you!”

“Well I don’t want your help!” Harry shouted. “I never have, Snape! Stop trying to be someone you’re not!”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Snape scoffed, turning to face him. “Who am I trying to be?”

“You can’t replace him.” Harry glared. “No one can.”

“For Merlins- Potter I am not trying to replace your Godfather. I am merely trying to provide you with some brief stability!”

“Yeah, well I don’t need stability from a Death Eater!” He crowed as Snape’s face went slack momentarily. “You said I shouldn’t learn to rely on you. Fine! Done! I don’t need you, Snape, so just piss off and stop trying to fucking ‘fix’ me!”

Without waiting for his professor to respond, Harry threw the vial on the floor and stormed out of the room. He heard the glass shatter upon impact as he stomped down the hall, seething in rage.

I’m done with him. Harry thought to himself. I’m fucking done.

Chapter Text

Severus glowered at the open door the boy had just walked through, frowning in distaste.

Typical Potter dramatics, he grumbled to himself, just like his father.

Waving his arm, the broken vial reassembled itself on the floor, its splattered contents rendered useless. He examined the potion carefully, his frown deepening as he bent down towards the floor and scooped up some of the thick purple ooze with his finger.

If it were not for his impulsive, reckless, Gryffindor stubbornness we could have accomplished something today. Severus scowled, flicking his wand and vanishing the ruined potion. We could have begun to understand the relationship his anxiety shares with his fractured nervous system.

He returned the empty vial to the shelf, placing its stopper next to it, and pocketed a dose of the same potion, nodding to himself. I am appalled it did not cross his mind to seek out a medical professional, he glowered, turning to the large cauldron bubbling in the middle of the room and vanishing his previous brew. It is absurd that he has not initiated the conversation around rebuilding his nerves.

But then again, when does Potter ever ask for help? He grimaced, scowling as he lit a flame beneath the cauldron.

Carefully, he began his work, summoning the necessary items to rebrew the potion Harry had destroyed. Eventually, Severus thought to himself as he began chopping beetle eyes, eventually he will acknowledge the necessity of my assistance and relent. Until then, I can only be persistent.

He left the potion to brew -- it wouldn’t be ready for at least a few days -- and made his way down the hall and into the kitchen, his long, dark robes billowing behind him. Food flew from the open fridge and various cabinets as he whisked his wand through the air, ingredients arranging themselves in a fast-paced assembly line, falling gracefully into a pot Severus had set on the stove.

He scanned his eyes over the kitchen, watching as herbs and spices danced across the room hurriedly, before nodding to himself in momentary satisfaction and leaving his magic to continue its work. Severus walked through the den, cringing at the destruction the boy had caused. The room had erupted into appalling, surprising, chaos from the boy’s surge in magic and Severus whipped his wand through the air, righting the disheveled furniture as he briskly made his way up the stairs to the second landing.

Pausing in front of the child’s room, he listened for signs of movement.

There was nothing but silence beyond the door.

He knocked. “Potter, I would appreciate it if you joined me downstairs for dinner.”

He waited for a moment but heard no reply.

He knocked a second time. “You are under no obligation to attend, but I would appreciate it if you did.”

The boy remained quiet and Severus sighed, moving back down the stairs alone.

Minutes passed and the boy did not emerge from his room. Pacing around the kitchen, Severus waited for Harry to make himself visible, his stomach sinking with each passing second.

It’s alright if he doesn’t come down, it’s been a long day.

Give the child a rest -- you told him this was optional.

He waited for as long as he could stand it, before shaking his head in defeat. Sighing, Severus portioned out the meal he had prepared and placed the vial he pocketed earlier onto the silver tray. Scribbling a hasty ‘drink this, please,’ on a nearby scrap of paper, he sent the tray up to Harry’s room, exhaling in relief.

He waited with bated breath, shifting impatiently between eating at the table and pacing around the room hurriedly until he deemed enough time had passed and summoned the tray down from the child’s room.

The food was mostly gone, Severus noted happily, but the potion remained untouched -- its presence a vivid reminder of their earlier feud. Grumbling in irritation, Severus committed himself to cleaning the kitchen before disappearing back into his potions lab.

Severus stepped out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, moving swiftly down the corridor as he carried a large wooden crate brimming with various vials and concoctions. He turned into the small potions lab that had been built into one of the many unused studies on the first floor and carefully set the box down on the small, metal slab that sat in the middle of the dimly lit space. Flicking his wand, the potions flew across the room, gracefully landing on nearby shelves which were organized alphabetically. He took a step back, allowing his elixirs to sort themselves accordingly, observing their movement with a piercing stare. When the vials had settled, Severus nodded to himself in satisfaction and turned to the last glass bottle that remained in the wooden crate.

He removed it carefully, walking across the confined space and placing the brew on its own shelf with extraordinary caution. He checked its label -- a small slip of paper tied to the neck of the bottle by a decaying string -- and, running his hand across the thin parchment, he flipped the text to face him: ‘Wolfsbane - For Lupin,’ it read.

“Severus?”

Speak of the Devil.

He turned to see Lupin standing awkwardly in the doorway wearing large, tattered brown clothes and an expression of slight concern. He looked tired and disheveled -- his face sunken, his hair wild, and his beard untrimmed. “You’re not with Harry?” Lupin prompted casually, his brown eyes scanning over him in assessment.

“Not at the present moment.” Severus gritted through his teeth, clasping his hands behind his back. “He will be fine, I assure you.”

“I know,” his lips twitched, nearly forming a smile. “I have faith in your wards.”

Severus raised his brow. Faith in my wards but not in me?

“How is he?” Lupin pressed on, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets as he stepped awkwardly into the room. “Harry, I mean.”

“He is…”

“He’s dead and I’m standing where he stood, doing what he should be doing!” Harry had yelled in the kitchen, his green eyes wild and panicked. “He’s gone because of what I did and that eats away at me every day!”

“He is…grieving.” Severus said carefully, drawing out his words. “But that is to be expected.”

Lupin’s casual demeanor seemed to falter as his body tensed, his shoulders bunching slightly. “I am sure that he is.” His voice strained. “I offer my condolences.”

Severus nodded curtly, re-clasping his hands behind his back as he fidgeted awkwardly. “I am sure a visit could be arranged if you spoke with the Headmaster.” He cleared his throat as he adjusted his posture. “Harry would appreciate some variation in his company.”

“I don't doubt it.” Lupin chuckled to himself, shaking his head affectionately. “But the moon is tomorrow night, as you are aware, and I’d rather wait until I’ve recovered to press anything with Albus.”

Severus nodded again, turning around and cautiously grabbing the grey-blue vial from the shelf behind him, extending it to Lupin with immense care. “For when you need it,” he said.

“Thank you.” His shoulders relaxed slightly as he took the potion hastily, letting his arm swing the vial down to his side as Severus winced at his carelessness. “Your efforts do not go unappreciated, Severus.”

“I’m sure.” He frowned, watching as the potion’s color changed from cloudy grey to dark blue. Idiot, he grumbled. “I must get back to Harry -- do inform Albus of your desire to visit.”

Lupin nodded solemnly as Severus turned to leave, brushing past him quickly.

“You’re sure he’s okay?” Lupin’s voice cut through the room, halting his exit.

Severus paused, his mind drifting back to when he emerged from the fireplace a few hours earlier. He had found Harry huddled on the floor, the remains of the living room pressed far away from the child as if they had been forcefully thrown back. He remembered the boy’s face -- his cheeks tearstained and eyes puffy as he lifted his head from the floor.

“He is…coping.” Severus said at last, lingering in the doorway.

Lupin cast his eyes down to the floor, seemingly lost in thought as Severus watched him.

Say something.

Do something, anything.

He sucked in a breath as he gripped the doorway, puffing out his chest. “I’m sorry for your loss, Remus.”

“Thank you.” His voice was hollow as he raised his eyes to meet him. “I appreciate that, Severus. Really, I do.”

Nodding curtly, Severus swept from the room.

Severus emerged from the fireplace at Spinner’s End tired and annoyed. Running a hand over his face in exhaustion, he made his way up the stairs and towards his room sluggishly, stopping in front of Harry’s door as he listened for signs of movement.

The room seemed oddly quiet and he hesitated, staring down the narrow hallway at his quarters longingly. Severus closed his eyes, bracing himself, and exhaled as he opened the door to Harry’s room.

The boy was sitting on the sill directly across from the entranceway, his back to Severus as he looked through the open window and onto the street below. Hearing the door creak open, Harry turned to face him slowly, his eyes bloodshot, his face stained with tears. Severus cleared his throat as the boy quickly wiped his eyes clean with the sleeve of his long, white shirt and adjusted his round frames on the bridge of his nose.

Severus flicked his eyes about the room. “The owls are gone.” he commented dryly as Harry sniffed and rubbed at his eyes a second time.

“Oh yeah,” the boy shrugged forcefully, “I wrote back to my friends.”

Severus moved into the room cautiously, deliberately ignoring the boy’s fresh tears. “I’ve just returned from Grimmauld Place,” he said, lowering himself into the chair beside the desk, “I ran into Lupin.”

Harry whipped his head around to face him, his eyes widening slightly.

“He inquired after your well-being.” Severus straightened his back. “When the moon passes he may be able to visit, if you’d like.”

Harry scrunched up his face in disgust -- Severus nearly smiled. “I dunno,” the boy said carefully. “I haven’t really spoken to him since… since the Ministry.”

Severus nodded. “He offered his condolences for your loss.” Harry seemed to squirm in discomfort, his face contorting in a mixture of emotions Severus could not identify. “He doesn’t blame you, I’m sure.”

Harry winced. “I know that.”

Severus watched him as the boy hugged his legs into his chest, wrapping his arms around himself and burrowing his head in his legs.

“I thought you liked Lupin?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Harry shrugged, “it’s just that I’m not like my father” -- I disagree -- “so we’ve never really been close.”

He sighed, continuing, “I dunno. Sirius always compared me to James, but from what I’ve heard about him we seem so different. I mean - I’m really not that loud, or outgoing, and I really don’t enjoy taking risks,” -- Severus nearly scoffed aloud -- “not how Sirius appreciated, anyway. He used to get mad at me for not encouraging him to leave Grimmauld Place.” Harry pouted, tightening his hold around his legs. “I just…I never got that. Sirius used to say the risk was part of the fun,” Severus rolled his eyes, “and I…I only ever wanted him safe.”

Severus opened his mouth to interject but Harry pressed on, “I know how you feel about him, professor -- about him and my dad.” He exhaled heavily, turning his head to look back out the window. “So just don’t, okay? Not tonight.”

Severus cleared his throat. Merlin, I cannot believe I’m about to do this. “I was going to say that you’re remarkably like James in the ways that I’m sure Sirius valued -- loyal to your friends, self-sacrificing,” as much as I hate that you are, “and whatever else Gryffindor’s hold in high regard.” Harry turned to look at him, his green eyes narrowed in confusion -- her green eyes. “But you are more like your mother,” he shifted uncomfortably, pushing himself to sit up straighter, “you have her kindness.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Very well.” Severus said quietly. Harry watched him, his green eyes encouraging him, imploring him to say more.

Tell him.

She was his mother.

He deserves to know her.

Harry studied him, his whole body tense with anticipation.

Severus remained quiet. I can’t do this right now, he thought to himself sadly.

“You should go to sleep, Potter,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “It's been a long day.”

Harry frowned, his posture visibly deflating, “I’d rather not.”

“Another nightmare?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter, Snape. You don’t have to worry.”

“Being your babysitter is what I have been asked to do.” Severus growled. “Believe me I wasn’t excited by the job.”

“Then why even ask?”

“Because I’m here now,” he glared at the boy, “and it’s better you talk to someone rather than bottle all your feelings until they explode out of you like they did earlier today.”

Harry hugged his legs further into his chest, pouting slightly. “It’s fine, Snape. I don’t need parenting.”

Severus sighed, letting his eyes shut in exasperation. “What was the nightmare about, Potter?”

Harry turned away from him.

“Was it about the Dark Lord?” He prompted. “Could you see into his mind?”

“No,” Harry bit out, his tone bordering on annoyance, “it was nothing like that.”

Not a cause for concern, then. He nodded to himself. “Was it about the grave-”

“Will you stop asking about the bloody graveyard?” Harry whipped around to face him. “I actually don’t want to talk about it with you.” He glared, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs. “I bet you were counting down each second of those two hours before you were back at you-know-who’s side.”

Severus winced, inhaling deeply and forcing his mind into a familiar, meditative calm. “Potter,” he paused, fixing his eyes upon the boy, “I am a spy for the Order and must use diction that ensures my role is not discovered by those in the Dark Lord’s service. I trust that you can understand the need to persuade Bellatrix of my loyalty this afternoon?”

“Sure.” Harry shrugged. “Fine.”

Severus ran a tired hand down his face. “I am sorry you were so shaken by that particular conversation” -- even though you were supposed to be safe in your room like I told you to be -- “but I do sincerely hope that you know I meant none of it.”

“Yeah,” Harry scoffed. “Got it.”

Severus burned with rage at his dismissal. Calm yourself, he breathed heavily, your anger only shuts him down.

“I am sorry,” he began hesitantly, “for bringing up Sirius’s passing. It was uncalled for, tactless, inappropriate, and I apologize.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, scanning over his frame cautiously.

Merlin, I would love to know what you’re thinking, Potter.

Severus cleared his throat. “In fact, while we are on the subject, I do think there are quite a few other things I need to atone for.” He pushed himself to sit on the edge of his chair, his posture uncomfortably rigid. “I do wish you to know that I am expressing guilt over my past actions, not begging for your forgiveness, Potter.”

Severus paused as the child watched him, sighing as he braced himself. “Firstly, I am sorry I was so quick to anger after my conversation with the Headmaster -- I was stressed and took it out on you, which was wrong of me.”

Harry sat up, shifting uncomfortably. “Professor-”

Snape held up a hand to silence him. “I apologize for my anger since you have arrived under my care, I know that many times it has been misplaced. I do not wish to exacerbate any ongoing issues you may be struggling with. You are a child and I am an adult, I should behave maturely and I have failed in that respect.”

“Sir, I really think-”

“I apologize for silencing you.” Harry scratched behind his neck uncomfortably as Severus continued. “It was cruel and unnecessary. And I apologize for provoking your anger, which I have done on a number of occasions.”

“Snape-”

“And I think, rather obviously, that I must apologize for abusing your trust in our initial occlumency lesson and searching for the memories I did-”

“Stop.” Harry said finally. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Oh, I believe I do.” Severus corrected. “This really is long overdue, you know.”

“No, it’s not.” Harry bit out harshly, his grip on his legs intensifying. “You really don’t have to say any of this.”

“Is this abnormal for you, Potter?” Severus questioned. “Adults taking accountability for their actions?”

Harry glared at him. “No. Dumbledore apologized for Sirius’s death.” He raised his head from his legs in defiance. “He said it was his fault, not mine.”

Severus raised his brows. “Did he? I’m surprised.”

“He did.” Harry spoke finally, his eye contact wavering.

They sat in silence for a few moments as Severus watched the boy squirm before him, huddled on the window sill. He cleared his throat, “Is there anything you would like to share with me, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes flickered back to him. “I-,” He pushed himself fully upright, his back to the wall, seeming to hesitate before he spoke, “I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier, professor.”

Snape nodded. “I understand. You are forgiven.”

“And I’m, uh, sorry for snapping at you all the time, actually. I -- I just get so angry sometimes I don’t know what to do with it.”

Teenagers, he scoffed internally.

“I understand, Potter.”

“And,” Harry puffed out his chest, “I want you to know that I never wanted to be Harry Potter.”

Sorry?

Severus reeled. “Come again?”

Harry fidgeted nervously under his surveying stare. “You always mock me for enjoying the fame and my ‘adoring fans.’” He shrugged forcefully, his posture stiff as he picked at the ends of his shirt. “I actually really hate the attention.”

Severus nodded slowly, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions. “I will try to restrain myself from further comments in the future. It really is-”

“-Just because of my father?” Harry scoffed. “Ya, sure, okay. We’ve already established that I'm not like him.”

Severus clamped his mouth shut in a firm line. “What did you write to your friends? Did you tell them where you were staying?”

“Not explicitly,” Harry yawned. “I’m not stupid. They’ve just been asking about Diagon Alley and when to meet up.” he shrugged. “I told them it wasn’t gonna happen, don’t worry.”

Severus sighed, Merlin, don’t make me regret this. “If you would like to go with your friends to purchase your school supplies I am sure that can be arranged.”

Harry perked up, turning to him abruptly. “Really?”

Severus nodded. “But you must not over-excite yourself -- this is a one time offer. I cannot have you under the impression that seeing your friends is anything more than-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry dismissed him with a wave of his hand, grinning broadly.

Severus scowled. “Residing here is supposed to be a punishment, Potter.”

“Believe me, it is.” Harry smiled.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Harry stood hunched over a workbench in the laboratory. He could feel Snape behind him, rushing between cauldrons and tinkering with the various brewing potions that crowded the small space. Harry watched his professor’s pacing in amusement while he diced lionfish spines, snickering as Snape’s robes flared out behind him.

“Potter,” Snape hissed venomously, turning to bend over a cauldron emanating violet steam. “If you are not going to make yourself useful you are dismissed to continue with your occlumency reading.”

“No, no.” Harry offered hastily, darting his eyes back down to the workbench and increasing the pace of his chopping. “I’m alright to be in here.”

“Mm.” Snape tsked, scowling in displeasure as he watched Harry’s knife. “It is a wonder you have advanced this far in potions, Potter. You have diced your spines unequally.”

“Does that matter?” He shrugged. “They’re diced, aren’t they?”

“It does, in fact, matter.” With a scathing glare, his professor flicked his wand, vanishing the spines from Harry’s workbench and replacing his butchered work with a lit cauldron.

“I would like you to produce for me, Potter, a Pepperup potion,” Snape smirked in amusement, turning back to his own work.

“Pepperup?” Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. “But that’s fourth-year stuff.”

“Then you shall have no trouble brewing it perfectly.” Snape chided. “You know where your ingredients are. Begin.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry moved to the nearest shelf and grabbed what he needed to begin his brew. He worked from memory, adding each new ingredient carefully and trying his best to ignore his professor’s frantically moving figure. He brewed the potion faithfully, pouring a sample of the viscous, bright red liquid into a stout vial when he was sure it was complete. Entranced by the dancing colors, Harry hummed softly to himself as he pressed the cork in with his thumb. Satisfied with his work, he turned around and handed the vial to Snape.

“An Exceeds Expectations at best, Potter.” He remarked deadpan. “Try again.”

“What?” Harry sputtered, furrowing his brows together in confusion. “But this is perfect!”

Snape raised his brow and stalked over to the nearest shelf, extracting a bright red vial. “What Potter, may I ask, is the difference between our two brews?”

Harry looked at the vial clutched tightly in his right hand and back up at his professor’s. “Yours is a brighter red, I guess.”

“Precisely. And why would that be?”

He threw up his arms in exasperation. “I don’t know. Why?”

“You used two clippings of mandrake root instead of three.”

Harry groaned, glaring down at his own deep red mix. “And you just…know that?”

“Brew it again.” Snape turned away from him. “Sufficiently this time. As you said, this is fourth-year stuff.”

“Sir, am I even taking potions this year?” Harry huffed, slamming the vial in his hand on a nearby table. “What’s the point of all this?”

"Irrelevant, Potter,” Snape drawled, his gaze locked on the new cauldron he had moved to. “Regardless of the courses you are taking this year, the ability to brew a successful potion is of utmost importance to every wizard.” He paused his relentless motion to glance at Harry. “That includes you, does it not?."

“It does.” He scoffed.

“You may either continue with your reading or you rebrew your disturbingly poor Pepperup.” Snape raised his brow, his stare intense. “Pick your poison, Potter.”

Harry scowled, making his way back to his workbench, casting a glare at his professor's subtle smirk. Prick, he grumbled down at his cauldron, the remaining contents vanishing before him with a flick of his professor's wand. Snape, seemingly content to let Harry continue with his brewing, turned around again to refocus on his own concoctions.

Harry worked swiftly, gathering his ingredients from the cupboard for a second time and adding them to his brew methodically.

“Professor?” He said after a few minutes of silence, adding three clippings of mandrake root to his cauldron.

“What is it, Potter?” He sighed.

“When will we know what classes we’ll be taking?”

Snape moved to grab some sort of animal skull off the wall. “You will discuss your options with your head of house when the school year begins, as you know.”

“But won’t we know based on our O.W.L.s?”

His professor moved to another cauldron. “Your O.W.L.s will tell you what classes you are able to advance to. It is entirely your decision to continue with your studies in any subject.”

“Well, when will our O.W.L. results be sent-”

“Potter.” Snape snarled, whipping his head around to face him with a dreadfully serious glare. “I need you to be silent in the lab. Either brew your potion without disturbing me or return to your reading in the other room.”

Harry tapped his potions knife on the edge of the workbench mindlessly. “But sir, do you know when O.W.L. results-”

“POTTER!” Snape snapped and Harry flinched away, retreating into himself as his professor took long, calming breaths. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, his dark eyes scanning over Harry’s frame, his face contorted in concern. “Please don’t talk in the lab. I believe an owl carrying your results should be due sometime today.”

“Today?” He asked incredulously, his eyes flashing in surprise, “As in today, today?”

“Yes, I believe so, Potter. Now,” Snape shooed him off, turning back to a cauldron that had begun to bubble profusely, “remain silent.”

Harry fidgeted as he worked, his eyes darting up to the rusted window. If he squinted, he could almost see past the muddied glass and onto the gloomy, depressing street. He kept his eyes on the window as he continued with his brew, watching for an owl in the overcast sky.

Only after he had finished his second brew did he hear the staccato tapping of an owl’s beak against glass. His head darting up quickly, Harry locked eyes with the bird through the window, his gaze catching on the envelope attached to its leg.

Snape moved first; his professor maneuvered through the cramped room to open the window. The bird, sensing an opening, flew swiftly to Harry the moment the latch was undone and perched gracefully on the workbench before him.

Harry inched forward towards the owl and untied the letter with fumbling fingers. Managing to detach the envelope, he grabbed the potion knife to his left, slitting it open quickly and unfolding the parchment inside.

Harry read the parchment through several times, his breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was alright: he had always known he would fail Divination, and he had no chance of passing History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway through the examination, but he had passed everything else! He ran his finger down the grades, his relief fading as quickly as it had overtaken him.

Harry looked up at his professor glumly and passed him the paper. Snape took hold of the parchment greedily, raising an inquisitive eyebrow as his eyes scanned down the page. “Very impressive, Potter.” He nodded, returning the paper to Harry. “Six O.W.L.s.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, feeling his stomach sink as he looked at the small black E marked next to Potions. He had known all along that he wouldn’t achieve the grade necessary to begin his N.E.W.T. level studies, but the rejection still hurt.

“You’re not satisfied?” Snape questioned.

Harry sighed, “I was hoping to be an auror... But I didn’t get the Potions grade.”

“Potter, I am impressed you managed to scrape together an Exceeds Expectations,” Snape scoffed, crossing his arms tightly.

Harry frowned, shrugging. “Yeah, well. It was never my best subject.”

Snape nodded and Harry’s frown deepened.

“Well, you could be a little more supportive, professor.” He slammed the paper down on the kitchen table.

“I had no idea of your desire to become an auror, Potter,” Snape replied casually. “But if you dislike potions so severely I would not recommend it as a plausible career.”

“Well, fighting seems to be the only thing that I’m actually good at.” Harry huffed, gesturing to his Defense grade.

“The fact that you have had to fight enough to develop that skill set is not something to brag about,” Snape scowled at the paper on the table. “Is catching Dark wizards the only thing you can see yourself doing?”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged. “It’s not like I'm great at anything else.”

“I didn’t ask what you excel at, Potter.” Snape turned his eyes skyward. “I asked what you see yourself doing; what career choices seem feasible.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Harry pouted. “I don’t think about things like that.”

Snape frowned. “What things?”

“The future!” Harry threw up his arms in exasperation. “I’m not good at planning that far ahead.”

“And you can’t think of anything you like to do that might make for a suitable career choice?”

Harry shrugged, this interrogation is getting old. “Not really. I’d be impressed if I live long enough to graduate.”

Snape’s eyes darkened as he scowled down at him. “Do not joke about that, Potter,” his professor said seriously, his posture stiff. “It is not funny.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry held his hands up in surrender. “It’s not funny.” It’s the truth.

“As it so happens,” Snape bristled, clasping his hands behind his back, “you have managed to achieve the required Potions grade to qualify for N.E.W.T. level classes.”

“I have?” Harry blinked in surprise. “But I thought you only took Os?”

“I do.” Snape bit out. “But fortunately for you, I will not be teaching Potions this year. The professor filling the post is perfectly willing to accept Exceeds Expectations students in his sixth-year classes -- despite the fact that-”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, reeling back in shock. “You’re not teaching Potions? What’re you doing, then?”

Snape straightened his back, his mouth twisting lopsidedly in a subtle smirk. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am entirely serious.”

“But why would Dumbledore allow that?” Harry fumed. “I thought he wanted you away from the Dark Arts?”

“The Headmaster has his reasons.” Snape bristled.

“But-”

“And they do not concern you.” His professor clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze cold and unmoving. “However, Potter, Professor Dumbledore has asked me to inform you that you will be attending weekly private lessons with him this year.”

Harry blinked up in shock, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Lessons regarding what?”

“I do not know.” Snape scowled. “I have provided you with the extent of my knowledge on the subject.”

“But, sir, I don’t underst-”

“Neither do I,” Snape growled. “It is best we leave it at that and move on. As I have already mentioned, you are to either continue with your brew or your reading.”

“But, sir-”

“Both of those activities are to be done in silence.” Snape glared at him before turning back to face another bubbling cauldron.

Fine. Harry scowled at his professor’s back. He moved to his workbench, grabbing his letter off the table as he went.

“An O in Defense,” Harry mused quietly to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yes, you are not wholly stupid, Potter, surprising as that may be.”

“Thanks,” Harry sneered, crumpling the letter slightly in his hand. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“I’m sure your work is more than satisfactory.” Snape tutted, moving to another cauldron and flicking his wand, lowering the heat. “Just because your brewing capability is mediocre at best doesn’t negate the fact that you may be somewhat decent in other areas of study.”

“Thanks.” Harry crushed the letter. “I get it.”

Snape nodded curtly, watching him for only a moment before turning back to his simmering brews once again, letting the conversation between them fall silent.

Arsehole, Harry grumbled, turning back to his work and raising the heat on his own cauldron.

Hours later, Harry walked from the laboratory down the hall and into the kitchen clutching a vial of his re-brewed pepperup tightly to his chest. Snape had set the table -- two white plates piled with steak, potatoes, and spinach stood stark against the dark wood. Harry walked hesitantly to his usual place while his professor lowered himself into the chair beside him silently.

Cautiously, Harry handed the vial over to Snape who now sat uncomfortably close. “As a fourth-year student, Potter, you would receive an outstanding.” Snape tutted astutely, placing the vial on the table.

“Thanks,” Harry grumbled, turning to the food set before him.

“May I also present you with a vial?” Snape plucked a small bottle filled with an iridescent purple liquid from his robes and slid it across the table. “If you don’t mind,” he inclined his head slightly.

Harry stiffened, feeling his anger begin to spike, recognizing the brew he smashed on the floor yesterday. “I don’t want to take it, sir.”

“Your nervous system has undergone serious trauma, Potter.” Snape’s gaze softened slightly. “This will do nothing more than heal that.”

“I don’t need you to fix me, Snape.” He stabbed at his potatoes. “I already told you.”

“Harry, I really think-”

“Stop calling me that!” Harry raged, slamming his fork down on the table. “You don’t know me!”

“I know enough!” Snape snarled aggressively before shutting his eyes and inhaling for a long moment. “Potter,” he sighed as he exhaled, “I need you to take this. You’ve gone too long unattended after enduring the cruciatus curse, if you wait any longer the changes could become permanent.” Snape looked deeply into his eyes; Harry squirmed in discomfort. “Please, I implore you, take this.”

He pushed the vial across the table until it touched the side of Harry’s plate. “It’s your decision, Potter.” Snape sighed. “We’ve moved beyond the point where I can force you to do anything.”

Harry glared at the vial with unwavering focus, his eyes darting up to his professor as he reached his hand across the table to grab it. “I’m not doing this for you,” he spoke quietly as he uncorked the bottle. “I just don’t want any permanent connections to Voldemort.”

Snape winced, nodding tightly as he held Harry’s eye contact.

He drank slowly, gagging at the putrid taste. After draining the vial, Harry was engulfed by a numbing, buzzing sensation and he tensed his hands in an attempt to focus on anything but the unnaturally gelatinous liquid he was trying to ingest.

“It will take a few moments for your body to adjust,” Snape said as Harry tried to quell his retching. “You may experience some nausea, although this is usually subdued when you eat,” he gestured to the plates before them.

Fuck you. Harry thought, his eyes narrowing as he poked at his meal.

“It will help.”

“I’m fine.” Harry bit out, pushing the chair out from under him. He stood up quickly, wobbling away from the table and towards the door with great effort.

“Potter,” Snape called after him. “Give your body time to heal. You shouldn’t exert yourself.”

“I’m. Fine.” Harry panted, increasing the speed of his hobbling as he dragged his feet across the tile.

“You are not.” Snape rose from his seat. “Let me help-”

“I said I’m fine, Snape!” Harry stumbled, falling in a messy tangle of limbs towards the floor. The tile was soft when he hit it. Harry whipped his head around to his professor.

“Cushioning charm,” Snape shrugged. “Eat. Then I will leave you be.”

He extended a hand and Harry swatted it away, pushing himself up from the floor slowly. His muscles ached, tired and numb, and he could hear his pulse ringing in his ear as he shuffled pathetically back to his seat.

He poked at his food under his professor’s watchful gaze, shifting from side to side -- ever in motion. Carefully, Harry raised his fork to his mouth, choking down a bite of steak, grimacing once he had swallowed.

Snape set down his utensils, sitting upright in his seat, drawing attention. “Potter, I propose we play a game.”

Harry looked up from his meal skeptically. “A game?”

“I pose a question on a topic of my choice, and you, in turn, may do the same.”

“So..” Harry scrunched up his face in confusion, “You ask a question about anything and then I ask you something?” He shot his professor a glance “Nothing off-limits?”

“Nothing.” Snape nodded, his face baring with a painfully serious expression. “All I ask is for your honesty.”

Harry shuffled again. “And what if I don’t want to answer you?”

“That is acceptable. So long as I am allotted the same rule.”

“Then we’ll get nowhere. You won’t tell me anything.” Harry puffed, rolling his eyes.

“I disagree.” Snape shrugged, his stare emotionless. “Shall I begin?”

Harry glared noncommittally but remained quiet, signaling for Snape to continue.

"Was there a specific reason you chose to refrain from disclosing the tremor in your hands to Madam Pomfrey?"

Harry bunched his shoulders, huddling inward. “It didn’t seem important. I hardly even noticed it anyway.”

Snape sat back thoughtfully, motioning for Harry to speak.

“Erm,” he began. “Was everything you said to Bellatrix truly a lie?”

“No.” Said Snape. “Not everything was falsified, just my allegiance to the Dark Lord.”

Harry furrowed his brows “Wait, but-”

“One question at a time,” his professor scolded, cutting him off. “I believe it is my turn.” Harry huffed, crossing his arms as he slumped in his chair, sliding down the backside. “How long have you had problems eating?”

“I don’t have problems!” Harry barked defensively.

Snape scoffed dismissively, “Need to remind you, Potter, that just a few days ago you broke down in tears because I had asked you to finish your breakfast?” He rolled his eyes. “How else would you like me to describe your aversion to food?”

“It’s not a problem!” Harry snapped, irritation flooding through his voice. “It’s never been a problem! And honestly,” he slammed the utensils he was holding down on the table, the surface shaking beneath the impact. “I don’t really wanna talk about it with you. Sir.”

Snape stared at him for a long time, watching silently as Harry’s breathing steadied. “I believe it’s your turn.” His professor broke the silence once he noticed Harry had calmed himself.

Fuck you.

I hate you.

He was sure Snape knew exactly what he was thinking.

Harry leaned back in his chair, challenging his professor’s unrelenting gaze “Why did you become a Death Eater?”

Snape reeled back, blinking rapidly in confusion and Harry felt a sudden wave of guilt crash over him, cringing at the fact that he had crossed some sort of unspoken line. His professor bore an unusual expression of calm as he exhaled slowly.

“My father,” Snape spoke quietly, “was very similar to your uncle. He was afraid of magic, of the things I could do…” He paused and Harry felt his discomfort pool as he held Snape’s gaze. “I, like you, Potter, was punished for the accidental magic that is sometimes exhibited in young wizards and it made me bitter.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak but it dawned on him that he had absolutely no idea what to say. His professor held up a hand, asking for silence.

“Slytherin house in the early seventies was not a welcoming environment for those who had…” Snape furrowed his brows, choosing his words “...opposing perspectives.” He cleared his throat. “When my friends began to turn to the Dark Arts -- pressured by friends or family -- I… went with them.” He paused, turning to face Harry and regaining his composure, his expression falling back into neutrality. “It was a cowardly means to protect myself. I felt weak and alone and they offered me power when I was at my most vulnerable.” He sighed heartily. “The weight of that decision is something I carry with me every day.”

Harry watched as Snape let his hand fall to his right forearm unconsciously, his professor’s eyes focused on nothing in particular. Succumbing to his discomfort, Harry ducked his head to stare at his lap sheepishly.

“I believe I may ask you a question now.” His professor continued, drawing a shaky breath. “When did you first begin to notice your unusual relationship with eating?”

Harry grimaced, “I just told you I don’t want to talk about that.”

Snape watched him imploringly, seeming to wait for a real answer.

“I just-” He threw up his arms in exasperation. You don’t owe him anything. He doesn’t have to know -- Harry cut off his thoughts – know what? – He was confusing himself – “I can’t…”

He clutched at his hair. “It’s hard to express, you know? What do you even want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Potter.”

“Ugh,” Harry groaned. “I just- I guess I was never given a lot of food at the Dursleys, so whenever I’m given a lot it doesn’t feel like I deserve to be eating that much. Does that make sense?” He shook his head dismissively and shrugged, his eyes fixated on the corner of the room.

“Does one plate feel like too much?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah...” You’re being dramatic. “Well, usually.”

“How often were you fed when you lived with your relatives?”

He turned his head swiftly, glaring at his professor. “I think it’s my turn to ask a question now.”

Snape relaxed slightly, dropping his shoulders and gesturing for Harry to continue.

“I- um, what kind of punishments did you get for accidental magic, sir?” Harry fidgeted, his anger fading.

Snape inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, eye contact unwavering. “I imagine they would be similar to yours,” he spoke quietly, his voice ringing out through the silence.

“Did-” Harry fiddled with his hands, “Did he hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Harry reeled, “And you’re fine just telling me that?”

“I trust that you won’t misuse this information. Just as you are trusting me not to disclose your relatives’ behavior to the Headmaster.”

“But that’s different.”

Snape shrugged. “Not to me.”

Harry turned his attention back to his hands as his professor spoke quietly. “I believe it’s my turn, is it not?” When Harry nodded in reply, he continued, “Has there ever been a time when eating has been easy for you?”

He wrung his hands together beneath the table, their emanating warmth calming. “Not really. Well, not that I can remember, at least.”

Snape nodded in his periphery. “And what does it feel like when you’re eating?”

“Bad,” He hugged his arms to his chest. “It feels like I’m doing something wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Snape whispered, “that your family has-”

“Don’t call them that,” Harry said suddenly, raising his head. “My family is dead. I just lived with the Dursleys.”

His professor nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry that they’ve had such an impact on you. I know that isn’t easy to cope with.”

“It’s-” Harry looked at Snape, at his concerned eyes. “It’s not easy.”

“I’m sure that it’s-”

“Can we be done with the game now?” Harry said harshly, pushing out his chair and rising from the table.

“Sure,” his professor nodded, remaining seated.

“Yeah. Good. Fine.” Harry sniffed, retreating from the room quickly.

Chapter Text

The following morning, as Harry shut the door to his room behind him, he noticed two owls perched on his sun-bleached window sill, their wide eyes meeting his own. Hedwig hooted happily, flying over to greet him midair before landing gracefully on the edge of the desk beside him.

“Hey, girl,” Harry chuckled, dragging his finger along the feathers beneath her beak. The mildew from the morning air had left little shimmering freckles of water on her iridescently white feathers which caught on his hand. “Let me take that from you.” Carefully, Harry removed the letter attached to her leg and, with a hoot, the owl flew off towards her cage.

Pigwidgeon shuffled sideways across the cracked wooden sill before taking a flying leap onto Harry’s arm, sticking his ribbon-tied leg forward. Harry patted the owl gently on the head before removing the letter. “Go on,” he said to the bird after it showed no sign of moving, “You can go and join Hedwig for some treats if you’d like.” Pigwidgeon nodded once in acknowledgment, taking off across the room and happily shoving himself inside the cramped cage with Hedwig. Harry unfolded the first of his letters.

Harry- it read

I was so happy to receive your letter. I can’t tell you how worried Ron and I were.

Wonderful to hear that your living situation isn’t entirely unbearable, as unlikeable as your current guardian is. Stay strong and we’ll talk all about it when we see you next.

Speaking of, it’s amazing you were able to convince him to let you go to Diagon Alley! I’ve just arrived at the burrow today, and although it’s nice to see everyone here, you’re missed. Can’t wait to see you in person!

Write soon, or I’ll just start worrying again –Harry scoffed.

With much love,

Hermione

P.S. Since you asked about it in your last letter, I’m sorry to report I have no updates on the war besides what has already been reported in the Prophet. Try asking S, since you live with him. Couldn’t hurt!

Try asking Snape -- Harry snorted, Yeah right, he scoffed, placing the letter down on the desk and opening the second.

Harry,

Thank Merlin you finally replied, mate! I was beginning to worry after your last letter.

Hermione and I are alright, thanks for asking. But I’m glad to hear that staying with he-who-must-not-be-named-jr isn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. (I still think you should write to Dumbledore, though, and see if it can be changed. Sounds brutal even if you say it isn’t.)

And Diagon Alley!! Congrats on sucking up to the geezer, better you than me. Good man, Harry, taking on for the team and all. I’m excited to see you! Send Hedwig my way when you settle on a date.

Also, sorry in advance, but I’ve got no news on the war. Dad’s been cryptic.

Miss you,

Ron

A knock on the door emanated throughout the room and Harry turned to see his professor standing ominously in the doorway, wearing his usual dark robes.

“Potter,” Snape remarked casually, his eye contact unwavering. “Join me for breakfast.”

“I’m alright, sir.”

“It wasn’t a question.” He sniffed. “You will join me for breakfast, I have something downstairs you might like to see.”

“We-” he hesitated, placing his letters on the desk and rubbing his hands together quickly, “We don’t have to play that game again, do we, sir?”

Snape’s eyes scanned over his frame as if searching for an answer to some question Harry couldn’t place. “No.” He shifted slightly in the doorway, “Not if you do not wish to.”

Harry relaxed, his shoulders deflating. “Okay then.” He nodded, pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose as he followed his professor downstairs.

Upon entering the kitchen, Harry noticed that for the second day in a row, his professor had elected to sit next to him instead of his usual place at the other end of the table. Suppressing a groan at the sight of a plate stacked high with bacon, eggs, and fruit, Harry lowered himself into his chair and stared at the food in disgust. He thought for a moment he might throw up right there -- at least then I’d be excused back to my room.

“I received a letter this morning,” his professor began as he skewered and cut into his breakfast, ignoring the way Harry squirmed in his chair, “I believe it contains your booklist for the year, should you choose to take up certain classes.”

Harry nodded half-heartedly as he moved eggs around with his fork, searching for the ability to muscle down his food.

“Potter,” Snape said suddenly, drawing his attention. “Desist in this childishness. Did I not prepare the eggs to your liking?”

“You know that’s never the issue, sir.” Harry shrunk inward, staring at the meal before him and grimacing slightly.

Snape sighed, “Would you like a smaller portion? Something that would feel less,” -- he seemed to search for the word -- “overwhelming?”

Harry winced. Weak.

“I’m alright, sir.”

“Are you sure? It really is no trouble-”

“I’m fine,” he growled, tightening his grip on the fork. “I’ll eat it.”

Snape’s eyes lingered on him as Harry took a small bite of toast, choking it down in disgust. The uncomfortable texture of the food against his tongue crawled down his spine and Harry flinched at the sensation, earning him a particularly concerned look from Snape which he promptly scowled at.

The task was unrelenting. Harry pecked at his meal, sloshing lumps of scrambled eggs around on his plate and picking at them slowly, scooping bite after bite into his mouth and cringing with every swallow.

I am not weak. His mind repeated.

He took a great shuddering breath as he cupped his mouth with his hand in a feeble attempt to quell his rising nausea. His professor’s eyes scanned over him in unease; Harry took up his fork and choked down a bite of fruit in response.

I am not weak.

The food roiled in his stomach. He tried for another bite, clenching his eyes shut as his body tensed and he suppressed a gag. Harry stabbed the tongs of the fork into another piece of fruit.

I am not weak.

He felt nauseous, breaking out in a sweat as his stomach contracted in vile waves. The saliva coating his mouth was too moist, too wet, and too much.

“Potter-”

Harry dropped his fork suddenly, its metal colliding with his plate in a resounding clang. He clenched his eyes shut tightly, bringing his hand to his jaw to stifle his retching.

I will not vomit in front of Snape, his mind screamed while he inhaled shakily. He gripped his jaw tighter, breathing harshly through his nose.

Snape reached across the table instantly, his hand moving to rest on his arm. Harry flinched away from the contact, lowering his hand and pushing the plate away from him aggressively.

“I am not weak.” He panted.

“I know,” Snape eyed him with a maddening expression of pity. “Here,” he spoke quietly, sliding an envelope towards Harry as he lifted both their plates from the table and walked them over to the sink. Harry stared down at the Hogwarts seal, thankful for his professor’s lack of questioning as he steadily began to control his breathing.

Snape turned on the faucet as Harry tore open the letter, his eyes scanning down the page over the long list of possible books he needed to buy. At the bottom, in a neat script, was an extra, unexpected message and Harry scrunched up the bridge of his nose, repositioning his glasses to look closer.

His eyes widened in shock. “I’ve been made quidditch captain,” he gasped in surprise.

“Ah.” Snape drawled from the sink. “Wonderful.”

“You could at least pretend to be excited for me,” he puffed, discarding the letter on the table.

“Excuse my lack of enthusiasm, Potter,” his professor turned to face him, “But I find the sport an abhorrent waste of your time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, honestly,” Snape turned his eyes skyward, “It distracts you from your studies when you could be applying yourself to far greater achievements and does nothing more than waste up your afternoon.”

“It calms me down.” Harry crossed his arms defensively. “I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

“There are better ways to calm yourself, Potter.” Snape grabbed a dish from the sink and began to dry it with a small rag. “Like, for example, occlumency.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m a good quidditch player-”

“-I never said you weren’t-”

“-And I enjoy it-”

“-Perfectly reasonable-”

“So why can’t you just let me be happy I’m captain and piss off?” He growled.

Snape clamped his mouth shut in a firm line. “Are you going to be a professional quidditch player?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably not. There’s a war on.”

“Well then.” He shrugged. “What is the point of playing?”

Harry boiled with rage. “I don’t wanna fight right now.” His professor looked infuriatingly undisturbed. “May I be excused?”

“You may,” Snape tutted. “But, just so that you are aware, we should be expecting a visitor soon.”

Harry furrowed his brows, “Is it-”

“No, Potter.” Snape sighed, cutting him off curtly. “This time, it’s an Order member.”

“This isn’t too tight on your leg, it is?” Harry mumbled as he secured his letter to Hedwig, watching as Pigwidgeon flew off with his reply to Ron. Hedwig hooted back at him, lowering her head to his chest and letting him run his fingers through her feathers. “Just wanted to make sure,” Harry chuckled fondly as she straightened and shuffled across the sill, anxious to be back in flight. “Off you go, then,” he smiled, watching her launch from the window into the cold night. “I’ll miss you, girl.”

A soft knock echoed from the doorway and Harry craned his head towards the entrance. Remus Lupin walked into the room slowly, his grey hair ruffled, his large clothes shabby and unkempt, his face dreary and somehow older than Harry remembered seeing him last.

“Remus,” Harry gasped, eyes wide as he stumbled down off the window sill, shifting awkwardly back and forth on his feet. “What’re you doing here?”

“Well-”

“Did something happen?”

“Harry-”

“Is everyone okay?” He rubbed his arm up and down his sleeve, a nervous pit forming in his stomach. “Are you here for Order stuff?”

“Calm down,” Remus smiled fondly, raising his arms as if to calm an animal -- Harry didn’t realize how long it had been since he’d seen Remus happy, his professor’s face was usually tangled up in years of worry. “Nothing has happened, my dear boy. I merely came to see you.”

Oh.

He tightened his grip on his arm, inhaling sharply. “Erm, well, thanks, Remus. You really didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense, Harry.” His professor smiled again softly, moving further into the room and approaching him. “May I?” He extended his arms, offering an embrace.

Harry relaxed, his chest visibly deflating as he moved towards Remus and melted into his arms. His professor smelled like the Earth and petrichor -- dusty and fresh, and Harry closed his eyes tightly, simply inhaling.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you sooner.” Remus chuckled as Harry sunk deeper into his chest which rumbled with laughter. “I know confinement is never easy, especially for a young Gryffindor, such as yourself.”

Harry readjusted his glasses, extracting himself from Lupin’s embrace. “Have the moons been difficult?”

Remus seemed to falter slightly, “Nothing I can’t handle,” he smiled, ruffling Harry’s unkempt hair.

“But-”

Lupin shook his head, clicking his tongue lightly. “Don’t worry about me, Harry.” He said sweetly as he moved to sit at the desk, lowering himself into the chair with obvious difficulty. “Tell me about how you’ve been. How is living with-” -- Remus stopped abruptly, leaning forward to stare through the doorway before reclining in the chair once more -- “The great Professor Snape himself?”

“Oh,” Harry scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, moving to sit back on the end of his cot. “It’s been alright, I guess,” he shrugged. “He’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He got a single curt laugh in response, “That’s not what I asked.” Remus reminded him with smiling eyes as he repositioned himself on the chair, his face twisting slightly in discomfort.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Professor?”

He straightened, grinning. “I’m fine, dear boy, really. And I haven’t been your professor in years, Remus is fine.”

“Sorry, Remus.” Harry smiled.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt you. You were talking about Professor Snape?”

“Right,” Harry cleared his throat, leaning back on the bed. “There’s not much to say. He’s made me clean the house a little, and finish all my summer work, but other than feeling a little cramped there’s not much else to say.”

Remus nodded thoughtfully. “And I’ve heard you’re working on occlumency again?”

Harry furrowed his brows. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Professor Dumbledore.” Remus’s kind brown eyes bore into him. “The Order does communicate quite frequently, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a topic of discussion.” Harry bit out, folding his arms. “In fact, I’m not really aware of anything. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on with the war.”

Remus sighed. “You and the rest of the world, Potter.” He shook his head solemnly, “I’m sure that must be difficult. Know, Harry, that we are doing our best to ensure your safety until term begins.”

“But what’s going on? Remus, please tell me-”

“Harry,” he raised his hand, inhaling sharply. “The disappearances are increasing. Not too many losses on our side, but everyone is feeling the pressure. Voldemort’s army grows with each passing day, the Ministry is in shambles, and Hogwarts may not be as safe as it once was.

“But let me worry about that, please. You’re fifteen,” -- Harry scoffed as Remus continued -- “these issues don’t concern you, as much as I appreciate your interest.”

“It all concerns me. I wanna help you, let me fight!”

“No.” His eyes narrowed, his voice stern. “You’re too young to go rushing into war. Let us keep you safe, just worry about doing well in school.”

“Bigger things are going on than my N.E.W.T. studies!”

“And they are not for you to worry about.” Remus silenced him with his piercing stare, intense and focused. “Don’t be stupid, nobody needs you dead.”

He groaned. “I’m not being stupid, I’m being reasonable! I wanna help!”

“You’re a child, Harry. Don’t force yourself to grow up so quickly.”

“Remus-”

“No,” he shook his head, closing his eyes in annoyance. “I don’t wanna give this subject any more time... Let’s talk about school.”

Harry sighed, deflating. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’m quidditch captain this year.”

“Are you?” Remus smiled broadly. “That’s fantastic, Harry, really! Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” he blushed.

“If I had to pinpoint what I miss about teaching at Hogwarts, it would be watching you play. You’re phenomenal on that broom.”

“Thanks, Remus.”

“I’m serious,” he laughed. “You’d make your dad proud, Harry. He was a fantastic chaser -- devoted his whole life to it.”

Harry grinned, relaxing into his arms as he leaned against the mattress. “Can you tell me about him?”

Remus’s smile twitched in fondly. “Always.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he shifted in the wooden chair. “I still remember the day James got quidditch captain. We were all at your grandparents’ house, I often went there over the summer to join your father, Wormtail, and…” he cleared his throat, “Well, it doesn’t matter. Your mother was there with us that year -- they had just started dating, Lily and James -- and when the owl arrived with the good news, your dad picked Lily up at the waist. He kissed her harder than I’d ever seen him do before.” He laughed, scrunching his nose.

“But that was James, through and through. A burning, passionate fire. He was special in that way. Full of himself? Oh, sure. But his heart,” Remus shook his head lovingly, “His heart…he was so… fiercely loyal -- as was your mother. They’d both do anything for their friends.” The room fell quiet as Remus watched him, “I see that in you, too.

“And quidditch captain! Ha! James would’ve had a field day with that one. He used to wake us all up at five in the morning getting ready for his drills.” Remus laughed heartily. “I hope you’re a nicer captain than he was. James would drill his team endlessly. Sirius hated it.”

Harry smiled, “I won’t be that tough. I’m sure Ron would kill me if he heard me moving around that early.”

“I’d imagine so.” Remus laughed. “I believe on several occasions, I almost killed your father.”

Harry giggled at the thought, fidgeting where he sat. “I didn’t know Sirius played.”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, “He was a beater. Got kicked off the team in his fifth year, though.”

“Why?”

“Stupid prank.” Remus’s smile faltered. He cleared his throat abruptly, sitting up straighter. “Harry, I…” -- he shook his head -- “Well, I did want to talk to you…about the obvious subject we’re both avoiding.”

Unease flooded through Harry’s spine and his breathing hitched as he watched his professor squirm in discomfort.

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

Remus shifted, taking weight off his right leg, his voice suddenly much more somber. “I’ve wanted to ask after your feelings, Harry.”

Sirius had fallen in a graceful arc.

“I- I just.” Remus paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I didn’t know how to put it in a letter.”

“Come out, come out, little Harry!”

“I thought you wouldn’t even want to see me.” He scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “I assumed my distance was providing you with space to mourn, but-”

“He’s gone, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Harry?”

Harry blinked down at Lupin, his eyes refocusing on the room. “Yeah?” He croaked, clearing his throat aggressively.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Remus, honestly!” He pushed himself to sit upright, plastering a smile on his face. “Never been better.”

“There’s no need to perform.” Lupin’s eyes looked tired, sunken, and knowing despite his calming smile. “I’m asking genuinely: how do you feel?”

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!”

“I feel fine, just like I said,” Harry growled, glaring as he crossed his arms. “It’s not like I even knew him that long. How are you feeling?”

Remus sighed deeply, running a hand through his graying hair. “Sad.” He nodded, a slight smile dancing across his face. “I feel… sad.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, looking down and training his eyes on the floor.

“But I made peace with losing Sirius a long time ago.” Remus continued heavily. “It was wonderful to see him again -- it was an opportunity I never thought I’d get. And for him to be innocent after all those years… Well, It was amazing.” He leaned back in his chair, wrapping his brown cardigan around his middle. “But I knew it was bound to be short-lived. Sirius was a fighter, always had been, and I knew he would want to fight in this terrible war till his end. I knew from the moment I saw him again we wouldn’t have much time, but any time at all was a blessing.”

“I’m sorry, Remus.”

“For what?” He chuckled, his smile heavy with grief. “For being the brave, silly boy you are? Never apologize for having courage, Harry, it’s a pointless waste of your energy. You ran headfirst into the Ministry -- into possible danger -- because Sirius was a person you loved. Loyalty like that is rare, never apologize.”

“But-” Harry took a great shuddering breath, shaking his head, unable to find the words. Remus sighed and made his way towards him, stiffly lowering himself on his good knee.

“Harry,” he spoke seriously, placing his hand on his thigh. “I want you to listen when I say this: what happened at the Ministry was not your fault.”

Harry looked into his professor’s light brown eyes, cringing inward, attempting to draw into himself. Lupin raised his hand and placed it on Harry’s knee affectionately, his eye contact unwavering. “I know, Remus.” Harry winced. “Dumbledore said so too.”

“I doubt you believe everything that old crackpot says. Trust me, I didn’t when I was your age.”

“I’m serious, Remus-”

“So am I.” He sighed, squeezing Harry’s hands tightly. “I want you to let go of any guilt you are harboring over Sirius’s death. What happened was a result of failed communication, a fifteen-year-old boy is never responsible for the death of an Order member, do you understand that?”

“Yes, but Remus, I was the one who fell for Voldemort’s trap. I was the one who dragged everyone with me. Hermione said it was a mistake!”

“It was a mistake,” Remus nodded, rubbing his thumb along Harry’s leg comfortingly, “But not one you should have to suffer for. Everyone makes mistakes, Harry. And I know that’s preachy, believe me, but it’s true. You’re not perfect. You’ll make mistakes. And sometimes people will get hurt. You’re human and this is war, Harry, but his loss is not on your hands.”

“I know all that.”

“I don’t think that you do.” Remus sighed. “It’s not your fault. Worry about your N.E.W.T.s, not the end of the world.”

Harry felt something inside him begin to break, unshed tears beginning to pool in his eyes. “But he’s dead, and I-”

Remus drew him into a firm hug. “He’s with James now. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.”

“He’d rather be with you!” Harry felt the wet trails of his tears begin to stain his face as he clung to Lupin’s worn-in cardigan. “He- he would-”

“Shhhh.” Remus ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, clinging to him tightly. “Maybe he would. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’ve already lost him once, I can cope with losing him again.”

Lupin pulled away, staring down at him seriously. “Death isn’t a goodbye, Harry. It’s only a momentary pause in communication.”

“But-”

“No, Harry. Really,” he ran his hand along his arm, “I’m okay. Everything’s okay, you silly boy.” He smiled, “For once in your life would you please worry about yourself?”

Harry searched Remus’s face carefully, “Okay,” he muttered leaning into his professor and wrapping his arms tightly around his torso. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Harry rolled his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time, crossing his arms over his chest in agitation. His professor’s interrogation was getting old. “Sir, I understand-”

“And you are not to go out of sight of the other Weasley children-”

“Got it-”

“And I’ll be expecting a full report on your behavior from Arthur. And I’ll ask him to be thorough in his description of your whereabouts-”

“Snape, I’ll be fine. It’s only Diagon Alley-”

“That is precisely what I am worried about.” His professor growled, pausing his manic pacing to face him suddenly. “Frankly, it is alarming that you are so unperturbed. In case you have forgotten, there is currently a war wreaking havoc in the Wizarding World in which you play a very vital role.”

“Yeah, I’ve got that!” Harry snarled. “How much longer do we need to do this?”

Snape scanned his eyes over his frame judgmentally. “Describe to me, in great detail, Potter, what you will do today.”

Harry sighed, running a hand down his face. “I’m flooing to the Weasleys with you, then we are going to Diagon Alley to buy school supplies.”

“And?”

“And I’m not to walk out of sight of either Mrs or Mr Weasley while we are there.”

“...And?” Snape prompted.

“And I’m to keep my wand on me at all times, stay close to any security, and not let my heroic impulses” -- Harry glowered -- “take over and inspire me to run away. I’m also not to listen to any dim-witted ideas that Ron might come up with.”

Snape raised his brow.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Stay close to Hermione.”

His professor looked somewhat more satisfied than at the beginning of his long spiel, Harry counted that as a victory.

“I still think it would be best if I accompany you,” Snape tutted.

“It will be fine,” he groaned, “It’s just one day and I’ll be with so many people, nothing can go wrong.”

He looked unconvinced. “It’s not other people I’m worried about.”

Harry sighed, “I promise I won’t run away. Can we please go now?”

Snape stood tensely, his hands clasped firm behind his back. After a final scan around the room, he exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Yes, fine,” he grumbled. “I suppose we should. Do you have everything you need in that bag?” Snape gestured to the satchel Harry had slung across his shoulders.

“Yep,” he nodded swiftly. “Can we go?”

“Do you have money?”

“I can go to Gringotts-”

“Do you have your supplies list?”

“Yes, Dad.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Can we please leave? We’re going to be late.”

His professor scowled. “Fine.”

Harry smiled, bounding toward the fireplace expectantly. Snape moved slowly, tugging up his robes to his elbows as he grabbed a handful of floo powder from the mantle. “The Burrow.” He said angrily.

The flames roared a bright shade of green, doubling in height. Harry bounced with excitement, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “We’ll travel together,” Snape spoke suddenly, clearing his throat. “I don’t want you getting lost.”

“I’m not twelve-”

“Enough.” His professor silenced him with a glare, taking hold of his forearm and dragging him towards the flames.

Harry felt the familiar tug of the floo as he was engulfed by the fire, watching as the world blurred around him in a solid green haze. Snape loomed beside him, his professor’s grip tight on his arm.

“Now, Potter!”

Harry felt pulled forward by his arm as Snape stepped out of the floo and he followed his professor’s lead blindly. Finding his feet on the ground once more, Harry took a few seconds to orientate himself, readjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he straightened his back.

“Harry!” A familiar voice called out before he was swaddled into a firm hug.

“Hermione!” He chuckled as he wrapped his arms around his friend, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder.

“Oh, Merlin, we’ve been so worried!” She extracted herself from his embrace, her eyes scanning over his frame as if assessing him for injuries.

“I’m fine,” he smiled, keenly aware of Snape’s presence next to him. “Really, I’m okay.”

“Glad to hear it, mate,” Ron smiled as he made his way over from the corner of the room.

Harry’s smile grew as he moved over to hug his best friend, laughing as they embraced. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape silently move down the hall and out of sight, presumably, to find Mr and Mrs Weasley.

“Did you get your O.W.L.s? Oh what am I talking about, of course you got your O.W.L.s.” Hermione scolded herself as Harry and Ron separated. “Well, what did you pass then?”

“Let the man breathe, Hermione,” Ron smirked.

Harry chuckled, he’d missed them. “Yeah, I got my results. Passed everything except for History of Magic and Divination.”

Her face lit up in joy. “Oh, Harry, that’s fantastic! So did Ron! You two might even be in the same classes!”

“Really?”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” Ron smirked. “I’m not that thick.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Hermione smacked his arm playfully.

“Well, she passed everything.” Ron rolled his eyes fondly. “Not that anyone’s surprised.”

“I was surprised,” she huffed defensively, crossing her arms, “I thought for sure that I failed-”

“Oh, Harry!” Mrs Weasley shouted, running into the den and wrapping her arms around him tightly. “Oh dear boy, how I’ve missed you!”

“Hello.” Harry chuckled into her embrace. “Sorry I couldn’t write-”

“Oh, but Severus says you’re all adjusted.” She moved to hold him firmly by the shoulders, “And I hear everything’s going smoothly between the two of you.”

Harry tried to ignore the skeptical look Ron and Hermione exchanged. “Yes, everything’s been fine-”

“And you’re eating enough?”

“Yes, Mrs Weasley-”

“-And you’ve got your summer work done?”

“-Yes-”

“-And you’re making sure that you-”

“Oh, Molly. Give the kid a break!” Arthur Weasley walked into the room, shaking his head fondly and smiling. “He’s only been here for a minute, Merlin’s sake.”

Mrs Weasley huffed but released him as Arthur made his way across the room, planting his arm on Harry’s shoulder. “You’re alright, Harry?”

“Yeah, I am.” He looked up at the man happily, grateful for the intervention.

His smile widened. “Glad to hear it.”

“Harry’s here?” A voice came from just outside the doorway.

Ginny walked into the room, her long scarlet hair cascading down her shoulders like a river of fire. She locked eyes with him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Hi.”

Harry cleared his throat, fixing his posture. “Hi,” he waved awkwardly.

“Good. Well.” Mr Weasley clapped his hands together. “Everybody in the car!” He shouted, ushering the group towards the crooked front door.

Through the swarm of bodies rushing past him, Harry lifted his head in time to spot the dark robes of Professor Snape who had quietly moved to the fireplace.

“Oh, Severus,” Mrs Weasley paused her hurried movement towards the door. “Thank you for delivering Harry, I promise I’ll get him back to you in one piece.”

“Thank you, Molly.” Snape nodded as the flames turned green once more.

Harry watched as Snape’s obsidian eyes shifted to him. Behave yourself, his professor’s agitated voice echoed through his head, and don’t go off on your own. Harry blinked, disorientated, and by the time he looked back up, Snape was gone.

“Harry!” A voice from outside.

“Coming!” He shouted, his eyes lingering on the fireplace for one final moment before he darted towards the open front door.

It was the type of overcast, murky day that accentuated the fiery red hair of the Weasleys as they stood outside on the lawn. As he stepped out from the burrow, Harry noticed one of the special black Ministry of Magic cars, which he had ridden once before, was awaiting their party in the front yard and he pulled on his cloak to join the others who had begun to pile inside.

“It’s good Dad can get us these again,” said Ron appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car moved smoothly away from the Burrow. Harry relaxed next to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny who were all sitting in roomy comfort in the wide backseat.

“Don’t get used to it, it’s only because of Harry,” Mr. Weasley said over his shoulder. He and Mrs. Weasley were in front with the Ministry driver; the front passenger seat had obligingly stretched into what resembled a two-seater sofa. “He’s been given top-grade security status. And we’ll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”

Extra security, Harry grumbled to himself. I have my cloak, he thought, tugging his bag closer to himself, what more security could I possibly need

“Here you are, then,” said the driver, a surprisingly short while later, speaking for the first time as he slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. He turned to Mr. Weasley, “I’m to wait here for you, sir, any idea how long you’ll be?”

“A couple of hours, I expect,” Mr. Weasley said, waving off the driver before suddenly clasping his hands again. “Ah, good, he’s here!”

Harry peeked out the window to see whomever Mr. Weasley had spotted and his heart leapt. No aurors were waiting outside the inn, but instead, the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, wearing a long beaver-skin coat, beaming at the sight of Harry’s face, completely oblivious to the startled stares of passing Muggles. Harry scrambled to open the door, his excitement overtaking him.

“Harry!” Hagrid boomed, sweeping him into a bone-crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of the car. “Buckbeak — Witherwings, I mean — yeh should see him, Harry, he’s so happy ter be back in the open air —”

“Glad he’s pleased,” Harry grinned as he massaged his ribs, sore from Hagrid’s embrace. “We didn’t know ‘security’ meant you!”

“I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, but Dumbledore said I’d do,” Hagrid boasted proudly, throwing out his chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Let’s get goin’ then — after yeh, Molly, Arthur —”

Harry followed diligently as Hagrid led them further into the bar, huddled next to Ginny, Ron, and Hermione.

“Oh Hagrid,” Arthur began suddenly. “I’ve forgotten one thing. Could we step aside for a moment -- sorry, kids.” Harry exchanged a concerned glance with Hermione as Mr. Weasley attempted to pull Hagrid's hulking frame aside into a corner booth. His wife, sensing Harry’s hesitation, shooed him and his friends to the other side of the room before joining her husband at the table.

“Come on,” Hermione tugged at his arm. “Best leave them for a minute.”

Nodding, Harry took a seat in the corner booth opposite the Weasleys and Hagrid. He scooted into the corner as Ginny sat next to him, Ron and Hermione taking seats opposite.

“Okay,” Ron started, pushing himself to sit up straighter. “How’s it actually been living with” -- he poked his head around, scanning his eyes over the empty room -- “Well, living with him.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s been fine, mostly. He’s made me take up occlumency, though.”

“Harry, that’s great!” Hermione cut in. “You know how important Dumbledore said it is to learn to block him out.”

“I know, I know.” Harry sighed. “But beyond that, he’s just made me clean the house a bit and do my summer work. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, come off it, man.” Ron scoffed. “It’s can’t be all roses with Snape-”

Hermione punched him in the arm.

“Ah- you know what I mean.” Ron glared at her, rubbing his bicep. “It can’t be all that great living with him.”

“Why were you stuck there anyway?” Ginny spoke, turning to face him.

“Ran away again.” Harry grimaced, watching as Hermione furrowed her brows in the corner of his eye.

“You’re as lazy as your parents. No wonder they went and got themselves killed,” Vernon Dursley raged in his head.

“Ungrateful!” Petunia shouted.

“Good-for-nothing!”

“Useless!”

“Freak!”

Harry cleared his throat, tugging at the bag strapped across his chest. “Dumbledore thought it would be best to put me somewhere with more protection.”

“I thought it was safest with the Dursleys?” Ron scratched at his head.

“Well of course it is,” Hermione puffed, “Otherwise Dumbledore would never keep him with those horrible people.” She crossed her arms, sizing Harry up. “Of course, the problem is wards are only useful if you’re there, Harry.”

“I know, I know.” Harry sank down in the booth. “I just couldn’t take all their crap anymore.”

“That’s not a good enough reason!” Hermione bit back.

It would be if you knew. “Now you’re sounding like Snape,” Harry groaned.

She huffed. “Well, I think-”

“‘Mione,” Ron cut in abruptly, “Just drop it. What’s done is done.” He cleared his throat, looking sheepishly back at Harry. “Have you at least learned anything about the geezer?”

Harry remembered sitting at the dining room table, squirming beneath his professor’s intense gaze.

“Did he hurt you?” He had asked, fidgeting with his hands, desperate for any kind of movement to focus on.

Snape had been the embodiment of calm, unflinching in his reply: “Yes.”

Harry pushed his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose. “Nothing all that interesting,” he shrugged, rubbing his hands together beneath the table. “Hey has your dad said anything about the Malfoys?”

“Nothing,” Ginny shook her head. “Why?”

Harry paused for only a moment, “Narcissa and Bellatrix came over once.”

“WHAT!” Hermione looked enraged. “How could he let them in while you’re there?”

“He didn’t have a choice.” Harry felt defensive. “They didn’t tell him they were coming-”

“There’s always a choice-”

“Hermione, there wasn’t another-”

“And after Sirius’s death,” she shook her head furiously, “I just can’t believe that he would-”

“Hermione,” Harry interjected. “I don’t wanna-”

“-That insufferable, snakey, cold-hearted-”

“‘Mione stop.” Ron said harshly, turning back to Harry once she had composed herself. “What happened? Why’d they show?”

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t really understand what they were saying-”

“You were there?” Hermione asked astounded.

“I had the cloak.”

“Harry, that’s stupid! They could have killed you. I mean actually killed you!”

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ron raised his eyes skyward, “Let the man get a word out.”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest as Harry continued, lowering his voice. “They wanted Snape to promise he’d help Draco to complete some task the Dark Lord assigned. I don’t know what it is, Snape wouldn’t say, but whatever Voldemort asked him to do sounded next to impossible. Narcissa was in shambles.”

“Why Draco? Couldn’t someone else do it?” Ginny’s brows knit together in confusion.

Harry shrugged. “It seemed like it was some kind of punishment for Lucius’s failure back in May.”

“So whatever it is,” Hermione said slowly, “You-know-who doesn’t expect Draco to actually do it?”

“No idea.” Harry puffed. “From what they were saying, it seemed like he didn’t believe Draco could. But they made Snape make the unbreakable vow so it must be serious.”

“Why would he do that if it’s impossible?” Ron scoffed.

“He said he needed their trust.” Harry scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “To keep up the whole Death Eater thing and all.”

“I’m so sorry you had to see them, Harry,” Hermione said pityingly. “I’m sure it must have been hard given Sirius’s passing.”

Harry straightened, inhaling sharply, “Let’s not-”

“Kids!” Mrs Weasley called from across the room. “Let’s get going. We have much shopping to do! Much!”

Diagon Alley had changed. The colorful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been haphazardly pasted over them. Most of the somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the Ministry pamphlets Ron mentioned had been sent out over the summer, but others bore unnerving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary and Harry felt quite unnerved beneath her large watchful eyes.

“Did you love him, little baby Potter?” Her voice rang out through his skull, her laugh pounding all around him.

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

Harry’s eyes started to blur. Bellatrix’s photo continued to leer at him -- he was sure he was going to faint.

“Come out, come out, little Harry!”

“This way!” Mrs. Weasley tugged him away from the poster, pulling him down the street as Harry blinked through his disorientation.

Quite a few windows had been boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, to Harry’s dismay. On the other hand, several shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:

A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby. “One for your little girl, madam?” He called at Mrs. Weasley as they passed, leering at Ginny.

“Protect her pretty neck?”

“If I were on duty . . .” said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller.

“Yes, but don’t go arresting anyone now, dear, we’re in a hurry,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting the supplies list. “I think we’d better do Madam Malkin’s first, Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron’s showing much too much ankle, and oh! Harry, you’ve grown so much — come along now, everyone —”

“Molly, it doesn’t make sense for all of us to go to Madam Malkin’s,” said Mr. Weasley. “Why don’t those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone’s schoolbooks?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly torn between a desire to finish the shopping quickly and the wish to stick together in a pack. “Hagrid, do you think — ?”

“Don’ fret, they’ll be fine with me, Molly,” said Hagrid soothingly, waving a hand the size of a dustbin lid. Mrs. Weasley had a sour look on her face but allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish and Blotts with her husband and Ginny, while Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam Malkin’s.

Harry noticed that many of the people who passed them had the same troubled, anxious look as Mrs. Weasley and that nobody bothered to stop for a chat anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.

“Migh’ be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin’s and bending down to peer through the window. “I’ll stand guard outside, all right?”

Nodding to their guard, Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes“...not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.”

There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognized as that of Madam Malkin who said, “Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it’s nothing to do with being a child —”

“Aye! Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!” A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder.

His light gray eyes narrowed. “If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy.

Reflexively and in unison, Harry and Ron both swiftly pulled their wands from their pocket and aimed them at Draco. “I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and her wand. “And I don’t want wands drawn in my shop either!” she added hastily, glancing toward Harry and Ron in the mirror.

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack. “Put those away,” she said coldly. “If you threaten my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”

“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”

Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. “Really, you shouldn’t accuse — a dangerous thing to say — wands away, please!”

Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly; the look in her eyes was cold and uncanny, and Harry fought himself not to be the first to look away. “I see that being Dumbledore’s favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.”

Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow, look at that, he’s not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find a double cell in Azkaban for you and your loser husband!”

Draco made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.

“Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” Malfoy snarled.

“It’s all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”

Harry raised his wand higher, his ears ringing. Sirius’s name does not belong in her mouth.

His eyes narrowed, “If you so much as mention his name again-”

“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping Madam Malkin’s hand away. “Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman! Mother — I don’t think I want these anymore —”

“You’re right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now that I know the kind of scum that shops here. . . . We’ll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.” And with that, the pair strode out of the shop, with Malfoy making a painfully deliberate effort to smack into Ron on the way out.

“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, removing all the dust.

She was distracted all through the fitting of both Ron’s and Harry’s new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard’s dress robes instead of witch’s, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see them leave.

“Got ev’rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.

“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “Bu’ they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry. Don’ worry abou’ them.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books. “Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George’s — stick close, now.”

The Apothecary remained just as empty and depressing as the rest of Diagon Alley and Harry piled into the store after Hermione who turned to him skeptically. “Did Snape give you the grade you need to take up Potions this year?”

Harry flushed, “Not exactly.”

“Fine with me, mate.” Ron huffed behind him. “I don’t need another year with that greasy git, believe me. Wanna head to Fred and George’s shop?”

Harry shook his head. “Apparently Snape isn’t teaching Potions this year. I got an Exceeds Expectations, which means I qualify with the new professor, so I might as well buy-”

“What do you mean Snape’s not teaching Potions?” Hermione gasped, jolting back in surprise. “What is he doing instead?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry said glumly.

“And I thought the year couldn’t get worse,” Ron mewled, “How could Dumbledore allow that?”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged, “Move, I’ve gotta buy this book.”

Ron stepped to the side allowing him to move freely through the shop. “Does that mean you’re definitely taking Potions, then?”

“Yep,” Harry sighed. “Still wanna be an auror, don’t I?”

Ron sighed, “I thought we’d have the same schedule this year is all.”

“You could take up Potions too, you know.” Hermione chided, pushing past both of them to assess the quality of the newt eyes on display. “It’s a perfectly enjoyable class when you apply yourself. And you did qualify, according to Harry at least.”

Ron groaned, following Harry to the register. “Don’t make me do it, Harry!”

“It won’t be with Snape,” Harry grinned, placing his Potions book on the counter, watching the witch ring it up, “Although when he really tries, he’s actually not a bad teacher.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione nodded, moving to look at the various herbs that hung from the wall, “He’s very smart.”

Ron looked like his eyes might pop from his head. “You’ve both gone completely mental. Snape? A good teacher?”

Harry shrugged before a bit of flurried movement caught his eye. Through the window, he watched as Draco Malfoy, alone and obviously in a hurry, briskly made his way up the street. As Malfoy passed the apothecary, he threw an anxious glance over his shoulder, but within seconds, he moved beyond the window's scope, disappearing from their view.

“Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning.

“Given her the slip by the looks of it,” Ron, crossed his arms.

“Why, though?” said Hermione.

An unsettling feeling gnawed at Harry—something was off. Despite Snape's relentless lecture on safety and his strong emphasis on caution, Harry was sure of one thing: he needed to follow Malfoy.

“Get under here, quick,” Harry said, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag.

“Oh — I don’t know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.

“Come on!” Ron spoke hurriedly, pulling himself beneath the cloak. She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under the cloak as the three of them seamlessly existed the apothecary.

“He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the clueless Hagrid, who stood just outside the door, would not hear them.

“C’mon.” They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Turning left?”

“Big surprise,” whispered Ron as Draco slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.

“Quick, or we’ll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up.

“Our feet’ll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the cloak flapped around their ankles.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry impatiently. “Just hurry!”

Knockturn Alley looked completely deserted. They peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed it was a bit of a giveaway in the current state of the Wizarding World to buy Dark artifacts — or at least, to be seen buying them. Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch. “Ouch!”

“Shh! Look! He’s in there!” she breathed in Harry’s ear.

They had drawn level with the only shop in Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin and Burkes. Through the shop’s grimy window, amid the cases full of skulls and old bottles they watched Draco Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond a large black cabinet. Judging by the movements of Malfoy’s hands, he was talking animatedly to the oily-haired Mr. Borgin who stood facing him.

“If only we could hear what they’re saying!” said Hermione.

“We can!” said Ron excitedly. “Hang on — damn —” He dropped a couple of the boxes he was still clutching, cursing as he fumbled with the largest. “Extendable Ears, look!”

“Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Ron unraveled the long, flesh-colored strings and began to feed them toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door isn’t Imperturbable —”

“No!” said Ron gleefully as the ears began to sound muffled dialogue. “Listen!” They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings. Malfoy’s voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on.

“. . . you know how to fix it?”

“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. “I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?”

“I can’t,” said Malfoy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”

Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.

“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

“No?” said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.” He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, looking very frightened. “Tell anyone,” said Malfoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend. He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.”

“There will be no need for —”

“I’ll decide that,” said Malfoy. There was a pause and all that could be heard was the stressed breathing of Borgin “I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?”

“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man. How would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.”

“Of course not…sir.” Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy once before.

“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?”

“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing again.

The next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Draco stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.

“What was that about?” whispered Ron, reeling in the Extendable Ears.

“Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants something mended… and he wants to reserve something in there…Could you see what he pointed at when he said ‘that one’?”

Hermione shook her head. “No idea.”

“It’s gotta be related to whatever it was Voldemort asked him to do,” Harry whispered. “It’s just gotta be.”

“Do you think he’s one of them now, then?” Ron asked quietly. “You know, officially, I mean.”

“Stop it, Ron!” Hermione scolded. “That’s a horrible accusation. We don’t know anything for sure!”

“Look at his parents, ‘Mione. He’s gotta have the mark!”

Harry scoffed, tuning them out completely. The journey back to the apothecary was filled with Ron and Hermione's ongoing bickering. Their argument persisted until they reached the shop, where they had to pause to navigate around a visibly concerned Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly noticed their absence. Upon entering the shop, Harry stashed the cloak in his bag and joined the others in insisting, in response to Mrs. Weasley's accusations, that they had been in the back room all along.

Once Mrs Weasley was thoroughly convinced, and her back was turned, Hermione and Ron continued their squabbling. Harry clicked his tongue as they continued their bickering, but all his mind could summon were questions.

“Well, Ronald,” Hermione crossed her arms in exasperation, “I just think that-”

“How about,” Harry interjected, “I just ask Snape about it when I get home, all right? I’m sure he’ll know.”

Ron scoffed, “Right. Because that conversation will go swimmingly-”

“Look,” Harry chided, “Things are… different with me and him now, okay? If we’re ever going to get any answers it's gonna come from Snape so at least just let me try.”

Ron and Hermione shared a skeptical look, but dropped their argument, moving along with the Weasleys to their next shop.

Chapter Text

The return to the Burrow was uneventful: Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione all piled into the backseat of the Ministry car and spent the ride back sitting in total silence, each of them listening halfheartedly to Mr Weasley boost about how successful their trip had been to the driver. A short while later, when the car finally made it up the long, narrow driveway of the Burrow, Harry felt exhausted, tired from the long outing. Thanking the driver for his service, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys grabbed their newly purchased belongings and one by one, quickly made their way into the house.

“Severus!” Mr Weasley remarked surprisedly upon entering the den. “You’re early! I’m sure Harry will be right along.”

Exchanging a brief glance with Ron and Hermione, Harry rounded the fireplace and locked eyes with his professor who stood brooding in front of the roaring green flames. Much to Harry’s dismay, Snape looked mildly annoyed, his posture rigid and expression sour. “You’re late,” his professor tutted, crossing his arms.

Harry sucked in a breath. “Sorry-”

“Oh, Severus, we didn’t mean to be.” Molly chuckled, patting Harry on the back as she moved past him and into the den. “Our shopping just went on a little longer than expected, that’s all.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Of course,” he grumbled.

“And it all went smoothly,” Arthur nodded happily, “Not one hold-up!”

Snape raised a brow. “I’m sure.”

“Come on, Harry, let us say goodbye.” Hermione tugged at his sleeve, turning him to face her as he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry we won’t be able to see you for your birthday.”

“It’s alright,” Harry shrugged, watching as Snape moved to the corner of the room with Mrs Weasley, initiating what Harry could only assume was an interrogation. “I got to see you guys today,” he smiled, turning to his friends.

“It’s not the same though, is it?” Ron sighed. “I feel sorry for you, mate. Imagine having to spend your birthday with Snape.”

Harry cringed, looking over nervously at his professor, happy to notice he was deep in her conversation with Mrs Wealsey and appeared to not have noticed Ron’s remark.

“Maybe he’ll do something nice,” Hermione offered hesitantly. “You are turning sixteen, after all.”

“Doubt it,” Harry scoffed, turning back to her. “But it really is fine, guys. I promise. He’s an upgrade over the Dursleys.”

Hermione looked unconvinced but remained silent. Ron sighed, “We’ll send over our gifts with everyone else tomorrow. That way you’ll at least have some kind of celebration to look forward to.”

Hermione nodded swiftly, “Of course! We’ll try to make the day nice for you, Harry. We know the situation isn’t ideal.”

“You lot are the best,” Harry beamed, his smile wide. “I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ron smirked, punching him lightly in the arm, “Just try to have a little bit of fun on your birthday for me, okay?”

“Deal,” Harry laughed.

Hermione sighed, moving towards him quickly and wrapping her arms around his torso in a firm hug. “Oh, Harry, we’re going to miss you! Take care!”

“I’ll be fine, Hermione,” Harry chuckled into her shoulder. “I promise.”

She pulled away from him slowly. “I know, I know. Just,” she huffed, placing her hands on her hips, dropping her voice to a whisper, “Make sure you ask him about you know what.”

Harry nodded. “I will. And I’ll tell you guys everything he says when we’re on the train, don’t worry.”

“You’d better,” Ron scoffed. “I wanna hear exactly how well that conversation goes.”

Harry winked, “Have a little bit of faith in me, will you?” His smile fading, he turned to face the corner where his frowning professor remained enthralled with his interrogation. “Alright, sir, I’m ready,” Harry called over.

Breaking off his conversation, Snape nodded curtly, his eyes scanning over Harry’s new possessions. Extending his arms, Harry held up his new books in offering and his professor, who waved his wand, quickly shrunk them. Nodding gratefully to Snape, Harry placed the significantly smaller books in his pocket.

“Thank you for today, Arthur. I’m sure it was thrilling,” Snape grumbled, drawing himself to full height.

“No trouble, Severus. Harry is always a pleasure,” Mr Weasley beamed, clapping Snape, who tensed at the contact, on the back heartily. Harry had to work hard to suppress a laugh.

“Well, we should be on our way,” Snape cleared his throat, stepping back slightly.

“Right! Yes, of course,” Mr Weasley said, ushering them towards the fireplace. “Off you go, then. Oh! Harry, I’ve nearly forgotten! Happy birthday!”

“Oh!” Mrs Weasley clapped her hands together, “Right you are! Have a wonderful birthday, Harry, my boy -- oh, come on, come on, let's give the boy a proper send-off!”

From Molly’s count, the Weasley family began to sing a very loud rendition of Happy Birthday. Harry smiled wide, laughing despite his professor’s infectious discomfort behind him. When the song had died down -- not without an additional few verses from Ginny and Ron -- Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet, waiting for Snape to say something.

“We’ll be leaving now,” his professor spoke curtly. “Thank you for the hospitality.” With a hard tug to the back of his arm, Harry was corralled backward through the roaring green flames and promptly landed in the dingy, muted green mess of their house in Spinner’s End.

Blinking quickly, Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark gloom of the house -- the dark woods, old, broken furniture, and lack of familial touches were now an obvious contrast to the lively, homey nature of the Burrow. He had forgotten how depressing the house was.

Snape spun to face him, his look of distaste and annoyance causing Harry to take a cautious step back. His professor watched him in eerie silence, his dark eyes moving up and down Harry’s frame, his posture rigid.

“How was your visit?” Snape sniffed. Harry nearly burst out laughing; his professor’s tense stance and narrowed eyes had made him fear the worst.

“Good.” He relaxed, clearing his throat and fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. “It was nice.”

“Were you able to purchase everything you need for the term?”

“Yes.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Good.” Snape nodded, sucking in a sharp, uncomfortable breath. “But you must let me check regardless.”

Harry took another cautious step back towards the fireplace. “Let you check?”

Instantly, Snape removed his wand from his sleeve and took several large steps forward, his expression irritatingly deadpan. Instinctually, Harry tried to move away, but his professor caught him by the wrist, holding him firmly in place. At the same time, he waved his wand over Harry’s body and began muttering under his breath.

“Really, Snape, I’m fine.” Harry pleaded, tugging his hand backward in an attempt to free himself from his professor’s constraining hold.

“Quiet,” Snape said harshly, his grip tightening. He continued his incessant muttering, his face screwing up in concentration.

Harry yanked his hand backward, the hold on his wrist beginning to hurt. “Please, Snape-”

“Useless!” Uncle Vernon’s voice rang throughout his head, pounding at his skull. “How dare you sully our good name!”

Harry tugged at his arm, his breathing coming in short gasps. “Snape-”

“Freak!”

“Hold still, Potter. I’m nearly finished.”

“You dare disobey me, boy?” Harry remembered his uncle’s vicious grip around his forearm dragging him towards the cupboard under the stairs -- remembered how Vernon had twisted his skin until it burned -- Harry remembered how his eyes had pricked with tears at the sting.

“Snape-” he gasped, his vision blurring. “Snape, please-”

His professor lifted his eyes to Harry’s, lowering his wand, a question lurking in his gaze. “Potter?”

Taking advantage of his professor’s hesitation, Harry yanked his arm free, running his other hand over where Snape had gripped him. After inhaling a few shaky breaths, Harry lowered his arms and readjusted to his surroundings. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered. “Just- I just felt-” Harry shook his head. Weak.

“It’s all right,” Snape nodded, moving backward slightly. “May I ask what happened?”

“Your hand,” Harry cringed at the sound of his pathetic voice, “It was too tight.”

Snape nodded again, slowly. “I see. And that made you uncomfortable?”

It took him a moment to speak again without the tremble so terrifyingly evident in his voice. “Yes,” Harry croaked.

“Then I apologize.” His professor moved cautiously to the other side of the room, lowering himself into the raggedy dark green armchair. “The detection charms I cast on you all displayed negative results. I’m pleased to see everything at Diagon Alley went as planned.”

Harry exhaled in relief, moving further into the room and away from the fireplace. “What spells did you cast?”

Snape waved his arm. “No matter,” he tutted dismissively, “I merely cast them because Mrs Weasley mentioned she lost eyes on you at the apothecary.”

“Oh,” Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Hermione had to grab something from the back, so we may have disappeared for a second.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he quickly waved his wand through the air in an aggressive arc. Instantly, Harry felt his invisibility cloak tugged from the bag at his side and watched in horror as it flew across the room and into his professor’s outstretched hand.

Snape looked enraged. “You say you may have disappeared for a second?”

Harry flushed, “Look, sir, it was just for a little extra security-”

“Why did you bring this with you?” His professor rose from his chair, tightening his grip on the cloak. “I specifically told you not to leave the immediate vicinity of the Weasleys, did I not?”

“You did-”

“And you took this where exactly?” Snape questioned aggressively, beginning to pace around the room. “To the back of the apothecary?”

Harry balked, blinking in confusion. “...Yes?”

Snape glared at him menacingly. “Do not lie to me, Potter. I’ll legilimize you.”

Harry racked his mind for an excuse, his eyes darting about the room. “Sir, Hermione just needed a few more extra potion ingredients” -- Snape’s gaze was focused and cold, his silence excruciating -- “We didn’t intend to make it a huge deal. We just needed to grab-”

“NO, ENOUGH!” Snape yelled, throwing the cloak harshly to the floor. “I have been lenient with you, boy” -- Harry winced, cowering inward and clutching at the strap of his satchel -- “I have let you go to Diagon Alley with your friends, without my supervision, because I trusted you enough to not run away,” Snape spat, his voice deep and rhythmic, punctuating each word for emphasis. Harry watched his professor pace across the room, his robes whipping around him as he gestured in sharp, angry movements. “And how is it you repay my generosity? You put this on” -- he pointed to the cloak which slumped dejectedly on the floor -- “and you go Merlin knows where when you are aware the Dark Lord is actively searching for you!”

“Sir, I didn’t mean-”

“This, Potter, is why you were placed under my care in the first place! Your degenerate, Gryffindor impulses keep propelling you away from the protections that have already been secured to ensure your safety! Where could you have possibly needed to go that the Weasleys could not have accompanied you?”

Harry stood in shock, his hands clenched tight around the strap of his bag as he watched his professor halt his relentless pacing.

Snape scoffed, “Have you suddenly fallen mute, Potter?” He asked sardonically, his hands resting on his hips. “Must I brew a potion to counteract this newfound meekness?”

“I’m sorry, sir-”

“You’re sorry?” He mocked, raising his eyes skyward. “For what misdemeanor exactly are you sorry for, Potter? Do not make me repeat myself again: where did you go?”

Harry swallowed, meeting his professor’s eyes. “I already told you, sir-”

“If you won’t be honest me,” Snape scowled, raising his wand before Harry had time to react, “Then I shall make you.”

“No!”

“Legilimens!”

Harry felt his professor’s intruding presence in his mind instantly. Snape rifled through his memories of Diagon Alley, images swirling through his consciousness at a dizzying pace until Snape conjured Harry’s view through the window of the apothecary. Snape watched alongside Harry as Draco Malfoy, alone and obviously in a hurry, briskly made his way up the street.

“Wonder where his mommy is,” Harry remembered saying with a frown.

Snape sped forward, watching Harry’s memory-self remove the invisibility cloak from his bag and usher Ron and Hermione beneath it, the three of them sneaking past Hagrid and the Weasleys unseen.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Hermione had whispered as they saw Draco turn down Knockturn Alley.

“Quick or we’ll lose him!” Harry had said, forcing them to speed up.

Snape sped through his memory again, watching as they scurried down Knockturn Alley and camped in front of Borgin and Burkes. His professor watched as Ron lowered the extendable ears beneath the doorway, watched as they listened to Malfoy’s conversation, and watched how Draco brushed past them when he left the shop.

Harry felt his professor’s presence retreat from his mind and he gasped for breath, adjusting himself to the living room. He blinked, raising his eyes to Snape, quite sure he had yet to see his professor this upset.

“Explain yourself.” Snape seethed in anger, his fists clenched at his sides, nearly shaking in rage. “Explain how you have suddenly mastered the difficult art of occlumency and falsified these memories because you cannot tell me that you have done such things!”

“What would you have done if you were me?” Harry puffed, readjusting his glasses. “He was right there! He clearly didn’t want to be followed-”

“Damnit, Potter!” Snape yelled furiously as Harry leaped back in surprise. “I had one rule! One!”

“He’s planning something!” Harry shouted angrily. “You know that he is! You swore to help him!”

Snape chuckled wickedly, resuming his pacing -- something in the back of Harry’s mind told him he had said the wrong thing. “My business is mine alone to conduct.”

“What did Malfoy show Borgin that made him so afraid?” Harry questioned harshly. “Does he have the mark? Is he one of you now?”

“Stop whining like a spoiled child, Potter,” Snape’s eyes darkened ferociously, “Draco Malfoy is not your concern!”

“What is he planning, Snape! I know you know what it is -- if it’s something to do with me-”

“Wonderful that you’re worrying about your safety now,” His professor roared, his face fixed in a menacing glare. “I have told you, it’s not your concern! Not everything is your problem, Potter! Not every predicament calls for a hero!”

Harry scrunched up his face in disgust. “I was concerned about you!” He yelled, crossing his arms, watching as something in Snape’s eyes changed for a fraction of a second -- an expression Harry couldn’t quite place. “You’re the one who’ll bloody die if Draco fucks up! I can take care of myself!”

Snape scoffed, “Can you now?”

“I fought off Voldemort in the graveyard and back at the Ministry, I can help!”

“You are moronic to believe you survived either of those encounters by any means other than sheer dumb luck!” Snape growled furiously. “It is astonishing you think the Order would require the help of a fifteen-year-old!”

“I want to fight!” Harry yelled.

“Potter, I forbid it.”

“You were my age when you started thinking about war,” Harry spat, narrowing his eyes at his professor. “You were my age when you first started fighting. You were my age when you picked your side. Why is my decision to fight any different than-”

“LOOK AT ME!” Snape yelled wildly, lifting the sleeve of his dark black robe so Harry could see the twisting black snake and vicious skull of his Dark Mark. “War is permanent, Potter!” His professor shouted, his obsidian eyes chaotic and angry. “I forbid you from making the same mistakes I did! You will wait until you are of age, then you may make your own decisions!”

The house lapsed into a silence broken only by Snape’s labored panting as he collected himself. Harry stood dumbfounded, his eyes trained on his professor’s bare forearm. “Draco Malfoy is for me to worry about,” Snape snarled, “You will not press me on this matter again.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but his professor had already turned away, strutting out of the room, his robes sprawling behind him as Harry remained paralyzed in stunned shock.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t sleep. He was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling in frustration, tossing from side to side in a desperate effort to get comfortable.

The remainder of the afternoon had been horrible; it was excruciatingly obvious that Snape was avoiding him. His professor had neglected to call him to dinner, and Harry was shocked by how much it had bothered him. The depressing, melancholic nature of the house, which was usually softened by Snape’s constant presence felt intense and fresh once again; his professor’s abrupt disappearance only amplified the loneliness of Spinner’s End.

Harry turned over in his bed again, his mind recalling their conversation. “You were my age when you started thinking about war,” his words felt insensitive now. “You were my age when you first started fighting. You were my age when you picked your side.” Harry cringed at his naivety, shaking his head harshly to dispel his thoughts, hugging his pillow to his chest.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Why do you always have to pick fights with him?

Harry turned over roughly, his professor’s voice echoing viciously throughout his mind. “Stop whining like a spoiled child, Potter. Draco Malfoy is not your concern!”

I’m sorry. He tossed in the bed. I’m really sorry.

“I want to fight!” He had yelled.

“Potter, I forbid it.”

Harry squirmed in discomfort, Stupid, idiot, Potter.

“Look at me!” Snape had yelled furiously, the Dark Mark black against his pale skin. Harry cringed, squeezing his eyes shut and drawing his limbs into his chest.

“Look at me!”

Harry smacked himself harshly on the forehead with his fist, hoping the brief moment of pain might quell his professor’s ceaseless voice. It did not.

Harry groaned, flipping over and burying his face in his pillow. Now he felt bad and he had a headache. Great.

“Look at me!”

Go to sleep.

“War is permanent, Potter!”

Stop it, Harry squeezed his pillow tighter, Don’t think about this. Go to sleep.

“I forbid you from making the same mistakes I did!” Snape roared wildly.

I’m sorry, Harry choked back a sob, raising his hand to cover his mouth.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he pleaded desperately, rocking back and forth until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Harry awoke groggy and disoriented, running a hand over his face in exhaustion before reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. It was still dark outside his window. He sighed, pulling himself out of the small bed and moving over to his trunk to change into loose jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Quietly, he made his way out into the hall, pausing at the top of the landing to look nervously back toward his professor’s room. Hearing no signs of movement from behind the closed, wooden door, Harry ventured down the stairs silently.

Happy Birthday to me, he grumbled, scanning his eyes over the dark house as he moved through the den and into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water.

Upon entering the small, cramped space -- blinking a few times to adjust to the ill-lit room -- Harry noticed a small stack of presents all wrapped up in bright colors sitting in the middle of the dining table, complete with large bows and handwritten cards all bearing his name. He smiled, flicked on the light switch, and moved to the table, running his hands along the gifts in amazement.

I can’t believe there are so many. He grabbed at the packages greedily, quickly tearing apart their wrappings to reveal his gifts: a long handwritten note and book on defensive spells from Hermione, a magazine on which teams were most likely to attend the Quidditch World Cup from Ron and Ginny, a box of chocolates from the twins (which Harry was sure would make him feel rather horrible), a knit scarf from Mrs Weasley, a copy of the Quibbler from Luna, and a few cards from various Order members.

Harry grinned down at his presents, organizing them on the table in front of him. Despite the dark, desolate house and his lingering guilt, Harry felt completely at ease sitting alone in the kitchen, imagining that his friends were there with him.

“You’re awake.” The sour voice of his professor echoed from across the room and Harry jolted, turning to see Snape standing in the doorway, an expression of mild annoyance complimenting his crossed arms. “Have I not specifically told you, on numerous occasions, to stay in your room until dawn?”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry bowed his head, cringing as Snape made his way into the room and towards the stove. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Another nightmare?” Snape whisked his wand through the air and the water in the kettle began to boil.

“No, not this time,” Harry shrugged, “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited for your birthday?” Snape chided. “Forgive my lack of decoration, I’m sure you’re not accustomed to such an absence of hearty celebration,” he droned sarcastically, pouring the hot water into a stained, white mug.

Harry winced. “It’s okay, my birthday is never really that eventful.” He rubbed his hands together on his lap as Snape took his seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Oh?” His professor sipped his drink casually, a brow raised in question.

“Well, I’m usually at the Dursleys.” Harry shrugged, “It’s not like they’re really willing to throw a party.”

Harry remembered tugging on the hem of Petunia’s skirt when he was younger. “Aunt Petunia,” he asked nervously, lisping around his missing front tooth, “Can I have friends over for my birthday?”

“Friends?” She had scoffed, brushing him off her skirt, staring at him in disgust. “Who would want to be friends with you? Of course, you may not have people over, you foolish boy.”

Harry remembered his cousin’s birthday parties -- he remembered how endless stacks of presents had lined the halls of their house on Privet Drive. He recalled one year when his cousin had boiled with rage, pointing at Harry from across the room, yelling, “What’s he doing here? I don’t want him here on my birthday!” Harry remembered the fear that overtook him as his uncle rose from his chair, grabbing Harry and tugging him by the arm to the cupboard under the stairs per Dudley’s request.

He remembered how dark it was -- he remembered hearing his aunt and uncle sing Happy Birthday while he watched Dudley open his presents through the slits in the cupboard’s vent.

Harry caved inward at the thought, hugging his arms around his middle. “Yeah, my birthdays were never really a huge deal.” He stared at the pile of open gifts on the table, a slight smile on his face. “Honesty professor, this is really nice.”

Snape seemed to shift uncomfortably, his eyes moving down to his cup. “I have” -- he cleared his throat, sitting up straighter and lifting his eyes to Harry’s -- “I have raised the wards around the house to extend fifty feet into the air over the backyard.”

Harry blinked, “Okay?”

“If you would like to fly,” Snape huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, “It is now safe to do so. You have my permission to be on your broom… if you would like.”

Flying! Harry perked up at the idea. It had been so long since he had even allowed himself to think about being in the air. “I’d love that, sir.”

Snape nodded, more to himself than to Harry, eyes trained on his mug. “Enjoy yourself,” his professor muttered, rising slowly from the table as he flicked his wand through the air, sending his empty mug flying across the room to land gently in the sink with a soft clink. “I intend to be in my lab if there is anything you need,” Snape fixed him with a harsh glare, “Though I would prefer to not be disturbed.”

Harry nodded as his professor stalked out of the room and out into the hall, his robes billowing behind him as his footsteps echoed throughout the house. But Harry was much too excited by the prospect of flying to really concern himself with Snape’s bad mood. Quickly, he rose from his chair and collected the wrappings from his presents, disposing them in the garbage.

As he turned to leave, Harry noticed his professor’s singular, empty mug sitting alone in the sink. “You useless, incompetent, bum,” Petunia’s harsh voice shrieked, “Why can’t you seem to do the only thing you’re somewhat decent at and clean!”

He hesitated for a second, staring intensely at the mug, fixating on the tea-stained ring along the inside of the glass. He looked nervously around for his professor before turning on the faucet and washing the glass.

Stop overthinking, Harry scolded himself as he set the clean mug down beside the sink, his eyes locked on the doorway, waiting for Snape to come bargaining in. You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just a mug.

Shaking his head, Harry collected his presents and moved out into the foyer, glancing down the hallway toward his professor’s makeshift potions lab. Clutching his gifts tight to his chest, he moved through the den and upstairs to his room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

I’m allowed to fly! Harry’s mind repeated on a loop as he set the gifts down at his desk, smiling giddily. He rushed over to the wall his broom had been propped up against, neglected since the beginning of the summer.

Beaming, Harry rushed down the stairs, his broom in hand. He flung open the door to the backyard, taking in his surroundings; it felt strange to have never been back here before -- the window in his room faced the opposite direction, and for the most part, he had found no reason to venture outside. That or he wasn’t allowed; Harry decided it was probably a mix of both.

There was a rickety old, dark wooden fence that ran around the perimeter of the yard, an old, sickly tree that sagged from age, a few empty planters, and some brown, dying grass that grew sporadically around the remaining space. Beneath the cloudy gray sky, Harry ventured to guess he had never seen a yard this depressing.

He couldn’t be happier to be outside.

Mounting his broom and kicking off into the air, Harry soared above the gloomy lawn in tight circles -- each of his laps gaining in speed. He laughed as the wind rushed through his hair, his body relaxing as he surrendered to the bliss of flight.

As he finished his next lap, his broom jerked to the left unexpectedly, throwing off his tight corner and nearly hurling him from the sky. Harry looked back in confusion, his eyes widening when he noticed the disheveled state of his broom’s hair, and in a panic not to fall, he quickly landed, tripping a little on the rocky terrain of the backyard. Dismounting, he flipped his broom around to inspect the damage, sighing in defeat as he plucked uselessly at the mangled bristles.

“Give it here, boy,” Vernon scolded him when Harry had refused to hand over his firebolt, outstretching his meaty hand.

Harry had handed over his broom slowly, unwilling to give his uncle the satisfaction of hearing him beg to keep it. He watched in horror as Vernon slammed the end of the firebolt into the ground, splitting the aerodynamic shape of the bristles.

Sirius gave me that, his mind had screamed.

Harry examined the broom in his arms, his hands tightening around its wood.

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!” Sirius’s wild face yelled at him, the twisted, nightmare version of his Godfather springing to life in his consciousness. “You’re not the one that died, you clearly didn’t suffer the most!”

Stop it, he shook his head. Don’t think about that.

Sirius sneered at him. “It was you who got me killed!”

Bellatrix’s curse had hit him square in the chest. Sirius had fallen in a slow, graceful arc. He hadn’t even looked dead.

Stop it, please.

Sirius had looked enraged. “You are nothing, Potter!” His nightmare spat, “Nothing!”

Harry brought his hands to his head, tugging his hair back at the roots, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

“You’re just a freak!” Vernon snarled.

“Unnatural,” Petunia watched him in disgust. “I have no idea how my sister put up with you.”

“Poor, baby, Potter,” Dudley teased him in a mock child voice, “Are you gonna cry?”

Harry gasped for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his breaths came in short, unsatisfying bursts. Stop it, please shut up.

“Ungrateful!” Vernon yelled.

“Freakish!” Petunia snarled.

“Baby!” Dudley laughed.

You’re not there anymore, he grabbed at his hair, his vision blurring. Stop thinking about that.

You’re in Spinner’s End.

You’re with Snape now.

“You are an insufferable child,” his professor sneered at him viciously.

“Spoiled.”

“Pathetic.”

Stop it, stop it. Harry felt his eyes begin to bubble up with tears.

“Look at me!” Snape shouted at him. “War is permanent, Potter!”

Harry tugged harder at his hair, his unshed tears threatening to spill from his eyes. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

“Draco Malfoy is for me to worry about.” Snape had glared at him.

Harry shook his head, wiping his eyes quickly. I’m sorry.

He gasped for air, rubbing a hand along his chest, closing his eyes, and inhaling deeply. He focused his attention on the weight of his fingers as they ran along his collarbone. Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale.

“Focus solely on the sensation of touch. Tune everything else out.” Snape’s calm voice pierced through his panic.

Harry breathed, deep and long. Inhale, three, exhale. Inhale, four, exhale. He dragged his hand across his chest. He felt his magic begin to swell beneath his fingers -- its reliable, consistent thrum radiating through him like a battery that had just been charged.

Inhale, five, exhale. His shoulders relaxed as his breathing slowed. Inhale, six, exhale. Harry felt his mind begin to clear, his heightened emotions fading into the familiar sensation of meditative calm.

Once Harry had sufficiently calmed himself -- his lungs less tight, his vision clear as his mind -- he clutched his broom tight to his chest and walked inside, making a beeline for his professor’s potions lab. He, at least, deserved an apology.

He knocked hesitantly when he reached the lab, waiting in silence for a few seconds before the door was thrown open harshly by his very agitated professor.

“What could you possibly need?” Snape barked. “Was my request to be left undisturbed unclear?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why, Potter, are you inside and not in the air?”

“I wanted to apologize,” Harry cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his legs, “For last night.”

Snape crossed his arms and raised a brow expectantly.

Harry sucked in a breath. “I’m really sorry for pushing you yesterday, sir. I was being stupid, and I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“I’m not mad at you for lashing out, Potter,” Snape growled, narrowing his eyes, “Believe me, I’m used to your hormonal tirades by now.”

“Oh,” Harry stood dumbly. “Well, I felt like I needed to say that anyway.”

Snape released a long, deep sigh. “Is there nothing else you wish to apologize for?”

He shrugged, hesitating, “Um, not really?”

Snape looked enraged. “Then I bid you good-day,” he seethed, slamming the door.

“Professor!” Harry called out. “I-” -- shit, what does he want me to say? -- “I’m… sorry for running off yesterday?”

Harry could hear movement behind the closed door.

“Um, I’m sorry for leaving the Weasleys, it was reckless and stupid of me,” Harry sighed. “I promised you that I wouldn’t run away. I know that I broke your trust and I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The door remained firmly shut.

Harry groaned. “I know that I keep running away from everyone and I’m sorry I can’t seem to stay in one place. And I know that it’s my fault for risking my safety and I’m sorry that the Order has to deal with my bullshit all the time because I know that I don’t make it easy for them. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t have just stayed at the Dursleys because now you have to deal with me in your house, and I know you never wanted that. And I’m sorry that I left the wards because it really wasn’t all that bad this year -- Dudley was being fine and Uncle Vernon only hit me that one-”

“Potter.” Snape threw open the door harshly, his eyes narrowed in barely concealed anger. “You have said enough.”

Harry winced. “Sorry, I- I just wanted to apologize.”

His professor sighed, his gaze softening. “Yes, I heard.”

“Oh! And I’m sorry for yelling at you all the time,” he added swiftly. “I know I kinda do that a lot… but I’m particularly sorry for yesterday. I shouldn’t have brought up your experience with war, I know it’s… very personal.”

Snape watched him carefully, an expression Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint lurking in his professor’s eyes. Seeming to come to some kind of a decision, Snape exhaled, “You are forgiven, Potter.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” Snape nodded, “So long as you do not run away again.”

Harry nodded swiftly, “Oh- I mean, of course! Sure.”

“And,” Snape raised a skeptical brow, “You tell me why you are not on your broom right now.”

“Uh,” Harry blinked in surprise. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Snape looked unsatisfied. “That’s all?”

Harry flushed, “And I guess Uncle Vernon messed up my broom a little,” he pointed down to the disheveled bristles. “It’s harder to fly.”

Snape hummed in acknowledgment, raising his wand. “I am by no means qualified to return this broom to its top condition,” he flicked his wand, reorganizing the bristles into their old neat, aerodynamic shape, “But, I suppose this will do for now.”

Harry felt a heavy pang in his chest as he looked at his repaired broom. Despite Snape’s dismissal, the firebolt looked practically brand new -- it appeared just as smooth, just as pristine as it had been when Sirius gifted it to him and Harry hadn’t realized just how much he had worried over the broom’s condition until Vernon had broken it. It had been the last thing Sirius had given him -- the last physical memory of his Godfather. And it was fixed; he choked back a sob.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, his eyes wide as he admired the broomstick, gingerly running his shaky hands along the bristles in amazement.

“It is no trouble,” Snape’s frown disappeared for a moment, replaced with a subtle smile. He looked back at Harry, straightening his posture. “Happy Birthday.”

Without thinking, Harry wrapped his arms around his professor’s torso, clenching his eyes shut as he drew him into a firm hug. Snape tensed under the contact, and after a few seconds immobile, he raised his arms and patted him lightly on the back.

Flushing with embarrassment, Harry retreated instantly, fixing his glasses and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot beneath his professor’s surprised gaze. “Sorry, sir,” he cleared his throat. “Don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s… alright, Potter,” Snape remarked slowly, smoothing his robes.

Harry lowered his eyes to the floor. “I guess I’ll just be going,” he turned to leave, “Sorry, again, sir… uhm, yeah.” Harry swiveled to face the end of the hall, quickly moving away from his professor.

“Potter,” Snape called out, pausing Harry in his quick retreat. “Before you go, I have something for you.”

He winced, bunching up his shoulders as he turned to face his professor. “Sir?”

“Wait here a moment,” Snape disappeared into his lab, leaving the door ajar for a few seconds before he emerged into the hallway carrying a small wooden box and Harry’s invisibility cloak. “First, I would like to return this to you,” Snape handed him the cloak, “On the grounds that you do not misuse it.”

“Done.” Harry nodded enthusiastically, a wash of relief flooding through him as he retrieved the cloak from Snape’s outstretched hand.

“Second,” his professor continued, “Lupin arrived earlier with this old crate. He wished for me to give it to you.”

Harry tucked his broom under his arm, taking the box from Snape cautiously and inspecting it. It was rather unremarkable: dark, old, rough wood with a latch on the side and a small, sealed envelope taped to its lid.

“Do you know what’s in it?” Harry asked.

“I do not,” Snape grumbled. “Nor do I wish to. Whatever may be inside is between you and the wolf.”

Harry nodded, ignoring his professor’s snide comment. “Thank you, sir.”

Snape rolled his eyes, “Go,” he said. “You now have plenty of things to occupy your time with.”

Harry beamed, turning around to run through the hall. He rushed through the den and bounded up the stairs excitedly, throwing open the door to his room and setting everything down on his small cot.

He turned to the box, ripping the parchment off the top greedily and unsealing the letter.

Harry -- it read.

Over the last month, I have dedicated myself to cleaning Sirius’s old room back at Headquarters. A daunting task, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve found some things that I know he would’ve wanted you to have.

Treat them well.

-- RJL

Setting down the letter beside him, Harry turned nervously to the wooden box, undoing the latch and opening its lid.

The crate was completely filled; Harry removed each item carefully, arranging them neatly on the bed.

There was an old, small, black dog stuffed animal that was missing one of its button eyes, a folded Gryffindor scarf that reeked of cigarettes, a Rolling Stones magazine with a picture of David Bowie on the cover, and a scarlet red lighter with stars drawn on the side.

Finally, peering into the crate, Harry noticed that the remainder of the small space was cluttered with tons of old, moving polaroids. He held his breath, his eyes widening in surprise. With shaking fingers, he reached into the box, pulling them out one at a time.

There were so many:

Sirius and his father playing quidditch.

Sirius and Remus asleep, cuddled together on the couch in Gryffindor's common room.

Sirius and Remus smoking, leaning over a white marble railing, not a care in the world.

Sirius laughing with his mother -- her red hair catching perfectly in the sun.

His mother and father holding hands in the hallway.

Sirius and his father studying in the library.

Sirius in a dorm room, dancing near a record player, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

His father laughing.

His mother smiling.

Harry only realized he was crying when a drop of water landed on the last photo in the box. He laughed, smiling despite his tears at the photos that lay neatly on his lap.

Harry picked up the nearest Polaroid, running his fingers over his parents’ happy faces. Hi mom. Hi dad. Harry watched as the figures in the photo -- his parents, Sirius, Remus, and Wormtail -- gathered around a large wooden table, a birthday cake in the center.

His father blew out the candles; everyone cheered. Harry let his tears fall freely -- it was almost like they were celebrating with him. “Happy Birthday,” he grinned.

Chapter Text

The following morning, in the dim light of the rising sun, Severus watched himself through the large standing mirror propped up in the corner of his parents’ bedroom. He scowled at his figure, running his fingers lightly along his covered forearm, his hand brushing the dark fabric of his long robes. He let the weight of his fingers rest over where he knew the Dark Mark stained his skin, his frown deepening as he pictured the dark, twisting snake.

“Look at me!” He had screamed at the boy. Severus cringed, gripping his forearm.

Idiot, he grumbled to himself, smoothing the long sleeve of his robe and dropping his arms to rest at his side. The boy’s apology had reignited his reflection on their disagreement; Severus’s mind had become incapable of dismissing Harry’s shocked eyes when he saw the Mark.

“War is permanent, Potter!” Severus sucked in a harsh breath, turning away from the mirror. He needed to be free of this room; he needed to stop staring at the reflection of a man he resented.

Pushing open the door to his quarters, he noticed the house was unnaturally quiet. A few weeks ago, the eerie static of Spinner’s End would have brought him comfort. But as he walked into the hallway, Severus realized the silence now brought him nothing but a deep, unsettling dread, like a stone had settled in his stomach. He repressed the feeling -- he had discovered by now that Potter could be very quiet when he wanted.

He moved across the narrow hall, knocking on the boy’s door twice before twisting the knob -- the creaking hinges of the old door echoing throughout the house as he pushed it open. His eyes drifted over the unorganized, cluttered space.

He found no one.

Severus entered the room cautiously, his head craning to look for the boy. The child’s trunk sat open and pushed up against the far wall, various clothes spilling from its side; the desk was unkempt with loose papers and several ink bottles strewn across it, and Harry’s absurd, metal owl cage sat in the corner of the room with his bird watching over cramped space intently. “Potter?” Severus called out, carefully approaching the middle of the small, disarranged room.

His eyes caught on a flickering object to his left, and Severus spun to face the cot beside him. Sunlight draped across the bed, illuminating the metal of a scarlet red lighter with stars drawn on the sides. Severus frowned, his eyes drifting over to the wooden box at the end of the boy’s mattress, its lid removed.

So this is what Lupin sent the boy. Humming to himself, Severus examined the items on display, his eyes drifting over what he assumed were Sirius’s old possessions. He noted each object with disinterest, frowning at the numerous nicknacks until his gaze settled on a small stack of Polaroid photos.

He paused, hesitating for a brief moment before he let his fingers brush over each picture, spreading the photos across the bed in a straight line. He felt as if his breath had stopped.

She was in nearly every picture: red hair, green eyes, light freckles, and a wide, beautiful smile. Lily was just as perfect as he remembered. And the photos captured her perfectly:

Lily was laughing on the grass with Sirius.

Lily was holding hands with James in the hallway -- both looking so impossibly young.

Lily was cheering loudly at a quidditch match, dressed in Gryffindor’s signature red and yellow.

Lily’s bright smile. Her mischievous grin. Her kind, lighthearted gaze.

Severus sucked in a harsh breath, feeling his eyes begin to prick with unshed tears. Collecting himself, he retreated hastily toward the doorway, wiping his eyes as Hedwig hooted happily.

He took deep, steadying breaths, forcing his mind into submission. It was obvious the boy was not in there. Severus shook himself, carefully closing the door to Potter’s room and moving through the house with renewed vigor.

Rushing down the stairs and moving swiftly through the house, Severus peered through each doorway, his scowl deepening as he passed by room after room with no sign of the boy.

He quickened his pace, panic beginning to rise. Didn’t Potter just promise not to run away again? He grumbled to himself, hurrying through the hallway, pushing open the door to the study harshly.

The room was empty. Severus felt his heart rate spike. Surely, there has not been a breach in the wards, he jogged back toward the living room. I would have been alerted.

He ran a hand through his hair, moving quickly to the stairs. And now, with the raised wards in the yard- Severus paused, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Moving to the far end of the room, he flung open the back door aggressively.

His body sagged with relief at the sight of the boy sitting on his hovering broom a few meters off the ground. Harry was hunched over, reading the colossal occlumency book which rested on his lap, his face screwed up in concentration.

Severus felt his rage begin to replace his panic. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing out here, Potter?” He barked as the boy sat idly on his broom, unaware of his heightened concern.

Harry looked up, meeting his eyes and shrugging nonchalantly, “Just needed some air, thought I’d make good use of my time and catch up on the reading you assigned.”

Oh, Potter. Severus sighed, his shoulders sagging in relief, his momentary anger quickly fading. “Next time you feel like flying, do tell me first. I had no idea where you had gone.”

The boy seemed to wince, cowering inward. “Sorry,” he muttered quietly. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Another nightmare?” Severus questioned, folding his arms across his chest.

Harry seemed to hesitate, gnawing at the corner of his mouth before answering. “Yes.”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Severus nodded in response, his eyes locking on the book resting on the boy’s lap. “You tried to occlude?” He asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Were you successful?”

“No,” he groaned, raising his arms to tug at his hair in frustration. “I thought this book would help, but it’s only made me more confused,” he scoffed. “I feel like I can’t occlude on purpose -- I can do it fine when it’s accidental.”

Severus drew his brows together. “Elaborate.”

“Like yesterday,” Harry closed the book with a thud, “I was in the garden, and I felt a little weird, but then I focused on my breath -- like you told me to -- and I felt a lot better.” He shrugged again. “But then sometimes, when I’m feeling upset, and I try to occlude it’s like my brain just… can’t do it anymore.”

Severus’s eyes widened in surprise; he doubled his efforts to maintain his composure. “You successfully occluded on your own yesterday?”

Harry scratched at the nape of his neck, “Well, yeah, but not on purpose. I dunno. I didn’t really think about it. It just sort of happened.”

“You mean to tell me you occluded naturally?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess. Why? Is that bad?”

“No, Potter,” Severus scoffed, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “It is phenomenal.”

“Oh.” He blinked, shifting awkwardly on his broom. “Then why can’t I always do it?”

“The mind is a complicated thing,” Severus sighed. “Your tendency to overthink may prohibit your mind’s ability to occlude. However,” he nodded to Harry’s broom, “If you are willing to dismount from that horrid thing, I may assist you with your studies.”

“I like being on my broom.” The boy smirked.

Severus frowned. “It is a miracle you have not succumbed to dizziness” -- he scoffed -- “reading while flying, what a notion!” He shook his head, turning to move inside and looking back when the boy showed no sign of following. “Come off of there,” he called, “We shall practice in the study.”

Harry scooped up the book, tucking it beneath his arm as he leaped from the broom, letting the Firebolt fall to the ground behind him before picking it up.

Turning inside, Severus moved quickly through the house, his ears listening to the boy’s hurried movements behind him. Silently, they walked down the hall until Severus heard a rather loud bang and swiveled to face the boy with a glare.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered bashfully. “Broom hit the wall.”

“With a bit more grace, if you will, Potter.” Severus tutted, pushing the door to the study open further and ushering the boy inside.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry huffed, moving into the office and leaning his broom against one of the wooden bookshelves.

“Sit, Potter,” Severus chided, moving further into the cramped space.

The boy walked across the room slowly, lowering himself into the moss-green armchair. Severus extended his hand, nodding to the large book tucked under Harry’s arm. The boy placed it in his palm immediately.

“Now,” Severus scanned his eyes over Harry’s frame, “What are you struggling with specifically?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “I dunno. Calming my mind, I guess.”

“But you’ve had success with the breathing techniques?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “They seem to help.”

Severus placed the book on the desk, tapping his wand on the cover and watching as the tome sprang open to a page labeled ‘Chapter Seven: The Body.’

He turned back to Harry. “Sit up, shoulders back. Correct that abhorrent posture of yours, Potter.” He nodded as the boy straightened himself. “Move to the front of the chair, just as you did before. Spread your knees apart and plant your feet firmly on the ground.”

Harry looked up with his large, green eyes. Severus drew in a sharp breath.

Her eyes.

“What now, professor?”

He has her eyes.

He blinked, readjusting to the room. “Your eyes,” Severus coughed, clearing his throat, “Close them.”

Harry followed his instructions, lowering his head. “Okay.”

Severus relaxed his shoulders. “Now,” he began, “Make a triangle with your hands over your abdomen -- yes, that’s correct, Potter -- and relax into your fingers. Feel the weight of your palms as they move up and down with your stomach as you breathe.”

Harry sat quietly, his breathing slowing, his face scrunched up in concentration.

“Relax,” Severus spoke quietly, watching the boy as his expression softened. “When you’re ready, move your hands away from your stomach as you exhale and return them to their current position when you inhale.”

Harry followed his instructions, his shoulders dropping as his body relaxed.

“Breathe deeply,” Severus continued, “Breathe through the movement -- extend your breath past your arms.”

Harry moved his arms out in front of him, his breathing steadying.

Severus watched him in silence. Harry exhaled loudly, pushing his arms out from his chest and drawing his hands back to his stomach when inhaling. Severus let the boy grow accustomed to a rhythm. “Good,” he nodded after a few minutes. “How do you feel?”

“Calm,” Harry spoke quietly.

“Perfect. Now,” Severus straightened his back. “Our exercise today will be similar to what we have already done. I don’t want you to forget about controlling your emotions, Potter. But today, I am asking you to prioritize the physical movement you have already established.”

Harry nodded, his arms continuing to extend and retract with his breathing.

Severus continued, “I will look through your mind. I want you to continue breathing with your arms regardless of what memory I conjure. Focus on the rise and fall of your chest and extending beyond your limbs as you push your breath out-”

“Wait,” Harry interjected, opening his eyes. “You’re gonna look at anything?”

Severus shifted awkwardly. “I will try to find a memory that I imagine would be difficult to remain calm during. For the purpose of this exercise, I need you to trust that I will not tell anyone what I have observed.”

Harry studied him silently, his eyes boring into his skull.

Her eyes, his mind screamed, bright, green, and kind.

Severus pushed his thoughts away. “Do you trust me?”

Harry seemed to watch him for a long time before something in his expression signaled he had made a decision. “With this, sure.”

Severus nodded, hesitating at the boy’s response. “Then let us begin. Close your eyes, please.” Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, his breathing growing heavy once more. “Continue with your movement,” Severus spoke calmly, “And attempt to prolong that state of serenity while viewing the memory I have chosen. It will become much easier to dispel your nightmares if we simulate that stress here. This way, you will understand how to cope with occluding under pressure.”

Harry hummed in response, breathing deeply, his arms flowing with the rise and fall of his chest.

“Brace yourself, Potter,” Severus extracted his wand from his sleeve. “Legilimens!”

Severus slipped into Harry’s mind with practiced ease, sifting through the boy’s memories quickly. Images flashed before his eyes, blurry and indistinguishable. He dug deep into the boy’s mind, burrowing into his subconscious until he found what he had wanted to look for.

The dizzying array of images solidified as Severus conjured a memory of Harry trapped inside the cupboard under the stairs. He felt the boy’s anxiety begin to spike as he observed the scene.

A young Harry, no more than eight years old, sat curled up on a small, worn mattress in the dark of the cupboard. The space was small -- cramped. There was barely enough room to fit the child between the barren mattress, the pile of folded clothes, and the haphazardly stacked toys. Severus looked around the room through the boy’s eyes, his attention catching on the small piece of paper hung by a degrading piece of tape on the wall -- the brightly colored letters drawn in a child’s messy script: ‘Harry’s Room’ -- the sign read.

The boy’s memory-self was curled up on the mattress, his legs pulled into his chest as he rocked back and forth.

“Snape,” Harry’s current voice rang out through his memory, “Not this, please, don’t.”

Severus increased his hold over the boy’s mind, feeling Harry’s panic intensify.

“Potter,” he said sternly in Harry’s head, “Do not break your focus. Concentrate on your movement, and use your breath to calm yourself. Do not let the memory distract you.”

“You don’t know what’s coming,” the boy pleaded. “Please, stop.”

Severus watched as the younger Harry quickened the pace of his rocking, shaking his head as he began to cry.

“No, no, no,” Harry muttered in his subconscious.

A loud knock rang out from the cupboard’s door and Severus heard the loud, booming voice of the boy’s uncle scream from outside. “Boy!” Vernon yelled. “I told you to help with dinner, did I not?”

The cupboard door flung open to reveal his uncle standing in the hall, Vernon’s face flushed in a mess of purplish rage. “What did I tell you about lazing around?”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon,” young Harry squeaked meekly. “I didn’t mean to be lazy. The door was locked and I couldn’t-”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault, are you?” Vernon looked enraged, his chest puffing out as he took large, seething breaths.

“No!” The boy raised his arms as if to calm an animal, “I didn’t mean-”

“You’re blaming me for your slack?” Vernon snarled. “Well, I won’t have it!”

Quickly, the boy’s uncle yanked him by the forearm and from the cupboard. He dragged Harry through the hallway and into the kitchen, flinging the child from his grip with such force he fell to the ground.

Severus watched through Harry’s eyes as the boy stared up at his uncle in horror, crawling backward on the floor as Vernon approached him.

“I told you what would happen if you neglected your chores, boy, did I not?”

“Uncle Vernon, please,” Harry whined, continuing his retreat. “I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“An accident?” His uncle yelled, lowering his hands and undoing his belt. “Do you want Petunia to slave away in the kitchen by herself? You want to become a useless, good-for-nothing bum like your father?”

“Please,” young Harry begged, tears falling from his eyes. “I’m sorry! I’ll do better!”

“You’d better,” Vernon scowled, his fist clenching around the end of his belt, letting the leather hang from his hand to the floor. “Because I don’t wanna have to go through this whole thing again, boy.”

Harry raised his arms in defense, his eyes darting frantically around the room until he noticed his cousin standing idly in the doorway. Severus watched for a long moment as the boys stared at each other.

Vernon continued to move closer, snapping Harry’s attention back to his large frame.

“This is for your own good,” his uncle growled.

“SNAPE!” Harry’s voice screamed through the memory.

The young boy cowered, hiding his face.

Vernon raised his arm, the belt cracking in the air.

“SNAPE, LEAVE!” Harry yelled.

“I’m sorry,” the young boy cried out.

Vernon swung.

The belt went flying through the air.

Severus withdrew from the boy’s mind as Vernon’s belt made contact with Harry’s arm, his ears ringing with the boy’s cries as he removed himself from the memory.

Severus adjusted to the room in front of him; he blinked rapidly as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark woods and green accents of the study in Spinner’s End. He stared down at the boy in the chair. Harry was panting, his knuckles white as he clutched the arms of his chair, his teary eyes darting around the room frantically.

“Potter,” Severus knelt before him, lowering himself to Harry’s eye level, “How do you feel?”

Harry tightened his grip on the armchair. He looked pale. “I told you to leave.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Tears trickled down his face as Harry moved his eyes to meet his own, an accusatory look in his expression.

Severus held his eye contact. “I…” was curious to see how bad he was. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Harry. I should have listened to you.”

The boy wiped his eyes, lowering his gaze to the floor.

“Would you like a calming drought?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Severus prompted, standing up from the floor and moving back to the chair at the wooden desk. “If you would like,” he continued, “We could trade questions again. That way the conversation doesn’t feel so one-sided.”

Harry wrapped his arms around his torso, turning to look at his professor. He narrowed his eyes as if debating something in his head. I’d love to know what you’re thinking right now, Severus mused.

Harry cleared his throat, coming to a decision. “Okay. I want to start.”

Severus nodded for him to continue.

“Why do you care?” He narrowed his eyes. “About any of this shit.”

“Pardon?”

“You keep wanting to ask me questions about the Dursleys,” Harry huffed, crossing his arms, “All I want to know is why you care so much?”

“I don’t understand-”

“It’s over!” He began to raise his voice. “It’s done with! I’m here now! Why does any of this shit matter to you?”

“Potter, do you truly believe that because you’re not there it doesn’t affect you?”

“I’m fine, Snape!” Harry shouted. “I’ve always been fine, and I’ll continue to be fine!”

“Nothing about living with you for the past few weeks has indicated to me that you are in any way ‘fine,’ as you put it.” Severus scowled. “Why are you so adamant in your decision to ignore the past?”

“Because I’m not a headcase! I’ve already told you that!”

“Growing up in an abusive environment affects how you move through life!”

Harry scoffed, “And how would you know?”

“Potter!” Severus snapped harshly. “Enough!”

Harry cowered inward, wincing at his raised voice.

Severus inhaled deeply, allowing his mind to clear. “I care,” he began slowly, “Because you are my student and it is my job to account for your wellbeing. But more importantly, I care about your experience with your relatives because I fear no one else ever has; finding support has proven to have tremendous effects on students’ mental health.”

Harry squirmed in discomfort. “I already said I was fine, professor,” he muttered.

Severus sighed, his voice lost on deaf ears. “If I have answered your question sufficiently, I believe it is my turn, is it not?”

Harry nodded, “I guess.”

“Was the memory I observed representative of the treatment you typically received from your uncle?”

Harry began to nod again slowly in response before he seemed to pause, “Only up until I went to Hogwarts,” he amended.

“What changed?”

“I think it’s my turn, professor,” Harry bit back, shifting in his chair. “You mentioned students’ mental health…have you worked with other students through this kinda thing before?”

Severus nodded. “There have been a few instances in which I have worked closely with students who have come to me with… familial matters.”

“And talking to you helped?” Harry raised a skeptical brow.

“It seemed to,” Severus supplied. “May I ask a question now?” When the boy offered no verbal response, he continued. “How frequently did your uncle punish you in the way that I observed?”

Harry seemed to shrink inward, wrapping his arms around himself and averting his eyes to the floor. “Dunno,” he shrugged.

Liar.

“Your turn,” Severus said.

Harry squirmed in apparent discomfort. “Your father,” he began slowly. Severus drew in a swift, harsh breath. He had known the boy would ask eventually. “Did he punish you the- the same way… Uncle Vernon punished me?” Harry lifted his eyes to meet Severus’s own.

“Out of the way, boy,” his father had snarled at him, his fist balled at his sides, shaking in rage as he walked across the living room to where Severus stood in front of his mother. “This isn’t about you.”

He remembered raising his arms, herding his mother behind him. He was so young. “Dad, please. Don’t do this.”

His father drew closer, “Severus, move. Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Dad!”

Severus cleared his throat, forcing his thoughts to subside. “Yes,” he nodded. “They could be very similar in nature.”

“Why?”

Such a complicated question. “My father was a Muggle. He hated magic,” Severus sighed. “My mother was a witch. He found her abilities unnatural.”

Harry winced slightly.

Interesting.

He waited for the boy to nod before asking his next question. “You’re cousin-”

“-Dudley” Harry interrupted, looking away to fiddle with his hands.

“Yes.” He remembered seeing the large boy in Potter’s memory, standing safely behind Harry’s uncle -- he recalled Dudley watching the scene unfold silently, the boy positioned just a few meters away. “Was he treated like you were?”

Harry recoiled like it was a stupid, obvious question. “No?” He balked, scrunching up his face in confusion. “He’s their son, their family.”

“You were also their family, Potter,” Severus spoke in a low voice.

Harry’s mouth opened as if he had something more to say -- If only I could know what you are thinking -- but he closed it again, remaining silent.

After a few long seconds, Harry cleared his throat. “My turn,” he said slowly, clearly still thinking of a question.

Severus waited for the boy to collect his thoughts, the house lapsing into the familiar silence of Spinner’s End. The unsettling quiet buzzed in his ears and when Harry finally spoke, Severus felt as though he had been awoken from a dream.

“Your father,” the boy began calmly, “Did he go after you because you are a wizard?”

Severus straightened his posture, “Yes,” he answered honestly. “But I was never his main concern. He blamed my mother for my abnormality,” Severus tsked. “He was never a very smart man.”

Harry fidgeted with his hands on his lap, his eyes glued to the floor. “But…” he paused, “Did he wail on you for accidental magic?”

“My mother taught me to control my magic at a young age so I could hide the more troublesome outbursts.” He paused, watching the boy’s hunched figure. Harry raised his eyes to meet his.

He cleared his throat. “My father used to go after her when he was drunk,” Severus continued, “I have always assumed he thought that if he punished her enough, eventually her magic would go away.” He shook his head. “Like I said, he was never a very smart man. I used to stand between them to protect her.”

Harry balked. “How can you just tell me that?”

“I’ve had many years to reflect on that time,” Severus shrugged. “And I had people to confide in during the worst of it.” Like your mother, he added internally.

“And…” Harry seemed to search for the words, “And that helped?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I found that it lessened the pain.”

He scoffed, “That isn’t pain-”

“Harry,” Severus scolded. “Not all pain is physical. Your mind is just as capable of suffering as your body is. Now, I believe it’s my turn to ask a question.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“Would you be willing to speak in length with me about your experience with the Dursleys at various times throughout the school year?”

Harry watched him from the armchair skeptically, his brows knit tightly together in thought. The house returned to its unending silence, the seconds stretching between them. Suddenly, Harry nodded. “Yes,” he muttered.

Severus inclined his head, celebrating a silent triumph. “Good.” His shoulders relaxed as he leaned back in his chair.

“One condition,” Harry rubbed at his arms nervously. “I still get to ask you questions too.”

“That’s fine,” Severus nodded, watching as the boy shifted awkwardly in his seat. You’re not alone in this, Harry.

“I won’t tell anyone anything, professor,” he muttered quietly, eyes on the floor. “Just so you know.”

“I know,” Severus sighed. “And what you choose to say stays between us. Understood?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned,” Harry nodded, smiling slightly. “I trust you.”

Chapter Text

Harry sat perched on his broom, slowly kicking his feet beneath him. Snape had left him alone for the afternoon, claiming he had some potions that had ‘needed attending to’ and in his professor’s absence, Harry found that he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself.

He shifted in his mount uncomfortably before eventually sighing in defeat and jumping from his perch, rubbing his behind which had grown sore from the wooden broom. Harry adjusted his glasses on his face, turning about the yard and kicking the dirt beneath him lamely.

He was bored.

He scratched at the back of his head, his thoughts beginning to swirl together in a sickening blur, rushing through his mind at an overwhelming pace. Harry inhaled deeply, feeling his chest expand beneath his gray hand-me-down shirt. Earlier, back in the study, Snape’s eyes had fixated on him with a piercing, analytical gaze that seemed to freeze him in place.

His professor’s face had been infuriatingly impassive, “Your cousin-”

“Dudley-”

“Yes. Was he treated the same way you were?”

Harry paced around the backyard, the sound of dead grass crunching beneath his feet, echoing around the otherwise silent street.

Harry remembered how his cousin had stood back and watched as Vernon had approached him on the floor -- remembered sending a silent plea out to Dudley, hoping the fear in his eyes would motivate his cousin to intervene. He remembered every time Dudley had stood aside, his cousin was always silent and reserved when Harry needed him most.

“This is for your own good, boy!” Vernon had raged.

Harry raised his arms in defense, blocking his view of his cousin’s hulking frame in the doorway.

Stop it.

Vernon drew closer, his hands beginning to undo his belt.

Stop it. Don’t think about this.

Harry’s thoughts changed suddenly. “I guess what I’m saying is,” Dudley had fiddled with the ends of his sleeve lamely as Harry stood before him in the kitchen back at Privet Drive. “I know you saved me last year. Even though,” his cousin took a sharp breath, bracing himself, “Even though you didn’t have to.”

“You gonna do anything?” Harry had growled at Dudley, making his way up the stairs after his fight with Vernon.

“Nah, I’m not.” His cousin had looked shocked -- and nervous?

Harry kicked the grass beneath his feet.

“I- I just wanted to say thank you.” Dudley had continued. “I don’t think -- with everything that was going on and all -- I don’t think I managed it last summer.”

Harry spun in place, hearing the sound of the dried grass twist and snap off from its root beneath his feet.

It’s fine, Dudley, he thought to himself. I don’t blame you.

Harry paused -- the thought had crossed his mind before, though admittedly very rarely. Dudley had matured in the last year, that much he was sure about. Whenever Harry reflected on his time with the Dursleys, he sometimes wondered what his cousin’s opinion of it all was. A year ago, Dudley would’ve never covered for him with the broken glass or the cupboard when Snape tried to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

Harry scoffed, maybe he’d changed too if he really gave a shit about Dudley.

He hummed at the thought, wandering slowly back into the house and upstairs to his room on the second floor, gently shutting the door behind him. Harry hadn’t questioned his intuition until he found himself sitting at his wooden desk, a small piece of parchment and a quill in his hands.

What would I even say…?

Hedwig cooed softly from her perch on the back of his desk. Absentmindedly, Harry reached out a hand for her to nuzzle into -- her large, black eyes watched the blank parchment before him, seemingly just as anxious for him to put words on the page.

‘Dear Dudley,’ Harry scribbled down before pausing again, leaning back in his chair resigned. ‘It’s been a while, how’s everyone doing?’ He scoffed at the thought, crumpling the paper instantly.

Drawing up another sheet of parchment from a stack at the corner of his desk, Harry began his writing again. Hedwig cooed in obvious annoyance.

‘Dudley,’ He restarted, pausing again with a groan.

An hour later, Harry sighed in defeat, bunching up the parchment he was writing on and tossing it to the floor to join the stack of failed drafts that covered his bedroom floor. Dropping his quill onto the desk, he clutched at his hair, tugging it back at the root.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He pounded at his skull. Why are you even writing this?

A hard knock at the door disrupted his thoughts and Harry turned to see his professor standing still in the entranceway.

Snape’s expression soured as his eyes scanned across Harry’s bedroom, no doubt noticing the various sheets of discarded, crumpled parchment. “Potter,” his professor began hesitantly, his eyes lifting from the floor, “What exactly are you doing?”

“Oh,” Harry flushed, scratching at the back of his neck and avoiding his professor’s stern gaze. “Just writing, I guess.”

“Clearly,” Snape’s tone was dry as he crossed his arms. “And it’s obviously going well,” he scoffed.

Harry winced. “I just…can’t seem to think of the words.”

“What is it you are trying to write?” Snape moved into the room slowly, his arms unfurling as he approached. “I could be of some assistance.”

“You don’t have potions to brew?”

His professor shook his head slightly, coming to a stop. “They’re fine to be left alone for a little while.” He lowered himself to perch at the end of Harry’s bed, his eye contact unwavering. “Now, what are you trying to write that is proving to be so” -- his gaze shifted to the papers on the floor momentarily -- “tremendously difficult?”

Harry fidgeted awkwardly, opening his mouth to speak before pausing, reconsidering his decision to tell Snape who his letter was intended for. When he looked up, his professor’s eyes were trained on him steadily and he seemed to wait patiently for an answer. “I’m drafting a letter to Dudley.” Harry cringed, looking away, noticing his professor straighten from the corner of his eye. Harry cleared his throat. “I realized I hadn’t written to him like I said I would.”

Snape inhaled sharply. “You’re under no moral obligation to reach out if you do not wish to.” His gaze dropped to the discarded drafts again, “Clearly, you are struggling.”

“But I want to,” Harry groaned, “That’s the problem. I want him to know I don’t blame him for anything. He’s already apologized. I don’t need this whole…” – he scoffed, searching for the words – “issue to be dragged out.”

“He apologized?”

“Yeah, back at Privet Drive,” Harry shrugged, “And I told him I forgive him.”

“Potter,” Snape sighed, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose, “You don’t need to express forgiveness when you are still processing and grieving. It is okay to take time and figure things out for yourself.”

“I get all that.” Harry rolled his eyes, drawing his arms into his chest. “And it’s not like I’m rushing to be friends. I just want to let him know that I’m okay with him.”

“Is that true?” Snape raised a brow. “Was one apology enough?”

Harry grimaced. “Well, what else is he supposed to say? Huh? There’s not really a word for ‘Hey, I know I was horrible to you, but I’m feeling bad about it, are we good?’ is there?” He tugged his arms closer. “There really isn’t anything to say but ‘sorry,’ and he’s already done that.”

“I understand,” his professor nodded stiffly, “But just because he apologized does not mean he should be forgiven. Especially if you are not ready, Potter.”

“But I am.” Harry puffed. “He feels bad and regrets what he did. I don’t need to make him feel worse about himself by holding a grudge.” He shrugged, “He’s said he won’t do it again, and I trust that. So we’re fine.”

Snape seemed to pause. “And you really do forgive him?”

“It’s all in the past now,” Harry pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “There’s no need to drag it out.”

“I… suppose.”

Harry huffed, “What?”

Snape seemed to stiffen uncomfortably, his posture absurdly rigid. “It’s just,” he cleared his throat and pushed his shoulders back, “It is incredibly mature of you to move past everything and forgive him. I- I’m impressed, to say the least.”

“Thanks,” Harry flushed, turning back to look back at his abandoned parchment and quill. “I just don’t know how to put all that into a letter, you know?”

Snape nodded. “I’m sure it’s very difficult.”

“I…well,” Harry started, “Well, I want him to know I don’t blame him for anything. Living with the Dursleys was shit -- even for him, in a way, I guess. And I don’t know how to tell him that I get it and it’s fine. Like… It wasn’t really his fault and all, y’know, having grown up with those two as parents.”

“I’m sure that saying you understand and forgive him would be more than enough.” Harry saw Snape’s posture relax slightly. “Tell him exactly what you just told me -- that you don’t blame him, and that it’s all in the past now.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I just hope it’s enough.”

“Potter, it is more than enough. More than I’m sure he expects or deserves.”

Harry frowned. “He spent his whole childhood praised by my aunt and uncle for making me suffer.” Harry shrugged, running his hands up and down along his biceps. “I dunno, he’s just a product of his environment. What was he supposed to do?”

Snape watched him in silence, his eyes narrowed analytically. “Sometimes you are remarkably like your mother.”

Harry reeled back in shock, blinking in surprise, “What do you mean?”

“Your astonishing ability to forgive. It’s…very similar to Lily.” His eyes drifted away, his vision seemed to glaze over as if deep in thought. “Very similar indeed.” He muttered, his brows furrowed.

“I didn’t know you two were that close.”

“Oh yes,” his professor nodded. “We were close.”

Harry rubbed his hands together on his lap, shifting from side to side in his chair. “Could you tell me about her?” He asked meekly.

Snape’s eyes met his -- watching him carefully. “She..” He began hesitantly. “She was kind. She had an endless well of kindness for everyone, just like you do.” He cleared his throat. “She was smart, too. Incredibly smart -- particularly gifted in potions and charms.”

Harry sucked in a harsh breath. “How did you meet?”

“We grew up together.” Snape leaned forward slightly. “She used to live right down the street.”

“What, here?” Harry reeled. “My mother grew up here?”

His professor nodded slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry gripped the sides of his wooden chair. “I’ve been here for weeks. You could’ve at least mentioned it!”

“I didn’t deem it relevant,” Snape replied, narrowing his eyes at Harry’s raised voice.

“My parents are dead!” Harry growled. “I didn’t get to know about my mother’s kindness, or where she grew up, or anything! You don’t get to decide what isn’t relevant!”

“I apologize, Potter, for my lapse in judgment. I didn’t realize how little you knew.”

Harry threw up his arms in exasperation. “Yeah, well, no one ever tells me about my mom. Everyone just seemed to care about my dad.”

Snape watched him from across the room silently. Almost inaudibly, his professor muttered, “I wish you had been given the opportunity to meet her, Potter. She…” He inhaled sharply, “She would have adored you.”

Harry laughed, a stiff, curt noise as he watched his professor with a look of disbelief. The first person he’d been able to talk about his mother with -- he couldn’t believe it was Snape.

“Potter,” his professor interjected, clearing his throat and standing abruptly, “Perhaps we could discuss this further after some dinner.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Harry sputtered, drawing himself up clumsily from the chair.

As he followed his professor down the hall and toward the kitchen, Harry cursed himself for not asking about his mother before -- Why hadn’t I thought to? He argued with himself. Why did I assume he knew nothing?

He took his usual seat cautiously at the kitchen table, lowering himself into the wooden chair as slowly as possible as his professor moved between the fridge and the stove to prepare dinner. After what felt like both no time and also an eternity, Snape made his way over carrying two plates.

His professor took his seat next to him, arranging the dishes on the table carefully -- much to his dismay, Harry noticed that although his portion was still overwhelmingly large, it was significantly smaller than Snape’s.

“Eat,” his professor nodded to the plate. “Take as much time as you need, we are in no rush.”

Harry looked down at his food -- a few small slices of steak, some potatoes, and broccoli -- and felt his stomach sicken almost instantly. Shakily, he raised his fork and began to pick at his plate, swirling the food around in an effort to distract himself.

“Potter?” Snape turned to him, his brows drawn together in confusion. “Are you feeling alright? Is the portion too large?”

Stupid, weak, idiot.

“No, sir,” Harry cringed inward. “It’s fine.”

He stabbed his fork into a chunk of potato, bringing it to his mouth and chewing it slowly, feeling the rough texture give way to an uncomfortable, slimy substance. Grimacing, he forced himself to swallow.

“Potter, would you mind if I inquired after something?” His professor’s tone was conversational as Harry watched him dab at his mouth with a napkin.

He looked back down at his meal with disgust. “Inquire about what?” When Snape said nothing, he glanced back up nervously, meeting his professor’s impassive gaze.

“The Dursleys…” Snape began, pausing slightly, “Did you receive adequate sustenance while residing with them?”

Harry squirmed. How the fuck would I know what you consider adequate? He shook his head with a grimace. “Professor, I don’t uh…”

“I’m asking if they fed you enough, Harry.”

“I know what you were asking, I'm not thick.” He bit back, looking down and furrowing his brows as he fidgeted with his fingers. “Yeah, I mean, I ate less than they did, but normally it was just cus’ I was uhm…” He cleared his throat, unable to meet Snape’s stern, analytical eyes. “Y’know, busy doing stuff…”

“Busy doing chores?” His professor's voice was dry, almost unnervingly so.

“I mean, yeah-”

“Chores for Petunia?” His voice was low and knowing, making Harry’s stomach knot with anxiety.

“Yeah, I guess,” he nodded.

Snape straightened his posture, “Approximately how many meals did you eat a day while you were living with the Dursleys?”

Harry shifted his weight in discomfort -- if he thought about it honestly, he had never kept track. When it came to the Dursleys, he would usually try to cut his losses by taking whatever food he could, whenever he could. Hunger was uncomfortable, but nothing he ever bothered his relatives about if he could avoid it.

“I dunno,” He murmured, looking anywhere but Snape’s dark eyes. “Maybe one..?” He grimaced at how pathetic his voice sounded. One meal, if that, he realized, deciding not to disclose that particular detail to his professor.

Harry watched Snape reposition himself in his chair, straightening his back even more than he already had, sighing heavily. “Potter…” -- Harry squirmed at his pitying tone, recoiling in his chair -- “You understand why that is not acceptable, don’t you?”

Harry winced. “Yeah, I know,” he rubbed his hands together anxiously beneath the table, “And, I’m sorry, sir, I really just took what I could get I didn’t want to bother-”

“No, you misunderstand,” Snape interrupted with a sharp hand motion, “I am not blaming you, Potter. What was it you said about your cousin? That he was a product of his environment? That it wasn’t his fault?” Harry felt his throat close up, he knit his fingers together on his lap. “Perhaps it’s time you took your own advice and forgave yourself for something you’re not to blame for.”

Harry raised his head to watch Snape, unable to muster words as his professor gracefully picked up his utensils and resumed eating casually.

“With that said,” Snape nodded towards Harry’s plate, “A few bites, if you could.”

Lost for words, Harry raised his shaky hands and followed his professor’s lead, picking up his own knife and fork and stabbing at the food at his plate.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Harry blinked his eyes open groggily, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself up to a seated position on his small cot. He reached for his glasses, yawning as he adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He could tell from the light pouring into the room that he had woken later than usual -- the sun’s bright, golden hue filled up the room at what Harry guessed was about midmorning -- but, with few chores left to complete, he didn’t think Snape would really mind.

Instinctively, Harry looked over to Hedwig’s cage, blinking in confusion when he noticed her absence. The previous night flooded back to him suddenly and Harry cringed, remembering he had sent her off with a letter to his cousin in the early morning.

He scrunched his eyes closed, shaking his head, stupid, stupid, stupid. Dudley didn’t need a letter. Harry groaned -- he had written nothing of conscience, just a simple greeting and a short note of forgiveness. An olive branch. But it meant that Hedwig would not be returning for several days. Harry frowned at the thought, dragging himself from his bed and over to his trunk on the floor in the middle of the room, rummaging through his belongings for a fresh pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt.

With one leg into his pants, Harry’s eyes caught on two small, unfamiliar objects on the wooden desk beside him. He turned to get a better look, wobbling as he fully stepped into his jeans. On the desk sat one large, old, worn envelope with a small folded piece of paper beside it. Harry grabbed the smaller page, unfolding it slowly to reveal the neat, familiar script of his professor:

Harry -- it read

I’m leaving the house to run a few errands but should be back by late morning.

Make yourself some food if you are able.

Don’t do anything exceedingly stupid, and please refrain from flying in my absence.

S.S.

He scoffed to himself, placing the note back on the desk and slowly reaching for the far more decrepit-looking parchment of the other letter. His hands ran across the old, thin paper curiously, turning the envelope in his hand. The note was addressed to Severus Snape in a neat, black cursive Harry didn’t recognize. He furrowed his brow, hesitating.

What is he doing giving me this?

Harry flipped the letter around again, pulling open the top and peeking inside. There was a folded piece of paper pressed up against the walls of the envelope and a small, dried red rose beside it. Harry removed the letter, unfolding it as slowly as he could to carefully preserve the fragile paper, his breath coming in shallow, unsatisfying bursts.

Dear Severus,

I hope your summer holiday is going better than you expected and I am sorry that your father wouldn’t let you join us on the camping trip. If it’s any comfort, it’s dreadfully boring here. Petunia won’t stop making a fuss about how gross it is sleeping in a tent, but I think there’s something quite charming about getting away from everything for a little while.

Harry felt himself pause suddenly, his eyes widening in surprise. Shakily, he ran his hand across the neat lines of cursive, stopping over his aunt’s name and drawing in a quick, harsh breath. This is from my mother…

I do wish you were here. The letter continued. This trip would be infinitely better if I had someone here to make fun of Tuney’s endless squabbling. Please write when you can, I miss your bitter pessimism.

We should be back by late next week, and I’ll make sure to see you as much as possible before the start of the term. I know it always feels funny when we’re at school, but at least we have the summer to hang out without the prying eyes of Potter and his “marauders.”

Harry chuckled affectionately, his vision beginning to blur with unshed tears. Smiling, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

I’ve added a flower to this letter which I picked in some of the fields near our campsite. I know you think flower picking is terribly mugglish, but this one was especially beautiful. I can’t cast a preservation charm outside of school, as you know, but maybe your mother could. That way, its beauty can be seen forever.

Write back when you can, Sev. I’m terribly lonely with no one to talk to but my parents and Petunia. And please let me know how you’re doing. I know you hate it, but I worry when you’re home for long breaks.

Missing you always,

Lily Evans

Harry felt himself begin to laugh, his joy bubbling up despite the tears that had begun flowing freely down his cheeks as he clutched the letter to his chest. Sniffing, he moved across the room to the old wooden box Remus had given him, lowering himself to the ground beside it. Reaching into the crate, Harry pulled out the stack of old Polaroids, flipping through them quickly until he found what he was looking for -- a photo of his mother.

She was sitting on the grass beside Sirius, her red hair catching perfectly in the sunshine, her face tilted upward toward the sky, her freckles magnified against her pale skin. Harry ran his hand over her face, smiling. “Hi, mom.” He sniffed, wiping his eyes a second time.

Moving in the photo, his mother whispered something to Sirius who began to laugh heartily before pushing his long hair behind his ears. Harry remembered how his godfather’s laugh had been a snorty, exaggerated thing and found himself chuckling as he watched both figures smiling wide on his lap.

He moved to the next photo -- his mother and father holding hands in the hallway -- and let his eyes drift to his mother’s letter. “At least we have the summer to hang out without the prying eyes of Potter and his “marauders.”” Harry wiped his eyes as he looked at the Polaroid -- watching his parents skip through the halls completely happy, young, and carefree.

His father turned around to face the camera, his eyes so full of life, his smile wide. His mother turned with him, rolling her eyes fondly and poking at his father’s side, speaking words Harry couldn’t hear.

Every day, I miss you both.

A loud knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and Harry turned to see his professor standing in the entranceway, pushing the door open slowly. Snape seemed to take in the scene, his professor’s eyes darting to the letter in Harry’s hand and the photos strewn across the floor.

“You’re back,” Harry blinked away his tears, bringing his hand up to wipe his face clean.

“An astute observation,” Snape inhaled sharply, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Could-” He hesitated, his eyes drifting back down to the photos on his lap, his hands tightening around the Polaroid of his parents, “Could you tell me about them?” He looked up at his professor, Snape’s posture uncomfortably straight, “Please?”

“I-” He cleared his throat suddenly, “About your parents?”

“Yes.”

Snape moved into the room, “I would urge you, Potter,” he said, walking over to the desk and lowering himself into the chair, “To speak to Remus. I was never very… close with your father.”

“But you were close to my mother.” Harry countered. “Why give me the letter if you didn’t want me to ask about her?”

“You mentioned yesterday that I shouldn’t withhold information from you regarding your mother because you were never afforded the opportunity to know her. The letter was a small piece of Lily from my past. My offering it to you was my version of ‘telling you about her,’ as you put it.”

Harry felt himself deflate. “You can’t say anything else?”

His professor seemed to hesitate, his dark eyes silently falling on the photos scattered on the floor and Harry’s lap before raising them to meet Harry’s own.

“Please, sir,” he begged. “No one ever talks about my mother. It- it’s like she didn’t exist -- like no one cared about her. I know so much about my father -- from Remus and- and Sirius -- but my mom-”

“Then I urge you to go and speak with the wolf, Potter,” Snape said calmly. “He was far closer to her by the end of our school days. He would be able to offer more sufficient answers to your quest-”

“Please, professor.” Harry tried again. “It’s… it’s really hard to - to look at Remus right now. I just- it’s hard when all I can think about-”

“He’s gone, there’s nothing you can do.”

“I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Come out, come out, little Harry!”

He shook his head. “It’s just hard-- even though he said he doesn’t blame me for…” Harry sharply inhaled, “For what happened at the ministry.”

Snape watched him carefully in silence, unmoving; Harry fiddled lamely with his hands, turning his attention to the polaroids in his lap. “And right now…you’re here, professor.” He added hesitantly. “Remus isn’t.”

Agonizingly long seconds passed between them in silence, Harry shifting nervously where he sat on the floor. Eventually, his professor cleared his throat. “What do you want to know?”

Surprised, he paused, considering. “What was she like in school?” Harry raised an arm to scratch behind his neck, “You mentioned she was good at potions and charms but-”

“She was brilliant,” Snape mused. “Head girl, top marks -- she really was the perfect student.”

Harry looked down at his lap -- in the Polaroid, his mother began to laugh.

“She would’ve been impressed with your dedication to academia.”

Harry scoffed. “What do you mean? I’m a mediocre student, you’ve said it yourself.”

Snape seemed to cringe. “Yes, but,” Harry watched his professor pause for a moment as if lost, “But you push yourself to try consistently. She would’ve seen that.”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “Sirius once told me my dad was a brilliant wizard. Was that true?”

Snape inhaled, his brows drawing together in obvious annoyance. “Some would consider that to be true, I suppose.” Harry looked up at him -- his professor shifted in his chair in discomfort. “James was many things, but his skill was never questioned. His magic was,” he grimaced, “always impressive.”

“When did they start dating? I know that in the letter” -- Harry looked down at his mother’s neat script on the page beside him -- “it seems like she didn’t like him very much.”

“I… was not close with Lily when they began their relationship.” Snape cleared his throat awkwardly. “I really do urge you to go to Remus with any questions of their-”

“Please,” Harry’s shoulders dropped. “Is there anything you can say?”

“I-”

“Really, sir,” he adjusted the round frames of his glasses on his nose, “anything you can add is appreciated.”

Snape watched for a moment, recoiling, before something in his eyes seemed to soften slightly, his shoulders sagging as he sighed. “I suppose… from an outside perspective, they appeared to be happy together.”

“How?”

“It was obvious James adored her since he had been pining for your mother’s attention for years -- as much as she said she hated it when we were young, I suspect that secretly she always harbored some feelings for him, too. I was simply blinded by my own…distaste.”

“Because he was a bully?”

Snape winced subtly, but Harry was watching for reactions. “Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “I get that, I think. I had a lot of bullies growing up at Privet Drive -- I want you to know… well, that I don’t support what my father did to you. It wasn’t okay.”

Snape inhaled. “I..was not so innocent either,” he scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Our rivalry was two-sided, and I gave them as much grief as they gave me.”

“They?”

“The marauders -- that’s what they called themselves.” His professor’s gaze drifted down to the picture of Lily and James in Harry’s hands, his father’s large smile, his mother’s fond laugh. “Idiots.”

Harry giggled. “I know all about the marauders. I’ve heard about some of their stunts. Oh! And they had this map-” he cleared his throat, suddenly, cutting himself off -- “That, um, Sirius told me all about since I never got to see it.”

Snape looked unconvinced. “I’ve told you not to lie, Potter. You are thoroughly atrocious at it,” he sighed, “I know about the map. They went everywhere with it.”

Harry smiled. “I’ve heard about the pranks. Did my mother ever join in?”

Snape looked appalled. “Certainly not.” The corners of his mouth dragged down as he averted his eyes, “At least not when I knew her. Lily always thought their games were childish and immature. But once she started dating James… well, I wouldn’t know if she changed her mind.”

“You said it was obvious he liked her,” Harry said, his gaze falling to the photo of his parents holding hands, their bodies intertwined as they ran through the halls. “Once they started dating, was it obvious she liked him?”

“I would assume so. Once they were together, they were hardly ever seen alone. But I suppose I wouldn’t know how they really interacted. Once again, the person you should really be talking to is-”

“But did she show any affection toward him in public? The same way he showed her?”

“Really, Potter, I wouldn’t know-”

“But from what you could see-”

“I didn’t make a habit of watching them-”

“But even just in the Great Hall-”

“Harry,” Snape growled, “Enough. I wasn’t close with your mother by the end of our school years. I couldn’t tell you what she was like then.”

“Well, what were you doing?”

Snape flinched. “Preparing for war. It was all anyone talked about by our seventh year,” he huffed, his hand falling to his left forearm in what appeared to be subconscious, rehearsed movement -- his fingers mindlessly resting where Harry knew the Dark Mark twisted beneath his sleeve. “Your mother and I simply moved down different paths.”

“Even when you were both here in Spinner's End?”

“Yes,” Snape sighed, “Even then.”

“What I saw in your memories last year,” Harry winced under Snape’s fiery gaze, “Sorry, again, about that…” He cleared his throat before continuing, “Uh, was that the last time you spoke to my mother?”

“Yes,” Snape nodded, his eyes narrowed.

“Right,” Harry fidgeted awkwardly. “Sorry… for that.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry cringed. “Just restating it.”

Snape sighed. “It is in the past now, and you are forgiven. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded swiftly.

“But, yes. To answer your question more thoroughly, after that incident by the lake, Lily and I never spoke again. That included our summers here.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry started, knitting his hands together in his lap as he glanced at the letter on the floor, “She seemed like a close friend.”

“She was, but it was my fault, as you know.” Snape crossed his arms. “There are many things in my past I would change if given the opportunity. My relationship with Lily is no exception.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I get that…and thank you for talking.”

Snape’s posture shifted, seeming to relax slightly. “You’re welcome, Potter.”

“I, uh,” he rubbed his hands together on his lap. “You can call me Harry if you want, sir. It just feels kinda awkward when you don’t.”

Snape nodded hesitantly. “I suppose…while we reside together you may call me Severus.”

Harry reeled back in shock, his eyes snapping upward to meet his professors.

Snape looked uneasy. “That privilege does not extend into the school year, just so I am clear.”

“Right, obviously,” Harry spoke swiftly. “That makes sense.”

“Now,” His professor averted his eyes. “I presume you did not fix yourself something to eat?”

“No, sir,” Harry blinked before correcting himself, “Sorry, I mean Severus.”

Snape’s expression twisted into a subtle look of disappointment. “Right, well. Follow me downstairs, I’ll make you something.”

Nodding, Harry rose from the floor and dusted himself off. “Sure,” he smirked, “But can I ask you more questions?”

Snape grimaced. “I suppose.”

Chapter Text

It was dark, that was his first thought. Harry blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimly lit corridor as he pulled himself up from the floor. The hallway was long -- so unbearably long he couldn’t see where it might possibly end. Just one unnerving continuation of black doors separated by dark blue, smooth tiles that spanned across the walls, floor, and ceiling.

He needed to move, that was clear. Scrambling to his feet, Harry made his way to the closest door, but the handle remained stiff in protest, locked. He moved down the hall quickly, attempting to open various doors at random, each of them remaining tightly closed. He quickened his pace, his speed increasing as he began to run down the corridor, grasping uselessly at passing handles, praying they would unlock and grant him an exit.

Harry glanced behind him, his breath hitching when he noticed that the end of the long hall was completely absorbed in shadow, the furthest doors already demolished into a void of endless, black nothingness.

The shadow grew nearer. Harry sprinted down the hall, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and desperately patting down his pockets for his wand.

He didn’t have his wand. He tried another door. Why didn’t he have his wand? Harry chanced a look behind him; the shadow was closer than it was before, swiftly approaching him. He dashed down the hall, stumbling briefly before regaining his footing. The corridor seemed to lengthen, an endless row of black doors and smooth tiles to either side.

Harry gasped, slowing as he tried desperately to regulate his breathing. “Let me in!” He banged on the nearest door, trying the handle. “Let me in!”

The shadow grew close now, nearly ten tiles away. Harry banged a second time, louder. “Please!” A door further down the hallway swung open loudly, echoing throughout the quiet space. Harry dashed for the opening as the world behind him fell away to darkness, the shadow right at his tail.

Arms outstretched, he jumped through the door, landing with a thud on a cold, hard surface. The door slammed shut behind him and Harry picked himself off the ground slowly, dusting off his clothes and readjusting his glasses before he looked around the new space.

He was in a large, dimly lit, rectangular room with benches all around the perimeter descending in steep steps like an amphitheater. In the center, on a raised slab of stone -- Harry felt himself gasp in shock -- stood the Veil. It was just as tall and ancient as he remembered, its stone so cracked and crumbling that it seemed an amazing feat to still be standing. His eyes locked on the archway, fixating on the tattered black curtain that hung in its center, fluttering gently and swaying as though it had been touched.

He had been there. Sirius. Just a few months ago. The curse had hit him square in the chest.

Harry felt his hands begin to shake.

Sirius had fallen in a slow, graceful arc. Tumbling into the curtain, disappearing.

Harry felt his feet begin to move on their own, drawing him closer to the Veil’s tortuous archway. He could hear whispers all around him, incessant muttering pounding in his ears.

“Little baby Potter.” A voice echoed throughout the room.

Harry spun, Bellatrix grinned maniacally down at him from one of the benches nearby. “He was right here, wasn’t he Potter?” She teased, twirling her wand around a loose strand of hair. “He was here, my cousin, but aww” -- she frowned, mockingly -- “not anymore.”

“You have no right to mock him!” Harry shouted, fists clenched at his sides.

“Oh!” Bellatrix gasped, her mad grin widening. “Such ferocity!” She giggled. “Are you upset? Did you love him, Potter?”

"Shut up!” Harry yelled. “Shut up!”

Bellatrix’s expression morphed into a hideous glare. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to yell? Avada kedavra!” She cursed, pointing her wand at his chest.

Harry leaped to the side, dodging her fire as the green spell shot past him. He ran, as fast as he could, behind the raised stone slab for cover, crouching low to the cold floor.

“You can’t escape me forever, Potter!” She bellowed, her booming voice echoing throughout the room.

Harry clamped his hands over his ears hoping to quell the piercing noise.

“You’ll end up right where he did in the end!” She shrieked in a manic laugh, “What makes you so different anyway?”

Harry pressed his hands tighter over his ears, his head pounding as Bellatrix’s mocking voice blended with the harsh whispers of the Veil.

“Come out, come out, baby Potter!” He could tell she was closer now. It was only a matter of time before she was on top of him. “I’m not going to wait forever.”

Harry lowered his arms, clenching his jaw as he pushed himself up to stand. He turned around, swiveling to face Bellatrix who stood on the other side of the platform. “Leave me alone!” He growled.

She laughed heartily, clutching her side before her expression soured. “Coward!” She bellowed. “You should want revenge!”

“Then fight me!” He called. “Right here, right now!”

“And you’ll duel me with what?” She chuckled grimly. “Your wand?”

Harry paled, his hands groping his pockets for a wand again, retreating as Bellatrix began to snicker.

“Not so tough are you now, boy?” She lunged at him, raising her wand. “Crucio!”

Harry dodged, running back towards the black wooden door behind him.

“Ah ah ah,” Bellatrix tsked, “It’s not going to work.”

Harry tried the handle. Locked. He groaned, turning back to the room, his eyes darting around for any sort of escape.

Bellatrix waved her wand, grabbing his attention. “Crucio!” She bellowed.

Harry ran around the raised bit of stone, centering the archway between them.

“Oh Potter,” Bellatrix cooed mockingly. “You’re not leaving this room any other way than my dear cousin did.”

Harry’s eyes darted to the Veil. He moved closer.

Her wretched laugh stopped abruptly, her voice suddenly dropping as she furiously yelled, “Stop running!”

She rounded the archway, approaching him swiftly.

He needed out.

She drew her wand again.

He needed out right now.

“Crucio!”

Harry jumped onto the platform, sprinting as fast as he could toward the Veil.

“Get back here, Potter!” She shrieked in surprise. “Face me like a real Gryffindor!”

Harry raised his arms in front of his head, shielding himself as he collided with the black curtain, the floor disappearing as the Veil engulfed him.

He fell. Plummeting through the darkness at a speed he couldn’t place. His arms moved wildly around him, clawing for any kind of surface he could reach.

Is this what Sirius felt?

He flailed as his body picked up speed.

Am I dead?

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He could only hear the rush of the wind as he descended and the billowing fabric of his clothes flapping around his torso.

It’s too dark.

He clawed at his throat, gasping for air.

Where’s Severus?

Suddenly, his back hit something firm and Harry grunted involuntarily, his body lurching upward from the sudden impact.

He blinked his eyes open, adapting to the dim light as he looked around at the small, cramped space. There was a worn mattress beneath him, books and old clothes shoved into the corner of the small room and a shelf littered with toy army soldiers.

I must be in Hell, Harry decided, grimacing as he adjusted to the cupboard under the stairs, his eyes locking on the old drawing that remained taped to the wall beside him: “Harry’s room,” it read in bright colors.

He turned to the door beside him, pressing against it. Locked, Harry groaned. He hugged his legs to his chest, burying his head in his knees.

Stupid, he grumbled to himself. No matter what you do you always end up back here.

Abruptly, a hard surface pressed up behind him and Harry raised his head, turning around to see that the walls of the cupboard had begun to close in on one another. He pressed his hands on the walls on either side of him, pushing against their continued movement.

He gasped, out of breath as the walls continued in their vicious pursuit, all four of them pushing closer. Harry’s old clothes and books began to crumple together, drawing nearer as the small space decreased in area. The edges of the mattress began to fold in on itself.

No, no, no, no. Harry threw himself against the door, pushing with all his might. I will not die here.

The walls drew closer, and Harry pressed his feet up against the far one, straining to move it back.

“Dudley!” He shouted, his voice wild with effort. “Uncle Vernon! Let me out please!”

Harry’s chest burned, and he pushed his hands against the walls. His legs bent in half as the space grew smaller. He ducked his head.

“Please!” He screamed.

He could feel the walls all around him now, tight and getting tighter. His breath was hot and quick. Resigning, he made himself as small as possible, wrapping his arms around his legs.

The walls were vicious, pressing up against his skin, the mattress and the clothes stacked against his legs, taking up vital space.

Harry forced himself to breathe -- he felt his breath on his arms.

I’m always here. I always come back.

It was too tight. He felt his arms pressing into his ribs, constricting what little movement he had.

This is where I die.

His ribs burnt. His eyes began to water. It was too hot, too cramped, too much.

“Potter!”

This is where I die.

“Potter wake up!”

His ribs hurt, and his lungs couldn’t take the pressure.

“Harry!”

Harry woke with a start, quickly sitting upward as his limbs flailed around him, desperately searching for something to hold on to. His breath came in short, unsatisfying gasps as he latched on to whatever sat in front of him. His hands tightened, clinging to the fabric he had found.

“Harry,” his professor’s voice was smooth and calm, it felt almost out of place. “It’s okay, you’re awake now.”

His grip tightened as his eyes blinked open groggily; despite his blurry vision, Harry could make out the wooden desk, the window, and the twin bed that he had grown so familiar with over the last few weeks. I’m in my room, he exhaled, relaxing slightly.

“Harry.”

I’m holding on to Snape. He dropped his hands, scootching backward on the cot and forcing distance between himself and his professor. He clutched at his chest, feeling his torso’s quick rise and fall as he drew his legs in close.

“Breathe. You need to calm yourself down, you’re awake now, everything’s okay.” Snape’s blurry figure shifted in Harry’s vision.

He sniffed, his face was wet. I’m crying? He cringed, wiping his eyes hastily with shaky hands.

“What do you do when you need to occlude? What is the first step?”

“I’m not in the mood for a pop quiz, professor,” he croaked, his voice weaker than he had expected it to be. He wrapped his arms around his legs and pulled them closer to his chest, grasping his hands together in an attempt to quell their shaking.

“With your breath,” Snape pressed. “What should you do with your breath?”

“Merlin, I don’t know!” Harry sputtered, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Regulate it?”

“Count your inhales,” his professor replied calmly. “Force your mind to slow down and your body will respond in kind.”

“Ugh!” He groaned. “That doesn’t make the thoughts go away! It’s not that calming.”

“Harry, please. Indulge me.” His professor’s eyes were almost impossible to read in the dim light of the room, but Harry watched the slight catch of light on Snape’s features like a lifeline.

He sighed, letting his eyes flutter closed. Inhale, one, exhale. Inhale, two, exhale. Inhale, three, exhale.

“Good.” His professor’s steady voice cut through the room’s silence. “Keep going just like that -- and stop fidgeting with your hands, Harry. There you go. Now just try to relax.”

Inhale, four, exhale. Inhale, five, exhale. Harry continued for what felt like ages, counting in silence. He felt his body begin to slacken into the mattress beneath him as he continued to breathe steadily, his hands falling from his knees as he felt his panic begin receed.

“How do you feel?” Snape spoke carefully after Harry had reached fifty.

He exhaled. “Better, I think?” He shrugged, opening his eyes. “I’m less shaky.”

Snape nodded. “Good. Now, try to occlude. Let the physical alarm fade away completely.”

“Okay, but how do I do that?”

“Close your eyes. There, now, focus on a spot above your head. When you inhale, draw energy from that spot down your body to your stomach. Feel that expansion -- very nice, Harry. Now, exhale and let that energy flow back up above your head. Focus on the push and pull of energy, not unlike the movement of the tide.”

Harry breathed deeply. Inhale, down to the stomach. Exhale, up past the head. Inhale, down to the stomach. Exhale, up past the head.

“Let your body relax,” Snape spoke calmly.

Inhale, down. Exhale, up.

He felt his body begin to rise and fall, moving circularly.

Inhale, exhale.

Push, pull. Be like the tide.

Harry felt his magic begin to surge through his body, following the flow of energy up and down his body. His breathe flowed steadily, stopping naturally as his muscles released their tension.

In- ex-

A rush of clarity swept through him, his body sagging into the mattress.

“Very good,” Snape praised. “You can open your eyes now, Harry.”

He blinked his eyes open, his body numb and energetic. “I’m sorry, sir,” Harry muttered, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, you did not. I was walking to my chambers when I heard you shouting rather loudly.”

Harry cringed, averting his eyes.

“Am I correct in assuming your nightmare was not related to the Dark Lord?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Unrelated.”

“Was it the graveyard again?”

Harry winced. “No.”

“Would you mind telling me?”

“It-” he shook his head, “it was just inescapable. Everything was inescapable.”

Snape nodded. “Go on.”

Harry groaned. “I couldn’t get out! And she was there-”

“Bellatrix?”

Harry averted his eyes. “And I was back in that damn cupboard just like I always am, and the walls were getting closer and then they were too close and no one was around to let me out -- not that I would’ve been freed because every time I ran through a door it just lead me somewhere worse and I-”

“Harry,” Snape interrupted suddenly. “It’s okay. You’re not in the cupboard anymore.”

He blinked, huffing with slight exacerbation. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you’re never going back there.”

“I know.”

“No, Harry.” Snape inched forward placing a hand on his knee. “Listen to me: you’re not going back to the cupboard anymore.”

He scoffed, scooting backward on the mattress. “Professor, I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Snape moved his thumb back and forth over Harry’s shin comfortingly, the weight of his hand a constant connection to a reality so separate from the nightmare. “You’re not going back there,” his professor repeated, “You’re not going back there ever again.”

Harry looked away, his eyes beginning to well with unshed tears. “Stop it,” he muttered. “That’s not true-”

“I made you a promise and I intend to keep it,” Snape moved closer. “You’re not going back.”

“Don’t tell me shit you don’t mean!” His voice was louder now. “Dumbledore will send me back next summer like he always does anyway!”

“You’re not going back,” Snape spoke calmly. “You’re not going back.”

“I said stop!” He yelled, turning away from his profesor as his tears begin to fall, streaking down his face uncontrollably. “Stop it,” he muttered into his shoulder.

Snape moved quickly, wrapping his arms around him and scooping Harry into a firm hug. “You’re not going back there,” he held him close, “I promise you now, you’re not going back there.”

Harry felt his tears pour out of him as he clutched onto his professor’s robes, burying his face in fabric. Snape’s arms held him in place, clinging to him tightly while he sobbed.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry whined, his eyes stinging with tears. “I’m so sorry!”

“Shhh,” Snape hushed him, running his hands up and down Harry’s back. “It’s alright, Potter,” he whispered, rocking back and forth for long, stretching minutes until Harry managed to quiet himself.

Harry sniffed as his tears began to ebb, pulling away from his professor to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. “I didn’t mean to get your shirt all wet,” he chuckled halfheartedly.

“It’s nothing that can’t be easily fixed.”

“Thank you,” he fidgeted lamely with his hands. “For this.”

Snape nodded curtly, almost business-like. “Of course. I-” His professor winced, clutching his left forearm in distress.

“What is it?” Harry asked in alarm as Snape swept quickly from the bed.

“I am being summoned,” he said evenly, drawing his wand and running it across his body.

“Summoned?”

Snape turned to him; Harry couldn’t identify his facial expression without his glasses.

“What, now? By Volde-”

“Do not speak his name!” Snape hissed, waving his wand over his head and fabricating a dark black hood. Even with his blurred vision, Harry could identify the black pointed hood and skull mask of the Death Eaters that his professor now adorned. He felt his pulse begin to spike.

“Sir-”

“I must leave you now,” Snape’s voice was muffled through the mask. “Please try and go back to sleep.”

Harry scoffed, throwing up his arms, “I can’t just- just-”

“Potter,” he snapped, “Please. Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.” he swept out of the room, shutting the door harshly behind him.

Harry flinched at the slam of the door, the crashing shudder as it rested on its hinges engulfing the otherwise eerily quiet room. His ears rang slightly in the sudden silence, his hands balled in the sheets beneath him, the tremor returning to his fingers.

Right, of course, he’s a Death Eater, Harry felt his panic begin to bubble up once more. How could I have forgotten?

Chapter Text

The house was quiet. Harry lay on his bed, his hands lamely running across his chest, twirling the folds of the sheet that draped over him between his fingers. He didn’t know how long it had been since Snape left, but judging by the way the light had begun to creep through the window, Harry guessed it had been quite some time.

“You’re not in the cupboard anymore.” His professor had said calmly.

Harry cringed, drawing his legs into his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

“You’re never going back there again.”

Harry shook his head, running a hand down his face.

Snape’s expression had been stoic and deeply serious. “I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. You’re not going back.”

Harry sighed, flinging the sheets off his body and climbing out of the small cot. Grabbing his glasses from the bedside table, he made his way lazily into the hall and downstairs towards the kitchen, flicking on lights as he moved through the bleak rooms of the old house. He moved the worn-in kettle across the stove, flicking on the burner beneath it and watching as the hot blue flames began to coat its underside.

The house was quiet. It had been that way since Harry heard the unmistakable popping sound of his professor apparating to wherever he had been summoned. Harry crossed the kitchen to the far right cabinet, withdrawing a small mug.

Black skull, pointed hood. Harry rubbed his thumbs along the inside of his palms slowly, feeling the crevices of his skin beneath the contact. He felt his fingers drift upward toward his forearm, brushing over the skin lightly. Snape had been in pain when the Mark burned.

The kettle wheezed to a boil, abruptly stopping his thoughts as Harry moved to the stove. He poured the water clumsily, nearly missing the cup before he steadied his hand.

Suddenly, the robust whooshing sound of roaring flames echoed throughout the house. Through the archway, Harry could see the living room flash a brilliant green before the sound of marvelous flames stopped just as quickly as it began. Harry heard heavy footsteps grow louder and ducked his head, forcing his eyes on the mug.

“Potter,” came Snape’s stern voice from behind him. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Harry shrugged, turning to face him. His professor was wearing his usual black robes. There was no mask. “Making tea. Do you want some?”

Snape seemed to hesitate, moving slowly into the room. “Yes,” he said in an unusually quiet voice. “Mint, thank you.”

Nodding, Harry moved to grab another mug and tea bag from the cabinet, pouring the boiling water with more control the second time.

His professor took a long, shaky breath inward. “Harry, it’s not safe for you to be out of bed after” - he inhaled sharply - “well, after what happened tonight. How could I have explained your presence if someone had chosen to accompany me home this evening?”

“Dunno.” Harry shrugged again, turning to the table holding both cups of tea. “Would you like me to bring my cloak with me every time I choose to come downstairs?” He bit back, placing the cups down on the wooden surface.

“No,” Snape sighed, reaching for his mug slowly. “I’m merely saying that if you did as I asked, you would avoid unnecessary risk.”

Harry sat in his usual chair, averting his eyes. “Right, sure. But I’d sneak off and hide if I heard voices, just so you know.”

“But what about the lights?” He seemed annoyed.

Harry shrugged. “You’re a spy I’m sure you could come up with an excuse.”

“That is not the point.” His professor sighed, sipping his tea before moving the mug back to the table with more force than necessary, spilling some of its contents.

Harry’s eyes moved to the table; Snape exhaled slowly. His hands are shaking, Harry noted internally.

“Potter, I simply mean to say that-”

“Is everything okay, sir?” Harry cleared his throat, nodding to his professor’s trembling fingers. Snape withdrew his arms, folding them on his lap beneath the table.

“Yes, Harry. Everything is fine.” He said calmly, his expression the pinnacle of composure.

“You’re shaking-”

“I’m alright.”

“What happened?”

“Harry.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Harry,” Snape said firmly. “Please, I beg of you, no more.”

Withdrawing his hands, his professor carefully lifted his mug to his lips, wincing slightly as his fingers latched around the handle.

“You are in pain.” Harry stood suddenly, his chair screeching backward. “Did they hurt you?”

Snape said nothing.

“They did, didn’t they?” He rounded the table. “Did he figure out you’re a spy, then?”

“I wouldn’t be alive if that were true,” Snape chuckled darkly, inelegantly returning his mug to the table with a ringing thud.

“So what happened?” His eyes scanned over his professor incessantly, assessing him for injuries. “Was it the cruciatus curse?”

Snape’s eyes twitched slightly as if he were wincing, “How did you-”

“You’re shaking,” Harry spoke urgently, moving to the doorway. “Where do you keep that potion again -- you know, the one you gave me for the nerve dam-”

“No, Potter-”

“Sir, you’re-”

“Harry, sit down!” Snape bellowed, slamming his shaking fingers on the table, before clenching his eyes shut as if the impact left him in agonizing pain. “Sit down, please.” Snape steadied his voice, seething through clenched teeth.

Harry crept back toward the table slowly, lowering himself into the chair beside his professor and hunching in toward his chest. “Sir?” He cleared his throat; Snape had not opened his eyes.

“Yes, Harry, you have correctly assessed the situation. No,” he emphasized since Harry had begun to interject, “You may not retrieve any antidote for me. The Dark Lord relishes the effects of his punishments. In his eyes, to alleviate the pain would defeat the purpose of punishment entirely. He is aware that I am capable of producing such a brew and yet, I am electing not to take it. It will strengthen his trust in me.”

“But-”

“The tea is lovely,” Snape forestalled him, his voice soothed as he opened his eyes, clutching his hands around the mug, “Thank you.”

Harry hesitated, his gaze falling to his professor’s hands. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Always the hero,” Snape chuckled. “You’ve done more than enough. Just head back upstairs and try to get some sleep.”

Days later, Harry found himself spending his morning aimlessly wandering about the depressing house, kicking his legs beneath him absentmindedly as he moved from room to room. Out of sheer boredom, he had already attempted flying, reading, writing, staring out the window, cleaning (which Snape had firmly objected to with a harsh glare), and, to his horror, occlumency. Currently, he found himself sprawled out on the couch situated in the dull living room, mindlessly twirling the tassels of one of the few throw pillows between his fingers.

“Harry.” His professor called, moving slowly through the archway and into the room Harry lounged in, “Come eat,” Snape drawled.

Throwing the pillow away harshly, Harry pulled himself off of the sofa and moved to follow his professor into the kitchen where the wafting smell of chicken and potatoes immediately hit his nose. Quietly, he took his seat, folding his hands on his lap politely.

Snape sighed. “I know we have not been speaking” he began glumly, setting a plate with a small portion in front of Harry before taking his place at the table. “I apologize for being so distant, I needed some time to recover.”

Harry frowned, picking up his fork and stabbing at his food.

“While your concern is appreciated, it is misplaced. This was not the first, nor will it be the last time I am subjected to the unpleasantries of the cruciatus curse.”

“How exactly is that supposed to make me feel any better, sir?” Harry glared, pushing the food around on his plate.

“I’m merely stating a fact. If you would let me-”

“I’m sick of feeling useless!” He groaned, running his hands through his hair. “Why can’t you just let me help you?”

Snape watched him carefully in silence, his professor’s dark eyes scanning over him in assessment. Eventually, he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. “This is a great learning opportunity, Harry. Sometimes, there will be things -- painful, horrible things -- that lie outside of your control. War is filled with casualties and injuries, and sometimes you’ll see people you care for hurt beyond measure. You can’t always fix that, and it’s not your place to try.”

“With all due respect, Sn- Severus. I get that in theory, but if I can do something to make you feel better, why not try?” He barreled on, sensing his professor’s interjection. “I know that your situation is different and that you need to show You-Know-Who that you’re tough, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean that not trying to help someone who’s hurt should be a rule for everything.”

“No, I never said in every circumstance, Potter, use your head,” he huffed, “I’m reminding you that you can’t always play hero and expect it to work. You should prioritize your own safety.”

Harry shrugged. “I can’t do that, professor. It’s not about being a hero, I just can’t sit back and let someone be in pain when I could fix it.” He poked at his food again, averting his eyes. “I’ve seen enough people die to know that if I can help, I will.”

Snape sighed, reaching his hand across the table and planting it firmly on Harry’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” he began, squeezing Harry’s shoulder reassuringly, “Dwelling on the past will get you nowhere. There’s nothing you could have done to save Sirius. Don’t let your guilt fester, it will only make you bitter.”

Harry winced. “I could’ve listened to Hermione and not gone to the Ministry-”

“Yes, you could’ve. But the Dark Lord would have figured out another way to get into your head.”

“Ugh,” Harry groaned, rolling his eyes. “I know. I’ve been working on my occlumency-”

“I’m not talking about that.” Snape dismissed, shaking his head. “I’m telling you that you’re too harsh with yourself. There are a thousand different decisions, not all made by you, that lead to Sirius’s passing. It is not your fault.”

Harry remained quiet, his eyes focused on the hands in his lap.

“Promise me, Harry, that unless you are with me or the Headmaster you will not put yourself in unnecessary danger this year.” Snape’s grip on his shoulder intensified. “Prioritize your own safety for once in your life, I beg you.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, okay.” He ducked his head, avoiding eye contact.

“And speaking of the school year,” Snape seemed to relax, withdrawing his arm and folding his hands on his lap, “I’m sure you are aware of this, Harry, but our relationship must return to what it was at the end of the spring semester.”

He tensed, his eyes darting to his professor. “Meaning what exactly?”

“You must address me with proper respect, and I must despise you.”

“Sir?”

“That is, at least, in public,” Snape smirked as Harry felt himself begin to relax once more. “Given the current political climate, I must maintain a strict classroom environment, which places you under particular scrutiny. It is never a bad idea to perform, lest any word of my swaying affiliation make its way back to the Dark Lord.”

Harry scoffed, “Is that why you’ve always been such a prick? Because someone might tell on you?”

“More or less,” his professor grimaced. “But in private, we may continue in our usual manner. I’d like to see you in my office at least once a week for the duration of the school year. I urge you to remember that you have agreed to continue to speak through your thoughts surrounding your relatives.” Snape eyed him knowingly. “I trust you have not decided to revoke your commitment to our sessions?”

Harry cringed. “No, I guess not. But once a week seems a little excessive, I mean I’m totally fine-”

“I am requesting that we meet once a week.” Snape continued as if Harry hadn’t said anything at all, “Not all of our time together needs to be spent discussing your upbringing. I understand you wish to be an auror? Given your abysmal track record in my classes, you could stand to attend a tutoring session or two.”

“Great,” he huffed, “Sounds like a blast.”

“I’m glad you approve -- now eat, Harry, if you can. Your food is getting cold.”

It was days later when Hedwig soared through the open window of Harry’s room, flapping her wings loudly as she descended onto her perch in the corner. Harry leapt out of bed at the sound of her annoyed hooting and approached her cage.

“Hey, girl,” he smiled, stroking her feathers lightly with the back of his hand. “How was the flight?”

Hedwig kicked her claw out toward his middle, brandishing the letter tied to her leg and shoving it at Harry who quickly began to undo the knot.

“Right, sorry, I’m sure you’re tired.” He chuckled, withdrawing the small muggle envelope. “I laid out some treats in your bowl when you’re ready.”

She cooed happily and moved slowly to the other side of her perch, bowing her head to eat as Harry sat at the old, wooden desk admiring the letter.

He had nearly forgotten about his message to Dudley. In truth, he certainly had not expected a response. Nothing he had ever said to his cousin had ever seemed to make any impact on Dudley and he had assumed his olive branch would go wholly ignored, if not immediately thrown away. Harry twirled the envelope in his hand and inspected it carefully. It was clearly new, and as far as Harry knew, Dudley wasn’t very keen on writing letters to his friends. This meant that the envelope had come from Petunia, or at least was stolen from the drawer in the kitchen where she kept her stationary. Harry’s name was written in the center with a question mark underneath where Harry’s address should have been written. 1 Private drive was labeled as the return address, and Harry chuckled slightly when he noticed a Union Jack stamp in the upper left corner.

With shaking hands, he tore open the letter, removed the folded sheet of paper inside, and raised it up high enough for him to read.

‘Harry,’ it began in a messy script.

I know that you said you’d write but I didn’t think you actually would. Your You’re bird didn’t like coming back here it tried to bite me I think.

Harry raised his eyes off the paper and glared at Hedwig across the room. She was happily nibbling at the food Harry had placed in her bowl and just as happily ignoring his pointed stare.

He continued to read: i appreciate your forgiveness and I’m sorry i was such an ass to you. Your right that my parents have something to do with it but I also deserve some blame too i guess.

I don’t really know what else to say except I’ll see you next summer and I’d be happy to keep writing if you want to.

Cheers,

Dudley

Harry turned the letter over in his hand expecting more. Shrugging, he tossed the note aside, unclear on what he had expected from his cousin in the first place. Dudley had always been a man of few words and even fewer that were nice. If anything, the letter had been a pleasant surprise.

Harry found the last few days in Spinner’s End oddly comforting. He spent most of his time absorbed in his occlumency reading, which he was strangely beginning to grasp, or packing the remainder of his things into his trunk which inadvertently made his room appear the cleanest it had looked since he had arrived. Snape’s presence was sparse and usually constricted to meal times, which Harry was required to attend until his professor decided he had eaten enough (an opinion that Snape typically signaled with a slight nod of his head.)

Harry found himself in an uneasy truce with his professor and happily noted that his last few days in the old house were spent in pleasant company. It felt strange to be leaving such a dreary place, Harry noted to himself quietly as he dragged his trunk downstairs on the day Snape had told him he would be taken to the Burrow. Surprisingly, he was not wholly unhappy; the thought of reuniting with his friends and embarking on the journey back to Hogwarts was exciting, but Harry found that he simply could not shake the feeling that he would soon miss the gloom of Spinner’s End along with his equally gloomy professor.

“Notify me by owl if you realize you have forgotten anything and I will return it to you during the semester,” Snape tutted, his arms clamped behind his back as he stood beside the fireplace.

“Right, okay,” Harry nodded, dropping his trunk beside the empty owl cage he had brought down minutes before.

“Your bird?” His professor knit his brows together.

“I told her to fly over to school and that I’d meet her there,” Harry shrugged. “She’ll be fine.”

Snape seemed to relax, his shoulders dropping slightly. There was something melancholic in his expression. “Then I bid you farewell, Harry, and I shall see you at school.”

He nodded, fidgeting awkwardly beneath his professor’s beady gaze. There were too many things he wanted to say and not enough ways to articulate them all. “Thank you,” he settled for cautiously, stumbling over his words hesitantly, “For putting up with me for the last few weeks.”

“You’re welcome,” Snape sniffed, moving to cross his arms. “It was no trouble.”

Harry scoffed. “Sure.”

“I’ll contact you once you have met with Professor McGonagall about your schedule to make time for our weekly meetings.” He continued, “Don’t make me have to chase you down, I am counting on your attendance.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, “Sure, of course.”

With a final nod, Snape moved to the fireplace quickly and tossed in a handful of floo powder. The flames roared a bright, brilliant green, and Harry, collecting his things, darted into the flames without a second look back.

He moved through the floo quickly, feeling the familiar tug at the back of his naval as he traveled between fireplaces. A few short seconds later, Harry emerged in the warm, comforting living room of the Burrow, complete with all its usual hues of red and orange. He smiled, inhaling the smell of Mrs Weasley’s cooking, and stepped away from the mantle, dusting off his clothes.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang from the corner of the room, drawing his attention. She stumbled as she jumped up from the chair she had been sitting backward in, and rushed to hug him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him lightly on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here! And right on time, too. Mrs Weasley’s just started getting everything in the car.”

“We’re in the car again?” Harry questioned, his voice felt quiet.

“Well you’re still the ‘Chosen One,’ mate,” Ron chuckled, moving into the small room, “That means you need security.”

“I haven’t read the Prophet all summer, are they still on about that?”

Ron and Hermione both nodded, looking oddly solemn. “Gonna be an interesting year, then,” Harry grumbled.

“Come on, let’s get you in the car.” Hermione smiled, linking arms with him and picking up Hedwig’s cage from the floor. “I wanna hear all about Snape when we’re on the train later.”

The car ride was distinctly uneventful, and upon arrival, Harry was displeased to discover that no cheerful Hagrid was waiting for them at King’s Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking.

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said flustered Mrs. Weasley, eyeing the strangers nervously. “Harry had better go first, with--” She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry’s upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror’s grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.

Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds and without waiting to consult the grim-faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform, looking for an empty compartment.

“We can’t, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. “Ron and I’ve got to go to the prefects’ carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”

“Oh right, I forgot,” said Harry.

“You’d better get straight on the train, all of you, you’ve only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs. Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely term, Ron…” The woman rambled, evidently trying to roll out the goodbyes as quickly as possible.

“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry, making up his mind assuredly.

“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the others nevertheless.

He could see Mrs. Weasley and the pair of Aurors casting them suspicious looks as they moved away. “When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.

“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and Hermione disappeared while you were supposed to be in the back room of the apothecary?”

“How did you-?”

“Harry, please.”

“Er… yeah, all right, we weren’t in the back room.”

“Very well, then, let’s hear the worst.”

“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my Invisibility Cloak.”

“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. “Well? What'd you learn, then?”

“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and started bullying the bloke there, Borgin, to help him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to keep something else for him. He made it sound like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And...”

Harry took a deep breath.

“I think he’s been branded with the Dark Mark. I think he’s replaced his father as a Death Eater.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley slowly, faux consideration laced the man’s voice. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have been dangerous.”

“I think you missed something,” said Harry stubbornly. “Snape was told by-” he forced himself to bite his tongue, deeming it unwise to tell a member of the Order that his professor had allowed Death Eaters into the house while he was there -- “Well, erm, he mentioned that Draco had been given a task to complete for the Dark Lord that involves Hogwarts in some way. I think you’ve ought to look into it.”

“Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell that he was humoring him. There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing. “You’d better hurry,” said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!”

Sighing, Harry hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train. He waved until the train had turned a corner and the Weasleys were lost to view, then turned to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects’ carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.

He tapped Ginny on the shoulder. “Fancy trying to find a compartment?”

“I can’t, Harry, I said I’d meet Dean,” she said brightly. “See you later.”

“Right,” He grumbled. Despite his festering annoyance, Harry found a compartment quickly, plopping down into the seat and admiring the view. The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight. It was during one of the clear spells, when the sun was visible almost directly overhead that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at last.

“Guess what?” Ron said, slumping into the seat beside Harry. “Malfoy’s not doing prefect duty. He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”

Harry sat up straight, interested. “What did he do when he saw you?”

“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, “But why isn’t he out there bullying first years?”

“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. “Maybe it’s got something to do with the new job Voldemort’s given him. Maybe he’s just gotta lie low for a bit.”

“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” Hermione corrected, crossing her arms over her chest. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that. Not everything has to mean he’s on some mission.”

“Listen,” Harry leaned forward, “Let’s go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he’s up to.”

“No, Harry. It’s irresponsible.” Hermione seemed annoyed. “What if you’re caught?”

“I won't be,” Harry scoffed, gesturing toward his trunk. “I have the cloak.”

“Do you know what his mission even is, Harry?” Ron cleared his throat. “Like, did Snape say anything? And how’d it go with him anyway?”

Harry chuckled to himself lightly, running a hand along the nape of his neck, the image of his enraged professor flashing across his mind. “War is permanent!” Snape had shouted, brandishing his Dark Mark; Harry cringed at the thought.

“It didn’t go great.” He settled on.

“Well, that’s not really a surprise, is it?” said Hermione.

“What’d he say?” Ron questioned.

“Draco Malfoy is for me to worry about,” Snape snarled, nostrils flaring in anger, “You will not press me on this matter again.”

“Nothing much,” Harry shrugged as casually as he could manage. “Just that Draco was his concern and that” -- Harry sighed -- “That I was not to ask him about it again. He made that pretty clear.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Are you so sure that whatever Draco’s been asked to do is for the Dark Lord?”

“Well at Borgin and Burkes-”

“Yes, I’ve agreed it’s fishy, Harry,” said Hermione impatiently. “But it could’ve been entirely unrelated to whatever he’s been asked to do. People do go to Diagon Alley just to shop, you know.”

“But what about when he said, ‘Don’t forget to keep that one safe’?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin’s got another one of the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”

“You reckon?” said Ron, picking uselessly at the seat cushion beneath him.

“Come on, we know he’s up to something and whatever Bellatrix and Narcissa wanted with Snape, it sounded important. I think we ought to start considering that maybe Malfoy’s replaced his father as a Death Eater.”

There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. “Malfoy? He’s sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy become…” The redhead sputtered, “one of them?”

“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think--”

“In Madam Malkin’s. She didn’t touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He’s been branded, I’m sure.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

“Well . . .” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,” said Hermione.

“He showed Borgin something we couldn’t see,” Harry pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously scared him. It was the Mark, I know it -- he was showing Borgin who he was dealing with.”

“Okay, Harry, look,” said Hermione, “You mentioned in Diagon Alley that Snape had made an unbreakable vow to protect Draco. If that’s the case then Snape’s already handling this whole ordeal. I think you’ve got to take his advice and not let this weigh on you. Snape’s a professional, he knows what he’s dealing with.”

“Sure,” Harry dismissed, waving his hand, “That’s all true. But if Malfoy needs Snape's protection that means he’s been asked to do something dangerous. Someone could get hurt.”

“We don’t know that, mate,” shrugged Ron. “I still don’t reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join this young.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair before pausing to adjust his glasses. Suddenly, through the glass compartment door, Harry caught sight of Blaise Zabini walking down the hall with a stern look on his face.

He’s headed to the Slytherin car.

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

Hermione looked alarmed. “But what’re you--”

“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless.

The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. Though he was as close as he could get to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick enough to slip into the Slytherin compartment when he opened the door. Zabini was already sliding it shut when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it from closing.

Harry seized the door and pushed it open, toppling Zabini, who had still been clinging on to the handle, over sideways into Gregory Goyle’s lap. In the ensuing ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt onto Zabini’s temporarily empty seat, and hoisted himself up as quietly as he could into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, drawing all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had flapped around them; indeed, for one horrible moment he thought he saw Malfoy’s eyes follow his trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off him and all seemed resolved.

Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?”

“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?” said Pansy indignantly.

“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of a smirk. “I might have moved on to bigger and better things.”

Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry’s heart began to race.

“Do you mean -- Him?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Mother wants me to complete my education, but I don’t see it as all that important these days. I mean, think about it: when the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course, he isn’t. It’ll be about the kind of service he received and the level of devotion he was shown.”

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “You’re not even of age.”

“I’ve just said, haven’t I?” Malfoy snarled. “Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for.”

As the train slowed to a jerky crawl, Harry watched Malfoy fasten a thick new traveling cloak around his neck. The corridors were filling up again and he hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things out onto the platform for him for he was stuck where he was until the compartment had emptied.

At last, with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out into a crowd of second years, punching them aside as Crabbe and Zabini followed.

“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it. “I just want to check something.”

Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, his heart pumping a little faster.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, with an agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy’s feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly into the cramped kneeling position.

“Thought so,” he chuckled darkly. “You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here,” He stamped, hard, on Harry’s face.

Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere and he grunted from beneath his boot.

“That’s from my father.” Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry’s immobilized body and threw it over him. “I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter,” he scoffed, “or not.” And taking care to tread on Harry’s fingers, Malfoy left the compartment.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t move. He lay on the cold, hard floor beneath the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose flow sticky and hot down his face, helplessly listening to the muffled voices of his peers as they shuffled off of the train. Surely someone will check the compartments, Harry thought, his panic swelling in his chest as he realized that even if someone checked the compartment looking for him, he would be invisible beneath the cloak and unable to make a sound. Harry registered glumly that his only hope of being found was that someone might walk in and step on him. He tried to groan at the thought, but the noise was lost in his throat.

In his helplessness, Harry’s hatred for Malfoy ran white hot, coursing through his body in unstoppable waves as he lay on the floor like a beached whale, blood dripping nauseatingly into his open mouth. The hope of being found drained from his mind as he listened to the last few footsteps. The students’ voices had dwindled to a muffled few and nearly all were now off the train.

This is all so stupid, he raged, I’m going to be shipped off back to London, get a howler from Snape, and then be forced to live at Spinner’s End forever. The last murmur of talk and scrapping of trunks against the platform outside seemed to die down as students began their journey up to the castle, leaving the train behind; Harry felt beads of sweat form on his forehead as a result of his efforts to move against the curse.

With tremendous strain, he tried again to make a sound or at the very least a grunt, but it seemed to be impossible. Everything about his body, save for his ability to breathe, was frozen in total, encompassing paralysis. Snape would be able to get himself out of this, Harry grumbled, staring at his wand which had fallen out of his hand and rolled beneath the dusty compartment seats. Snape could do wandless magic, he glowered, watching the dark wood of his wand with ferocious intensity as he focused on willing it to move on its own.

Accio Wand! His mind roared over and over again as he lay pressed up against the floor. Nothing happened; Harry felt exhausted from the effort.

A loud whistle roared from the front of the train and Harry heard the sound of steam released from beneath the train car. It was a final warning call. The train was about to move.

What would happen if I got carted back to London? Harry struggled in frustration. Maybe they’d send me to Headquarters while Snape is teaching at Hogwarts. Or maybe…back to the Dursleys’. He redoubled his efforts to move, staring at his wand with renewed focus. The train made another whistling sound.

There was a flash of red light and Harry’s body unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more dignified sitting position, hastily wiping the blood off his bruised face with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the Invisibility Cloak she had just pulled away.

“Get up,” she spoke harshly. “The train’s about to move again.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond but found himself too flustered to formulate the words. Without waiting for him, Tonks disappeared down the corridor, leaving Harry with no other decision but to hastily push himself up and follow her.

The train whistled again angrily and as quickly as he could Harry flung open the car door and hopped down the stairs, his feet hitting solid ground just as the train’s wheels began to turn.

The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing nose. Tonks was looking at him, he noticed, and a wave of embarrassment flooded over him as he struggled to make out her expression. Silently she handed him back the Invisibility Cloak, “Who did it?” She asked.

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry cleared his throat, “Thanks for… Well…”

“No problem,” Tonks spoke without smiling. “I can fix your nose if you stand still.”

Harry had been hoping to visit Madam Pomfrey before making his way to the Great Hall, but it seemed rude to say that. He couldn’t bear the idea of inconveniencing her further, choosing instead to close his eyes in resignation.

“Episkey,” Tonks said quickly.

Harry’s nose felt very hot, and then very cold and he raised a hand and felt it gingerly. So far as he could tell, it seemed to be mended. “Thanks.”

She nodded, her expression remaining dull and unresponsive. “You’d better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school.” Quickly, she waved her wand and an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it, bounding off into the darkness. “I’m sending word to the castle that I’ve got you.” She gazed off, following the beast’s general direction before turning to face him, “They’ll worry.” She clarified obscurely. “Come on, we’d better not dawdle now.” They set off toward the footpath that led to the school.

Awkwardly, Harry cleared his throat as he struggled to match her pace. “How did you find me?”

“I noticed you hadn’t left the train and I knew you had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that compartment I thought I’d check.”

“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked.

“I’m stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection,” said Tonks.

“Is it just you who’s stationed up here, or--”

“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.”

“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?”

“That’s right.”

They trudged up the dark, deserted path, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways at Tonks under his cloak. She seemed much changed since he last encountered her a year ago and Harry glumly wondered if her newfound hardened exterior was the result of what happened at the Ministry. It was almost as if every time he assumed he had seen all of the effects of his mistakes last year, he discovered just how unfathomably devastating his recklessness had been.

When he last saw her, Tonks had been light and bubbly, quick to make jokes. Now she seemed worn down and much more serious and purposeful. Uncomfortably, Harry realized that Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks’s long cloak whispering on the ground behind them as Harry remained buried within his thoughts.

A long while later, and with great relief, he finally saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. He was cold, hungry, and keen to leave this new, gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut. “Alohomora!” he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.

“That won’t work on these,” said Tonks in an exhausted, almost disappointed tone. “Dumbledore bewitched them himself.”

Harry looked around. “I could climb a wall,” he suggested.

“No, you couldn’t. Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security’s been tightened a hundredfold this summer.”

“Well then,” Harry grumbled in irritation. He didn’t like how outdated his knowledge of security was, especially since it was his fault, after all. “I suppose I’ll just have to sleep out here and wait for the morning,” He frowned.

“Someone’s coming down for you,” said Tonks, ignoring his remarks entirely. “Look.”

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Relief flooded through him and Harry felt he could endure Filch’s unending criticisms so long as he was swiftly accompanied to the castle. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them that he recognized he was in significant trouble.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.” His eyes scanned over Harry’s face, fixating on the dried blood beneath his nose with a scowl.

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my-”

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

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

“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead,” said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him.

He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, they slithered, clinking, back into place.

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder as his professor began to walk up toward the school. “Thanks for…everything.” She nodded, her eyes were as dull as her voice.

“See you, Harry.”

The silence stretched between them uncomfortably as Harry rushed to keep up behind Snape’s flowing black robes. They trudged solemnly up the dirt path, his professor donning an expression of ferocious intensity as he watched the road ahead.

Harry fidgeted lamely with his hands, opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to speak, but he could not think of the words. They walked on in silence until, unable to bear the quiet any longer, Harry cleared his throat with a cough and began, “Professor, I know that you’re angry, but I just want to-”

“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,” said Snape, harshly forestalling him. “And, let me see, another twenty for your Muggle attire. You know, I don’t believe any House has ever been in negative figures this early in the term -- we haven’t even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter.”

“Sir, I’m sorry.”

“For what misdemeanor exactly?” He snarled, trudging forward without meeting Harry’s eye. “You have neglected to inform me as to why you were not off the train with the rest of the student body and why you have had to be collected by Nymphadora with blood rushing from your nose.”

Harry scoffed quietly, “It’s not rushing-”

“How much blood you have lost and at what frequency is hardly the point, Potter!” Snape growled, halting his movement and turning to acknowledge Harry at last. “It is the fact that you are bleeding at all that is concerning!”

Harry winced. “I understand all that, professor, but-”

“But what?” His dark eyes narrowed. “What excuse could possibly account for this mess?” Snape crossed his arms, his dark robes bellowing beneath him. “Answer me, Potter, when was the last time I saw you?”

“Sorry?”

“Quickly.”

Harry shrugged, flustered. “I- I dunno a few hours ago?”

“Five hours ago.” Snape seethed. “And in that time you have managed to sneak away from the protection and safety of your classmates and return to campus late and with your face covered in blood.” Snape’s voice bellowed in rage.

Harry cringed inward, fiddling with his hands. “I’ve apologized.”

Snape huffed in frustration and continued his journey up the hill and toward the flickering lights of the castle, leaving Harry to rush up the pathway behind him.

“Sir?” He spoke cautiously.

“Was your nose broken?” Snape continued marching forward.

“Tonks fixed it.”

His professor shook his head, maintaining his quick pace in silence.

They reached the castle steps at last. Slowly, the great oak doors swung open into the vast entrance way, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hall. Harry wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak back on and sneak over to the Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed. As though he had read Harry’s mind, however, Snape said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees you, which is what you wanted, I’m sure.”

With a shuddered breath, Harry left Snape’s side without another word, keeping his eyes trained on the far wall of the Great Hall as if his tunnel vision would keep everyone’s attention from him. It was only after he had managed to get past the Hufflepuff table that people really started to stare. By the time Harry began to notice a general hush in the hall, he had spotted Ron and Hermione. His speedwalk became a light jog as he appeared behind them, shoving himself between the two on the bench.

“Where’ve you -- blimey, what’ve you done to your face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone else.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.

“You’re covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here,” she raised her wand, “Tergeo!” and siphoned off the dried blood.

“Thanks,” Harry groaned, raising a hand, feeling his freshly-clean face. “How’s my nose looking?”

“Normal,” said Hermione anxiously. “Why shouldn’t it? Harry, what happened? We’ve been terrified!”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said curtly, very conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in.

“But--”

“Not now, Hermione,” Harry cut her off. He hoped that they would all assume he had been involved in something heroic, preferably involving a couple of Death Eaters and a dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story as far and wide as he could, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t reach too many Gryffindor ears.

“Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?” He asked.

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn’t he?” Ron reached across the table for a second helping of pudding.

“It can’t be long now. Seems like he’s nearly done talking with Hagrid,” Hermione ventured a guess, squinting up at the staff table.

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast--”

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” Ron eyed him suspiciously.

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.

“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” Hermione dismissed. “Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.”

Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was, indeed waving at him. Beside him sat a rather furious-looking professor Snape who, just as Harry’s eyes landed on him, looked up from his meal and returned his eye contact with a rather menacing glare. After a moment, Harry looked away toward the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming what Harry assumed was their previous confrontation to raucous laughter and applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, his insides burning with hatred and embarrassment. What he would give to fight Malfoy one-on-one…

Eventually, Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table, gracefully moving from his chair to the podium at the front of the raised platform. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly. “The very best of evenings to you!” He effortlessly bellowed, smiling broadly, his arms opening wide as though to embrace the whole room.

“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione. She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore’s right hand appeared shriveled, blackened, and dead-looking and whispers about its state began to sweep across the room. Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his long, purple-and-gold sleeve down to conceal his injury. “Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now… to our new students, welcome. And to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you…”

“Back at the house,” Harry whispered quietly to Ron and Hermione beside him, “Snape mentioned something about Dumbledore being gravely injured.”

Hermione looked surprised. “You’re sure he used those words.”

Harry nodded as Ron scrunched up his face in confusion. “His hand doesn’t really look like it’s affecting the rest of him, though.”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged. “That’s all I got out of him on the matter.”

“It must be a curse, then,” Hermione wagered. “I’d bet Snape’s been working on containing it somehow.”

Dumbledore’s voice grew louder and the three turned their attention once more to the front of the room. “We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn” -- Dumbledore guestered to a large man who stood up at the mention of the name, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight -- “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

“Potions?” The word echoed throughout the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard correctly.

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” Dumbledore interjected the questioned whispers, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “Will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

“Snape’ll be gone by the end of the year,” Ron said savagely.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“That job’s jinxed. No one’s lasted more than a year. Quirrell actually died doing it. Personally, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed for another death.”

“Ronald!” Hermione gasped, shocked and reproachful. “He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” she said reasonably. “Slughorn might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn’t.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Harry said weakly, staring down at the table in front of him. “I suppose that’s true.”

He wrapped his arms around his torso, hunching inward slightly. It was strange to conceive of Snape’s leaving, or worse a great injury befalling him as a result of taking up the new post. Harry ran his fingers up and down his arms, recalling his encounter with Quirrell in the dungeons his first year, Lockhart’s backfired memory spell in his second, and Umbridge’s threat of the cruciatus curse last term. He remembered Barty Crouch Jr’s impersonation of Moody and Harry shuddered at the thought of Lupin hunting him through the woods in a wolf body he could no longer control.

Harry stiffened as he thought of what could happen to Snape during the year. His fingers quickened the pace of their up-and-down motion across his arms. The opportunities for tragedy were seemingly endless; Harry ran through each possibility with frenzied panic. His fingers continued their swiping motion, their pace increasing again. Gently, and without tearing her eyes away from the Headmaster, Hermione placed her hand on top of Harry’s shoulder and squeezed ever so slightly. Sighing, Harry relaxed and let his hands fall to his lap.

“Thank you all, have a wonderful semester and a great first night!” Dumbledore bellowed, taking his seat once more as students began to rise from their tables.

“Well, that was depressing,” Ron scoffed.

“What?” Harry asked.

“All that last bit about the war.”

Oh,” Harry blinked, “I must’ve missed it.”

“Well, he didn’t say anything you don’t already know.” Ron shrugged.

Harry, who was in no hurry at all to get near enough to Malfoy to allow him to retell the story of the nose-stomping, lagged behind the bustling students, pretending to retie the lace on his shoe and allowing most of the Gryffindors to move around him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill her prefect’s duty of shepherding the first years, but Ron remained with Harry. “What really happened to your nose?” He asked once they were at the very back of the pack pressing out of the Hall and out of earshot of anyone else.

“Malfoy happened,” Harry grimaced. “He jinxed me so I couldn’t move and stomped on my face.” It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh.

“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,” he muttered darkly instead.

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly. “Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there--”

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind them cut off Harry’s tirade of information as both he and Ron swiveled to see a dower Professor Snape a few meters away.

“Unless I am mistaken,” Snape began harshly, “As a prefect of Gryffindor house you should be in the common room attending to first-years, should you not, Mr Weasley?”

“Right. ‘Course, sir.” Ron grumbled with a scowl, flashing Harry a glance before turning to leave.

“Not you, Potter,” Snape said as soon as Harry moved to follow his friend.

“I’ll see you later,” Ron shrugged as Harry pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose and turned around again to face his furious professor.

“Follow me,” Snape grumbled, tossing his robes behind him as he swiveled on his heel and strutted down the aisle of tables and out the large door nearest to the staff table. Harry tried his best to match his professor’s pace as he was led down hallway after hallway, mirroring Snape’s every twist and turn until they reached the dungeons.

Quickly, his professor ushered him through an old wooden door hidden behind a large dark-green tapestry. Marching through, Harry found himself in a dimly lit room surrounded by cases of black, wooden bookshelves. There were several green couches and a nice coffee table and Harry noticed there were two more doorways against the furthest walls that he figured must lead to other similarly-decorated rooms, though he could not verify that guess given the doors were shut.

A thought struck him suddenly as Snape shut the door behind them and moved into the small space. “Professor, are these your quarters?” Harry asked, his mouth agape.

“An astute observation, Potter. Yes, these are my quarters.” Snape advanced through the space with practiced grace, moving through one of the other doorways and into, from what Harry could see, a small green kitchen that matched the den in dark color and lighting.

“It’s depressing,” Harry said as he made his way over to one of the couches.

“I don’t recall asking if it was to your liking, Potter.” Snape returned carrying two old, white teacups, placing them on the coffee table and sitting on the couch opposite Harry.
“I have asked you here in the hopes that you will be forthcoming and tell me why exactly you were covered in blood earlier.”

Harry winced, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the cup and lifting it to his lap. “I fell.”

“Let me guess, down the stairs?” Snape drank slowly, rolling his eyes. “I had hoped we would have moved past your pathetic excuses.”

“Sir, I really did fall,” Harry felt himself begin to flush.

Snape sipped from his cup. “So your injury has nothing to do with the rather animated performance from Draco Malfoy tonight during the feast?”

Harry winced, “What do you mean?”

“It seemed as though he was reenacting a fight, Potter,” Snape’s voice began to rise in volume, “And then you conveniently show up to the castle with blood strewn across your face and a broken bone that Nymphadora so carelessly fixed!”

“So?”

“So what happened? You cannot convince me these two things are unrelated.” Around the teacup he held, Snape’s hands shook with rage so severely Harry began to worry about its contents spilling over. “Do not make me turn to legilimency, I beg you.”

“Alright,” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, placing the teacup in his lap. “It wasn’t anything, really, you’re making it a bigger deal than it should be. I heard from Ron that Draco was acting suspicious and I went to check. He caught me and struck first, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Snape fumed silently in front of him, his eyes alight with fury. Calmly taking in a long, slow breath, his professor placed the teacup on the coffee table and ran a tired hand down his face. “You mean to tell me that in the five hours you were not under my constant supervision, you directly disobeyed me?” He scoffed as if in disbelief. “Not only did you put yourself in physical danger, as evidenced enough by the frankly abysmal handiwork of Nymphadora” -- Harry self-consciously raised a hand to his nose -- “but you also went out of your way to involve yourself in Draco Malfoy’s personal affairs. And if I recall correctly, I am sure I made myself crystal clear when I advised against your pursuit of Mr Malfoy, did I not?”

“Yes, you did, sir, but-”

“Then tell me why, Potter, you have once again fallen victim to your Gryffindor impulses and gone out of your way to put yourself in danger?”

“I wasn’t is danger. It was just Malfoy.”

“He broke your nose!” Snape chided.

“And I’ve dealt with worse!”

His professor scoffed, “Potter, that is not an excuse! This could have escalated further! Be grateful nothing worse happened, as you put it.”

“If he’s so dangerous then why won’t you just tell me what he’s up to!”

“No.”

“Or tell Dumbledore at least!”

“Draco is none of your business, Potter!” Snape boomed, his loud voice echoing throughout the small room. “I have told you this!”

“And I’ve already apologized for tonight!” Harry shouted. “There’s nothing else that can be done now. It happened! I don’t get why you’re still angry!”

“How can you possibly not understand why I’m still-”

“You’re leaving me in the dark! I did what I had to do to get information! Exactly like you do!”

Snape roared to his feet. “You are not a spy, Potter, you are a child! And you are acting like one!”

“And you’re being a dick!” Harry slammed his teacup on the coffee table, rising from his seat on the couch and standing nearly level with his professor. “I told you I was sorry-”

“It’s not like you meant it-”

“Well, you’re being an ass! Taking house points before the semester even starts! I mean, how can you even do that?”

“Don’t test me, boy, or I shall take away more!” Snape raged.

“I’m just doing what you would’ve done when you were my age! This is war and I’m not like you, Snape! I’m not gonna be stupid and go and join Voldemort or something so why can’t you piss off and let me do what I have to do!”

Snape had his wand raised in an instant, its sleek, black wood pointed right at Harry who reeled back in shock. “Get out,” his professor muttered in a low, stern voice.

“Sir?”

“Potter, I said GET OUT!”

Hurriedly, Harry scurried from the room, not pausing to look back as he flung away the tapestry and shut the door to Snape’s chambers behind him. As quick as he could, he raced up the many flights of stairs that lead to Gryffindor common room, his heart nearly beating out of his chest as he ran.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Harry, Ron, and Hermione met in the common room bright and early and hopped out of the portrait hole, heading toward the Great Hall. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor as Harry relayed what he had overheard Malfoy saying the previous day on the Hogwarts Express.

“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn’t he?” Ron scratched at his head.

“Well, I don’t know,” Hermione shrugged with uncertainty, “It would be like Malfoy to try and make himself seem more important than he is… but that’s a big lie to tell-”

“Exactly,” Harry interjected as they walked past an idle group of first-years staring at him and whispering behind their hands.

“It’s rude to point,” Ron snapped at the muttering clique, all of whom promptly turned scarlet, dispersing in alarm. He snickered, watching them scramble. “I love being a sixth-year. And we’re going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit and relax.”

“We’re going to need that time for studying,” Hermione scoffed as they made their way into the Hall and took their places at the Gryffindor table.

“Not today,” said Ron, a grin plastered on his face. “Today’s going to be a real toss, I reckon.”

Their meal was uneventful, Harry found himself mulling over Draco as Hermione continued to bicker with Ron until well after their plates were finished. They remained in their seats, awaiting Professor McGonagall’s descent from the staff table. Harry snapped himself from his thoughts and watched her make her way to each of the sixth years individually, handing out slips of parchment after brief conversations with each student. The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year; McGonagall looked deadly serious as she checked that every sixth-year had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.

Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first-period Ancient Runes class without any more than a hurried “Bye, boys!”

“So, Potter, Potter…” Professor McGonagall consulted her notes, clicking her tongue as she turned to Harry. “Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration…all fine. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased.” She nodded pensively, pushing her silver glasses further up the ridge of her nose. “And if it is still your desire to become an Auror”– she watched him over the frames of her glasses – “I recommend continuing your studies in Potions.”

Harry cleared his throat, “Professor Snape mentioned that I would qualify for N.E.W.T. level under Slughorn and I already bought my supplies,” he grimaced.

McGonagall’s lips twisted in a small smile as she marked something down on her notes. “I’m happy to hear he’s been encouraging you, Potter, I must say,” her surprise evident in her voice; Harry couldn’t blame her. “Very well, I’m clearing you for Potions.” She tore and handed him the parchment at the top of her small stack of papers and Harry took it with a relieved sigh.

Harry sat, staring at nothing in particular, pretending to not pay attention as Ron was cleared for the exact same subjects before they got up to leave the table together.

“Look,” Ron gazed at his schedule with delight, “We’ve got a free period now and a free period after break… and after lunch… excellent!”

An hour later they reluctantly left the calm serenity of the sunlit Gryffindor common room for Defense Against the Dark Arts. By the time they arrived, annoyed and worn out from the walk, Hermione was already waiting in the queue outside the large oak door carrying an armful of heavy books and loose parchment. “We got so much homework for Runes,” she mumbled anxiously before Harry or Ron could get a word out. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I’ve got to read all these by Wednesday!” She gestured to the many books stacked in her grip, hiking them back up into her arms.

“Shame,” yawned Ron.

“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us loads.”

As if summoned, the classroom door swung open and Snape stepped into the corridor, his dark eyes scanned over the queue in distaste, his gaze lingering on Harry for a second longer than the others. Snape’s gaze darkened. Silence fell over the students immediately. “Inside,” he said.

Harry looked around as they filed into the classroom. It was gloomier than usual -- the curtains had been drawn over the windows and what little light there was came from the various candlesticks that floated beside each desk. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.

Way to make the place your own, Snape, Harry grimaced, his anger from the previous evening flooding back to him suddenly.

“I have not asked you to take out your books,” Snape spoke coldly, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk. “I wish to speak with all of you, and when I speak, I expect your fullest attention,” he remarked, hands clasped behind his back; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair.

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe.” Snape’s eyes met Harry’s again.

You believe... like you haven’t watched them all come and go, Harry thought in annoyance as his professor’s gaze moved on to other students.

“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and… priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject.” Snape spoke slowly, punctuating the end of his sentences as he watched the silent room. “I will find myself far more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with your N.E.W.T. requirements.” Snape locked his cold eyes on Harry for a long moment, “Do not expect the work to be as easy as you may remember it.”

Harry watched him until Snape broke eye contact and set off around the edge of the room speaking in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.

“The Dark Arts,” he continued on in a dreary voice, “Are varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a beast who sprouts a new head, even fiercer and cleverer than before, each time it is slain. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”

Harry’s eyes fell to his professor’s forearm where he knew the Dark Mark burned and twisted on his skin before Snape moved out of sight in his continued pacing.

“Your defenses,” Snape continued, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures” — he indicated to a few of the most gruesome ones as he swept past — “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” — he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony — “feel the Dementor’s Kiss” — a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall — “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” — a bloodied mass upon the ground.

“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high-pitched voice. “Is it definite that He’s using them?”

“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” nodded Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might just as easily use them again. Now…” He set off around the other side of the classroom toward his desk. The class watched in stark silence as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. “Who can tell what the advantage is of a nonverbal spell?”

Hermione’s hand shot into the air.

Snape frowned. “Very well — Miss Granger?”

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

“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” Snape dismissed with a wave of his hand, “But correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some” — his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more — “lack.”

Harry glowered at his professor. “You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence…” The class watched in complete stillness as Snape returned behind his desk. “Carry on.” He clarified.

The sounds of scraping chairs echoed throughout the room as students scrambled to their feet and dispersed into groups of two. Although the room remained mostly silent, a reasonable amount of cheating ensued as many people began whispering the incantation instead.

Snape paced along the far wall in observation until Hermione, as was typical ten minutes into the lecture, managed to repel Neville’s muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word.

Should’ve been at least twenty points, thought Harry bitterly as he watched Snape continue in his relentless pacing, ignoring Hermione completely and instead lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggle with the task.

Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely to come.

“Pathetic, Weasley,” Snape growled, after a particularly long stretch of silence. “Here, let me show you.”

He whipped his wand on Harry, flicking his wrist so quickly that Harry reacted instinctively. All thought of nonverbal spells abandoned, he yelled, “Protego!”

The intensity of his shield spell knocked Snape off-balance, sending his professor stumbling a few paces backward before hitting a desk. The whole class turned to look, muttering quietly as Snape righted himself, scowling.

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

“Yes,” Harry said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

He burned with rage. “There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor,” he bit back, his hands balling into fists.

Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, burrowing into him in a dark menacing way. “Detention. Saturday night. My office,” his voice rang out, silencing what few murmurs still continued. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter,” he growled as Harry felt his fleeting anger begin to drain out of him, “Not even ‘The Chosen One.’”

“That was brilliant, Harry!” Ron snorted as they filed out of the classroom on their way to break.

“You really shouldn’t have said it,” Hermione frowned, unsuccessfully trying to jab at Ron with her elbow while carrying her many books. “What made you?”

“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice!” Harry shouted defensively. “I had enough of that this summer! It’s hard enough not to say anything when he’s a prick all the time! I mean,” he scoffed, throwing up his arms, “He was an even an ass last night-”

“What happened last night?” Hermione raised a skeptical brow.

“Harry! Hey, Harry!”

Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. “For you,” he panted from the short run -- clearly someone hasn’t kept up with their summer training, thought Harry. “Listen, I heard you’re the new Captain. When’re you holding trials?”

“Oh,” Harry furrowed his brow, glancing at the paper in a futile attempt to guess what it said, “I’m not quite sure yet.” He shrugged, relieving Sloper of the parchment in his hands. “I’ll let you know.”

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

“Uh-huh, totally” Harry nodded, agreeing mindlessly and no longer listening as he inspected the parchment. Recognizing the slim, slanting writing, he left Sloper in mid-sentence, hurrying away with Ron and Hermione and unrolling the parchment as he went.

Dear Harry, -- the note read.

I am sure Professor Snape mentioned my interest in private lessons at some point during your summer break. I would like them to begin this Saturday.

Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the message over Harry’s shoulder and was looking perplexed.

“It’s the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape won’t be happy. I can’t do his detention.”

“Harry!” Hermione gasped beside him, “Look at the parchment!”

A glance at the paper in his hands made Harry reel in confusion. Before his eyes, the letters moved across the page and merged together in a large blob. The black ink seemed to bubble and pulse before shooting out new, reformed letters to spell out a different message.

Potter, -- the note now read:

Professor Dumbledore has informed me that you are to begin your private lessons this Saturday night.

To make sure you are not skipping out on proper punishment, I have reassigned your detention for tonight at seven p.m. sharp.

Do not be late. Bring your Potions book.

S.Snape

Harry groaned, crumpling the parchment in his hand. “I just had to say something…” he grimaced.

“Well, I for one am not entirely surprised.” Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms haughtily. “You were rather rude to him.”

“I thought it was fantastic,” Ron beamed. “You were right when you said he’s a prick, mate. I’m glad you finally said something.”

“He’s still a professor, Ron!” She huffed. “It’s disrespectful. Obviously, Snape was mad enough to reassign the detention.”

“I get it,” Harry groaned, still watching the parchment with hope that the letters might reform again. “He’s a prick but I should be nicer, got it. Noted.” He rolled his eyes, tossing the parchment into the school bag he had slung over his shoulder. “I’ll make up for my disrespect in detention. What’s said has been said, I can’t take it back now.”

“Let’s just get to the hall,” Ron shrugged, rubbing his stomach, “I’m starved.”

“At least apologize, Harry,” Hermione sighed, “It’s all you can really do now.”

As if he’ll forgive me, Harry frowned. “Let’s just go.”

Begrudgingly, Harry dragged himself up from the long wooden Gryffindor table in the Great Hall at exactly six forty-five. With a brief goodbye to Ron and Hermione, he grabbed his bag and raced to his dormitory. As quickly as he could, after muttering the password to the Fat Lady and grabbing his Potion’s book from beneath his bed, he quickly left Gryffindor tower and ran down to the dungeons.

After minutes of twists and turns, Harry braced himself for the following hour of misery, checking his watch to see that it was exactly seven on the dot when he knocked on the large dark door.

The oak wood flew open to reveal Professor Slughorn whose bushy white eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Harry m’boy!” He chuckled. “Getting a headstart on your Potions work already?”

“Oh,” he coughed, standing straighter, “I’m sorry sir, I was looking for Professor Snape.”

Slughorn chuckled, his rotund stomach bouncing up and down. “This is the office of the Potions Master, silly boy. But do come in -- come in-”

Before Harry could protest, the old man placed an arm on his shoulder and pulled him into the dimly lit office space. There were books scattered all around the room and clutters of boxes lay untouched and scattered throughout the small, cramped space. Harry huffed a soft chuckle to himself –- Snape would be mortified to see his old office in such a shape.

“You must forgive me,” Slughorn called from behind Harry as he moved into the room, “I haven’t finished unpacking yet. First day and all.”

“I understand professor-”

“Pardon my saying so,” he squeezed by Harry, moving himself further into the room, “But you look so much like your father.”

Harry blinked in surprise.

“But with your-”

“My mother’s eyes. So I’ve been told.”

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn clarified in answer to Harry’s questioning look as he lowered himself onto the sofa -- one of the only items of furniture not covered in boxes. Harry remained standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly in front of the door. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. She’s probably on that shelf over there,” Slughorn chuckled, lifting a stubby finger to point over across the room.

Harry turned to face the many glittering framed photographs that sat atop a dresser pushed up against the wall, each peopled with tiny moving figures.

“All ex-students, all signed.” Slughorn beamed. “You’ll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies... People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

“That really is great, Professor.” Harry began, subtly checking the time on his watch. “But I do have to be going. Professor Snape was adamant that I-”

“Why leave now?” He scoffed. “I feel as though we’ve barely scratched the surface, dear boy!” He regarded Harry cautiously for a moment. “They’re calling you ‘The Chosen One’ now, you know.”

Harry grimaced.

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

“Professor,” Harry interrupted, clearing his throat. “You’ve been nothing but kind, but Snape really is waiting for me.” Merlin, please let me go. He glanced at his watch in horror -- 7:15, it read.

“Such rumors this summer.” Slughorn barreled on as if he had not heard him. “Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, and make mistakes here and there — but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!”

“I was,” Harry nodded hastily.

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

“Sir, I really must be leaving now.”

“Right, right– of course, Harry.” Slughorn chuckled. “You wouldn’t want to keep a furious Professor Snape waiting.” He lifted himself up from the sofa to pat Harry firmly on the back. “I apologize for keeping you, my boy, but we must catch up another time.”

“Of course, sir.”

Merlin, free me…

“Oh, but I’m seeing you for Potions tomorrow, am I not?”

Harry cringed as he moved toward the door. “Yes sir, I believe so.”

“Good, good.” Slughorn harshly slapped him on the back once more. “Then I look forward to witnessing the prowess of ‘The Chosen One,’” he laughed. “I’ve come up with quite a clever little challenge for our first day.”

Harry paused, “Oh?” Instantly, he cringed at himself for initiating, cursing his peaked interest.

“Yes, indeed.” Slughorn seemed rather proud of himself, holding his head higher than before. “Liquid Death,” he smirked, before letting out a low bellowing laugh, “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“That’s a pretty advanced brew, sir,” Harry reached for the doorknob. Almost there.

“Well, it’s the prize you’ll win that matters, my boy.”

“Prize?” He stalled.

“So eager!” Slughorn laughed. “You’ll see tomorrow. Goodnight, Harry!”

Deciding better than to initiate any further with Slughorn’s rants, Harry nodded with a pleasant smile, shutting the door behind him and letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He collected his thoughts, pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose before he sprinted down the hallway toward the far stairs that would lead him closest to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Chapter Text

Harry raced down the hall as quickly as he could, panting from the exertion. Barreling down the corridors, he turned corner after corner, ran up staircase after staircase, and by the time he made it out from the dungeons to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Harry was well and truly exhausted.

He pushed open the door cautiously, adjusting his book bag on his shoulder, and briskly walked down the aisle of desks and up the stairs at the end of the hall. Catching his breath, he took a second to compose himself, straightening his posture before knocking hesitantly.

The large oak door was thrown open immediately, revealing a dower Professor Snape who scowled down at Harry with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest.

“How generous of you to show up, Potter,” he spat, stepping aside and hurriedly ushering Harry into his office.

“I’m sorry sir,” he began, “I really tried not to be late-”

“Thirty-eight minutes late for detention,” he clicked his tongue, “I cannot say that I am surprised,” his professor muttered with a growl, moving swiftly through the small office, his robes sweeping behind him as he rounded a large, oak desk. “After your abysmal behavior this week I am shocked you managed to drag yourself here at all.”

“Sir, I swear to you I wanted to be on time,” Harry moved further into the space, dropping his bookbag from his shoulder and lowering himself into the chair opposite his professor. “I just went down to the dungeons on instinct and then Slughorn wouldn’t let me leave.”

Snape eyed him suspiciously. “After you have already attended a Defense class with me -- the very reason you are here now -- you claim you went down to the dungeons out of instinct?”

Harry winced, “This is the first year your office hasn’t been down there, I forgot.” He fidgeted with his hands in his professor’s stillness. “It won’t happen again.”

Snape only narrowed his eyes, a finger on his right hand tapping against his cheek as if mulling over a particularly complex thought. Harry squirmed under his professor’s unflinching gaze, running his fingers together on his lap as the silence stretched between them.

“What did Slughorn wish to discuss with you?” Snape asked, at last, crossing his arms once more.

“Just to talk about my mother and his other favorite students,” Harry scoffed as Snape’s frown deepened, “Oh, and he asked me about all the Chosen One crap, and about what happened at the Ministry.”

“And I expect you’ll be receiving an invitation to the ‘Slug Club’ within the week,” his professor muttered darkly, “I would be mildly entertained to hear you’d attended.”

Harry opened his mouth to interject, but Snape raised a hand to signal his silence. “But Slughorn’s interest in you was not why I have asked you here tonight. I believe apologies are in order, are they not?”

Growing frustrated with his own constant fidgeting, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, you cursed at me in front of the whole class. What was I supposed to do?”

“I am supposed to despise you, you impossible child!” Snape raged, slamming his hands down on the desk while Harry flinched at the sound of the impact. “I cannot be lenient with you, I cannot like you, I cannot be friendly! We have been over this!”

“Well, that doesn’t make it any less confusing!” Harry puffed. “It’s strange to go from you being all nice to hating me in class! All I did was react-”

“I am a spy!” Snape snarled, “And you, Potter, are the enemy. I cannot change that!”

“So it’s back to ‘Potter’ now-”

“And there are members of your class who pose dangerous connections to the Dark Lord should my true character be revealed!” Snape raged, rising from his desk. “I cannot change these circumstances, you must know that!”

“I never said I didn’t know!” Harry shouted, standing from his seat to glare at his professor. “All I said was that it was confusing! One minute you’re sitting with me here asking if everything’s okay, and the next you’re insulting me to the class and cursing me in front of my friends,” he gestured wildly in anger. “Of course, I’m gonna react to that!” He felt his voice on the verge of breaking; Harry cleared his throat suddenly, slightly dropping his volume as he continued, “I don’t know how to feel! I don’t know how to talk to you anymore!”

“It’s hardly my fault that I am strict with you when we are in public-”

“Strict? You’re more than strict!”

“Well, you haven’t exactly been the easiest to deal with for the past few days, have you now?” Snape yelled, furiously tucking his dark hair behind his ears. “Between your disobedience of my direct orders on the train, to your completely abhorrent remarks in my chambers, it is astonishing, Potter, that I have been capable of restraining myself both inside and out of the classroom,” he bellowed, rounding the table to stand opposite Harry.

“Well, I-”

“Every time I believe you to be mature, you explode with this infantile rage,” Snape jeered, drawing closer, “And still you find a way to make me the villain when all you have to blame is your own nonsensical wrath!”

Harry balked, taking a few quick steps backward. “Sir, I-”

“Pathetic.” Uncle Vernon's voice raged in his head.

“Useless.”

“Abnormal.”

Snape moved closer still, “You never think to completion, Potter, that’s your problem!” His professor was nearly upon him, Harry found that his back hit the door behind him when he retreated further. “You think about the immediacy of whatever plan you’ve hatched, not the consequences!”

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!” Sirius screamed at him.

“Disgusting freak,” Vernon replied.

Harry gasped, his lungs desperate for air, “Sir, I-”

“What? You what, Potter?”

“Sir-”

“Freak!” Vernon shouted.

“Ungrateful brat!” Petunia spat.

Stop it.

Harry clutched his hand over his heart, moving it up and down across his chest as he gasped for breath. “Sir, please-”

His eyes began to grow foggy. His ribcage expanded and contracted harshly, his heartbeat sped up beneath his palm.

“Harry, I didn’t mean-” his professor’s voice sounded distant against the thundering boom of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Sir, it won’t happen again.” He gasped, his voice shaky.

“Freak!”

“Ungrateful brat!”

“Murderer!”

“I didn’t mean to,” he choked, “I’m sorry, I know I always make mistakes, I didn’t mean to, it won’t happen-”

“Breathe, Harry,” Snape’s voice rang out in his head, his professor’s steady monotone loud and present even through the deafening percussion of his heartbeat. “Count your inhalations, like we practiced.”

Harry nodded quickly, placing his hands on his stomach and closing his eyes.

Inhaleoneexhale inhaletwoexhale inhalethreeexhale

“Slower,” Snape bellowed in his head again.

Inhale, four, exhale. Inhale, five, exhale.

“Good.”

Inhale, six, exhale. Inhale, seven, exhale.

Harry focused until his vision cleared and his breathing seemed to regulate. He blinked, raising an arm to adjust his glasses, and stared up at the somber expression of his professor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry cleared his throat, his voice still shaky. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Potter, stop your incessant apologies.” Snape sighed, his brows furrowing as he stepped back and lowered himself into the chair behind the desk once more. “I have endured mounting stresses this week and it was wrong of me to have lashed out at you, despite your…” he muttered through clenched teeth, “talent for irritation, as of late.”

Harry nodded, moving slowly off the wall, and cautiously sat as the pounding drum of his heartbeat began to retreat.

Snape seemed to eye him warily, folding his arms across his chest, releasing a great, heaving sigh. “I am sorry, Harry, to have cornered you. I….” He watched his professor’s expression twist as if conflicted by some great thought. Snape opened his mouth as if to say more, but ultimately decided against it.

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Snape hummed in agreement.

Harry shifted uneasily in his seat, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. “Still, though,” he shrugged.

“Still…what?”

He shrugged again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what exactly are you apologizing?”

Harry shifted back and forth in his chair. “For being late when you told me not to be, and following Draco on the train, and telling you off in class, and” -- Harry remembered himself shouting at his professor, “I’m not like you, Snape! I’m not gonna be stupid and go and join Voldemort or something” and cringed at himself where he sat -- “and I’m sorry for saying that- uhm… that thing in your chambers the other night.”

His professor leaned back in his chair. “Well, that is a great many things to be sorry for, indeed.”

Harry shrugged.

“Firstly, I believe you mentioned being late for detention this evening, correct?”

“...yes,” Harry nodded after a moment’s pause.

“That is easily excused,” Snape dismissed with a wave of his hand, “You have already mentioned that Slughorn postponed you, just be sure not to wander back into the dungeons looking for my office.”

“You still told me to be here at seven–”

“And I expect you’ll be punctual next time,” Snape leveled him with his stare. “Now, as for following Malfoy on the train…” He paused, considering, before nodding to himself as if coming to agreement. “You have already apologized on numerous occasions,” he conceded, “So long as you do not let something like that happen again, I am content to leave the ordeal in the past.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “But-”

“You have explained your reasoning for ‘telling me off in class,’ as you put it,” his professor forestalled him, “And although I am sorry it is emotionally distressing to be the object of my scrutiny while we are in public, you understand my true character must remain concealed.”

“I know logically it makes sense,” Harry sighed, “I just…I can’t explain it.”

Snape nodded, “Few people have truly understood the devastation your home life has had on you…” He began; Harry cringed, “And I imagine it must be confusing for you to endure my ferocity in class knowing that I am aware of the abuse you have overcome. However, there is nothing to be done about the situation. You must keep in mind that when we speak together here it is, for all intents and purposes, ‘real’ and my behavior in class is not.”

Harry ran his hands together on his lap, muttering beneath his breath.

“Speak up, if you please.”

He cleared his throat. “Can I tell you when you’ve overstepped?” And upon seeing his professor’s narrowed eyes, added, “In private, of course.”

“I suppose that would be an effective way to manage our situation,” his professor conceded with a shrug. “I think that so long as you are afforded the right to tell me when I’ve overstepped, I must be allowed the same.”

Harry winced as his own voice rang in his head, “I’m not like you, Snape! I’m not gonna be stupid and go and join Voldemort or something.” The memory of his professor’s reaction made him cringe in guilt, “I know I said the wrong thing, sir,” Harry flushed, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, “It won’t happen again. It just kinda poured outta me -- I didn’t even realize what I said and I’m so sorry for-”

“Harry, I know.” Snape’s mouth curved up in a small, private smile. “I know you are sorry. All I ask is that you think about what you say in the future.” His professor stood from his seat, hands folded behind his back, “That goes for the both of us.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

“So you see? You are entirely absolved of fault. There is no need to linger over these past offenses. Let us move on to other topics.”

“I guess…”

“How have you been adjusting to life back at school?”

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged. “It’s good to see everyone again, but they all think I’m ‘The Chosen One’ so it’s a little weird. But I have a couple free periods…so I guess that’s nice, at least.”

“To think that a few months ago I would’ve called you arrogant,” Snape mused, chuckling to himself. “Have you always hated that kind of attention?”

Harry nodded. “Can’t stand it,” he huddled into himself, drawing his arms around his shoulders. He glanced up at his professor, who was still watching him with careful eyes. “Couldn’t believe Slughorn asked about the Ministry.”

“Professor Slughorn, Harry,” Snape amended, a soft smile on his face, “And I can believe it. You’ll come to know Horace well enough this year, I’d imagine.”

“Ugh,” he groaned, “I wouldn’t like to. I’ve only talked to him once and I can hardly stand it! All I want is a good grade in my N.E.W.T.s but I doubt he’ll let me get away that easily.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ll be brewing in your upcoming class? Perhaps I can assist you.”

Harry paused, running through his conversation with Slughorn in the dungeons with a frown. “Yes… He mentioned we’d be working on Liquid Death, I believe.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “As your first assignment?”

“That’s what he said,” he shrugged.

“You will need my help,” Snape said with no doubt. “I’m sure of it. Come along.” Harry scrambled to his feet as Snape quickly moved across the room. His professor waved his wand through the air, summoning various ingredients from the shelf behind him as a fire lit under the cauldron pushed into the corner of the small, dark office.

“You have brought your Potions book like I asked, correct?”

Harry nodded, readjusting his glasses as he fumbled for his book in the bag on the floor, moving across the room to join his professor over the cauldron once he had grabbed it.

“Well now, open it,” Snape sniffed as if it were obvious; Harry hastily flipped to the right page. “Begin. I will assist you as necessary.”

Harry worked through his brew immediately, following the instructions as best he could. Under his professor’s scrutinous eye, he began cutting his valerian roots as quickly as he could.
“Make sure they are evenly spliced, Potter, or your potion will not have the desired effect,” his professor vanished the root from his cutting board. “Begin dicing again, properly this time.”

With a sigh, Harry continued his efforts, and within ten minutes, his cauldron was jetting blueish steam. He continued on, progressing to the halfway stage with minimal harsh remarks from his professor, until his potion resembled the desired smooth, currant-colored liquid that his textbook described.

Harry extracted one bean from the jar his professor had placed beside him and, looking at his textbook, he raised his knife to cut it. Snape looked up from where he stood bent over the cauldron in alarm. “What’re you doing?”

“Book says to cut it,” Harry shrugged. “I’ll try and make them evenly sliced.”

“Cut it?” Snape scoffed, moving around the large cauldron to peer over Harry’s shoulder at the textbook. “Outdated. I cannot believe Horace has made you purchase this.”

“Is the potion okay right now--?”

“This simply will not do,” his professor huffed, scanning his eyes further down the page, “Insufferable man,” he groveled with disdain, “There are far more reputable authors for sixth-year students.”

“But I’ve done okay so far-”

“You will crush the bean instead,” Snape straightened himself, stepping back to peer into the cauldron. “It is the juice that is important, not the skin.”

Harry crushed the bean with the flat side of his knife and jolted back in surprise when it exuded a surprising amount of fluid, amazed the shriveled thing could have held it all. Recovering quickly, he scooped it all into the cauldron, watching the dark liquid immediately turn the exact shade of lilac described in the book.

“What does the text say to do next, remind me,” Snape narrowed his eyes at the viscous liquid.

“Uh,” Harry turned back at his book, “It says to ‘stir counterclockwise until the potion turns as clear as water.’”

Snape laughed, “Yes if your desired outcome is to make a sleeping drought. Add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir, it will incorporate the juice from the bean more thoroughly.”

Harry nodded and quickly complied, following his professor’s instructions carefully. The effect was immediate; the potion turned the palest shade of pink, making it nearly clear.

Snape nodded approvingly. “Excellent work, Potter,” he gestured quickly for Harry to stop stirring. “Watch.” Gracefully, his professor plucked a leaf from a nearby plant and dropped it into the cauldron. Harry watched in awe as the potion shriveled the small, green leaf instantaneously, leaving nothing but its charred remains at the bottom of the cauldron.

“Wow…” Harry gaped.

“Easily an Exceeds Expectations,” Snape smiled, vanishing the contents of the cauldron and moving back across the room. “I’m very pleased, you’ve done well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry muttered, trying his best to withhold a smile at the praise.

“Come,” his professor beckoned, “Take your seat, Harry, let us break. I believe we are quite finished with tutoring for today.”

Harry moved back to his chair slowly, closing his textbook and returning it to his bag as he sat.

Snape leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning over Harry in assessment. “How have you been adjusting to your other classes so far?”

“Good,” he nodded, clearing his throat, “I haven’t been to too many yet, though, that’s helped.”

“Mm,” his professor nodded, “I’m glad to hear it, the workload will be heavily increased this year, as I’m sure Ms Ganger has daily reminded you.”

Harry laughed, “Yeah, she’s been a little on edge. I dunno, I’ve been focusing on other things.”

“Oh? Like what?”

Like how parental you’re being.

He shrugged. “Dunno.”

Snape sighed, running a hand across his face. “And how have you been enjoying the feasts thus far?”

“Good.” Harry chirped at the easy question, “They’re always good.”

“Harry, you know what I am asking,” he dropped his hand to rest on the wooden table. “Have you been eating enough?”

Harry froze, forcing himself to shrug as his body tensed. Less of an easy question. “Yeah, I think so. Uh- I mean, the food has been good so far…”

Snape raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t seem very sure in your answer.”

He huddled into himself, drawing his arms around his middle, making himself smaller. “I dunno. I feel like it’s been fine. You don’t have to worry about me all the time…”

“Harry, I am your professor,” he puffed, “And more than that, I’m your…” Snape sighed, interrupting himself and drawing a long breath. “Look, it’s my job to worry about you, let me do so without your obtrusion.”

“I don’t get why you’re always on my case about it, though,” Harry tightly bunched his arms around his middle. “It’s not a big deal if I’m not eating three meals a day, Merlin forbid,” he chuckled darkly, forcing himself to hold his professor’s eye contact. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been eating three meals a day?”

“Professor, stop, please,” Harry groaned, rolling his eyes as he straightened in his chair. “It’s normal for me. I’m okay, stop being so overprotective.”

“We had an agreement over the summer, Harry, that you would try your best to be eating three-”

“Okay, but that was over the summer. We’re at school now.”

“The same principle applies. You should be trying your best to-”

“Or what?” Harry glared. “What’re you gonna do exactly, Snape? It’s not as if I’m starving myself. I’m fine! I’ve always been fine!”

“Yes, you were perfectly fine when you were living with the Dursleys,” his professor scoffed, “Yes, you’ve always been perfectly fine, haven’t you, Potter?”

Harry inhaled harshly. “I managed. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“And that constitutes the epitome of health,” Snape scoffed, shaking his head slightly.

Harry felt himself flush with rage, “You know what? Yeah, it does,” he huffed, quickly rising from his chair and throwing his book bag over his shoulder. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’d tell you if it was something to worry about.”

“Would you?”

No.

Harry huffed, throwing his arms up in mock surrender. “Sure. Can I leave now?”

“Yes, Potter,” Snape sighed heavily, “I suppose you have fulfilled your obligations here. Do not mouth off in class again or I shall hang you by your nails in the dungeon.”

Harry grimaced but found himself chuckling. He shook his head, turning away with a smirk, “Whatever you say, sir.”

His professor returned his smugness, “And Harry, let me know how it goes with Professor Slughorn, if you would be so kind.”

With a final nod, Harry pulled open the large, oak door and raced from the office back to the comforts of Gryffindor common room.

The following day, Harry, Ron, and Hermione filed into their dark, grim potions classroom with equally dower expressions. The dungeon was, unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells, and each student who entered the room sniffed around in interest as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione at a table by themselves. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting a flowery scent and Harry privately rejoiced that they wouldn’t be subjected to a harsh stench.

“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, rounding one of the many cauldrons while remaining obscured by the shimmering vapors it emitted. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making. . . .”

“Now then,” Slughorn muttered once more, inhaling so deeply the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kinds of things you ought to be able to do after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ’em, can anyone tell me what this one is?” He leaned back as he stood, with one hand shoved into his chest pocket, the other indicating the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table.

Harry raised himself slightly in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it. Hermione’s hand flew into the air before anybody else’s; Slughorn pointed at her. “It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth,” she recited.

“Very good, very good!” Slughorn bobbed happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known. . . . Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too . . . Who can — ?”

Hermione’s hand was in the air again.

“It’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said. Harry had also recognized the slow-bubbling, mud-like substance in the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question.

“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here . . . yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione’s hand shot through the air again.

“It’s Amortentia.”

“It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”

“It’s the most powerful love potion in the world,” Hermione flushed a deep crimson, her eyes wandering to the cauldron.

“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”

“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” Hermione nodded slowly, “and it’s supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us… which is why I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and —” She cut herself off, deciding to stop there.

“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione’s embarrassment.

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born.” Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn either had not noticed, or not cared. He beamed, “Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger. But, alas, Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation– or better said, an obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room — oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsession…”

And now,” said Slughorn, with the clap of his hands; startling a few in the room “It is time for us to start work.”

“Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” A Ravenclaw pointed at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn’s desk. The potion was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like fish above the surface, though nothing had managed to spill over.

“Oho,” Slughorn cheered merrily. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well,” a small mischievous grin plastered his face as he pretended to still be none-the-wiser, “That one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. And I take it…” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”

“It’s liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes everything work in your favor.”

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now, all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed . . . at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” A Slytherin piped up eagerly.

“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” Slughorn shook his head remorsefully. “Too much of a good thing, you know. It’s highly toxic in large quantities– but taken sparingly, and very occasionally . . .”

“Have you ever taken it, sir?” Another student asked.

“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”

He gazed almost longingly into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, Harry thought the effect was good.

“And that,” Slughorn beamed, apparently coming back to earth, “Is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”

There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed to magnify tenfold.

“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” Slughorn removed a minuscule glass bottle from his pocket, showing it to them all. “Just enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”

So,” Slughorn smiled, “How are you to win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have…” Harry watched the man hold his pocket watch comically far from his face, squinting, “Just a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know this recipe may be more complex than anything you have attempted before, and that is why I am not expecting a perfect potion from anybody here today. However, the person who does best will win little Felix here.” He shook the tiny bottle between his fingers, glancing around the room with a small smirk before suddenly waving his arm in a motion to get started “Off you go!”

There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible.

Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up valerian roots as fast as he could.

Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the smooth, black currant-colored liquid the textbook noted as the ideal halfway stage.

When Harry finally caught up to her, he scanned through the instructions listed in the text before remembering Snape’s advice the previous evening. Nodding to himself, Harry removed one of the shriveled beans from the jar he had grabbed and crushed it with the flat side of his dagger. Working quickly, Harry grabbed as much juice as he could and mixed it into the cauldron until his brew faded to the shade of lilac described in the textbook.

He clicked his tongue as he skimmed over the next written instruction: “Stir clockwise until the potion is clear as water” -- this, Snape had altered as well.

Harry stirred counterclockwise, counting under his breath, before stirring once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned the palest pink.

“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was red-faced, hair growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple.

“Add a clockwise stir —”

“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” She snapped.

Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause . . . seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise . . .

She watched him in wonder. He shrugged again, leaning over and whispering in her ear. “Snape helped in detention last night, I’m just doing what he told me.”

Hermione reeled back. “But that’s--” she flustered, “How is being tutored by a master not a little unfair!”

Harry shrugged just as Slughorn bellowed across the room, “And time’s . . . up! Stop stirring, please!”

Hermione shot him a dirty look; Harry smirked looking at his cauldron with pride -- something that had never happened in the dungeon before.

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last, he reached the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat nervously awaiting evaluation. Their professor paused momentarily before smiling ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron’s cauldron. He gave Hermione’s potion an approving nod. Then he saw Harry’s, and a look of delight broke across his face.

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it’s clear you’ve inherited your mother’s talent!” He took Harry’s hand in his own. “She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!” Slughorn placed the tiny bottle into Harry’s palm before turning Harry’s fist over in his hands, giving him a few taps before turning back to the class.

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd overwhelming sensation of guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione’s face. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.

“Just a little extra tutoring,” Harry smirked, noticing Malfoy was within earshot.

Exiting the classroom, the three walked through corridor after corridor until they were safely nearing Gryffindor Tower and could be assured that there were no eavesdropping Slytherins.

As they approached the portrait hole, Harry told them about his detention with Snape -- Hermione’s expression growing colder the more he said.

Harry smirked, “I suppose you think I cheated, then?”

She sighed, breaking into a light smile, “Guess not.” She shrugged, elbowing him in his side, “But you could give me some tips next time.”

“Me too!” Ron interjected. “Merlin knows I need it, I’m a goner this year, Harry, honestly!”

Harry laughed, “Alright, next time I’ll tell you everything.”

Chapter Text

Severus hated grading papers. Each year the students he taught seemed to reach new lows, bringing him abysmal, nonsensical writing that irked him to decipher. He had been huddled over his desk for around an hour, meticulously reading through his fifth-year students’ papers of varying success on the best method of dispelling pixies. He sighed, shaking his head as he marked another ‘terrible’ down across his student’s work.

He looked up, disgruntled to find the first-year who had been assigned detention had paused in writing his lines.

“Parks,” Severus growled, addressing the child whose head snapped up in alarm. “I have told you to continue with your lines until I have deemed you worthy of dismissal. What about those instructions was unclear?”

“Nothing, sir.” The boy squeaked, picking up his quill.

“Then continue with your writing,” He glared at the boy who continued his lines with renewed effort.

Too easy. He chuckled, turning back to his own papers before a knock rang out from the door at the far side of the room. The boy in front of him jumped at the noise and Severus wondered how the child had managed to be sorted into Gryffindor.

He placed his quill down on his desk, his work abandoned. "Enter," he spoke easily, his brows raising as two unexpected figures entered the dower classroom.

“Sir,” Ms Granger began, puffing out her chest. “We wished to speak with you” - she risked a glance at the young first-year - “privately. But if you’re busy, we can return later.”

Ron elbowed her subtly, clearly annoyed by the prospect of a return.

Severus could admit his interest was piqued, folding his hands across his chest as he surveyed the students in front of him; both sixth-years, though obviously uncomfortable, wore expressions of deep concern as they fidgeted where they hovered by the exit. Severus cleared his throat. “Very well,” he gestured to the young boy before him, “Parks, you are dismissed. I trust you have learned not to disrupt my class in the future.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy nodded hastily, shoving his paper and ink in his book bag.

Severus swept out of his chair and rounded his desk, standing before the older students as the young Mr Parks hurriedly fled from his chair, rushing to the far door and slamming it behind him.

Ron and Hermione stepped uneasily into the room, moving to take the two seats parallel to his desk in the front of the classroom.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Severus spoke evenly, crossing his arms.

The two students exchanged uneasy glances as if unsure how to begin. Eventually, Hermione cleared her throat, straightening her back as if to brace herself. “Sir,” she hesitated, “We know you’ve spent a lot of time with Harry over the summer…” She trailed off, turning to Ron for assistance.

“Well, we were just…” The boy looked as though he were about to vomit as Severus raised his brow in question. “We were just wondering if you noticed anything about him.”

Severus blinked in surprise. “If I noticed anything about him?”

“What Ron means to say, sir,” Hermione continued, “Is that we’ve been worried about him recently and were wondering if he’s told you anything about what he might be going through.”

Fascinating, Severus hummed to himself as he adjusted his posture.

“He seems to trust you well enough,” Ron shrugged, continuing. “Talks about you all the bloody time.”

“And you did spend so much time together,” Hermione jumped in, sending Ron a meaningful glare. “We’re only worried.”

“What exactly are you so worried about?” Severus narrowed his eyes. “What seems so significant you would come to me with your troubles?”

The students glanced at each other warily.

“We’re concerned about different things, really,” Hermione began, “It’s just that-”

“Well, Sirius died back at the Ministry, you know,” Ron cut in abruptly, wringing his hands together beneath the table. “And he refuses to talk to us about it despite the fact I know he blames himself. There’s only so much I can push him before he just gets angry,” he shrugged, “But I don’t think he’s dealing with it well… Sirius was like the only family he had apart from those wretched Dursleys.”

“Harry always seems to think that everything is his fault.” Hermione nodded. “He takes too much on himself. Even though we’ve tried to get through to him– he just won’t talk about Sirius. Sometimes, sir, it’s unnerving how far he’ll go to avoid the subject.”

“Is his manner of dealing with grief the only thing perturbing you?” Severus tapped a finger against his forearm, staring down at the children before him.

“No, sir,” Hermione spoke quietly. “It’s just that…” She looked down at her hands, her brows scrunched up together as if she were deep in thought. “Well, I’ve always noticed,” she took a heavy breath, raising her eyes to meet Severus’s own, “Well, sir, he doesn’t eat a lot. Especially when he’s upset about something.”

Severus raised his brows in surprise. “Would you care to elaborate, Ms Granger?”

“He’s never really eaten a lot, honestly,” said Hermione with a shrug, shifting her weight in her chair. “And that’s not usually concerning -- I mean, he is very skinny, you know -- but I’ve noticed that when he gets particularly in his head, it’s like he tries not to eat for as long as possible. Sometimes it can be quite scary.”

“Is there an example that comes to mind?” Severus continued to prompt.

Hermione nodded solemnly. “After Cedric’s death…He was particularly shaken. I mean, sir, anyone would be.” She ran a hand through her bushy hair, tugging it behind her ears. “But in those last days before term ended fourth year, he really couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything. It was like–” Severus watched her carefully try and pick out her words, shaking her head slightly as if revising her own sentence in her head. “We were all too overwhelmed with he-who-must-not-be-named’s return and the funeral we didn’t think much of it. But the graveyard really seemed to rattle him… Sir.” She added as an afterthought.

Severus inhaled sharply, “And you believe he’s becoming resistant to eating again?”

“It’s hard to say when he doesn’t…he doesn’t talk to us about things like that. But Sirius’s death devastated him,” -- she gestured to Ron -- “we’re both sure of that. And then to return to,” her face screwed up together, alight with fury, “To those people, I mean, he’s hardly been the same since.”

“By ‘those people’ I assume you refer to his aunt and uncle?” Severus remarked.

The pair nodded in unison.

“Has Mr Potter ever remarked on his home before?” He prodded.

Ron shook his head. “Not exactly. But we know he hates going there and that he asked Dumbledore a few years back if he could stay somewhere else.” He sighed, “But sir, for Harry to complain it must be pretty bad, he doesn’t seem to mind putting up with a lot.”

“Tell him about the bars, Ronald,” Hermione whispered harshly.

“Oh, right,” the boy glowered. “Back in second year my brothers and I went to pick him up since he hadn’t replied to my letters all summer and I was worried they were keeping them from him. When we got round his place there were bars on his window and I saw a lot of locks on his door like they were… uhm…” He cleared his throat, shifting in her chair. “...Keeping him in there or something.”

Severus bristled, narrowing his eyes as he nodded slightly. “And have either of you ever informed another professor of your concerns? Perhaps your Head of House?”

“Harry would never have let us.” Hermione shook her head fiercely with wide eyes. “I thought about going to Madam Pomfrey after he asked me how to cast a glamour, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it without his permission, sir.”

“Cast a glamour?” Severus could hardly conceal his surprise.

“And!” – Ron cut in – “Well, we thought Dumbledore knew. That’s what Harry seemed to think.”

“Does Mr Potter know that either of you are here now?” Severus mused.

Two more uneasy glances.

“No,” Ron scoffed. “He‘d kill us, sir.”

“But we’re worried because we know something is wrong,” Hermione sighed. “If he’s not talking to us about whatever he may be dealing with, he’s not talking to anyone. And now these meetings with Dumbledore he’s starting -- during a school year that is already supposed to be stressful-”

“-And all this ‘Chosen One’ crap from everyone,” Ron interrupted.

“We’re worried these stressors could overwhelm him.” Hermione threw her arms up in exasperation. “We know that Harry at least trusts you to some extent, sir, we’re really just hoping he’s talking to you about whatever is going on. Since apparently, he can’t talk to us.”

“Well,” Severus began, clearing his throat and recrossing his arms as he shifted slightly on his feet. “It may interest you to know that I have spoken with Mr Potter about his life while he resides with the Dursleys and, although he has been reluctantly forthcoming, he is willing to speak with me on the matter. I will say no more on the subject as that is his choice to disclose.”

The two students seemed to relax slightly, their shoulders dropping in relief.

“As for his eating habits,” he continued, “I have noted the issue and made it a priority to ensure his health. I have mentioned my concern to him before, but if you are as worried as you claim, Ms Granger, perhaps I can be more pressing.”

Hermione nodded, her brows drawn together in concentration. “T-Thank you, sir– It’s just that it’s hard to explain exactly… I’m worried about him, of course, but more worried about what could happen if he continues on without acknowledging that he needs time to grieve, not exactly worried about the present moment.”

“I understand,” Severus allowed himself a slight smile. “That makes perfect sense, Ms Granger.”

“Harry doesn’t ask for help,” Ron began, wringing his hands together nervously. “With anything, not just this stuff. He’s a great friend whenever someone’s going through something, like when ‘Mione and I were bickering about Draco-” he paused, cringing slightly in his seat. “He just doesn’t seem to get that it works both ways. We want to be there for him, he just makes it difficult sometimes.”

“I’m sure that Mr Potter has his reasons for his discrepancy. Do not feel down on yourself, Mr. Weasley, you are not entitled to his life no matter how close of friends you may be.” Severus tutted, lifting his head. “You must remember that he will choose to tell you what he wishes, if it’s something serious, you should allow him to come forth in his own time.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Ron, “But he’s talked to you, sir. It…It doesn’t make sense.”

“Ronald!” Hermione shushed him, kicking his leg with a loud thunk beneath the chair. “That doesn’t matter! At least he isn’t keeping it all down.”

“I acknowledge this may be difficult, Mr Weasley,” Severus raised his eyes skyward, “I agree with Ms Granger, he should attempt to work through whatever may be weighing on him, regardless of whom he chooses to speak to.” Severus tapped his arm for a moment before continuing. “I will continue to meet with Mr Potter frequently throughout the semester to discuss his eating habits and his relationship with his aunt and uncle, as he has already agreed to. Do know, I appreciate your willingness to alert me of your concern,” Severus paused again to think, “In fact, if you could, would you tell him to meet me for detention tomorrow night at eight on the dot. Tell him no delays or wrong offices -- he will understand.”

Severus glanced between the two students who sat before him. “For the sake of appearances, if you so happen to be around your peers when you encounter Harry, do tell him he’ll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions, and that there’s no need to bring protective gloves.” He nodded, chuckling slightly to himself. “If there is nothing else, you are dismissed.”

As quickly as they entered, the two students fled, each muttering a quick “thank you professor” before scurrying down the narrow aisle between desks, rushing to the far door.

“Oh, before you leave,” Severus called out abruptly, "Three points to each of you for summoning the courage to come here today. It takes a special kind of bravery to advocate for your friend's wellbeing.”

Severus swept through the halls the following morning agitated and unnerved. He had managed little sleep the night before, his incessant mind returning endlessly to his encounter with the young Mr Weasley and Ms Granger. An uneasy pit had swelled in his stomach with his suspicions confirmed -- that he, and he alone, had somehow become Harry’s only outlet despite his efforts to remain at an arm's distance from the boy for so many years.

The very thought was absurd. For Merlin’s sake, why it had been him and not Dumbledore or any other professor? Why had Harry elected to place his trust in him? He who was a servant of the Dark Lord, he who had deliberately tormented the boy for years, he who had doomed Lily and James to their graves in the first place. He let out a shaky breath at the thought, his hand absentmindedly falling to his left forearm where the Dark Mark stained his skin.

He moved swiftly down Hogwarts’ narrow passageways, sending terrified-looking first-years darting out of his way and his robes whipped around him. He knew he must look particularly grave, but Severus found he couldn’t care to correct his expression, continuing to bask in his gloominess.

He made it to the Great Hall as most of the student body began to file in, and he made his way to his seat at the staff table rather easily. Immediately, his eyes fell to Draco who was hunched over his plate at the Slytherin table, his arms wrapped around his middle and his brows drawn together in unease. Severus noted to himself to speak with the boy later, it had been too long since they had last met and it was clear Draco was not coping with the stress of his assignment from the Dark Lord well.

Sipping from his mug, Severus turned his attention to Harry. As was expected, the boy sat huddled with Ron and Hermione at his house table, the three young students peering over a large copy of the Prophet. They appeared to be engaged in a rather serious discussion, much to Severus’s disappointment as he would no doubt be berated with questions about the war from Harry that night in detention.

Without thinking, he let his attention fall to Harry’s plate-

“I hope you’re ready for a decent season of quidditch this year, Severus.” A voice tugged him from his thoughts. “Some real, healthy competition, I say.” Minerva smiled from her seat beside him, adorned in her usual luxurious green robes.

“Oh yes,” Severus replied easily. “I am sure your students will prove tolerable.”

“Tolerable! Ha,” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Well, we shall see who Potter chooses, I suppose. I shall know by tonight if I should wager my bets on Gryffindor.”

“Tonight?”

“Tryouts are today after all, if everything goes according to plan I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a team by tonight.” She smirked, a slight twinkle in her eye. “Honestly, Severus, as much as you try to keep poor Potter in detention for the rest of his life, I will fight you on it when he has practice. He’s a good seeker and I’m sure will prove an excellent captain.”

“I shall do my best to schedule his detentions for after practice, then,” he sipped gravely from his mug as she pat him on the shoulder, moving by him as she descended from the staff table.

“Go easy on him, Severus,” she called over her shoulder, “It could do him some good.”

I shall try.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the week had trudged on unbearably slow. Harry had dragged himself to each class, eyeing the mountainous pile of homework on his dormitory desk with increasing dread. While he had managed to avoid another ridiculously long conversation with Slughorn, Harry had not been able to escape the embarrassing amounts of praise from his professor in Potions, much to Hermione’s dismay.

He had worried about his meeting with Dumbledore, but -- all things considered -- Harry thought it had gone exceedingly well. The Headmaster had stressed the importance of learning about Voldemort’s early life, using the help of the Pensieve to dig up the memories of the Ministry Enforcer Bob Ogden, who had had a run-in with Voldemort’s grandfather.

Harry hadn’t liked the look of the ring on his professor’s finger, nor had he been particularly fond of Dumbledore’s blackened hand. However, his professor insisted the subject not be discussed and had quickly redirected the conversation when Harry inquired after his injury. Nonetheless, it was clear to Harry that whatever had happened to Dumbledore’s hand was impacting his ability to eat in the Great Hall; Harry realized he nearly never saw his professor at the staff table anymore and knew he wasn’t the only person to have noticed this new development since it was Hermione who seemed to wish to discuss it.

“I’m starving,” Harry said as he walked with Ron and Hermione toward the Great Hall. “And I’ve got so much homework to do I feel like I don’t have any time to eat.”

As they walked through the halls into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron scoffed gloatingly and strode into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione’s arm and held her back.

“What?” She said defensively.

“If you ask me,” Harry spoke quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning.” He raised his brows in question, imploring her to recall the Quidditch tryouts held earlier that day. “And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.”

Hermione flushed. “Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny!” Shooting an exasperated glance back at the hulking man, she clicked her tongue. “Anyway, he’s got a nasty temper; you saw how he reacted when he didn’t get in -- you wouldn’t have wanted someone like that on the team.”

“No,” Harry admitted. “No, I suppose that’s true. But wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a prefect, aren’t you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, Harry couldn’t help his subtle smirk.

“What are you two doing?” Demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.

“Nothing,” the two chimed in unison, hurrying after Ron. But, they had barely managed three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared, blocking their path.

“Harry, Harry, Harry; just the man I was hoping to see!” He boomed gleefully, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly. “I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my office instead?” Upon seeing Harry’s immediate unenthusiasm, he quickly continued, “We’re having a little party, just a few rising stars, my boy, I’ve got McLaggen coming, and Zabini, and the charming Melinda Bobbin -- I don’t know whether you know her? -- Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries — and, of course! Oh, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too.”

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.

“Harry can’t make it professor,” Hermione spoke beside him. “He has a detention with Professor Snape.”

Harry whipped his head around to face her.

“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. “Dear, dear… Oh well, I’ll admit, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I’ll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, yes, I think so -- I’ll see you both later!” And without so much as a pause for response, he bustled down the line of tables and away out of the Hall.

“What do you mean I have a detention with Snape?” Harry crossed his arms defensively.

“Harry, don’t be mad,” Hermione prefaced, clearing her throat and straightening her shoulders. “We went and spoke with him last night.”

“Both of us,” Ron nodded.

Harry looked between the two of them in mild disbelief. “Went and spoke...To Snape?”

They nodded again.

“And you talked to him about… me, I’m guessing?” Harry cocked a brow. “Since now he wants me in detention.”

“Harry, it’s not a big deal,” Hermione began hurriedly, “We spoke with him privately– and- and not even for very long at all!”

“Uh-huh.”

“And all we said was that we were worried-”

“Let’s just head inside,” Harry growled, noticing the stares of his classmates as they scurried around the trio to file into the Great Hall for dinner. He turned back to his friends, cutting them off before they could speak. “It’s fine, Hermione. You got me out of Slughorn’s party.”

“Harry, we can talk about this a little bit-”

But he had already moved down the hall, making great strides toward the Gryffindor table and leaving Ron and Hermione to scramble after him. He sat himself down abruptly, shoving food onto his plate and deliberately ignoring his friends who cautiously lowered themselves into the seats opposite.

Hermione leaned forward across the table; Harry watched his plate intensely. “We didn’t say anything too revealing,” she began, “And we only went to him because we know you two have gotten closer.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry grumbled under his breath.

“Honestly, it didn’t seem like we mentioned wasn’t anything he didn’t already know,” Ron shrugged.

Harry raised his head, his eyes meeting Ron’s. There were several things his professor had been made aware of, a few of which Harry could conjure instantly, and they were all unappealing topics to discuss.

“Take out that copy of the Prophet you have, Hermione,” Harry gestured to her. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

She sighed, “We’re really sorry, Harry-”

“Leave it,” he grimaced, “It’s fine. Whatever.”

Hermione pulled out the paper quietly, glancing at Ron as she turned to the third page. “It seems the Malfoys' house was searched,” she shrugged. But there's nothing interesting beyond that.”

“Dad mentioned something was going on with them,” Ron nodded.

“Draco must’ve brought whatever he asked Borgin to fix to school. That’s the only way I can imagine the Ministry didn’t find it at the house.” Harry muttered.

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

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

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

Harry hummed to himself quietly, watching Ginny laugh with her friends a few seats down the table before seeing a way around this objection. “Someone’s sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His mother or someone.”

“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione. “Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach.”

Harry tapped his fork against the table in thought before noticing Hermione’s eyes drift down to stare at the uneaten food on his plate.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting uneasily and looking hopefully at Ron who was sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown. “Can you think of any way Malfoy--”

Ron groaned. “No, Harry, everything’s been searched. It’s obvious Dumbledore’s not taking chances this year.”

“How could he?” Hermine added glumly.

“I just don’t think Malfoy could’ve if he tried,” Ron sighed. “Filch would be raving about another thing he nicked.”

“Fine,” he pouted, swirling his fork around the food on his plate.

“You know-” Hermione began, her eyes still on his meal.

Harry squirmed. “I’d better be off to detention,” he muttered, “Since you guys went to all the trouble of setting it up for me.”

Hermione suddenly looked a lot more nervous. “Harry-”

He stood, chucking his book bag over his shoulder, “No, it’s fine. Don’t wanna make Snape mad.” He shrugged, feigning composure. “Send Slughorn my apologies when you get to the party,” he added, moving as fast as he could from the Great Hall.

Harry made his way glumly through the twists and turns of various corridors before eventually climbing up the last flight of stairs needed to approach the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He sighed, hiking the strap of his bookbag higher up on his shoulder as he pushed open the large oak door. Walking down the aisle of desks as slowly as he could, he dragged his feet as he trudged up the stairs at the far end of the room, stopping only when he reached the office at the top of the flight.

Harry hesitated, fiddling with the sleeves of his robes as he shifted his weight from side to side where he stood. He couldn’t avoid going in forever, especially when he was standing right outside the door. Bracing himself and fixing his posture, he raised his fist and quietly knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came the gravelly voice from within.

Carefully, he pushed open the door and closed it behind him, moving toward the desk in the middle of the room.

Snape’s dark eyes scanned over his meek frame as if assessing for injuries before nodding to the chair in front of the oak desk. Dropping his bookbag to the floor, Harry took his assigned seat and anxiously awaited his professor’s remarks.

When the silence continued, he cleared his throat, “Is this a real detention, sir, or did you just want to talk to me?”

Snape looked mildly surprised, his brows raising slightly as he sat behind the desk. “No, Harry,” he shook his head, “This isn’t a real detention. I trust that you have learned not to mouth off in class again?”

He nodded, wringing his hands together in his lap.

“Then there’s no need to rehash old drama,” his professor hummed to himself. “I had assumed you would know why I asked you here tonight.”

Harry cringed, “Is it because of whatever Ron and Hermione spoke to you about?”

Snape nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as in analysis. “I thought they would inform you what we discussed.”

“I can assume,” Harry growled. “They’ve been banging on about Sirius for months. I don’t get how many times I’ve got to tell them that I’m fine.”

“Sometimes our friends know us better than we know ourselves. They came to me and noted their concern -- that is not unreasonable, don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about,” he huffed. “Sirius’s death was sad, sure, but people die. This is war, and you’ve said it yourself.”

“Just because war brings casualties does not mean their deaths don’t affect us.” Snape folded his arms across his chest. “It is absurd to think that is true. ‘Sad,’ as you put it, does not begin to cover how devastating Sirius’s loss has been for you, I’m sure.”

“So what? Yeah, I’m a little sad, but that’s about it.” Harry slouched in his chair, glaring at the smug face of his professor. “Who cares? Why is that so concerning?”

“You once mentioned to me in the kitchen back at our house that because Sirius’s death was your fault, you have struggled with eating since his passing.” Snape cocked a brow upward, as Harry felt his anxiety return in nauseating waves. “I recall you saying something about doing the things he should be doing that was troubling for you. Does that still seem to be the case?”

“Um,” he huddled into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso and avoiding the dark, inquisitive eyes of his professor. “I dunno. I don’t think I meant to say it like that.”

“No?”

Harry shrugged, “Dunno. That sounds more intense than I wanted it to be.”

“Regardless of intensity,” Snape leveled him with his stare, “Is it true? Is that how you feel?”

Harry shrugged again, moving his gaze to his lap.

“A verbal response if you would, please, Harry.”

He cleared his throat, pushing himself to sit up slightly, “Is that what Ron and Hermione were so worried about, sir? My eating?”

“They’ve noticed you’ve been more resistant to food recently, yes.”

Harry scoffed, “Why is this always what we end up talking about? If I was ill, it’d be obvious.”

“Because your health is important-”

“-I am healthy-”

“It is important to me, Harry, that you are healthy.” Snape tsked, narrowing his eyes in a firm glare. “Just because you don’t need to be in St Mungo’s does not mean you’re okay. It’s completely fine to admit that maybe you need a little extra help processing the detriment the last two years have had on you.”

Harry crossed his arms. “It’s not as if I’m gonna hurt myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Snape sighed, “But you’re damaging your body by denying yourself food as punishment for the guilt you currently feel.”

“It’s not a punishment,” he snapped.

“Then what?” Snape raised his brows. “What is it?”

Harry opened his mouth to refute him but after a brief hesitation, he turned away, looking at the bookshelf that rested against the wall to his left. “Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged eventually, “I don’t wanna talk about this.”

The silence dragged out between them as Snape carefully watched him. Harry shifted in his chair, unable to meet his professor’s eyes. “Would you like to swap questions again?” Snape asked, breaking the silence, his low voice reverberating through the small, cluttered office. “One question from you, one question from me?”

Harry pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, not particularly, professor.”

“You may ask your question first if you'd like.”

“I…” Harry wanted to reject the idea, but his gnawing curiosity engulfed him and he remained quiet. Snape seemed to interpret his thoughts.

“I do this only as a means to help, because I do, in fact, care about your wellbeing, Harry.” He watched his professor take a long tired breath through his nose. “Believe me, it is not thrilling to discuss myself in such detail either…”

“Yeah, I guess, since you’re not gonna drop it. Go on then.”

“Would you like to begin?”

Harry nodded lamely, his gaze on his lap. “Um, have - have you ever,” he paused, struggling to find the words, “Have you ever dealt with something like this? Personally, I mean.”

Snape shifted in his periphery. “Dealt with what?”

“The - the eating thing.”

His professor sighed, “Not personally, no. But I have helped students recover from similar issues in the past.”

Harry’s brows scrunched together in confusion. “But-”

“I believe it’s my turn to ask a question,” Snape interrupted and Harry clamped his mouth shut in a frown. “You’ve mentioned you don’t withhold food from yourself as punishment for Sirius’s death. So then why do you feel the need to be so restrictive?”

“I don’t want to answer that, sir,” he glared.

“I want to remind you, Harry, that nothing you say here today leaves this room without your explicit permission.” He leaned forward, folding his hands together and resting them on the desk. “I am a spy, you know. I’ve kept a great many secrets.”

“I know all that…” Harry squirmed under his professor’s firm gaze. “It’s hard to express…”

“I’m sure.”

“I just,” he huffed, tightly crossing his arms, “Every time I eat too much I think about him dying…or Cedric,” he added after a moment’s pause. “And so, sometimes I don’t wanna eat just so I don’t have to think about them.”

“Similar to when you avoided sleep because of nightmares?”

Harry cringed. “Yeah, I guess,” he shrugged.

“I believe it’s your turn to ask another question.”

He hesitated, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “How have you worked with students in the past?”

“It varied by what the student needed,” Snape replied easily with a shrug. “I have often worked with students on establishing a meal plan and trying to stick with it, gradually increasing their food intake. Other times, when the issue was more severe, I have brewed potions to assist with weight gain.”

Harry’s face screwed up in disgust. “I wouldn’t want to take that.”

“Any particular reason why you are so adamant in your refusal?”

“Is that your question?”

“Sure.”

“I just feel like if I saw myself gaining a lot of weight I’d feel like I was indulging myself.” He spoke easily. “I’ve never really needed a lot. I mean…” He trailed off with a low chuckle, “Aunt Petunia would freak if she saw I was bigger.”

Snape eyed him, a question lurking in his gaze. “If that was my question, it’s your turn.”

Harry nodded slowly in thought. “What would a meal plan look like if we made one?” He asked carefully.

“A list of foods to try and eat every meal. We would work with what the house elves prepared already. Suppose there’s something you’ve developed a particular aversion to… We’ll avoid it and try to work up to overcoming that fear.”

Harry nodded. “What if I have a particular aversion to all foods?”

Snape grimaced. “That is a separate question entirely. And not what I am saying, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“I guess.”

His professor sighed, drawing his hand slowly down the side of his face, “Is a meal plan something you’re interested in workshopping with me?”

“Not particularly,” he shrugged, lamely tugging on the ends of his robe sleeves, “Just curious.”

“Why?” Snape raised a brow, “If you’re so insistent that you’re completely healthy.”

“Just curious,” Harry growled, tugging harder at his sleeves. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Meal planning doesn’t have to be so scary-”

“I’m not scared-”

“It could be useful since you are an athlete headed into quidditch season. You’ll have to account for the amount of exercise you’ll be doing this term.”

“I know. I’m not daft.” Harry crossed his arms.

“I’m only saying it might be beneficial to consider.”

“I said no, Snape.”

“I heard tryouts were today. How did they go?”

Harry reeled. “Don’t change the subject. Are we talking about how fucked up I am or are we not?”

Snape eyed him carefully, his expression unreadable. “Fine,” he spoke evenly after a moment of silence. “Why did you ask Ms Granger how to cast a glamour?”

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. “I- Why’d she mention that? It’s unimportant.”

“I disagree.”

Harry felt his pulse ringing in his ear, his heartbeat quickening and his brow began to sweat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Harry, it’s a very serious concealment charm.”

“I know that.”

Snape leaned forward. “Was it because of bruises?”

Harry winced, drawing his arms closer to his chest. “I guess,” he shrugged, averting his eyes. “But not really.”

“No?” Snape looked unappeased.

He shook his head. “I’m usually very skinny when I get off summer break. People always stare… Well, they stare more than usual.”

“You wanted less attention?”

“Merlin, yes,” he sighed, “I used to be able to cast them without thinking about it but that went away…I dunno why.”

Snape blinked in surprise. “You used to cast glamours on yourself unintentionally?”

“Well, it was intentional,” Harry tsked, “I just didn’t really have to think about it.”

“And when would you cast them?”

“Before I went to school. I didn’t like when the other kids stared or when the teacher asked to talk to me.”

“This was before you came to Hogwarts?”

Harry nodded. “I don’t think I really knew what I was doing. I just got so sick of every new teacher asking if I was okay at home. It was really exhausting to have to convince them everything was fine.”

Snape seemed to consider this. “Why not just tell them the truth?”

“They’d send people to the house if I did.”

“And that would risk further punishment?”

“The times they sent people I was just put” -- he risked a glance up at his professor, sucking in a harsh breath -- “Well, I was usually just put back into the cupboard until they left. Then Uncle Vernon would wail on me when they left for ratting on them.”

Snape paused, his posture tensing slightly. Harry cowered inward, rubbing his hands together quickly on his lap.

“It was just easier to not exist,” he continued, “It made everything better. ‘Course, that can’t happen at Hogwarts,” Harry scoffed, “Everyone’s bloody interested in me.”

“I can imagine that would be very stressful.”

“I mean, I can understand the whole Voldemort -- er, Dark Lord, thing,” Harry cleared his throat, “And all that ‘Boy Who Lived’ shit, but things just always seem to happen to me. And it’s not as if I go out looking for trouble, sir, honestly.” He shifted awkwardly in his chair, “I guess the Ministry is different, though, so maybe I do.”

“The Dark Lord wished for you to retrieve the prophecy, it is unavoidable that you should have gone.” Snape sighed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “It was very noble of you to attempt to rescue Sirius from such a perilous environment.”

“Noble and stupid, maybe.”

“Perhaps,” Snape nodded. “But both can be true at once.”

“I shouldn’t have gone-”

“No, Harry, you shouldn’t have gone,” he conceded with a slight shrug. “But it won’t do you good to dwell on the matter. You went, and now you’ve learned not to do so again.”

“Yeah but-”

Snape leveled him with his stare and Harry clamped his mouth shut. “Trust that it was a lesson worth learning. Now you know to value occlumency and devote time to mastering the art.”

“Ugh, please, can we be done with that?”

“How have you been faring against your nightmares?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, “Fine, they’ve been better since getting back to school.”

“That’s great to hear-”

“But… well I mean, that’s only because I haven’t been sleeping much.”

Snape sighed, shaking his head. “You are impossible. Is there anything I can say to convince you to take care of yourself?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he groaned, “I’ve always had trouble sleeping, long as I can remember.”

“That is why you practice occlumency, Harry. It will help you greatly.”

“Yeah, but I’m shit at it.”

“You’re not, actually,” Snape raised his brows in amusement. “It’s rather shocking you have such a natural affinity for the subject.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

He chuckled. “I am in earnest. You’ve consistently impressed me, occluding is no easy feat and yet you continue to manage it -- and quickly, may I add. I’m sure with more applied effort you could become quite an effective occlumens.”

Harry gaped at him in surprise. “Are you complimenting me?”

“I believe so. Don’t make me live to regret it.”

“Yeah, but you think I’m good at something?”

“You’re good at many things, Harry.”

“Well, sure, but-”

“But?”

“You never give out praise.” He couldn’t help the smile on his face. “It means more coming from you since you’re usually cruel.”

Snape shifted in apparent discomfort, wringing his hands together on the table. “Cruel is a… Harsh word… But used legitimately, I suppose.”

Harry cocked a brow. “Would you describe yourself as particularly supportive?” He chuckled lightly to himself.

His professor seemed to pause and consider. “Not in the past. And not with you.”

“But with other people?”

“Perhaps,” Snape conceded. “But I should like to think that has changed, now that I understand you better.”

“Do you?”

He smirked, “You disagree?”

“Not really, I guess,” Harry said as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just sort of weird to think about. Dunno.”

Snape nodded his head in a slight incline. “Do you happen to have your timetable on you, Harry?”

“Yeah, why?” He reached down toward his bookbag.

“So that we might find a time to continue this conversation in another -- how did you put it? -- ‘fake detention’.”

Harry nodded, extracting the small sheet of parchment and reached across the desk to hand it to his professor.

Snape raised a brow. “You have quite a few free periods for a sixth-year student.”

It was not a question but Harry replied anyway, crossing his arms defensively, “I have a lot of homework, sir.”

“Mmm,” His professor simply hummed in agreement. “And are you doing your homework first period?” He glanced across the desk at Harry’s face, “I thought not.”

“It’s so early,” he groaned.

“Your free period on Tuesday is when I am not teaching.”

“But that’s first thing in the morning!” He protested. “And before Defense, I’ll see you anyway!”

“It is when I am available. Do you wish to propose another time?”

Harry groaned. “After quidditch?”

“When have you booked the pitch?”

“Eight-thirty to eleven most nights. Not on weekends, though!”

Snape eyed him unimpressed. “You wish to meet after eleven on school nights? When will you complete your homework?”

Harry shrugged, “After practice.”

“This is a difficult year, you’ll need at least eight hours of sl-”

“Or I’ll do it during my frees! That’s why they’re on there, isn’t it?”

His professor remained unconvinced. “We shall meet on Tuesdays during first period-”

Harry groaned.

“-And you shall learn to deal with it,” Snape smirked. “Then you will leave for Defense five minutes before me.”

“But I’d already be in your office?”

“And we cannot have your peers acknowledge that fact.”

Harry set his jaw, “Fine. But I want a pass when I’m shit at occlumency so early in the morning.”

“You are a teenager, Potter,” Snape raised his eyes skyward, “If you didn’t complain about waking up before nine, I’d be concerned.”

Chapter Text

Katie Bell was flying. Fierce wind whipped her hair around in all directions, her eyes were closed, her face was empty of expression. Harry, Ron, and Hermione halted in their tracks, pausing in the middle of the dirt road that ran from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, watching in stupefied horror. Leanne, a friend of Katie’s, stood beneath her hovering form, begging her to return to the ground to no avail.

Katie continued to rise until she was completely out of reach, then let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open with a horrible panic, as if forces beyond what Harry could see began to torture her profusely. She screamed louder; Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed forward to help as Leanne seized Katie’s ankles. Quickly, the four began to drag Katie’s legs down with the combined force of their effort before she suddenly, shaken and disoriented, fell from the air on top of them. Harry and Ron caught her in her descent, but she was writhing with such intense energy they could hardly hold her. On Hermione’s command, they lowered her to the ground, where she continued to thrash, apparently unable to recognize any of them.

Harry frantically looked up the deserted path. Where are any of the professors? He thought to himself, his mind racing.

“Stay there!” He shouted at the others over the howling winter wind. “I’m going for help!” He sprinted toward the school, kicking up snow, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears.

Find Snape, his mind screamed. He’ll know what to do. Find Snape.

Katie’s screams could still be heard behind him.

He forced himself to run faster, arms pumping beside him as Harry propelled down the lane. Find Snape. Just find Snape.

Harry hurtled around a bend and collided with an enormous mass, stumbling backward and holding his head in shock.

“Hagrid!” He stared up at the groundskeeper, panting from exertion.

“Harry!” said Hagrid, dusting off his great, shaggy beaverskin coat, covered in sleet. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he’s comin’ on so well yeh wouldn’—”

“Someone’s hurt back there, or cursed, or something!”

“Come again?” He bent down to Harry’s height, holding a large hand up to his ear to hear over the raging wind.

“Someone’s been cursed!” He shouted frantically before catching his breath.

“Cursed? Who’s bin cursed? Not Ron? Hermione?”

“No– no– it’s not them, it’s Katie Bell. This way!”

With thudding feet, they ran back down along the path, quickly making their way back to the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground.

“Get back!” Hagrid shouted, pushing away Ron, Hermione, and Leanne, who had been trying to quell Katie’s screeches. “Lemme see her!”

“Something’s happened!” Leanne sobbed, rubbing her nose on the sleeve of her robe. “I don’t know what — ”

Harry watched Leanne struggle for breath, her eyes red from crying, her fingers tightly bunching the fabric of her robe. He didn’t know her very well, but her overwhelming grief for her friend felt too intimate for his observation. Harry averted his eyes, glancing at Hermione who, seeming to echo his thoughts, was already watching him with wide, scared eyes.

Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then, without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle. The remaining four stood dumbfounded as Katie’s piercing screams died away until the only sound was the roar of the wind and Leanne’s sobs.

Hermione hurried over to Leanne and put an arm around her. “Did it just happen all of a sudden?”

“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, pointing at the brown-paper package which lay buried in snow on the ground. The paper had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron bent down, reaching; Harry pulled back his arm.

“Don’t touch it!” He glared, crouching down beside the package. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper. “I’ve seen that before,” said Harry with narrowed eyes. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes. The label said it was cursed. She must have touched it.” He looked up at Leanne, who was shaking uncontrollably in Hermione’s arms. “How did Katie get hold of this?”

“Well, that’s why we were arguing, you see,” she said between shaky breaths, “She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, saying it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts that she had to deliver. She looked all funny when she said it”— Leanne sobbed into Hermione’s shoulder — “I bet she’d been Imperiused and I— I didn’t even realize!” Leanne shook with renewed sobs.

Clearly uncomfortable, Hermione patted her shoulder gently and cleared her throat. “She didn’t say who’d given it to her?”

“No... she wouldn’t tell me and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn’t listen and... and then I tried to grab it from her and — and —” She shook, letting out a pathetic wail of despair.

“We’d better get up to school,” Hermione nodded with assurance, her arm still around Leanne. “We’ll be able to find out how she is. Come on.”

Harry hesitated, his eyes on the ground, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron’s gasp, carefully covered the necklace and picked it up. “We’ll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey… Or to Snape, he’ll know what to do with something cursed.”

Harry’s mind was spinning, and as they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, he pulled Ron close, “Malfoy knows about this necklace,” he whispered. “It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He must’ve remembered and gone back for it!”

“I dunno, Harry, ” Ron raised a skeptical brow. “Loads of people go into that shop, and didn’t that girl say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?”

“She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn’t necessarily get it in the bathroom itself-”

“McGonagall!” Ron cleared his throat warningly. Harry looked up, sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through the snow to meet them.

“Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell,” she noted each of them with a piercing gaze. “Upstairs to my office at once, please! What’s that you’re holding, Potter?”

“It’s the thing she touched,” Harry extended his arm in offering.

“Good lord,” McGonagall cringed away, carefully taking the necklace, her face contorted in alarm. “No, no, they’re with me!” She added, as Filch came shuffling across the entrance hall, his Secrecy Sensor raised eagerly. “Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, but be sure to keep it wrapped in the scarf!”

“Will Professor Snape need any assistance, miss?” asked Harry quickly.

She shot him a curious look before shaking her head. “No, Potter, he is perfectly capable. You will come with me first,” after watching him carefully, added, “Then you are free to do as you like.”

Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall up several flights of stairs and into her office. She hustled them inside quickly, looking over her shoulder and down the hall before she closed the door, which rang with a heavy thud behind them. Harry noticed that the frosted windows rattled in their frames and that the room was chilly despite the fire crackling near the opposite end of the small room. Professor McGonagall paced, her heels clicking impatiently as she swept around to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne, who was still sobbing profusely.

“All right,” McGonagall sighed, not unkindly, “Go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock. I’d rather not question you while you're…”— She paused, thoughtfully looking Leanne up and down — “inconsolable.”

With a grateful nod, Leanne fled the room -- her sobs still heard fading off into the distance as she raced down the hall. With a slight shake of her head, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “What happened when Katie touched the necklace?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“She rose up in the air,” Harry started before the others could speak, shifting his weight from side to side. “Then began to scream and collapsed— Miss, may I see Professor Snape, please?”

“I assure you, Potter,” she sniffed haughtily, “Anything you have to say to him, you may also say to me. How did she acquire the necklace?”

“We don’t quite know,” Hermione interjected, shooting Harry a daring look. “All we heard from Leanne was that she needed to deliver it to someone in the castle. We don’t know who.”

“Leanne thought she might have been Imperiused. Said she was acting funny,” Ron added.

It was Draco, Harry’s mind raced, his hands balling into fists at his side.

McGonagall shot him a strange look. “And you only encountered her after she had touched the thing?”

“Yes, miss,” they answered in unison.

Harry shook with anticipation, “Professor-”

“Yes, fine, Potter, you three are dismissed. I suppose I have no further reason to detain you.”

“Thank you,” Harry ran from the room, barreling out the door as Ron and Hermione scurried to catch up.

“Harry!” Hermione panted behind him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve just gotta check on something with Snape, I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“But-”

“Later!” He called back, rushing down the stairs, his friends disappearing as he rounded the corner.

“One moment,” came Snape’s voice from the other side of the large oak door following Harry’s knock. “Unless it is urgent, I ask that I not be disturbed—” his professor pulled back the door and stopped talking abruptly, relief flashing across his face. “Oh, Potter, it’s you. Come inside.”

Harry quickly shuffled into the dimly lit office after his professor, who slammed the door shut behind them.

“I heard you witnessed Katie Bell’s incident down at Hogsmeade?” Snape moved toward the desk in the middle of the cramped space, peering down at the necklace that sat atop the dark wood.

“Yes, sir,” he nodded, fidgeting slightly in place.

“I have also been told that it was your scarf I saw wrapped around the necklace, am I correct?” He raised a brow, holding Harry’s red and gold Gryffindor scarf aloft.

“Yeah,” he reached for it, stuffing the scarf into his bag. “That’s right.”

“Foolish,” Snape chided. “You could have levitated the necklace. Imagine what could have happened if you accidentally touched the blasted thing.”

Harry stared blankly at Snape. Weren't there bigger problems right now?

“Will Katie be alright?” He asked.

Harry couldn’t place the look in his professor’s eyes as he turned to stare at him. “Yes, I expect she will make a full recovery. But she is to be moved to St Mungos tomorrow morning for her safety.”

“Moved?” Harry gaped in surprise. “It’s that serious?”

“There is a very strong curse placed upon this necklace. Once I am able to identify what exactly it may be, Katie should recover swiftly.”

“It was Draco,” Harry said suddenly. “I know it was.”

Snape paused in his assessment of the opal jewels, straightening his back and turning to him with such a menacing glare, Harry retreated backward involuntarily.

“I thought I told you not to concern yourself with Draco Malfoy, Potter.” His professor growled.

He drew in a swift breath. “But he’s hurt Katie, now!”

“That is a very serious accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation, it’s true.”

Snape surged forward suddenly, his black robes swirling behind him as he drew nearer, his menacing expression darkening. “And what is the evidence to support your claim?”

“I saw him at Borgin and Burkes, remember? Over the summer. I know that necklace was there. He must have bought it!” Harry took another step back toward the door.

“Hundreds of people go into that shop, Potter,” he spat, “That hardly qualifies as evidence.”

That’s what Ron said, he thought glumly.

“Did you see him purchase the thing?” Snape growled.

“...No, sir.”

“And did you hear him mention any interest in purchasing it?”

“No.”

“Then you can hardly claim that Malfoy had any affiliation with Katie Bell’s unfortunate accident, can you not?”

“But, sir, I know it was him-”

“ENOUGH!” He roared, slamming his fist down on the surface of the table, making Harry jump and the necklace jolt from its spot upon impact. “You are not to worry about the dealings of Draco Malfoy any longer, Potter, am I understood?”

Harry fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting to the necklace, which glittered under the light.

“I said, am I understood?” Snape raged, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His professor seemed to relax, his shoulders sagging as he rubbed a tired hand down the side of his face. “I do not know why you insist on defying my very simple orders, Potter.”

Harry shuffled in place. “Because you made an unbreakable vow,” he muttered softly to himself.

Snape’s eyes moved to his. “Sit down, Potter,” he sighed. With a flick of his wrist, the necklace flew across the room and stored itself in an open chest near a pile of unused cauldrons, the lid of its new container shutting abruptly.

Harry moved slowly across the room, lowering himself into the chair opposite his professor and folding his arms on his lap.

Snape stared at him, his dark eyes serious and intense — he looked worn out, Harry realised, worn out and tired.

“I need you not to worry about me, Harry.” He said quietly. “It will only leave you feeling uneasy, and that is the last thing I want.”

Harry wrung his hands together, “But- Sir, you could die.”

“I am aware, Potter. But I will be okay. I can promise you that.”

“But how could you know?” He whipped his head up, his hands moving together with renewed ferocity. “There’s no certainty. If Draco messes up whatever task he’s been assigned, you have to step in. What if you can’t do it?”

In a flourish of black robes, Snape knelt down beside him, grabbing Harry’s hands and halting their movement. “Harry, I want you to listen when I say this: I will be fine. There is nothing for you to concern yourself with. I will be okay.”

“But,” he hesitated, “this task seems serious and what— what if you can’t do it?”

“Do you honestly think Draco, a child, was assigned a task that I’m incapable of accomplishing?” He squeezed Harry’s hands tightly, “This is none of your concern. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But that’s not fair. You worry about me all the time. It’s literally all you ever talk about.”

“That’s not true,” Snape chuckled. “And even if it were, I am your professor… I have been your… guardian. It is my job to worry about you.”

Harry fidgeted awkwardly. “Your life is in the hands of Malfoy, sir, with all due respect… that means I’m gonna worry.”

Snape sighed, a slight smile tugging at his cheek. “Enough worrying about everyone else, Potter. For once in your life, think about yourself.”

“Yeah, well, for the first time ever, I don’t seem to be in danger right now.” He replied with a shrug.

Snape said nothing, choosing instead to raise himself up from the ground and move back to his chair on the other side of the desk.

Harry watched his professor carefully, pulling his arms into his chest. “I’m sorry for bringing up Draco, sir.”

“I thought we said no more useless apologies, Harry.”

“I know… But you’ve told me not to do anything about him.”

“You had a hunch, you brought it up. You haven’t actually acted on anything yet, so far as I’m aware,” Snape shot him a questioning look; Harry shook his head. “And so, I suppose you are in the clear for now.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Now, Potter, I do apologize, but I must ask you to leave. I have to work on identifying this curse.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Snape waved his arm dismissively. “No, no. Go attend to your homework; I’m sure you are behind.”

Harry grimaced, rising from his chair.

“And I shall see you Tuesday morning, first period, for our next meeting.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t forget.”

“How could I?”

Snape looked amused. “You were late last week.”

“It’s early—”

“Nine in the morning, Potter,” he sighed, “I expect you in my office.”

Harry rose from his chair, raising a stiff hand in mock salute, “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

“I played like shit,” Ron groaned as the door to the locker room shut behind him.

“No, you didn’t,” Harry said firmly, “You’re the best Keeper I tried out, you just get nervous, Ron.”

Harry kept up the encouragement as they walked all the way back up to the castle from the quidditch pitch, slowly but surely making the long trek back up to the Gryffindor common room. By the time they reached the second floor, Ron was beginning to look slightly more at ease.

As they turned a corner, Harry pushed back the tapestry that draped in front of their usual shortcut back up to Gryffindor Tower, and both Harry and Ron suddenly found themselves staring directly at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and fiercely kissing.

It was as if Harry’s stomach had plummeted to his feet, or a large scaly creature was clawing at his insides. He was hit by the sudden realization that he wished very much to jinx Dean into jelly, and withheld himself with surprisingly great restraint.

“Oi!” Ron shouted as Dean and Ginny broke apart; Harry winced as his ear rang with his friend’s booming voice. “I don’t want my sister snogging in public!”

“This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!” Ginny scoffed.

Dean looked embarrassed. He gave Harry a sly grin, which was not returned as Harry debated Dean’s instant dismissal from the team.

“Let’s go back to the common room,” said Dean.

“No, you go,” Ginny crossed her arms, eyes narrowed in clear irritation, “I’d like a word with my dear brother.” She waited for Dean to scurry up the stairs and out of sight before she tossed her red hair out of her face and glared at Ron. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said harshly, “It’s none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them—”

“Yeah, it is!” Ron spat just as angrily. “Do you think I want people saying my sister’s a—”

“A what, exactly?”

“He doesn’t mean anything,” Harry groaned, stepping forward between them, though he could not help glancing at Ginny’s lips briefly, where he knew Dean had kissed her.

“Oh, yes, he does,” Ginny shouted. “Just because he’s never snogged anyone in his life—”

“Shut your mouth!” Ron roared, his face quickly turning red with anger. “Just because I don’t do it in public—”

Ginny laughed, trying to force her way around Harry. “Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?”

Ron looked enraged as he sputtered for a moment. “You—”

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” Ginny shouted. “And Hermione’s snogged Viktor Krum! It’s only you who acts like it’s disgusting, Ron. Just because you’ve got the experience of a twelve-year-old!”

“C’mon,” Harry grabbed Ron’s arm, distantly hearing the sound of Filch’s shuffling feet down the hall; he dragged Ron up the stairs and along the seventh-floor corridor, ignoring Ginny’s continued yelling behind them. When Ron eventually stopped protesting his removal, they walked swiftly down the hall in silence. It was almost frustrating, Harry mused, how he could not take his mind off the unsettling feeling in his stomach.

It’s just because she’s Ron’s sister, he told himself, shaking his head. You didn’t like seeing her kissing Dean because she’s Ron’s sister. But even as he thought the words, Harry’s mind conjured the image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead of Dean. He could feel the pull of her soft lips, the way she ran her fingers through his unruly hair, the way he tugged her close, an arm around her waist.

“Dilligrout,” Ron said darkly to the Fat Lady as they climbed through the portrait hole and into the common room. At the very least, neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again — they barely spoke to each other for the rest of the night as they each got into bed in silence.

Harry lay awake for a long time, staring up at the canopy of his four-poster bed and trying to convince himself his feelings for Ginny were not what he knew they were to be. He pinched himself to stay awake. He had known Ginny for years… wasn’t it natural he should feel protective over her…natural he should want to look out for her… that he should want to rip Dean limb from limb?

She’s Ron’s sister, Harry told himself firmly, turning over in his bed. She’s off limits. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited to fall asleep, not letting his thoughts travel anywhere near Ginny.

Christmas was approaching fast; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; Hagrid had brought in a large Christmas tree, and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung around the main corridors.

Much to Harry’s dismay, large groups of girls tended to dwell underneath the mistletoe every time he would walk past, which had become a cause for blockage in the corridors. The girls would wave, bat their eyelashes, and ask about his time in the Ministry last May or about the adventures in his life as the ‘Chosen One.’ Harry, in an attempt to avoid these encounters, would use the castle’s secret passageways to navigate, without too much difficulty, the mistletoe-free routes in between his classes.

These new detours meant that he would often turn up a few minutes late to his classes — a fact that had not gone unnoticed and was consequently ridiculed by Professor Snape. When Harry had proclaimed the necessity for his new route to class to his professor in one of their weekly meetings, Snape had merely raised his brows in mild disbelief.

“Your need to avoid these girls is the cause for your lack of punctuality?” He had stared down at him; Harry almost missed the tiniest smirk, as if his professor had been trying not to smile.

“Merlin, yes,” Harry had groaned into his hands. “They’re like vultures. They just want me to ask them to go to Slughorn’s party so they can say they dated the ‘Chosen One’.”

“Such is the life of a celebrity.” Snape had rolled his eyes — his professor was clearly unsympathetic to his dilemma. “Why not just ask Ms Granger? If you are so worried about finding a date.”

Because Hermione wouldn’t be Ginny, Harry had thought to himself shamefully.

“Hermione’s already been invited, I’ll have to go with someone else,” he had opted to say instead.

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say; his professor had raised his eyes skyward, clearly prepared to move on to another topic of conversation. “Then, Harry, why not just take a different girl? You obviously have plenty of adoring fans to pick from; your solution to this problem should not be a ‘tardy’ on your attendance. I will knock your grade to ‘Troll’ if you are late again.”

Ron, who may at one point have found these necessary detours a cause for jealousy, simply laughed unhelpfully at the whole situation. Although Harry preferred this new, lighthearted Ron to the moody git he had become since his confrontation with Ginny, the improved version of his friend came with a heavy price.

To Harry’s dismay, spending time with Ron had become taxing. First, Harry had to endure the constant presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment her lips were not locked on Ron’s as a moment wasted; Harry grumbled to himself at dinner, as he did his best to ignore Lavender’s desperate attempts to suck his friend’s face off entirely. And secondly, Harry now found himself acutely aware of the fact that he was awkwardly torn between two friends who seemed unlikely to ever speak to each other again.

Ron and Hermione had been at odds since Ron’s fight with Ginny in the stairwell, with Harry floating between them in an effort to draw them back together. The unending presence of Lavender Brown had only made things worse, it seemed. Harry did not see how he could possibly explain to Hermione that what she had done to offend Ron so much was kiss Viktor Krum two years ago. And despite his best efforts, Harry’s two closest friends seemed to no longer consider themselves to be friends at all.

Even getting Hermione to talk was hard enough. Her schedule was so packed with classes and dedicated ‘DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS DYING’ study time that Harry could only properly speak with her in the library — and, of course, only once Ron was so ensnared by Lavender that he did not notice Harry’s absence.

Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry filled his evenings with ‘study sessions,’ where he whispered at Hermione furiously.

“He’s perfectly at liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” she said one night, in a huff.

Harry was bored. “So you’ll just keep sending your birds after him til he cuts it off with her?”

Hermione paused her work to glare at him. “I really couldn’t care less what he does.” She raised her quill and dotted an i with so much force she punctured a hole in her parchment.

Harry said nothing else on the subject for the rest of the night.

“You could’ve taken anyone!” Ron said, mouth agape at dinner. “And you picked–” He sputtered with his food still in his mouth, Harry looked away in a futile attempt to keep his appetite. “You picked Loony Lovegood?”

“Don’t call her that, Ron,” Ginny snapped before turning to Harry. “I’m glad you’re taking her, she’s really excited.”

Harry nodded, trying to feel pleased that Ginny approved of his decision to ask Luna to Slughorn’s party, but he couldn’t manage it. She moved down the table to sit with Dean. Harry forced his eyes away.

Hermione was sitting alone at the end of the table, clearly still upset that Ron had mocked her in their Transfiguration lesson earlier that day. They had not spoken since.

“You could say sorry,” Harry muttered to Ron, who was trying his best to conceal looking at Hermione sitting further down.

“No,” he grumbled, “Human transfiguration is hard, you know. Just because I couldn’t get my eyebrow to change color… And accidentally grew some facial hair... She shouldn’t have laughed at me.”

“Right…” Harry raised a brow. “But you didn’t have to mock her for sucking up to McGonagall. She always does that.”

“She laughed at my mustache!”

“I laughed at your mustache, too. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Ron shrugged, grumbling to himself as he turned back to his meal. Harry caught Hermione’s eye at the end of the table, just as she got up and moved swiftly out of the Great Hall without sparing them another look.

When Harry arrived in the entrance hall at eight o’clock that night, he found a large group of girls lurking there, who stared at him resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing silver robes and — to Harry’s relief — had chosen not to adorn herself with her usual, rather horrid, jewelry, and looked quite nice in her simple gown. She moved toward him with giddy steps, her robes flowing with her movements. Harry, rather clumsily, remembered to offer his arm, which she took with a bright smile.

“Hi,” he said, “Should we get going then?”

“Oh, yes,” she was clearly excited. Harry turned so she wouldn’t see the group of girls scowling behind her.

He pulled Luna after him through the crowd and, narrowly avoiding Slughorn (who was likely to make a grand speech at his arrival), they moved throughout the party together. Once tucked away from his professor or any other annoyances, Harry stopped to breathe for a moment. Safe at last from the prying eyes of the girls outside, he grabbed a large goblet of butterbeer from a table nearby and scanned the room carefully. Luna patiently glanced around wordlessly, too, as if looking at something Harry couldn’t see, until Harry saw a figure with a very familiar mane of brown hair slip behind a curtain.

He moved swiftly across the room, Luna at his heels. “Hermione?” he asked, swinging back the velvet drape.

“Harry!” She panted, looking extremely disheveled with her bushy hair and red face. “There you are, thank goodness. Hi Luna!”

Harry eyed her. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’ve just escaped — no, I mean, I’ve just left Cormac,” she babbled, and after a particularly disapproving look from Harry, added, “I know, I know. But I thought bringing him would annoy Ron the most.”

Harry scoffed, crossing his arms.

Hermione continued. “I debated Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole —”

“You considered Smith?” Harry could not believe the lengths girls would go to for revenge.

“Yes, I did. And I’m starting to wish I’d chosen him instead. Cormac hasn’t asked me one single question about myself, no, I’ve been treated to ‘A Hundred Great Saves by Cormac McLaggen’ nonstop ever since —” Hermione ducked in Harry’s shadow, furiously glancing past him. “Oh no, here he comes!”

She moved so quickly through the crowd that it was as if she had Disapparated, completely vanishing from view. Harry, who had been trying to see where she had gone, had no time to react before Slughorn’s booming voice was in his ear.

“Harry, my boy!” His professor beamed, clearly happy to have finally sought him out. “I don’t think I’ve ever known such a natural at Potions!” Then, turning to Luna, with a fond brow raised, he continued, “He’s instinctive, you know — like his mother! I’ve only ever taught a few with this kind of ability, I can tell you that. Why even Severus” — to Harry’s horror, Slughorn seemed to pull Snape out of thin air, his arm around Snape’s dark cloak. “Stop sulking and join us, Severus!” Slughorn hiccuped happily, slurring his words and obviously uneasy on his feet despite the party having just begun. “I was just talking about Harry’s exceptional potion-making. Surely, some of the credit must go to you.”

Visibly bewildered and trapped with Slughorn’s arm around him, Snape turned to meet Harry’s eye. “Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all.”

“Well, then it’s natural ability!” Slughorn was ecstatic; Harry wished he would be quieter. “You should have seen what he gave me that first lesson, Draught of the Living Death — I’ve never had a student produce finer on a first attempt.” His cackle was ear-piercing; “I don’t think even you, Severus—”

“Is that so?” Snape interrupted, pulling Slughorn’s arm from his shoulder, his tone riddled with annoyance. But Harry could see a hint of some kind of pride in his professor’s eyes, detectable only to someone who knew the intricacies of his expressions. It occurred to Harry that despite his professor’s display of disinterest, Snape seemed to enjoy hearing that Harry excelled in potions.

“And–!” Slughorn beamed, breaking Harry out of his thoughts. ”You’re taking all the required classes to become an Auror, are you not, Harry?” Slughorn landed a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, shaking him a little harder than he had probably meant to.

“Yes, sir.” Harry pipped, readjusting his glasses.

“I don’t think you should be an Auror, Harry,” Luna said unexpectedly. Everybody looked at her; Harry, embarrassingly raising his goblet to his lips, realized he had almost forgotten she was there. “The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy. I thought everyone knew that. They’re working to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of Dark Magic and gum disease.”

Harry inhaled half his drink up his nose as he started to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just for this. Emerging from his goblet, coughing, sopping wet but still grinning, Harry saw something in the corner of his eye that raised his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy being dragged toward them by Argus Filch.

“Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his eyes alight with manic mischief. “I discovered this boy lurking in the hall. He claims to have been invited to your party.”

Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch’s grip furiously, “All right, I wasn’t invited,” he growled. “I was crashing. Happy?”

Filch turned red. “No!”

“That’s okay, Argus, it’s okay,” Slughorn waved his hand dismissively. “It’s Christmas, and not a crime to want to attend a marvelous party. Just this once, we’ll forget any punishment. You may stay, Draco.”

Filch’s expression of outrage and disappointment was so perfectly predictable, Harry resisted the strong urge to smile, but Malfoy’s obvious displeasure was confusing. With a questioning look, Harry turned back and watched Snape’s face carefully — his professor’s cold, relentless eyes bore into Malfoy, who, almost sheepishly, refused to return the gaze. But there was something else… Harry puzzled over the fact that, if he didn’t know any better, his professor looked ever so slightly, maybe just a little afraid.

This was the first time Harry had seen Malfoy up close since the train, and at a closer glance, it was clear that the boy had dark shadows under his eyes and a grayish tint to his skin. He looked almost ill; it was nearly unsettling to see him so distinctly emaciated, Harry noted to himself.

“I would like a word with you, Draco,” Snape said suddenly, breaking Harry from his thoughts.

“Oh, come now, Severus,” Slughorn frowned, hiccuping again, “It’s Christmas, don’t be too harsh--”

“I am his head of house, I shall decide what qualifies as too harsh,” Snape said curtly before leading a resentful-looking Malfoy away from the group and toward the exit.
Harry stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Making up his mind, he turned to Luna and mumbled quietly, “I’ll be back in a bit. I’ve got to…head to the bathroom,” though he was sure that she could see through his clumsy lie.

Once out of the party, Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and threw it over himself, walking quickly down the deserted corridor. It was difficult to see where Snape and Malfoy had gone; the noise from the party obstructed any sound of feet hurrying down the hall. There were too many options…Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to his office, or an empty classroom, or had escorted him back to the Slytherin common room.

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry paced down the hall, approaching each door as he went, until, with a jolt of nervous excitement, he pressed his ear to a door where familiar voices were echoing from within.

“... cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?”

“I do hope you are telling the truth, because it was foolish. Already, you are suspected of having a hand in it.”

“Who suspects me?” roared Malfoy angrily. “For the last time, I didn’t do it, okay? That Bell girl must’ve had an enemy no one knows about — don’t look at me like that! I don’t want you butting in!”

Harry pressed his ear to the keyhole.

After a short pause, Snape’s voice continued. “So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco —”

“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” jeered Malfoy.

“You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.”

“Stop telling me to come to your office, then!”

“Listen to me,” Snape said in a low and grave voice; Harry pushed his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —”

“I don’t need your protection! It’s my job, he gave it to me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to work, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!”

“And what is your plan?”

“It’s none of your business!”

“I can assist you —”

“I’ve got all the assistance I need, thanks, I’m not alone!”

“You were certainly alone tonight, foolishly wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —”

“I would’ve had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn’t put them in detention!”

“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, since Malfoy’s voice had risen in anger. Snape spoke quietly again, “You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —”

“They’re not the only ones, I’ve got other people on my side, better people!”

“Then why not confide in me, and I can —”

“I know what you’re up to! You want to steal my honor!”

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father’s capture and imprisonment have upset you, but —”

Harry had barely a second’s warning before he heard Malfoy’s footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open. Malfoy moved quickly down the corridor, past Slughorn’s party, and was out of sight within the blink of an eye. Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom, his professor’s expression unreadable.

Snape spared one glance around the empty corridor before he whipped out his wand from the inside of his cloak. “Revellio,” he said, swinging his arm in a downward arc. Harry could not see the spell’s effects, but he registered immediately that his professor was now able to see him huddled on the floor; Snape turned to him immediately, his dark eyes narrowed in anger.

Harry stood and flung the cloak from himself, “Professor —”

Snape raised a hand, halting his speech. “Inside, Potter,” he seethed, “Now.”

His professor swept back into the classroom he had just left, his robes flaring behind him. In an effort to keep up with Snape’s sudden movements, Harry scrambled in behind him, folding the cloak in his arms and closing the oak door softly once inside the dimly lit room.

“Professor, I —”

“How much of that conversation did you overhear, Potter?” Snape seemed to radiate anger, and a crackling energy of magic surrounded him menacingly.

“Does it matter?” Harry shrugged. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

“That is hardly the point!” He growled, pacing around the small room. “How I go about managing my affairs is none of your concern, boy! You should not be sticking your head into my private life! I should be afforded the right to converse without your interference.”

“I wasn’t interfering! You didn’t even know that I was there!”

“POTTER!”

Harry jumped back as his professor ran a tired hand down the side of his face.

“Your presence is interference enough. I do not require your oversight when discussing private matters.”

“It’s not about oversight,” Harry groaned, rolling his eyes, “All I wanna know is what Draco’s up to. Since you’ve been a real load of help telling me about it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that Draco Malfoy is none of your concern?”

“Isn’t he, though?” He raised his arms in frustration. “Malfoy could hurt people. He’s already hurt Katie!”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “There is no evidence--”

“I mean, you just keep telling me to brush everything off! To let you handle everything! Like all I am is a fucking child!”

“Potter, you are a child!” Snape raged, his hair whipping around him wildly. “I have promised you I will relay information regarding the war that I deem necessary for you to know. I have upheld my end of the deal —”

“Well, I think you’re scared, Snape,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “You’re just too scared to trust me.”

“Do not interrupt me when I’m talking to you!” Snape fumed, surging forward suddenly.

“Then tell me what you know! It shouldn’t be so difficult for you!” Harry squared his shoulders, raising his chin to meet his professor’s stern gaze. “I have a right to know about the war, same as anyone else!”

“This has nothing to do with you!”

“But it does have to do with him, doesn’t it? Doesn’t Malfoy have the mark? I’ll bet he does!”

“Quiet, Potter,” Snape growled in a whisper, his eyes darting briefly to the door of the classroom.

“What’s wrong with people knowing he’s a Death Eater, huh? All I’m saying is the truth!”

Snape had his wand raised instantly, “Don’t make me silence you again, Potter,” he spoke in a harsh, grating voice, making Harry cringe away.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t tempt me,” his professor warned.

“You’re really not gonna tell me anything? After everything I’ve said to you?”

“This is different, Potter.”

“No,” Harry seethed, “It’s not. You make me pour my heart out to you, make me tell you about the Dursleys. Make me talk about how they kept me in a fucking cupboard and you can’t tell me anything about what’s going on with you? You can’t say shit about your fucking problems for a change?”

“Harry, that’s not —”

“No, you know what? Fuck you,” he growled, “I don’t wanna hear it.” Harry spun on his heel, walking steadily toward the door behind him, before a rather loud locking sound echoed throughout the room. He tried his hand at the door, and when it didn’t budge, he whipped out his wand. “Alohamora,” he said angrily.

It was clear after another attempt that the door would simply not open for him. Harry turned back to his professor, his hands balled into fists at his side. “Let me leave.”

“First, a precaution, to ensure tonight's mistakes are not repeated.” Said Snape, his voice icily calm. He extended his arm, “Give me the cloak, Potter.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

Harry boiled with rage. “Let me go.”

“First, the cloak.”

“No.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Fine.” Suddenly, he swung his arm in an aggressive arc, and before Harry could make a grab for it, the invisibility cloak flew out from his arms and across the room to land in the palm of his professor.

“That’s not fair,” Harry raised his wand in an instant, “It’s mine.”

“You’ll get it back when you have proved to me that you are capable of staying out of my personal affairs,” Snape remarked casually, as if Harry didn’t have a wand pointed squarely at his chest.

The sound of the door unlocking echoed loudly behind him. Harry continued to stand frozen in place, unwilling to move.

“You’d better get back to the party,” Snape nodded to the exit. “After all your troubles with girls this semester, it will be quite the scandal if you abandon your date.”

“Give it back.” He glared. “That was my dad’s. You have no right to take it.”

“Oh, I know who it belonged to,” his professor smirked as he glided past Harry and out the open door. “And you’ll receive it in due time. Just stay out of trouble and all shall be as it was.”

Chapter Text

It had been three days since Harry had last seen Professor Snape, and with each passing day, he could feel his rage begin to fester. At first, Ron and Hermione had been just as enraged when Harry told them Snape confiscated his cloak. But Ron was quick to return to Lavender, and Hermione was too busy with her coursework to bear the brunt of this rage. So Harry felt himself growing increasingly isolated in his anger while away from his friends.

With his scheduled meeting with Snape swiftly approaching, Harry did his best to throw himself into his studies. Distraction seemed to work well enough as a tool to forget his professor’s irritating obsession with safety, and – at least for the moment – taking notes with his quill seemed to help draw his hands away from the absence of the cloak in his pocket.

But burying himself in homework only did so much. No matter how hard he tried to focus, Harry’s thoughts kept slipping from the endless assignments to the image of his professor’s unforgiving stare just beyond the walls of Slughorn’s party. His irritation gnawed at him – and if he really thought about it, Harry found himself feeling quite guilty for eavesdropping on his professor. He shook his head at the thought, pushing his glasses farther up his face. He didn’t like to think about that. No, it was much easier to dwell in his anger over the loss of his cloak, one of the only things of his father’s that he owned.

As he made his way across the castle from Gryffindor Tower to his professor’s office early Tuesday morning, Harry seethed in pent-up rage. He tugged his bookbag up higher on his shoulder as he stalked down the halls, huffing to himself, fists clenched at his sides. Scores of underclassmen moved out of his way, clearly desperate to avoid the wrath of his obvious bad mood.

He sighed as he approached Snape’s office, resigning himself to another long, tiresome occlumency lesson, before knocking aggressively against the oak door.

“Enter,” a voice came from within.

Harry pushed open the door and, without a word, moved to take his usual place in the chair opposite the desk, dropping his bookbag so that it thudded harshly against the wood flooring.

Snape cocked a brow upward, “Well, good morning to you too, I suppose.”

“Give me back my cloak.”

Snape’s eyes fell back down to the stack of papers that littered his desk. Harry glared at him with all the anger he could muster.

“That is unlikely to happen any time soon,” his professor remarked in a casual tone that only furthered Harry’s outrage. “When you have proven to me that you are deserving of such a privilege, it shall be rightfully returned to you.”

“It’s not a privilege. It’s mine. You’re not being fair,” he growled.

“I’m sure it seems that way.”

“Yeah, it does,” he bit out. “How else is it supposed to look?”

His professor shrugged. “Like an appropriate punishment.”

“How-”

“Let us not exhaust the subject, Harry.” He drawled calmly. “My decision is final.”

“But that’s not-”

“We shall turn our attention to your occlumency practice, picking up where we left off last week.”

Harry crossed his arms, scoffing. “How do you expect me to clear my head when all I can think about is you being an arsehole?”

“Language,” he chided. “You have been steadily improving these last few months. I would’ve thought you’d welcome the challenge.”

“Piss off.”

“Now let us begin-”

“Can we not-”

“Come now, Potter. Feet flat on the ground - good, just like that - sit up straight, palms down.” Snape loomed over him scrupulously, as Harry, rolling his eyes, abided. “Now, in keeping with last week’s exercise,” his professor began, “I will enter your mind, pick a memory at random, and you shall attempt to occlude before pushing me out.” Snape eyed him carefully. “I assume my instructions are clear?”

“Yeah,” He opened his eyes just enough to send Snape a vicious glare. “Go on then.”

His professor raised his wand; Harry braced himself. No matter how many times they practiced, he could never quite get over the invasive feeling of another presence rifling around through his head.

“Legilimens!”

A flurry of images flew across Harry’s vision as Snape suddenly entered his mind. His brain pulled and stretched like taffy, painfully breaking apart and stitching itself back together just as fast. The color blinded him, his vision blurring as each memory swirled with his professor’s continued search.

At long last, everything settled. Harry blinked his eyes open to find himself, not in Snape’s office, but at Privet Drive.

He was standing in the kitchen, his eyes barely level with the stove as he strained his neck to see the bacon he was frying in a pan.

I must be young here, Harry thought to himself.

“Hurry up with that food, boy!” His uncle bellowed from the dining table not too far away.

Oh, he mused, I know when we are.

“Yes, sir.” Harry squeaked, trying to stand even taller. “Just a minute.”

“I didn’t ask you for the bloody time. I said, hurry up with it!”

“Yes, sir,” he strained himself to stand even taller, raising the spatula above his head. In the corner of his eye, he could see his aunt Petunia with her legs crossed, feigning to read whatever it was she had in her hand, her mouth a thin, irritated line.

It was difficult to reach the top of the stove. And the pan was slippery with grease. And the next time Harry tried to flip over a slice, his hand slipped, sending the strip of bacon flying out of the pan and onto the shining white stove.

Petunia was on her feet in an instant. “Now look what you’ve done!” She shrieked, storming across the room to hover behind him. “So much for keeping my counters clean, you useless, horrid child!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said hurriedly, reaching for the bacon on the stove. “I can fix it-”

“Disgusting!” She bellowed. “We can’t eat that now!”

Harshly, she swatted Harry away from the meat, accidentally bashing the back of his hand into the pan, burning some of his skin.

He hissed in pain, drawing his hand close to his chest on instinct.

Petunia scanned him over once before her eyes narrowed, “Serves you right for spoiling our breakfast,” she sniffed haughtily. “Go to your room! If you can’t make yourself useful, you might as well be gone!”

Harry hated the tears in his eyes; he winced at how tiny his little voice sounded. “Aunt Petunia, it really hurts-”

“She told you to go to your room!” Vernon’s loud voice boomed as he rose from the table. “Don’t make me tell you twice-”

“But my-”

Vernon stomped across the room, his large frame looming over Harry as he approached. “Enough,” he growled, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, nearly lifting him into the air. “I don’t wanna hear it! You listen to your aunt when she tells you to do something, understood, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he squirmed beneath his uncle’s firm grip.

Vernon dragged him through the doorway, pulling him closer to the staircase before throwing open the door and pushing Harry inside the cupboard. “Now, you’ll stay in here until you’ve learned not to talk back!” His uncle huffed from the excretion. “I don’t wanna hear a peep outta you until I think you’ve learned your lesson. Got it? Not a sound.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vernon slammed the door; Harry heard the turning of a lock. The grates on the cupboard were thrown shut aggressively, so quickly he barely had time to register it, and Harry was plunged into darkness.

He clutched his hand to his chest.

Harry felt himself begin to stabilize his breathing, feeling less immersed in his own memory and more aware of Snape’s presence in his mind.

The darkness was overwhelming. The younger Harry blew on the back of his hand, trying to shake off the pain of the burn, making a strained, groaning noise when it did nothing but irritate the skin.

Harry felt himself detach, as everything began to quiet. With as much force as he could muster, he pushed his professor from his mind. Swirling colors flashed, blinding him for a second as their connection was severed.

With one final rip of pain, Harry blinked his eyes open and adjusted to the dim lighting of his professor’s office back at Hogwarts. Instinctively, he looked at the back of his hand for any signs of injury, but of course, there was nothing.

He smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair. “Hey! That was better than last week, wasn’t it? I pushed you out faster.”

Snape wore the same grave expression he sometimes donned after observing Harry’s memories. “Yes, I suppose,” he said slowly, his eyes dark and focused, as if studying him.

“But it was better, right? I thought I got you out pretty fast!”

“The Dark Lord would have gotten all the information he needed from just that small amount of time. You’ll need to be faster and more assertive in your defense.”

“But I can’t occlude that quick!”

“I know,” Snape nodded. “In time, you’ll get there. But for now,” his lips turned upward in a small, private smile, “I absolutely agree, Harry, that was much better than last week. Well done.”

“Thanks,” he smiled, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

“Next time, don’t get swept up in the memory. It is irrelevant where and when you are. Focus on occluding immediately, then pushing me out.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

“For the sake of practice, I’ll try not to pick a particularly triggering memory next time.”

“That one wasn’t so bad.”

“No?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, maintaining his proud smile. “I mean… At this point, you’ve seen worse, professor.”

Snape tapped his fingers awkwardly on the desk -- he looked uncomfortable, Harry realised. “I know,” he said slowly.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” his professor cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “You just… Let’s say you continue to surprise me, Harry, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Snape sighed. “It is simply impressive that every new thing I discover about you is the antithesis to what I had expected, and I am sorry for treating you based on my assumptions the last few years.”

“Um,” he squirmed, dropping his smile for a moment. “Okay.”

Harry nearly jolted when Snape laughed, “No need to say anything in return, I’m not apologizing for your forgiveness. I just… I feel it’s important to let you know.”

“For the record, you’re not what I pictured either, Professor,” Harry said. He watched his professor fight the urge to return his grin.

“Really? How so?”

“You’re just more real.” He shrugged as his professor quirked up a brow. “Like I can tell that you really care a lot. It honestly scares me sometimes.” He let out a weak laugh, wringing his fingers together.

Snape averted his eyes. “I do care for you, Harry, I’m glad that much is obvious. But I urge you not to rely on that care. There may be a time - a time very soon - in which I am not at Hogwarts.”

“What does that mean?”

“There is a war, and I am a spy, as you know.” He turned back to meet Harry’s eyes with a cold expression. “There may come a time when I am needed somewhere other than Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” was all Harry managed for a moment. His professor seemed to be watching him for a reaction.

“But for now, Harry, that is not your burden to bear,” Snape said, folding his hands in front of himself. “We will continue our tutoring and you in your study in Occlumency as has been planned,” Harry glumly nodded along, “And you should continue your attempts to occlude on your own. Best to do so before you go to sleep.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” Harry muttered, gathering his bag from the floor and turning to leave.

“And, Harry-” Snape called out, “There’s no need to worry about me, I can take care of myself. Focus on your coursework, it may very soon prove to be useful.”

“Sir?” He paused in his leave.

“Don’t forget to walk down the hall to avoid your peers on the way out. I shall see you in a minute for Defense.”

“I won’t.”

Snape dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his professor’s eyes drawn back to the papers on his desk. “We shall be continuing our work with defensive spells today. You might find it useful to pay attention.”

Harry couldn’t believe the impossible task Dumbledore had asked him to complete. There was no way in which he could picture asking Slughorn for an intentionally altered memory that would be well-received by his professor. After thinking the matter over himself, he confided in both Ron and Hermione, though separately, since Hermione still refused to be in Ron’s presence for longer than it took for her to shoot him a menacing glare.

Ron couldn’t seem to understand his dilemma, deciding Harry was unlikely to have any trouble at all. “He loves you,” Ron argued over breakfast, waving a forkful of eggs. “Won’t refuse you anything. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him.”

Hermione, Harry glumly realised, had a more dour perspective. “He must be really determined to keep that memory a secret if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she whispered in a low voice as they sat that afternoon in the snowy courtyard at break. “Horcruxes…” She screwed up her face in concentration. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“You haven’t?” Harry couldn’t mask the disappointment.

“They must be really advanced Dark Magic. Why else would Voldemort want to know about them? I think it’s gonna be hard to get Slughorn to talk, Harry, you’ll have to be careful how you approach him, think out a strategy.”

“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon.”

“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks so, you’d better do it,” she glared, flaring up. “When’s his judgment ever been faulty?”

Harry looked up and sighed, “Hermione, can’t you two just-”

“No!” She huffed before turning and storming away, leaving Harry alone, ankle-deep in snow.

Finding no other way to accomplish the task set for him, Harry decided it was best to just confront Slughorn head-on. He dawdled behind in Potions that day, taking an inordinate amount of time to pack up his book bag, waiting for his peers to file slowly out of the classroom.

Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left the classroom separately, both looking rather annoyed. It had been yet another horrendous Potions lecture for Harry, stuck between the two of them at their small table, and he was secretly grateful for his friends’ absence now.

At last, Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room, and he cleared his throat as his professor hurriedly packed the remaining papers strewn upon his desk.

“Come now, Harry, you’ll be late for your next lesson,” Slughorn beamed, snapping closed the clasps on his briefcase and moving toward the exit.

“Sir,” Harry shuffled awkwardly where he stood, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask away then, my dear boy, ask away.”

Maybe Ron was right, the thought struck his mind as he wrung his hands together.

“Sir, I wondered what you might know about” - he paused, thinking of the best way to phrase his question before ultimately giving up - “About Horcruxes?”

Slughorn froze, turning fully to face him, his face seeming to sink in upon itself. “What did you say?” He whispered.

“I asked whether you knew anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see-”

“Dumbledore put you up to this.” His voice had changed completely, no longer affable but shocked and terrified. “Dumbledore’s shown you that- that memory! Well? Hasn’t he?”

In a fraction of a second, Harry decided it was best not to lie. “Yes.”

“Right, of course,” he said quietly, dabbing at his white face with a handkerchief and nodding to himself. “Well, if you’ve seen that memory, Harry, you’ll know that I don’t know anything - anything,” he said forcefully, “about Horcruxes.”

Stuffing his handkerchief back into the pocket of his blazer, he hurried toward the door.

Desperately, Harry called out, “Sir, I thought there’d maybe be a little bit more to that memory!”

“Did you?” Slughorn huffed. “Then you were wrong, weren’t you? Wrong!” He bellowed, slamming the dungeon door behind him as he swiftly fled.

Defeated, Harry met with Hermione that night and - to his immediate disappointment - it seemed that the Hogwarts library had failed her for the first time in recent memory.

“I haven’t found a single explanation of what Horcruxes do,” she spoke quickly. “Not a single mention! I’ve been through the restricted section, and even in the more horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions. Nothing!”

“Are you sure?” He pleaded.

She shot him a look. “All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Moste Evile, listen,” she began to read, “Of the Horcrux, the wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give further direction.”

“Why mention it then?” Harry said glumly.

“Unclear,” she slammed the book shut as it let out a rather horrible wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag.

“Alright, let’s begin again with the same exercise from last week,” Snape began slowly as Harry fidgeted in his seat during their usual Tuesday meeting. “I will select a memory at random; it is your job to push me out. Remember not to think about where and when you are, Harry, just focus on sensing my presence and removing it. Don’t forget to breathe.”

“I won’t,” Harry groaned. He didn’t understand why Snape found it important to restate every instruction every time.

“Your breath tends to hitch when the memory first takes shape. Try to push past the initial instinct to immerse yourself in your surroundings. They are not real.”

“Yeah, I got it. But…” he hesitated, twisting his thumbs together on his lap. “Could I ask you a question before we start?”

Snape drew his brows together. “Is something wrong? We could forfeit the lesson for today if you’d rather talk-”

“No, it’s not anything super important.” Harry flushed. “I’ve just hit a bit of a dead end in my research and was curious if you knew anything.”

“Oh,” his professor's voice relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he crossed his arms over his chest in interest, giving Harry his full attention. “Well, if it’s academic, ask away.”

“Sir, I was wondering if you knew anything about Horcruxes? Hermione and I haven’t been able to find any mention of them in the library.”

A whirl of emotions flitted across Snape’s face as his eyes widened -- a thousand looks Harry couldn’t quite place before they were masked just as quickly -- his professor’s dark eyes remaining neutral and inexpressive. Straightening his back and recrossing his arms, Snape cleared his throat.

“I do not wish to discuss your dealings with Professor Dumbledore in my office, if you don’t mind, Harry.”

“But you do know what they are, don’t you? Hermione thought it could be some kind of dark magic, but even the restricted section doesn’t have-”

“Harry, I have given you my answer,” Snape reminded rather harshly, “I do not wish to discuss your meetings with Professor Dumbledore; those conversations are between you and him.”

“How did you even know that’s what this is about?”

“Oh, do spare me.” He scoffed.

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Harry growled. “You never tell me anything! You just expect me to be happy knowing nothing all the time, but Dumbledore thinks I’m ready to know! He thinks-”

“Then he is a fool!” Snape bellowed, rising from his chair, looming menacingly. “You have no idea how absurd it is you’ve even heard that term before – idiotic, bumbling old man, I can’t believe it,” he grumbled to himself.

“But you know what they are and you’re not telling me. I mean, are Horcruxes dangerous?”

“Harry, please.”

“Do they have something to do with what Draco’s been up to?”

Snape laughed darkly, low and rumbling, “I would think not.”

“What about Dumbledore’s hand?” Harry pushed.

“That is the physical manifestation of the Headmaster’s stupidity.” He barked. “Nothing more.”

“But it’s a curse, right?”

His professor eyed him. “How did you know that?”

“Hermione guessed.” Harry shrugged; Snape hummed in reply. “Are Horcruxes some kind of curse?”

“Not according to the people who utilize such magic, I’m sure.”

“You’re being vague.”

“I know,” he stared, “It’s intentional.”

Harry huffed, rolling his eyes as he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand why you don’t trust me. After everything I’ve told you.”

“It has nothing to do with trust, Harry, as I’m sure you know.” Snape tsked, waving his arms. “You’re asking about very serious magic. Take your questions back to Dumbledore.”

“You said he was gravely injured. Does that have to do with the curse? I mean, how much time does he have, if it’s so serious?”

“Harry,” Snape leveled him with narrowed eyes. “Do not talk to me about this any longer, I beg you.”

“But Dumbledore’s asked me to-”

Snape held up a hand, asking him to pause. Harry sat in silence. “I do not wish to know what task the Headmaster has assigned. That is between you both.”

“Okay… Well, if you’re not gonna let me know what’s going on with Dumbledore, could you at least tell me what a Horcrux is? Or where I can read about one?”

“It is the most terrible of all dark magic, Harry. Is that answer sufficient?”

“Not really.”

Snape sighed, his brows knitting together as if coming to some sort of conclusion. “A horcrux is an object, first and foremost, simply imbued with dark magic of the highest degree. It is an object in which a Dark wizard has hidden a detached fragment of his or her soul to become, for all intents and purposes, immortal. As long as the receptacle, that original object, remains intact, so too does the soul fragment inside it, keeping the wizard anchored to the world of the living, even if their body suffers fatal damage.”

“So that’s what the Dark Lord has done? Make himself immortal? Is that how he survived after he tried to kill me?” Harry balked, unconsciously raising a hand to his lightning bolt scar.

Snape watched him in silence, his neutral expression failing to confirm or deny an answer to Harry’s questions.

“How do we win if he can’t be killed?”

“That’s not for you to worry about, Harry.”

He scoffed. “With all due respect, professor, it kinda is. He killed my parents.”

Snape’s eyes briefly flickered to his scar. “I know.”

“He sent Bellatrix to kill Sirius. He’s tried to kill me!” Harry threw his arms up. “And you’re saying the Dark Lord’s immortality is not my problem? That I don’t have to worry about what that means?”

“The Order will handle it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will. They did a real great fucking job of handling me staying with the Dursleys.”

Snape looked at him imploringly. “Harry, that’s not the same.”

“It is to me!” He hissed. “I mean, what has the Order even done? Remus said there’ve been disappearances. It feels like we’re losing.”

“I-”

“Oh, never mind,” he snarled. “I forgot. You can’t tell me.”

“Enough,” Snape bit out. “I will inform you of things you ought to know, just as I have always done. Do not press me for more than you can chew.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I don’t find that to be a particularly compelling argument, Potter.” Snape seethed. “I have said enough for one day. We shall begin with our exercise, or you shall leave. Pick.”

“But I have more questions!”

“Then pose them to Dumbledore!” He threw his arms up in exasperation. “I am not having this conversation with you anymore. Are we beginning with our exercise, or are you leaving?”

“Leaving.”

“Fine,” Snape grumbled. “Then get out, Potter. I shall see you in Defense.”

Harry shut the door with vigor, the wood clashing in its frame as he stormed off.

Chapter Text

February moved toward March with no significant change in the weather except for the fact that it now became windy as well as wet. Grey clouds hung low over the castle, concealing the highest towers from ground level, and the constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. To the general dismay of the student body, there had been several more disappearances reported by the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts, and Katie Bell still remained at St. Mungo’s.

Whether out of respect for his professor or fear of Snape’s wrath, Harry had made an effort to stay as far away from Draco Malfoy as he could. That, however, did not mean he could not spy on Draco’s whereabouts on the Marauder's Map – but despite his best efforts to catch Malfoy in the midst of doing anything suspicious, he’d had no luck. Although Harry consulted the map as often as possible – sometimes making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it – he did not once see Malfoy anywhere that would raise alarm.

Occasionally, he would spot Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own, which Harry found strange, but during those times, it seemed as if Malfoy was impossible to track on the map at all. Harry found it exceedingly strange, even going as far as to think Malfoy had been leaving the castle, but he could not understand how that would be possible given the increased security during the school year.

Harry supposed that he simply must be missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots that moved across the map. But that too seemed unlikely. As for Malfoy’s distance from Crabbe and Goyle, despite their usual inseparable bond, Harry surmised that it must be a testament to their getting older – a phenomenon which Ron and Hermione (who still refused to be in each other’s company) were also living proof of.

All of these things, Harry was sure, were contributing to his prolonged sour mood. He moved through the castle with a dour expression, avoiding anyone he did not wish to speak to, which happened to be nearly everyone, and opted instead to lock himself in the library alone for long hours into the evening most nights.

It was obvious Snape noticed this shift in his energy, as their weekly meetings tended to stray away from his Occlumency study to focus on long, tiresome conversations about Harry’s health. Because of this, Tuesday mornings had become irksome for Harry, and he dreaded meeting with his professor each week.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Snape cleared his throat that morning as they sat in his office, “How have you been sleeping lately?”

“Fine,” Harry shrugged, tugging on the ends of his sweater lamely, his eyes downturned.

“Pardon my surprise,” his professor crossed his arms, “But last time I inquired, you mentioned you were hardly sleeping at all.”

“I’ve got a lot of homework.”

“You know, that’s no excuse.”

He scoffed, “These meetings are too early.”

“Harry,” Snape sighed. “I wish that you would just tell me what’s upsetting you.”

“Nothing’s upsetting me.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you always think something’s wrong.”

“You’ve been mopping for weeks. I am not an idiot.” He huffed. “And each of your answers today has lacked any kind of spirit. I would simply like to know what you’re dwelling on.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are your friends still at odds?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I’m sure that is upsetting.” Snape prompted.

“Can we just get on with it already?” Harry threw up his arms. “Ask me some questions about the Dursleys so that I can leave.”

Snape seemed to pause, blinking at him. “We don’t always need to talk about your family, Harry,” he muttered under his breath.

“They are not my family,” he seethed, wrapping his arms around his torso, “My parents are dead.”

“I know,” Snape muttered in a soft voice. Harry glared at him. “And I apologize, I simply meant…” he hesitated, tapping his finger on the wooden desk that sat between them, a necessary divider, “If you wish to talk about something other than your relatives, I would oblige.”

“I don’t feel like talking much today.”

“Okay.” Harry hated how soft his professor’s voice was, how calming it seemed. “Are there any questions you have for me?”

“No.”

“I see,” he tapped his finger. “Then, what are you working on in Potions with Professor Slughorn? Perhaps I could be of some assistance.”

Harry shrugged again, “He said we’re focusing on antidotes for poisons this week, but didn’t tell us what poisons. He doesn’t offer a lot of information before class, usually.”

“I suppose there is use in teaching you how to counteract those kinds of dangers when you face them,” he ran a hand through his hair dismissively, “But in any sort of practical world, a bezoar would work just fine. I can’t imagine Horace would give you any kind of severe poison to work with.”

“Bezoar?”

“Come now, Potter, are you a third year? You’ve worked with them before. All competent potioneers carry them.” Snape paused, assessing Harry’s reaction. “They’re the small stone-like things I keep on the top shelf” - he gestured half-heartedly - “Small, but exceedingly useful. I doubt Horace would allow you to turn one in for a passing grade. Though, maybe he’d appreciate the cheek.”

“He likes to spring things on us in the moment. Sorry, I can’t be more helpful.”

“It’s quite alright, I hear you’re doing well enough as it is.” Snape’s eyes turned to him, a small smile across his face. “I’m sure our lessons have had something to do with your improved grasp on the subject, no?”

“I guess,” Harry tried to hide his smile as his professor beamed at him from behind the desk, “You know, you’re actually a good teacher when you try.”

He snorted, leaning back in his chair, “Such high praise.”

“I’m serious! When you’re not yelling at me, I do actually manage to get some of what you’re saying. It’s just like all that occlumency stuff. Everything about those lessons last year was a nightmare, but I seem to be doing all right with it now.” Snape watched him with a hidden smile, elbows resting on the side of his chair and fingers intertwined in front of his face.

“Last year, I did not appreciate the Headmaster’s request to spend –Merlin forbid it– more time with you than required, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Harry smirked. “To think that you willingly spend time with me now,” he grinned. “Last year, I would’ve been horrified by the thought.”

“As would I. And– Harry, if you don’t mind… While we’re on the subject, have you experienced any more visions of the Dark Lord as of late?”

“No,” Harry said seriously. “I’d tell you if I did.”

“Good.” He nodded. “And have you been occluding each night to act preventatively against these visions?”

“Not really.”

“Is that because you haven’t been trying or because you haven’t been sleeping?”

Harry huffed, throwing his hands up. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t been sleeping more than usual.” He looked up at his professor’s dour expression, which had contorted with concern. Harry grinned widely. “Your face is priceless.”

“How much do you usually sleep?” His professor ignored him.

“Sev, it’s not a big deal.” He groaned. “I promise.”

Snape quirked a brow. “Sev?”

“You said I could call you by your first name,” he smirked.

“I allowed it when we were at our house.”

“You call me Harry-”

“When you’re tolerable-”

“I think it’s only fair I call you something else. ‘Professor’ seems too formal. Or would you still like me to call you ‘sir,’” Harry’s grin spread wider.

Snape shook his head. “I suppose you may call me Severus, if you absolutely must.”

“Only when you’re tolerable.”

“Oh, enough, Harry.” His professor shook his head slightly. “It’s five minutes to ten, you should leave for Defense.”

“Alright,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Sev.”

“Severus,” Snape corrected, but Harry caught the smile on his professor’s face as he slipped out through the door.

“Happy birthday, Ron,” Harry groaned sleepily on the first of March. Seamus and Dean had woken him up, leaving loudly for breakfast in the Great Hall. “Here,” he threw a package across the room where it joined a small pile of presents that had collected at the foot of Ron’s bed.

“Cheers,” Ron yawned as he ripped off the paper.

Harry pulled the Marauder’s Map out from underneath his pillow, murmuring “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good,” under his breath so that Neville, who was at the foot of his own bed nearby, could not hear him.

“Nice one, Harry,” Ron called out, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper’s gloves Harry had gifted him.

“No problem,” Harry muttered, searching the Slytherin dorms for any signs of Malfoy. “Hey, I don’t think he’s in his bed-”

“Seriously good haul this year,” Ron exclaimed, “See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey.”

“Cool.” Harry waved him off. Malfoy was nowhere to be found. He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. Nor was he with Snape, who was sitting in his study. He wasn’t in any of the bathrooms or the hospital wing…

“Want one?” Ron held out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons.

“Nah, I’m good.” Harry dismissed, his eyes staying with the map, “Hey, Malfoy’s gone again.”

“Not possible, I’m sure you’re just missing him on there somewhere,” Ron shook his head as he spoke through a mouthful of chocolate, dragging himself to his feet. “Come on, if you don’t hurry up, we’ll miss breakfast.”

Harry tapped the map with his wand and muttered a quick, “Mischief managed,” before getting dressed and making his way toward the door.

There had to be a reason for Malfoy’s continued disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. Harry’s initial thought had been to tail him, but without the invisibility cloak, he knew he stood no chance of learning anything useful.

“Ready?” Harry called when he was halfway out the dormitory door.

“I’m not hungry.”

He stopped. “Okay? I thought you just said-”

“Alright, I’ll come down with you,” Ron sighed, “But I don’t want to eat.”

“Fair enough. Did you eat all those chocolates-”

“Harry, I can’t stand it!” He groaned.

“Can’t stand what?” Now Harry was definitely starting to feel alarmed. Ron looked pale, almost as if he was about to be sick.

“Do you think she knows I exist?” He said desperately.

“She’s been snogging you. I think she bloody well knows you exist.”

Ron blinked in shock. “Who are you talking about?”

Harry scoffed and came to the conclusion that all reason had been lost. “Who are you talking about?”

“Romilda Vane, of course!”

Harry balked, watching him in stunned silence for as long as he could manage. “You’re joking.”

“I think… I think I love her.”

“Alright, so you love her.” He huffed, moving again toward the door. “When’d you figure that-” His eyes landed on the open box of chocolate, and a thousand thoughts hit him all at once. “Did you pick those up off the floor?”

Ron looked upset. “They’d fallen off my bed!”

“No, they hadn’t, you prick. They were mine. Romilda gave them to me months ago - remember Hermione said that she thought they were spiked with love potion?”

“Do you know Romilda, Harry?” It seemed to be the only word he’d registered.

“Yeah, I know her,” he sighed, thinking quickly on his feet, “I can take you to her.”

Ron grinned; Harry had to fight the urge to groan.

Snape has a class first period…He thought to himself. That means the best option- Harry cringed at the thought. “She’ll be in Slughorn’s office,” he grumbled, immediately leading the way to the door.

“Why will she be there?” Ron asked anxiously, hurrying to keep up behind him.

“Extra potions lessons,” Harry was inventing wildly now. “You should ask to take them with her; you need the extra help.”

“That’s a great idea!”

Harry suppressed his chuckle as they moved through the halls.

He had been nervous that Slughorn would be at breakfast, but the door to his office swung open at the first knock.

“Oh,” his professor grimaced as their eyes met, “It’s you, Harry.”

“I really hate to disturb you, I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” Harry offered hurriedly, for it seemed likely that Professor Slughorn was about to shut the door. “My friend Ron swallowed a love potion by mistake. Would you be able to make him an antidote?”

Slughorn beamed, his demeanor changing instantly. “I’d have thought you could have whipped something up yourself, Harry, an expert potioneer like you.”

“Um,” Harry offered, somewhat distracted by Ron, who was trying to force his way into the room.

“I can’t see her, Harry!” Ron groaned, unhelpfully.

“Oh, alright, come in,” Slughorn stepped aside, relenting, and ushered them into his office. “Do you know when the potion was dated?” He was eyeing Ron with professional interest as he shut the door behind them. “They strengthen over time.”

“She’s not here yet,” Harry called after his friend, who was pacing fervently around the room in search of Romilda Vane.

“I’ve got the necessary antidote right here in my bag; it’s not a difficult brew,” Slughorn hobbled over to a desk a few meters away.

“When will she get here?” Ron moaned.

“Very soon, dear boy, very soon,” Slughorn played along as he opened his potion kit and added a few pinches of some things Harry could not identify to a glass bottle. “Drink this,” his professor turned to Ron, “It’s a tonic for the nerves for when she gets here.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said, eagerly gulping down the contents of the glass.

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, it seemed that nothing had changed; Ron was beaming at them all the while. Then very slowly, his grin sagged and was instantly replaced by a sour expression of complete and utter horror.

“Back to normal, then?” Harry grinned.

Ron walked over to a nearby armchair and collapsed into it, looking devastated. Slughorn laughed, “Don’t mention it, it’s a pick-me-up, that’s what he needs.”

He bustled over to a table loaded with drinks. “I’ve got butterbeer, wine, oh!- I had been saving this bottle of mead - meant to give it to Dumbledore - but I suppose, well,” he shrugged, “He can’t miss what he never knew he had!”

This was the first time Harry had found himself nearly alone with his professor since their disastrous interview. Harry narrowed his eyes, shifting where he stood. Maybe if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood…and if they got through enough of the mead. He snapped from his thoughts at the sound of a cork popping and glasses being poured.

“There you are then,” Slughorn handed both Harry and Ron a glass of mead before raising his own. “Should we have a toast?”

Ron, who did not appear to be listening, threw back his own glass into his mouth and swallowed the drink immediately.

“To unsung love,” Slughorn beamed, “And may you have more successful ventures in the-”

“Ron!” Harry yelled.

Ron had dropped his glass, collapsing to the floor as his limbs jerked uncontrollably. Foam was dripping from his mouth, his eyes bulging from his head.

“Professor,” Harry shouted madly, “Do something!”

“I-” Slughorn seemed rooted to the spot in fear.

Think, Harry, he scolded himself, scanning his friend in assessment. Ron’s been poisoned.

Poisoned! Harry was grateful he’d just finished his reading on the symptoms the night before. Quickly, he leapt over a low table and sprinted toward Slughorn’s open potions kit, digging through jars and pouches while the sound of Ron’s strained breathing filled the room horribly.

Harry pulled items by the handful feverishly, dropping what was useless to the floor before grabbing a jar of the shriveled, kidneylike stones he remembered from his professor’s top shelf. Thank Merlin, Snape told me what these are. He hurtled to Ron’s side, wrenched open his jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron shuddered, overcome by a rattling gasp, then his body went limp and still.

Harry shook slightly in the sudden silence, his heartbeat thudding loudly, his mind racing. He eyed the bottle of mead that had been discarded on the table.

“By Merlin’s beard, Harry…” His professor muttered from somewhere behind him. “That was some fast thinking there. A bezoar, correct?”

Harry couldn’t look away; Ron wheezed in some sort of pain. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, yes.” Slughorn seemed to be attempting reassurance, but his voice was shaky and weak from shock. “I’ll have him brought to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey will have him in top shape soon, I’m sure.”

Harry stood, watching Ron’s limp body on the floor.

“This requires more professional experience, I’d say,” his professor huffed, straightening his back. “Go on now, Harry, you’ve got second period to attend, do you not?”

“But, professor-”

“Go on.” Slughorn’s tone left no room for argument. “It’ll be taken care of.”

Harry sat on a bench in the courtyard, tapping a quill lamely at his leg and trying to think up something decent to write.

He couldn’t quite place why he had decided to follow through and reach out to Dudley a second time, but it was all his mind had fixated on that morning. It didn’t seem like the best idea, all things considered, but with Ron in the hospital wing and Hermione –surprisingly– dutifully at his bedside, there seemed to be no one around to tell him otherwise. Harry picked up his quill again.

Dudley, he began,

Hope things are well at Privet Drive. Not that they ever were bad for you, really. Sorry, I haven’t reached out; things at school are busy. Write back if you’d like to.

He crumpled the paper.

I definitely can’t send that.

“Hiya, Harry!” Hagrid’s voice boomed across the yard. Harry turned halfheartedly, watching as the groundskeeper approached him with a smile.

“Hi, Hagrid. What’re you up to?”

“Bin in the forest all day,” he panted, “Aragog’s bin worse, I’m reading to him. I didn’ get up ter the castle till jus’ now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ Ron! How’s he doing?”

“He’s out cold,” Harry tried his best not to sound worried, “But I think he’ll pull through.”

“It’s terrible,” growled Hagrid into his beard. “All this new security, an’ kids are still gettin’ hurt... Dumbledore’s worried sick... He don’ say much, but I can tell. He don’ know who’s pulling off all these attacks, now.”

It’s so obviously Malfoy.

“He hasn’t got any ideas?” Harry asked politely.

“I ‘spect he’s got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,” Hagrid relented. “But he doesn’ know who sent that necklace or put poison in that wine, or they’d’ve bin caught, wouldn’ they? Wha’ worries me,” he lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder, as if somebody could be watching. “Is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein’ attacked. There’ll be panic, more parents takin’ their kids outta school, an’ nex’ thing yeh know the board o’ governors’ll be talkin’ about shuttin’ us up fer good.”

Harry blinked. “Surely not. There’s nowhere safer than Hogwarts.” Anywhere else, and I’d be dead, he added internally.

“Gotta see it from their point o’ view,” Hagrid heaved a heavy sigh. “I mean, it’s always bin a bit of a risk sendin’ a kid away, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents, don’ yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder? Now, tha’s diff’rent. ‘S’no wonder Dumbledore’s angry with Sn —”

Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression overtaking what was visible of his face above his tangled beard.

“What?” said Harry, suddenly alert. “Dumbledore’s angry with Snape?”

“I never said tha,’” Hagrid muttered, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. “Look at the time, it’s gettin’ on, I need ter—”

“Why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?” Harry asked loudly.

“Shhhh!” He shushed him, looking both nervous and angry. “Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d’yeh wan’ me ter lose me job?”

“Hagrid,” Harry said forcefully. “What’s Snape done?”

“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn’ta heard it at all! I — well, I was comin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an’ I overheard ‘em talking — well, arguin’. Didn’t like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an’ tried not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion an’ it wasn’ easy ter block it out.”

“So what did you hear?” Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his feet uneasily.

“Well — I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an’ maybe he — Snape, that was — didn’ wan’ ter do it anymore —”

“Do what?”

“I dunno, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit overworked, tha’s all.” Harry scrunched up his face in confusion. Hagrid continued, “Anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he’d agreed ter do it an’ that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there’s nothin’ strange abou’ that!” Hagrid added hastily, but Harry was unconvinced. “All the Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —”

“Yeah, but Dumbledore’s not having rows with the rest of them, is he?” said Harry, suddenly lost in thought. “Sorry, Hagrid, I’ve got to run to Quidditch.” Hagrid yelled something after him, but Harry had already fled from the courtyard and was halfway down the hall.

Harry was miserable when he got off the pitch. Not only was the team down in morale with their keeper on bedrest, they also had to deal with Ron’s sub, McLaggen. Harry groaned to himself, running a tired hand down his face as he dragged his aching feet toward the locker rooms. McLaggen had not stopped proposing new strategies to Harry all practice, constantly in his ear about new things he thought the beaters ought to try, and new flight patterns he thought were best for defensive play, all the while refusing to fly near his station by the goalposts, letting Ginny score countless times before Harry told them all to go home for the night.

They had the pitch booked the following evening, and Harry told himself he wasn’t worried about the game that was swiftly approaching that weekend. But even he couldn’t deny his gut feeling. They would lose horribly. He knew it, so did the team.

Harry had lingered behind everyone else to clean up equipment left on the field, desperate to get away from the unending chatter of McLaggen and his useless remarks. He had hoped that Ginny would offer to stay behind with him, as Ron often did, but she did not. He didn’t ask her to.

Sighing to himself, Harry stowed away his protective gear in his locker and stripped himself of his uniform, making his way over to the showers. The rest of the locker room was blissfully empty and Harry took a deep sigh as he stepped beneath the water, running fingers through his hair. The hot water felt nice against his skin, a soothing contrast to the cold and windy muck of the weather outside. He lingered in the steam for as long as he could allow himself before turning off the tap and draping a towel around himself loosely.

It wasn’t until he stepped out of the shower cubicle that Harry caught a glimpse of his body in the mirror on the opposite wall.

Any markings he had amassed from his stay with the Dursleys last summer had long since faded away, Harry knew, but his gaze lingered over his reflection, his eyes scanning over his frame mercilessly. He was usually so good about avoiding mirrors.

His arms looked more toned from Quidditch, but Harry’s eyes were drawn to his torso. Aside from a few small scars, his chest looked relatively filled out, and Harry was shocked to notice that the outline of his ribs was no longer visible. He poked at his stomach, pinching the skin where it gathered, tugging at it in disgust - he had gained weight; he felt his pulse begin to spike. He had gained weight, and somehow, he hadn’t even noticed.

Harry moved from the bathroom quickly, darting to his locker and tugging his jumper and loose jeans over his frame. The hoodie, at least, was baggy enough to conceal his stomach, but Harry clung to his torso, wrapping his arms around himself as he grabbed his gym bag and made his way up toward the castle.

He hurried up the dirt path, his breath labored as his mind raced. He could feel his skin clinging to his body, tight and unruly, could feel every time his arms brushed against his side beneath the sweater’s fabric.

He used to never feel his stomach against his arms. His torso had always been small, pulling inwards at the sides and below his ribcage. He’d never had a stomach that kept his ribs covered, that bulged out in the middle, that filled out his hoodie. Not until now.

Harry's heart thudded ruthlessly in his ears. He’d overindulged. He’d let himself become useless and lazy. He wasn’t small anymore. He was taking too much for himself. Petunia would’ve killed him.

Selfish. His mind screamed. Selfish.

Useless.

He tried to think about anything else, tried to breathe calmly through his nose. But running his hand across his chest no longer felt like a comforting gesture and his mind returned to his aunt’s disgusted face. Freak, her voice rang out in his head. Harry could feel her eyes boring into him, scanning his frame. Her eyes would go right to his stomach. She’d poke at him. Tell him he’d have to skip out on meals for a week.

Ungrateful brat, she’d tell him. Harry swore he could hear her voice ringing in his ear.

He tugged at his jumper desperately, but the overwhelming sensation of fabric against his skin made him harshly inhale. He trudged up the path, the castle’s large oak doors just up ahead.

Selfish.

Freakish.

His feet felt heavier as he walked, his bodyweight uncomfortable. Harry’s eyes began to cloud over, and he ducked his head as he passed a group of Ravenclaws.

This never would’ve happened if you hadn’t let yourself be greedy, Potter, he scolded.

Greedy. Selfish. Stupid. Arrogant.

He felt weighed down, dragging his feet through Hogwarts’s stone hallways. Merlin, when had he gained so much weight?

Harry darted down several corridors, passing groups of students making their way back to their dormitories to meet curfew. A few of them stopped and watched him. Harry huddled into himself, hiking his bag up further onto his shoulder. You can’t cry now, Potter, he breathed, don’t be a wuss.

He needed to find a bathroom; his vision was clouding too quickly.

Stupid, idiot. You disgust me.

He gasped, turning down another hallway.

“Stop avoiding the consequences of your actions, Potter!” His godfather’s voice rang out. “You didn’t die, you clearly didn’t suffer the most.”

Harry curled into himself as his tears began to fall. His feet quickened their pace. Sirius’s voice felt like a punch in the chest, a reminder of all his flaws, his failures.

It’s my fault. His mind couldn’t help the thought.

My fault, and this is how I repay his sacrifice? Harry tugged at the skin hanging from his stomach. Sirius is dead. He can’t eat anything at all, yet here you are, Potter, clearly eating everything in sight.

Disgusting.

Selfish.

Freak.

This is how you avenge him?

Harry wiped at his tears beneath his glasses. He picked up his pace as he dove down another flight of stairs. My fault. He couldn’t stop his mind now.

My fault.

My fault.

MY FAULT.

Harry gasped for breath as he rounded another hall, pulling back a dark green tapestry and knocking swiftly on the door behind it.

He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in the dungeons, but this close to the Slytherin Common Room, he needed to get out of sight as quickly as he could.

The door opened suddenly, and Professor Snape loomed over him.

“Harry, what-” he startled, his eyes widening, “Come inside.”

He tugged Harry by the sleeve, ushering them both into his quarters, shutting the door as Harry let himself begin to truly cry.

Sobs choked out of him before he could pull back, his glasses uselessly fogging as tears streamed down his face. Snape pulled him into a firm hug, letting Harry burrow his face in his sleeve as he continued to bawl.

“It’s okay,” his professor said calmly, “You’re okay.”

“Can- can I please have a calming draught?” Harry choked out between sobs.

Snape seemed to hesitate, tensing slightly.

“Please, Sev,” he begged, “I- I promise this won’t happen again.”

His professor withdrew from their embrace, guiding him to the couch before moving swiftly into another room, his dark robes flaring behind him.

Harry clutched the edges of the dark-green couch he sat on, his fingers white from the pressure of his grip.

“Drink.” Snape was back at his side in an instant, holding something out in offering.

Harry uncorked the bottle quickly, tossing his head back as he emptied the vial.

He could feel his body begin to unwind itself, his muscles releasing their tension as an unprecedented sense of calm overtook him. His mind began to clear as Harry composed himself, sniffing as he wiped at his face.

“Alright?” His professor’s dark eyes were flooded with concern as he took the seat beside Harry on the sofa.

“Better,” he nodded as he focused on steadying his breathing.

“Would you be comfortable telling me what happened?”

Harry paused. “I don’t know how to explain it, really.”

Humming to himself, Snape placed a comforting hand on Harry’s back, rubbing small, soothing circles. “Any way you could try for me?”

“It’ll sound stupid.”

“I’m sure it won’t.”

“No, it will,” his grip tightened. “It’s stupid.”

“Harry,” Snape sighed, his hands continuing their motion lightly, “It won’t sound stupid to me.”

He took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I- I saw myself in the mirrors in the locker room after Quidditch, and it- it just seemed like I was bigger- like, I’d gained a lot of weight, I guess… I don’t know, I’ve never seen myself like that.” He rubbed his hands together in his lap. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal. I- I mean, I just can’t believe I hadn’t noticed.”

Snape hummed beside him. “When I mentioned months ago that I had provided students with potions to assist with their weight gain, you seemed adamant in your belief that you wouldn’t want that to be a part of your recovery-”

“Recovery-?”

“You said you would feel as if you were indulging yourself if you noticed any immediate difference in your body.” His professor spoke slowly as Harry tensed and hunched his shoulders. “Was tonight an example of that sort of reaction?”

Harry shifted slightly, hesitating before he nodded.

“May I ask why you are so nervous about overindulgence?”

“You already know,” Harry shrugged, “We’ve talked about it.”

“Could you remind me?”

He sighed, “I worked so hard to”- he struggled for the words - “to avoid thinking about Sirius, or- or Cedric, or anyone that it just became easier not to eat. And when I wasn’t eating, Petunia seemed to yell at me less, anyway, so that was nice. And…” Harry looked down again, furrowing his brows, wringing his hands together. “She’d always poked at me when she thought I was eating too much.” He shrugged again, making sure to look anywhere but his professor’s eyes. “But when I saw my body in the mirror today…It didn’t look the same anymore. And I know that I’d get pushed around for it with the Dursleys, so… It made me feel bad.”

“Made you feel out of control, perhaps?” Snape’s voice was a calming presence.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that seems right, I guess. Sorry for being overdramatic. It really wasn’t anything important.”

“I disagree. I think it’s important,” said Snape. “I’d like to have more of these discussions in our meetings on Tuesdays, if you’re not opposed.”

Harry cringed. “Why?”

“So that we may discuss what triggers your anxieties around this issue specifically. With more information, I could try and teach you different ways of thinking about and dealing with these uncomfortable situations when they arise.”

“They’re not uncomfortable-”

“Harry,” his professor chided. “Try not to disagree with me on everything, if you are able.”

“Sorry,” he smirked before clearing his throat, “What would we do when… When you figure that out?”

“We’d come up with a set of goals for you to try and reach, gradually letting you face situations that would normally make you feel anxious or self-conscious about your appearance. Over time, facing these fears in a controlled environment will help you to be less anxious when you encounter them on your own.”

Harry screwed up his face in disgust. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

Snape huffed beside him. “It’s not really supposed to be.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “I… That's okay.” He faltered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I mean, we can try that.” Harry could tell his professor was surprised from the way his hand slightly hesitated in its continued circles. “Today was kind of a shock.” Harry continued. “I haven’t felt like that in a while. I thought it was getting better.”

“I’m glad to hear you’ve been doing well,” Snape said earnestly. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t still have bad days. Hopefully, just fewer ones. Today was a good lesson in remembering that.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to continue to press the subject tonight. I am sure the calming drought has exhausted your body.”

Harry nodded.

“Let’s not overexert you, then.”

“Could I stay here tonight?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I don’t really feel like going back to the dorm.”

Snape blinked in surprise. “I don’t suppose I take issue with that. I’ll find you a blanket.”

He rose slowly, retreating into one of the connecting rooms as Harry twisted his hands together where he sat. It seemed like no time at all before his professor returned holding a soft, black duvet.

“Everything you own is black or green,” Harry remarked as Snape quirked his brow upward.

“Your point being?”

“You need some more color. Literally any other color.”

“How about grey?” He mused.

Harry surprised himself by laughing. “That doesn’t count!”

Snape was smiling; it was strange how often he did that now. “The bathroom is through the door on the left, just next to my room. Kitchen is through the door on the right, should you need water.”

“Thank you.” He blinked up at his professor with a sniffle.

“Of course,” Snape moved back across the room toward his chambers. “By the way, Harry,” he continued, “I spoke with Horace today about your friend, Mr Weasley.”

“Right.”

“I am sorry to hear that he is in the hospital wing. I’ve been working on identifying the poison.”

Harry tugged the blanket close to his chest. “He’ll be fine then, I’m sure.”

“Good thinking with the bezoar,” he gave Harry a knowing glance before turning and leaving the room, calling “Goodnight, Harry,” over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Sev.”