(Dungeon Corridor, Just After Easter Break)

“Something is going to happen. I’m just not sure I want to know what that something *is*,” Hermione Granger advised her two best friends darkly as they headed to Gryffindor Tower from Double Potions in the dungeons, their last class of the day. “They all sense it.”

By “they” she meant the teachers at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For the better part of the week, all the Professors, *including* Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, had drifted about as if shadows, worry lines creasing their faces.

“And as if that weren’t enough,” Ronald Weasley added, “Snape’s acting as balmy as Dumbledore!”

Which was true. Where he enjoyed spiting Gryffindors in his classes, Hufflepuffs, even Ravenclaws, he, for the past couple of days, had completely *ignored* his students. Even those in his own House! Just today, in fact, he had made no movement, spoken not a word where he sat at his desk, as his N.E.W.T. level classes piled into the dungeons. His obsidian eyes did not register the teenagers as they entered, not one. Except Harry Potter.

When the famed ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ entered, his dark orbs had abruptly seared with a startling alertness, tracking the sixteen-year-old until he sat in his seat. He barely managed to tear them away from the boy, just enough to instruct the class in what they were to do. Then he went back to brooding.

“Snape?” Hermione responded. “Ron, *all* of the teachers have been acting strange!”

The red-haired boy scowled slightly. “I *know* that, ‘Mione. But Snape and Dumbledore, even more so. What *I* want to know is why Snape kept looking at you as if he expected He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to jump out and attack you, mate.”

Harry, who up until this point had said nothing, now raised his head and gave a weak smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, guys, I’d rather *not* think about it.”

Much of this landed on his shoulders---actually, the entire Fate of the wizarding *world* depended on that. And the Prophecy. One which stated that he was to be either the Victor . . . or the Victim. He had told his friends this at the end of the summer when he was at last allowed to return to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix a week before school at Hogwarts started. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s underground resistance, as it were.

All of the Order members knew of the Prophecy, *including* Snape. And now all the Weasleys and Hermione as well, even Percy, who had apologized to his parents sometime at the beginning of the summer.

“Sure, mate.” Ron’s voice drew Harry back to the moment as his best friend shrugged easily. “Too dark for my tastes, anyway.”

The other teenager, in spite of himself, felt a small grin tugging at his lips. Ron would never change.

The grin only widened as he received Hermione’s rather distracted reply, “Of course, Harry.” Just by looking at her, the two boys could tell she was not satisfied with letting it drop. Once she was interested in something, she kept at it until it was answered to her satisfaction. Even if she claimed she would much rather not know.

None of the three noticed Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin, silently watching their journey from the entrance of his classroom, his usually severe face suffused with worry. His obsidian eyes rested on one of them in particular---the one in the center of the trio with a lightning bolt-shaped scar.

(Great Hall, a Couple of Hours Later)

Severus jabbed at his dinner that night in the Great Hall, poking, prodding, but never actually eating. At last, frustrated and overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions, he groaned rather loudly and slammed his fork down on the plate, burying his face in his hands. That garnered him a few concerned looks from his fellow teachers and Albus, but otherwise, they left him alone. For which he was grateful.

Almost reluctantly, his gaze was drawn to the Gryffindor table, where a certain sixteen-year-old, dark-haired wizard looked at *least* as preoccupied as he himself *felt*. He had not even touched his food, much to the consternation of the Weasley siblings and Granger. The Potions Master shook his head sadly, at the same time finding himself very uncomfortable with the ache which rose up in his heart when he saw the Granger girl gently prod at the teenaged Savior of the wizarding world, trying to get him to eat---and which, consequently, the boy refused to do. Severus suddenly wondered if the Boy-Who-Lived had eaten anything at *all* over the past couple of days.

Judging from the teen’s---at times---seemingly half-asleep state in classes, he could honestly say the boy probably had not.

Severus felt caged. He was not used to worrying over a student, not like this, and least of all, one whose surname was “Potter.” He wanted so *very* much to protect this teen, yet, at the same time, the part of him which feared to care, grafted at such a thought. He hated teetering on the edge like this, not sure which direction to take or which path to follow---he’d been there too many times already, far more than he cared to count. And he hated *himself* for the hesitation because he knew where it stemmed from.

It was, quite simply, the fear of loving someone because whomever he had loved, always wound up getting hurt or killed in the end.

Perhaps it was the admittance to that failing of his which started to crack emotional barriers he had so long erected. Or perhaps it was because the child he now watched had proven stronger than that fear. Whatever the reason, his mind suddenly went into overdrive.

He supposed he could conjure up some excuse for giving the teenager detention. Just so he could keep an eye on him---at least for tonight. If the boy were with him in the classroom, he would not have to worry about the Dark Lord or a random group of Death Eaters, such as Lestrange, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy (who’d escaped from Azkaban), attacking the young Gryffindor when no one was around or everyone was asleep. The sixteen-year-old had a knack for finding trouble---or rather, trouble had a knack for finding *him*. He could, he mused with bitter irony, give the younger wizard detention for constantly having to risk his neck.

But a second glance at his student, who was currently trying to gently refuse the Weasley girl’s imploring that he eat *something*, served to wing home the realization that he *couldn’t*. Not now, maybe not ever again. /This child,/ he thought, /has more than enough on his head as it is./

Thus decided, but still unsettled, wanting to ensure that at least *some* sense of protection could be instated, Severus placed his hands firmly on the Head Table and, using it for leverage, pushed himself to his feet. As he strode purposefully away from his peers and towards the Gryffindor Table, the Potions Master fingered the wand in his pocket and muttered under his breath, “Accio. . . pendants.”

A slightly heavy, slim object fell into his pocket alongside the wand. The box he pulled out and opened the lid, drawing out a pendant on a black leather chain and slipping it over his head. The other he kept in the box, pocketing it.

Surreptitiously shifting his eyes around, he was gratified to note that not even Albus had appeared to notice his rather unusual behavior. Breathing an inaudible sigh of relief, he quickly continued along his path.

“Snape!” Ron hissed to Harry in warning where they sat at their table. “He’s headed this way!”

Sure enough, within three minutes of Ron’s statement, Severus pulled up even with the Boy-Who-Lived and stopped, standing behind him. “Potter, a word,” snapped.

Harry said nothing, merely sighed, weary of *everything*, too much so to care any longer, and stood to his feet resignedly, mentally reviewing all the things he could have *possibly* done wrong to get on Snape’s worst side.

Without further ado, Snape abruptly whirled away and strode off towards the doors, black robes billowing and Harry following.

As their best friend left the table, uneasy about what was to come, Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, silently agreeing to follow as teacher and student headed out of the Great Hall, pretty much unnoticed---except by themselves and Dumbledore. They did not know what this was about or what was expected to happen, they only knew that they wanted to find out, and find out *fast*.

Unheeded as they left, Ron’s younger sister Ginny---a fifth year---stood silently to her feet and followed as she caught sight of her best friend and older brother heading to the entrance of the Great Hall.

Once through the doors, Severus abruptly grabbed Harry’s wrist and fairly dragged the sixteen-year-old out of those in the Great Hall’s sight, startling and alarming the boy.

“Professor?!” Yelped. Well, he certainly had not counted on this!

“Shut up, Potter.” Growled.

He blinked. “Shutting up, sir.”

Severus rolled his eyes and, in spite of everything, fought a smirk, even though what lay on his mind was anything but amusing. Potter had become much more sarcastic and outspoken than he had been previously, and the man found that he honestly did not mind too much. This boy had turned out to be a completely different person than his father and had more of his mother in him than was probably healthy for him. Lily Evans Potter had had a quick tongue, too, and had been all-around too compassionate for her own good. That is what he had come to see in her son, although, to be sure, the Boy-Who-Lived was coming into his own.

As these thoughts ran through his head, the Head of Slytherin dragged the boy to a shallow alcove housing a statue of a gargoyle. He stopped, then, pulling the young Gryffindor around to face him, and---badly startling the teen---dropped to his knees in front of him, fiercely gripping his shoulders and glaring intently into his eyes.

“Professor?” Whispered. If Harry did not know any better, he would have said the man was frightened. But of what, and why?

Without preamble, all business, the Potions Professor stated, “Potter, listen up. We don’t know when, and we don’t know how, but the Dark Lord is going to attack the school.”

“That’s stating the obvious, Professor,” Harry replied.

About to level another, harder glare at the younger wizard, Severus paused when the teen gave an exhausted sigh and absent-mindedly rubbed his scar. He could hear the fatigue that lined his student’s voice when he spoke and did not like what that implied.

Harry’s thoughts, however, were not on his Professor or on the action which he was performing. They were, instead, wrapped up in his nightmares. For several months running now, he had had nightmares of Death Eater meetings, torture sessions, slayings, killings, raids, everything unpleasant that bore the mark of Voldemort’s and his followers’ handy-work. He had been careful to hide it up until this point, but now, for the first time, he let it slip. Strangely, with everything that occurred last year---Occulmency and its related areas---he felt safe, even comfortable, in the Potions Master’s presence.

He was rather shocked in the next moment, then, when a callused hand reached up and took his own, the one massaging the scar.

“Don’t do that,” sternly. “It does not help.”

“Nor does having a bloody headache.” Grumbled.

Severus’s eyes turned sharp. He knew of the scar’s properties and what the pain the boy was experiencing could imply. “Potter, is he---?”

Harry sighed and shook his head, his frustration at last surfacing. “I don’t know!” cried. “It’s been like that for months!”

Severus shook his own and pulled the boy’s hand back down when he went to rub the scar again. “That’s not how you treat a headache.” Surprising the teen immensely, he placed his thumbs gently on either side of his student’s temples, and tilting his head up and back slightly, rubbed them in a soothing circular motion, bleeding the tiniest bit of his magic into the Boy-Who-Lived.

The young Gryffindor’s emerald eyes widened. “S-Sir?”

The Head of Slytherin scowled mildly at his student. “Do not give me that look, Potter. I’m only doing this because I need you to be able to think clearly.” Growled gruffly.

But looking into the man’s obsidian eyes, Harry saw that the Professor’s retort, in fact, was only a partial truth. The smallest of smiles, even something of a shy one, touched the teenager’s lips. “Yes, sir.”

Instantly, Severus’s eyes slid away from the boy’s when he realized what had just passed between them. Focusing intently on getting rid of Potter’s damn headache, he muttered, “You should have spoken to me about this in September. I might have been able to give you something for them. Do you have these dreams every night, Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied softly, forcing himself to hold still as the older wizard went about his ministrations. By Merlin, but this was strange!

Severus snorted derisively, still massaging the boy’s temples. “Bloody Gryffindor pride.” Mumbled.

A smirk. “Thanks *ever* so much, Professor. And should I tell you what *I* think of *Slytherin* pride?”

Sarcastically: “*Do* tell, Potter.”

Harry’s smirk widened as he answered without hesitation, “Biased. Unfounded. And bloody annoying.”

Another derisive snort. “Dear me, Potter, was that just a *compliment*?”

“Blatant.”

From where he was watching this entire exchange with Hermione, Ron gaped. “Has he gone completely *mental*!?” Exclaimed.

Hermione, her eyes still fastened on the two in front of them, absently wondered which of them he was referring to. As far as she could tell, they were *both* off their rockers.

Severus and Harry, utterly oblivious to the fact that they were being watched, continued their battle of wits. Neither would admit to it, but this was almost surreal. The two of them swapping words like this. But the Head of Slytherin, at least, was not about to stop. All through their exchange, he kept massaging the boy’s temples, then bleeding a bit of healing power into him. Massaging then bleeding. Massaging then bleeding. If nothing else, their “battle” took the boy’s mind off the pain. He shook his head slightly, darkly amused, /Who would believe *this*? Me, *bantering* with *Potter* to keep his mind off of *pain*? I do not believe it myself! /

At last, his magic warned the Potions Professor that the headache was gone and he settled his hands back on the boy’s shoulders. Bringing an abrupt end to their word duel, Severus demanded gruffly, “Better?”

Harry, startled for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes or so, blinked, suddenly realizing that yes, indeed, it was better. In fact, it was not even *there* anymore! “Y-Yes.” A bit shakily.

The Professor’s eyes became diamond hard. “Then listen, and listen good. When Voldemort attacks the school he will probably bring most of his Death Eaters. Being as you seem decidedly prone to wandering into the worst of situations, I want you to carry your wand with you at all times, even during the day or when going to classes.”

Harry’s heart thudded uneasily as he watched the man’s face. “But, sir, I thought. . .” He trailed off.

Severus sighed with strained patience. “Potter, look, the Dark Lord is a very paranoid, very mistrusting individual. He is also decidedly cruel, even to the most loyal of his followers.” The man looked, Harry suddenly reflected, rather pained. “He never told…us…about his plans, not until the very same night of that chosen action. And with our loyalty constantly in question…let’s just say he was not particularly forthcoming with information.” The latter part of the man’s statement was remarked darkly and without humor.

An odd clenching sensation suddenly seized Harry’s heart, his eyes never once leaving the Head of Slytherin’s face. Unwillingly, his mind was drawn back to the Death Eater meetings he had witnessed. All of them. The torture, the cries, the curses, the deaths…Bad enough that he witnessed them in his nightmares---he could not grasp how much worse it must be for Snape, having to attend every meeting, having to suffer through all of that, for so long, for so many years. Just how long had the man been a spy, let alone a Death Eater, anyway?

Too late, noticing the absolutely confounded expression on the man’s face, the teenager realized that he had asked that particular question aloud.

“Potter?” breathed unevenly. “H-How did you . . .? How long?”

“Have I known?” the sixteen-year-old prompted. At the older wizard’s wordless nod, he continued, “To be completely honest? Since the end of fourth year. I-I saw several trials of Death Eaters in Professor Dumbledore’s pensieve.”

“Which would explain why you were not the least bit shaken when I allowed you into mine that first night,” Severus muttered to himself. “Your ever-present curiosity, I would assume?” This part remarked condescendingly.

Harry flushed hotly and bowed his head, almost flinching back. “Y-Yes, sir.”

“Relax, Potter,” Severus advised him in quite a different tone of voice, a bit surprised by the boy’s reaction. “I was merely wondering.” The man sighed dramatically at his student’s wide-eyed look as Harry’s head jumped back up. “Honestly, Potter, I am by no means *that* bad.”

“Try telling that to a first year student who’s seen you for the first time in his life when his bloody scar twinged,” the teen mumbled, going to rub the scar again.

“Stop that!” Severus admonished, once again capturing the young Gryffindor’s hand in his own. This time he did not release it.

The utterly despairing look he was met with in emerald eyes caused him pause. For the first time ever, Severus Snape was afforded a look into the very depths of Harry Potter’s soul.

What he saw there, did nothing less than shock him.

The child’s soul was naked, scarred. All in all, he knew he should not be surprised. His own soul, after all, probably looked much the same way. But this was not what he had expected, not in the eyes of a *child*, a mere *teenager*. A teenager who had seen far more in the past sixteen years of his life than any teenager should have to, true, but he was nonetheless really only a boy.

The older wizard wondered where along the line they had forgotten that.

It also made the ache in his chest, to protect this one child, so much the fiercer.

Unsettled by the sudden upsurge in his emotions, jittery, Severus abruptly shoved a slim, plain box into Harry’s hand, bringing the boy’s concentration crashing back to the here and now. “Here, Potter, you are to wear this and I’ll hear nothing to the contrary,” he attempted to sneer derisively. . . and failed miserably.

The young man merely gaped at him again. Wordless.

Severus gave a long-suffering sigh, wondering if he would *ever* live this down. “Well, go on then.”

When Harry still did not move, the man gave a slight growl. To which Harry promptly opened the box…and froze. Severus resisted the urge to growl again. Was this truly so stunning?

His attention, however, was redirected in the next moment when the boy gingerly took the box’s contents out. The Potions Master found himself feeling strangely touched when he noticed the care with which Harry handled the impromptu gift. The boy’s fingertips lightly traced the stone design---an ancient Celtic knot---set in the wood of the pendant. His mouth was slightly open in awe and his eyes fairly sparkled at it as he followed the design over several times.

Damn those eyes and damn that sparkle for making his tightly knotted heart loosen slightly.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed as Harry raised his head and met Severus’s gaze.

Damn those eyes. . .

“What does it mean?” quietly.

Severus found himself responding: “Eternal protection, Potter,” rather gruffly stated. “Should you be in danger of any sort, the stone will glow blue.” As he was stating this, the man pulled the pendant’s twin out from underneath his collar. “As will mine---if I myself am in danger. Your danger, however, will cause my pendant to glow red. If at all I can possibly assist you, I need only grip this,” he indicated the pendant, “and it will take me to you. An Apparating spell of a sort, though, I cannot know for sure. This is very ancient magic, Mr. Potter, not even Headmaster Dumbledore seems to know its exact function, other than to protect those it has been bestowed upon.”

For some unknown reason, Harry’s breathing hitched. “You . . . You’re giving this . . . to *me*?”

Severus raised his eyebrows. “Why ever not, Mr. Potter?” Before the boy could so much as get in another word edgewise, he had taken the necklace from Harry’s hands and clasped it around his student’s neck, muttering a rather complicated locking spell to ensure it *stayed* on. Given what he knew of Potter, however, he would not be surprised if the teenager could break it within a moment’s notice. Hmm…perhaps he should emphasize that little fact…

Harry was speaking again. Emotions whirled within him. Emotions he could easily name, but had never, not *once*, even *dreamed* he would feel in Snape’s presence. “But you. . . you *hate* me!” exclaimed.

The Head of Slytherin looked up sharply at that particular cry. “Hate you? Potter, what on *earth* gave you that idea?”

The young Gryffindor’s maelstrom of feelings kept at it, growing stronger. /Did . . . did he just say what I think he did?/ the boy thought. His breathing caught. “You . . . you don’t?”

Small. Uncertain. Wavering. Even hopeful. What was it about this child that touched him so?!

“He . . . he doesn’t?” Hermione gasped from where she and Ron were still watching the proceedings, now with rapidly growing interest.

Ron worked his mouth but nothing, not a sound, came out. He watched the two wizards in front of him as avidly as slighter girl next to him.

Severus shook his head.

“You must detest me at the very least!” Harry exclaimed, barely daring to believe he was hearing this---or in this case, seeing it. “*Especially* after what my father did to you!”

“You are not your father,” stated evenly, softly. When a tear slid down the child’s cheek, Severus hushed him. “Potter . . . shhh, not here,” stated almost kindly. His hand shaking very minutely, the man went to brush away the tear. This was not *anything* he had expected, nor anticipated.

It was true, he did not hate Potter. He never had. And it was only now that he was admitting to himself that he did not even really *dislike* him. . .

Actually, currently he had no *idea* what he felt towards the boy in front of him, except an overwhelming need to protect this child who had seen far more than anyone should in a *lifetime*. And then there was that intense, almost fierce, ache in his heart, one which he had thought long ago frozen over…

Was he even *capable* of loving again? Because he sure as hell did not deserve that chance in return.

But the teenager’s reaction to such a simple declaration had him worried.

Praying that his next inquiry would not cause the young Gryffindor to become anymore emotional than he already was, Severus murmured cautiously, “Potter, is there…is there something that you…miss?” He growled in frustration. “No, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was---”

Harry, aware of the tears trickling down his cheeks but paying them little heed, interrupted, voice hushed, “How can you miss what you never had?”

Severus was taken aback. “Potter?”

Harry continued, voice thick, “How can you yearn for something that you never knew?”

That damn ache would not go away. These questions . . . they were not something someone Potter’s age should be asking. And that they were coming from this boy, of all people. . . Furthermore, Severus all too clearly remembered asking *himself* those same questions, and when he was sixteen, no less.

But there was a fundamental difference between the two of them.

“But you can crave something that you deserve, Potter,” the Head of Slytherin murmured, brushing away his student’s remaining tears.

Harry’s mouth fell open in an “O” as he stared at the man who, until quite recently, had been his least likable teacher.

A warm feeling, an odd feeling, began to fill his heart, then, and the tiniest of smiles found its way to his lips as he realized suddenly that, had he not thought Snape would die of shock, he would have hugged him right then and there.

His hands came up to touch the necklace. “Thank you, sir,” whispered as he bowed his head bashfully, dark, unruly bangs falling softly over his eyes.

Severus moved his hands from the boy’s shoulders and clasped them loosely around the younger wizard’s, leaning down to meet his emerald eyes. “It is yours, Potter,” quietly declared. “You deserve such a small gift, at the very least. And not because you are the Boy-Who-Lived, but because you are *you*. Do not let anyone ever tell you any different.”

Abruptly, he pulled back and away. “I fully expect you to wear that necklace and carry your wand at all times, Mr. Potter,” Severus advised sternly. “Promise me this.”

Harry blinked at the sudden shift to a more formal tone. Then realized that dinner would probably be emptying out any minute now. “Yes, sir,” whispered.

Severus relaxed imperceptibly. “Thank you,” murmured. Then the Potions Master whirled away, and in a swirl of robes, stalked down the corridor, undoubtedly headed to the dungeons.

It was about then that everything that had occurred in the past twenty minutes or so crashed down on him---full-force.

With a movement that had Hermione and Ron, both of whom had watched the conversation through its entire duration, starting to their feet from their previously crouched positions and out the gaping entrance to the Great Hall in alarm, Harry promptly collapsed on the stone bench in front of the gargoyle. His jaw was slack and his mind buzzing as he futilely tried to sort through the jumbled feedback he was receiving from his memories of their conversation.

“Harry!!” Hermione’s concerned cry brought his head snapping up. His two best friends were rushing towards him.

“Hi, Hermione,” he answered weakly, still utterly and completely stunned by what had just transpired. Dumbfounded, he dropped his eyes from his friends and shook his head slightly, trying to make sense of everything and what emotions were consequently evoked.

What the *hell* had just happened?

Apparently, Ron wanted to know the same thing, “Bloody hell, mate! What was *that* about?!”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed.

Harry’s head jumped up again at their exchange. “You *saw* all of that?!”

Sheepishly, the two nodded.

Harry moaned.

“We just wanted to make sure nothing was going to happen to you,” Hermione explained quickly, seeking to reassure her friend.

“And, well, Snape . . .” Ron added, trailing off.

Immediately, Harry retorted, “He would never hurt me, Ron!”

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances before the red-haired sixteen-year-old held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Mate, take it easy! We know that---*now*.” He peered curiously at Harry. “Why are you so defensive of him all of a sudden, anyway? I mean, up until twenty minutes ago I could have sworn you *hated* each other.”

“Ron’s right, you know, Harry,” Hermione spoke up softly. “I thought that you could barely stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes.”

“I thought so, too,” Harry muttered, figuring he may as well get this over with, “until start of term last year. Remember those “remedial potions” lessons I had to go to?” Hearing their assents, he continued, “They were actually Occulmency and Legilimency lessons.”

The two other Gryffindors gaped. “What?!”

“Just what I said,” their friend explained with a patient sigh.

“You mean you let *Snape* pick through your memories?!” Ron exclaimed in disbelief.

“It’s not like I had a choice, Ron,” Harry defended. “Voldemort is connected to me through my scar. My *scar*, Ron. Which was why I always had bloody headaches after my nightmares. Dumbledore told me I should learn Occulmency, at least. Apparently he’d already told Professor Snape, and the man agreed to teach me. At that point, I was willing to do *anything* to get rid of those damn dreams, so I agreed, too. The first night in, we worked with erecting a barrier around my mind because, as Snape told me, Legilimency and Occulmency go hand in hand.” The teenager allowed himself a tiny smirk. “I surprised him. I’d already taught myself meditation over the summer at the Dursleys because my uncle…wasn’t exactly pleased with being woken up in the middle of night.” /And used a belt to get that particular point across,/ Harry thought grimly, but did not dare reveal. The only one who knew about that was Professor Snape. “I was able to defend my mind and throw him out, all in that first lesson. According to him, I shouldn’t have been able to do that until at least three months into lessons. It just sort of progressed from there. My shield is invisible now and not even the Headmaster can break or bend it.”

Hermione and Ron were gaping again.

Harry, taking note of this, flushed deeply and groaned, “*Guys*.”

They snapped their mouths shut. But still, they stared at him.

The sixteen-year-old bit his lip and dropped his eyes down to examine his hands, shifting uneasily. He would have thought they would be used to this by now. Apparently not. As his blush receded, he continued, voice soft, “That took around two months. Then Professor Snape insisted I learn Legilimency. I was wary, at first. I hadn’t come to completely trust him, yet, and you *need* that for learning Legilimency.” Harry shut his eyes tightly as the memories of that night returned. “In order to gain it, he allowed me into his pensieve.”

Hermione’s jaw slackened slightly. “But Harry that’s…that’s---”

“Personal, yes, I know,” the boy interrupted the girl quietly. “Extremely personal. I didn’t even ask. He told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted me to understand how important that trust was. He didn’t even go with me. I…I saw some things I never expected, and things I had never believed possible. I refuse to go into details, but I will say this…I was crying when he pulled me back.” /And by Merlin, was he astonished,/ the Boy-Who-Lived thought. He still remembered the utter shock on his Professor’s face when the man took note of his tears. In the first kind gesture he had ever received from the Potions Master, Snape had fumbled with a handkerchief and shoved it into his hand, whirling away and quickly moving back to his desk, muttering about “Bloody Gryffindor emotions.” It was about then that he had begun to wonder about the man’s real feelings toward him. Suddenly remembering what his friends wanted to know, Harry hastened to continue: “A-After that particular incident, I could no longer hold any suspicions about the man. I trusted him, and the fact that *he* trusted *me*…well…” The teenager shook his head, still not looking up, and his voice quieted further, “We started Legilimency that night, after I calmed down. Just the basics, no invading minds, yet. He told me we never really ‘forget’ anything, just store it away. So much information is encoded on our minds that it interferes with earlier memories, something he called ‘retrograde interference.’ He told me that our minds are rather like photo albums, and the memories like photos. Like a photo album, you can search through your mind and pick out certain memories. The next time we met, he started me on the actual probing, showing me how to do it by going into *my* mind and memories.” He grimaced at the recollection. “I found out that night that during Legilimency, as your partner is watching your memories, you relive them---to their full extent. Let’s just say the memories he found weren’t exactly pleasant. He was curious about my home life, and was somewhat shocked by what he saw.” /In his words,/ the boy thought, /after about half an hour of pure raving, they were ‘horrendous.’/

“Second Year? Third?” Ron at last ventured softly, attempting to process all this.

Harry nodded. /And so much more besides,/ thought, but not spoken. “That night as I was leaving he…he…” The teenager’s breath abruptly hitched. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. “What he saw,” the sixteen-year-old attempted again, “…what he saw…i-it made him…I don’t know…change somehow. At least a tiny bit. He…he stopped me from leaving…and apologized. Apologized for the past four years or so in his class, apologized for not being able to see what my life was really like, apologized for the bad judgments he made regarding me as a person. I-I didn’t know what to say. He told me I didn’t need to say *anything*.” Harry shut his eyes again. “J-Just before he allowed me to leave---and mind, I don’t think he wanted me to even *notice* it---he…he quickly touched my cheek. I-I couldn’t…I had never…” The teenager was unable to complete his explanation. The tears burned viciously at the back of his eyes and he realized suddenly that he *really* needed a hug.

The sixteen-year-old started horribly when a pair of slight arms wrapped around him.

Quickly, Harry glanced up. “G-Ginny?” he choked, staring at the girl in surprise.

The fifteen-year-old offered a tiny, lopsided grin, and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“He touched…your cheek,” Ron repeated slowly, trying to process that fact and why Harry was so damn shaken by it.

Hermione was staring at him in disbelief. “He couldn’t have. He would never even *dream* of doing that!” Although, as she said it, Harry could tell she was mentally going over everything they had witnessed in the hall. Slowly, a light of realization touched her dark eyes.

Seeing that, Harry gave a half-checked sob and buried his face against Ginny’s shoulder. In response, the younger teenager merely tightened her arms around him. Hermione hugged him from one side as well.

Still utterly bewildered, Ron nonetheless rested his hand on his best friend’s trembling shoulder. After a moment, he spoke up softly, “Mate, why are you going off like this? I mean, this is *Snape* we’re talking about.”

“That’s exactly the point, Ron!” Harry cried, the memories of last year coupled with his very recent exchange with the Potions Master proving at last to be a bit much to handle all at once. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be finally *cared* about like that?!”

Ron slowly shook his head.

Sensing the shake, rather than seeing it, the other sixteen-year-old murmured, “Never mind. You couldn’t. Not with the family you have. The girls can’t, either. It’s not exactly a typical teenage problem. But, then, when have I ever been a “typical” teenager,” the latter remarked bitterly.

“You never have been, Harry,” Ginny murmured after a moment, when neither Ron nor Hermione felt brave enough to speak. “But I think Professor Snape did his damnedest to at least *try* and treat you as he would any other student.” When the other three Gryffindors stared at her, the fifth year shrugged as best she could while holding Harry. “I mean, think about it, he never treated you as though you were someone extra special. In fact he went far out of his way *not* to.”

Thinking back on the amount of detentions and point deductions Snape had given him over the past five years, Harry saw her point. It was true, where another teacher, even Professor Minerva McGonagall, would likely have dismissed a few of the actions, chosen to ignore them, Professor Snape never did. It was common knowledge that Harry was not exactly the Potions Master’s favorite student, and up until Occulmency and Legilimency lessons, he had never thought the man felt anything other than hate for him. In spite of receiving the man’s rather unexpected and shocking apology last year, he had only *wondered* if the older wizard’s attitude towards him was, in fact, what it appeared to be. He had never dared ask, however, not until just a few minutes ago.

To say the least, that realization made him feel oddly grateful.

Carefully backing away from his three friends and brushing his tears away, he graced the younger girl with a warm smile, “Thanks, Gin. For making things clearer.”

Ginny blushed lightly, but nonetheless grinned. “Anytime, Harry.”

As the quartet made their way slowly back towards Gryffindor Tower, the sixteen-year-old shot a devilish grin at his male best friend before turning back to the fifth year girl, “You certainly are wiser than your brother will ever be.”

She laughed. “Of course I am! Mum always says so, too.”

“Hey!!” Ron cried with injured dignity.

Hermione and Harry laughed, as well, the sixth year girl gently patting Ron’s cheek. “Oh, you poor dear,” she teased.

“No fair, ‘Mione,” Ron complained good-naturedly, doing a horrible job at hiding the blush that leapt onto his cheeks at the girl’s playful gesture. “You aren’t supposed to be on *their* side!”

Hermione adopted a mock-stern look. “Oh, really, Ronald Weasley? And since when have *you* determined which side I’m on?”

“Bet you ten Sickles they’ll be together by the end of this year,” Harry whispered loudly to Ginny as their friends went at it.

The fifth year Gryffindor’s grin took on a ferocious air. “Bet you fifteen that they’ll be engaged by the end of next.”

“GINNY!” Hermione shrieked, overhearing the two (as *she* was meant to). She flushed deeply.

“HARRY!” Ron shouted simultaneously, also overhearing the two (as *he* was meant to). His face was as red as his hair.

Laughing, their two friends took off running for the portrait of the Fat Lady. Hermione and Ron were not far behind them, yelling and waving their arms.

From the shadows, Potions Master Severus Snape silently stepped out, the tiniest of smiles on his lips as he watched the four students go and obsidian eyes suspiciously bright. “Fifty points to Gryffindor for finding laughter where there previously was none,” whispered softly to the quieting corridor.

As the last echoes of the four’s laughter bounced against the walls, a handful of rubies tipped into the Gryffindor hourglass.

(One Week Later, Library)

It was past midnight, well beyond the time all students (save the Prefects) were due to be in bed. The corridors had been dark and silent as Harry went along, his only means by which to see his lighted wand. As he entered the library, the door creaked open, barely audible. Just as quietly, he shut it behind him and shed his invisibility cloak, the silky material pooling on the floor around his feet.

In his hands he carried his wand and the Marauders’ Map. He tapped the seemingly blank piece of parchment with his wand and muttered, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

It took a moment, but at last, the introduction appeared. He paid no heed to it, having read it over dozens of times, and instead unfolded it. The entire layout of the Hogwarts castle appeared before him. Quickly he checked where the most likely people to be up at this hour were:

Filch, the caretaker of the castle, was on the sixth floor, several levels above the library. He appeared to be in his office-quarters, along with Mrs. Norris, his cat.

Headmaster Dumbledore appeared to be in his office, as well. Harry gazed at the scroll indicating who and where the man was with a twinge of sadness. He could bet the man had not had a very restful sleep in a while.

The teenager’s eyes became more distant, and the twinge grew a bit, as he recalled Hermione’s words of a week ago. He doubted *any* of the teachers had gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while. It showed in their classes. Even Professor Snape seemed out of it these days.

Speaking of…

The Head of Slytherin House’s name appeared in the dungeons---in his private quarters, no less. Good. Harry just hoped the man was sleeping and not brooding over some potion or staring distractedly into the fire of his living room.

Of all the teachers, perhaps, aside from Dumbledore, the Potions Master was under the most stress. As a spy, he was contacted quite frequently. In fact, not one night this week had passed without his receiving summons. Though the man was unaware of it, Harry had spent every evening watching him from the window of the sixth year boys’ dormitory, the one that gave a bird’s eye view of the grounds, as he made his way quickly down the hill towards Hogsmeade Village. It was, after all, not hard to spot a figure stumbling the smallest bit as he clutched his left forearm, despite the fact that he dressed in all black.

And every evening, although it was beyond his comprehension, Harry prayed for the Professor’s safe return.

Today in the N.E.W.T. level Potions class had been the final straw. The man could hardly hold his head up, and when he had looked up as Harry entered the classroom, the teenager had had to forcibly restrain himself from rushing over to his teacher. The obsidian eyes that had been, for as long as Harry remembered, alert and sharp, were dulled and somewhat unfocused, causing him to wonder just how much more of this the older wizard could take.

Perhaps seeing the recognition in the sixteen-year-old’s own emerald ones, the Potions Master had stood---rather unsteadily, as the boy had noted with concern---and using his desk for balance, informed the class at large that he was canceling lessons for that day.

He did not have strength enough to even scowl.

Utter silence had fallen as Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws alike stared at the Professor. Then there was a whoop a moment later (he thought it must have been Ron), and the spell was broken. Instantly, the students had scrambled to collect their things and head outside to enjoy the balmy late spring afternoon.

Harry had chosen to remain after, in spite of the fact that Hermione and Ron had both been insistently tugging at his arms, far more worried about the Professor than he cared to admit. His two friends had at last given up, and settled with waiting in the corridor for him.

Once they had left the classroom, the sixteen-year-old had hesitated a moment, nearly changing his mind. It was made up for him, however, when the Potions Master---completely oblivious to his presence---immediately collapsed into the desk’s chair. Barely managing to check his surprised and concerned cry, Harry had quickly thrown his rucksack over one shoulder and hurried over to the man.

He had stopped at the teacher’s desk, biting his lip, and debating how best to go about this:

(FLASHBACK)

“Professor?” Harry queried cautiously, voice quiet.

At the question, Severus’s head jumped up with a jolt. The older wizard had quite firmly believed all his students to have left. He peered up in exhaustion at the boy. “Potter?” Mumbled.

Biting his lip harder, the young Gryffindor slowly reached out and slipped one arm around the Potions Master’s lower back and waist. “Come on,” he advised, “let’s get you to your rooms.”

Severus started slightly as the teenager hefted him---not without some measure of difficulty---to his feet. That done, the boy secured one of his arms around his shoulders. “What are you doing?” muttered wearily as he tried to pull away.

Harry scowled a bit. “What does it look like I’m doing? Stay still!”

The man was too tired to do anything but obey. So he did, leaning heavily on the slighter teen beside him. For all the boy appeared to be scrawny and thin, he was, in fact, quite strong. That strength helped him now, allowing him to balance the weight of the Potions Master as he carefully led the older wizard through the door of the classroom and out into the hall.

Hermione and Ron, true to their word, had remained in the corridor. Now they gaped at him as he and the Head of Slytherin emerged, one barely aware of his surroundings.

“Harry?!” Hermione gasped.

Ron said nothing, merely stared at the two.

The Boy-Who-Lived shook his head firmly. “Later, ‘Mione!” he near-snapped and headed in the opposite direction from where they rested in the right wing of the corridor. He had a vague sense of where the man’s private quarters were and figured that the portrait of Salazar Slytherin he saw some ninety yards ahead could not be far off the mark.

Slowly, they made their way towards it, Ron and Hermione trailing behind them. To his teacher, he murmured, “Is this routine for you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” growled weakly. He said nothing further and Harry did not press the issue. But his mind had latched onto an idea---a crazy one, yes, but still an idea.

They arrived at the portrait a few moments later.

The teenager twisted to look up at the Professor, locking eyes with him, as if by his very will alone he could force energy into the overtired man. “Promise me you will try and sleep,” he pleaded, barely believing his own ears.

Severus had enough wits about him to shoot the sixteen-year-old a rather startled look. He had become accustomed to hearing sarcasm from his student, and this sudden reversal had him astounded. “All…all right,” he conceded shakily.

The relief which washed over the young features only served to astonish him further.

Satisfied, Harry nodded and gently leaned the much taller man against the corridor wall next to the portrait. “Good night, then, Professor Snape.” He went to pull away…only to be halted by the older wizard’s arm tightening around him slightly.

Surprised and a bit concerned, the young Gryffindor glanced up at him through wayward dark strands. “Sir?”

The faintest of smiles touched the thirty-seven-year-old Professor’s lips. “Thank you, Potter.”

Unable to think of a response, the boy nodded again as his teacher released him. He gave a small start when the older wizard fleetingly touched his cheek. So fleetingly, in fact, that Harry wondered a moment later if it had not been a fly’s wing instead.

Quickly, he glanced up at the Potions Master. Nothing on the man’s face betrayed if he had done so or not, only that faint smile remained.

Severus wearily quirked an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

Harry shook his head a bit. “Never mind,” he mumbled.

If possible, the eyebrow went higher. “If you are sure, Mr. Potter…Good night.”

The teenager inclined his head. “Professor.” Then turned and grabbed Hermione’s and Ron’s wrists, dragging them off before either could get a word in edgewise.

(END FLASHBACK)

Harry blinked and shook his head, coming back to the present. That was the whole purpose of his visit here tonight. As insane as it was, he intended to find out if there was any way he could possibly help the man…

By disposing of his Dark Mark.

The Gryffindor was by no means a genius, but he did not have to be. Not to see that Voldemort was growing more and more suspicious of his teacher. Severus---it *was* okay to think of him as “Severus,” now, wasn’t it?---*had* told him that the Dark Lord was a very mistrusting and paranoid individual, but Harry was of the opinion that being called away nearly every night for a test of loyalty was worrisome, even where Voldemort was concerned.

He no longer questioned it, but the boy always managed to be surprised when he thought about how much he had come to care for the Head of Slytherin. And, well…he did not intend to lose the older wizard any sooner than absolutely necessary. That man meant something to him now, far more than he would have ever believed possible. He had allowed Severus to be privy to things he had never, not once, shown anyone else, and that said something, that said a *lot*.

Thus resolved, Harry tapped the parchment once more. “Mischief managed,” he muttered, and the map disappeared as swiftly as it had come.

Stooping down, the teenager retrieved his cloak and threw it over himself, keeping his wand lighted. Creeping across the floor of the library, he made his way to the only caged-in section there. Over the iron door hung a sign:

*Restricted Section*, it said.

Harry twisted the handle, allowing the gate to swing open with the most indistinct of groans.

Taking a deep breath to quell his nerves and calm his wildly beating heart, he entered the smaller room. He had done this but a couple of times in the past, and it never ceased to rattle him a bit. As he was a sixth year student now, he could probably have requested a permission slip from Professor Minerva McGonagall, *his* thirty-seven-year-old Head of House and the Deputy Headmistress. She would not, he knew, have objected. Especially considering it was to help Severus, her dearest and oldest friend (and something more, though she would never have wanted Harry to know that). But it was simply too risky. *Anyone* could see him checking the book out, and if they carried the Dark Mark, or knew of it, it would not take them long to figure out what he was trying to do.

That, in turn, would put Severus in danger…

So he chose, instead, to do it this way. He had had enough and by the looks of things, the Potions Master would not be able to keep this charade up much longer. Severus had not been summoned tonight, and though Harry was greatly relieved for it, he could not dismiss the annoying niggling of fear at the back of his mind.

“Merlin, I hope it’s here,” Harry whispered to himself, running his fingers lightly over the spines of the books towards the back of this section. A row or two of this, and suddenly his finger was caught by a loose thread on one of the spines. Holding up his lighted wand, he silently read the title on the binding:

*Removing That Which Was Never Meant to be Removed*.

“Thank goodness,” the young Gryffindor murmured fervently, releasing a heavy sigh of relief.

Swiftly, he pulled the book from its place on the shelf into his hands and underneath the invisibility cloak. It was heavy. Thick. Something Hermione would have been proud of.

A smile touched Harry’s lips. “That damn Mark doesn’t stand a chance.”

The book was written by Merlin.

Still smiling, the sixteen-year-old navigated his way out of the *Restricted Section* and allowed the door to click in place behind him. His footsteps almost soundless, he trekked back across the library’s wooden floor and slipped out the door into the hallway.

Only his own heartbeat filled his ears.

(A Month Later, Gryffindor Tower)

(Dream Sequence)

//He growled slightly. Of all nights, why did Voldemort have to choose the one after the last day of exams? That was horribly unfair.

/But then,/ he reflected bitterly, /when has Voldemort ever been fair?/

Sighing, he resigned himself to a night without any real sleep. /Guess I’ll be asking Severus for more Dreamless Sleep potion tomorrow,/ he thought. /Should’ve Occluded my mind before I fell asleep, at least./ But he had been too exhausted to do so.

As the inside of Riddle Manor came into view, a place he was, by now, awfully familiar with, he found himself in the midst of a circle of Death Eaters and swallowed uncomfortably. As many times as he had witnessed this, he had never gotten used to it. Severus had said that was a good thing.

You did not want to become immune to human suffering.

His scar started burning fiercely as Voldemort stormed into the middle of his Death Eaters, scattering Pettigrew and Malfoy, along with Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Bellatrix Lestrange, and any number of others, obviously incensed. “Nott!” he roared. The man scuttled forward and kissed the hem of his Lord’s black robes. Voldemort lashed out and caught him in a stomach with a kick. “You’re absolutely sure that brat of yours was correct?!”

He felt like he had been socked in the stomach himself (and to some extent, he had). Nott’s son was reporting back to his father? What did that mean for Severus?

His answer came a moment later.

“Y-Yes, my Lord,” Nott senior wheezed. “H-He has never lied to me and n-never will. I-It is true, Snape’s a traitor. He-he has been spying for Dumbledore since he w-was fifteen.”

He suddenly felt incredibly sick. “Oh, Merlin…” whispered in horror. “Please, Merlin, NO!”

Voldemort growled. His scar started searing, sending him to his knees. “Back to your place!” barked. Nott quickly scurried away and back to where he had been standing in the circle as the Dark Wizard started pacing rapidly back and forth in the center of the circle, swearing aloud, before making more coherent sentences, “So, Snape’s a spy, is he? A traitor. Well, we’ll soon fix that. A bit of the Cruciatus Curse and several others should do it. And maybe some Veritaserum, to see what he and the old fool have been up to. Malfoy!” This also barked. Malfoy senior followed Nott’s example, scuttling forward and kissing the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes.

“My Lord?” questioned as he straightened.

“See that the safehouse in the Black Forest of Norway is prepared.”

Malfoy bowed, smirking evilly. “With pleasure, My Lord.” And swiftly exited whatever room the meeting had been held in.

“Pettigrew! Crabbe! Goyle!”

Peter Pettigrew, Crabbe senior, and Goyle senior stumped forward and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes, the two once-Slytherins shooting sneering looks at the once-Gryffindor as they straightened.

“Yes, my Lord?” chorused.

“See that the Veritaserum is properly brewed, and I mean properly. Understood?”

“Understood, my Lord,” Pettigrew squeaked.

They, too, bowed and exited the room, the two much larger Slytherins mercilessly shoving Pettigrew along. Not that he cared.

He could not care about *anything* right now, except for the very real fear that had settled into his bones. For the first time ever, perhaps, he realized just the extent of his care for the Potions Master.

Putting it simply, he loved him. Rather like a mentor, or---dare he hope it---a father.

And right now, that man was in very real danger.

Riddle Manor began to disappear around him as he forced himself toward wakefulness. He had to get up! He had to warn, and to the best of his ability, protect him! He had to---//

(End Dream Sequence)

“SEVERUS!!” Harry awoke with that cry on his lips, shooting bolt upright on his bed. Early morning sunlight streamed in through the open drapes of the window in Gryffindor Tower’s sixth year boys’ dormitory. His scar was twinging. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, uneven and harsh---he was sweating. His heart was pounding furiously against his ribcage and felt as though it would take flight at any moment.

Reaching up and touching his cheek, the sixteen-year-old was shocked to find it wet. And not with sweat, either.

In his bed across from Harry, Ron thrashed awake. “Huh? Whazza…”

The other Gryffindor did not answer, feeling sick. Quickly, he grabbed his non-school clothes---a light-weight, dark blue, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of his cousin’s old khakis---throwing them on without a thought. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, grabbed his glasses, but did not take his wand, too upset and worried to remember he had promised his Professor to carry it at all times. He had never taken the necklace the older wizard had given him off, not once, not even when bathing, so that was around his neck already.

He did not notice, however, that it was glowing red…

As he tumbled off the bed, narrowly avoiding crashing into his bureau, he shoved his fingers through his unruly dark hair…only to whirl around seconds later, fist cocked and pulled back in preparation for delivering a punch, as a hand landed on his shoulder, completely startled.

Ronald Weasley jerked back from his best friend, startled himself. “Bloody hell, mate!” Exclaimed. “You’re as tense as a bow string!” His red hair was sleep-mussed and his pajamas rumpled.

Breathing heavily, Harry hurriedly lowered his fist and stated, without preamble, “Ron, I’ve got to find Snape---*now*!”

The other boy was even more startled. “Wha---?”

“Go back to bed, Ron!” snapped. Noting that his friend was taken aback at his tone, the Boy-Who-Lived sighed and rubbed his forehead, practically squirming in place. “Sorry,” muttered. Then, “It’s Saturday,” he explained, the tiniest bit more calmly and with the tiniest bit more guilt, “You don’t have to be up, yet.”

With that, he brusquely pulled away from the other boy and burst through the dormitory door…

Nearly running over one quite astonished Hermione.

“Harry!” the girl exclaimed in shock.

He grabbed her hand to steady her: “Sorry about that, ‘Mione,” he apologized rapidly.

“Quite all right, Harry,” Hermione assured him as she regained her balance, studying his face intently. Perplexed.

Harry’s nerves chafed at the delay. “I don’t want to be rude, Herm, but I’ve got to find Professor Snape. *Now*!”

And with that, tore down the stairs from the Sixth Years’ floor, leaving his two friends staring after him. They had never seen someone move *quite* so fast before.

There was an exchange of glances:

“Marauders’ Map?” Ron.

Hermione, nodding, “Marauders’ Map.”

Tearing through the Gryffindor Common Room, ignoring the surprised shouts of a few early risers, Harry burst through the portrait entrance concealing Professor McGonagall’s office without so much as a knock.

“Harry!” the startled witch cried, her head jumping up from where she had been reading a Muggle novel and sipping her morning tea. She placed the china cup and saucer on her wooden desk with a clatter.

Panting slightly, the sixteen-year-old stumbled over to her and slammed his hands on the desktop, staring intently into her widened eyes. “I need to see Professor Snape! *Immediately*!”

Minerva, shaken, and her mind whirling, managed to answer, “I believe he is in the Great Hall, but---”

“Thank you!” exclaimed, then he rushed out the door without waiting to hear the rest of it.

“Harry!” Minerva shouted after him, and disregarding her tea and book, rushed out after him.

She nearly collided with Hermione and Ron.

“Professor!” the two cried.

Glancing quickly at them, her stride forceful and fast, she ordered quickly, “Come with me.”

Without objection, they obeyed, following hurriedly in her wake.

Harry rushed into the Great Hall through the open doors, looking harassed and frantic. His mind was one blurred haze of panic and worry. It did no good to tell him to calm down, that much at least, was currently impossible. His eyes arrowed to the Head Table, briefly meeting the inquiring, twinkling gaze of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, before quickly sweeping over the rest of the table.

Once. Twice. No Professor Snape.

Growling, torn between anger and enormous anxiety, he whirled away and smashed his fist against the extremely thick, extremely heavy wooden door behind him---it shattered. He did not notice it, his mind still reeling from his nightmare, but Albus did.

Quickly excusing himself, he stood gracefully to his feet and headed at a rapid clip towards Harry. After all, it was not every day that the Boy-Who-Lived burst into the Great Hall so early in the morning, clearly upset about something. And it *certainly* was not every day that he completely demolished one of the gigantic oak doors to the chamber itself.

About then, Harry’s attention was suddenly drawn to the pulsating heat against his skin. Quickly, he pulled up the necklace. The Celtic pendant was glowing a vibrant red.

“Damn it, Severus,” he growled, “I’m going to kill you!”

With that, he grasped the pendant and disappeared…just as Albus reached out to touch his shoulder. The Headmaster’s hand passed through empty air.

He blinked. “My…” murmured.

At that moment, Minerva, Hermione, and Ron screeched to a halt in the entrance. Their eyes immediately went to the Headmaster and the shattered door.

“Wha---?” gasped by Ron.

Minerva turned to the older wizard. “Albus?”

The man clasped his hands behind his back, still looking at the door, and replied serenely, “It would seem, Minerva, that our young Mr. Potter is currently rather upset with our resident Potions Master.”

The three blanched. “But Harry loves---” Hermione started.

Albus turned and nodded to her, still with an infernally serene smile. “Severus. Yes, I know. It would appear, Ms. Granger, that Severus does, too---although I am sure you are already aware of that.” The girl blushed at his words and the two students were obliged to duck their heads. The venerable wizard continued, “He gave Harry a very powerful gift, rather ancient, too. It just took him to wherever Severus is now.”

At that, Hermione and Ron snapped their attention down to the Marauders’ Map. Harry’s footsteps abruptly reappeared in the entrance to the clock tower garden of Hogwarts, the one that laid before the bridge to Hogsmeade.

“There!” Ron exclaimed. And with that the two teens rushed off, Albus and Minerva on their heels.

Harry appeared in the clock tower entrance with a slight ringing of bells, catching sight of Severus’s black-clad form heading towards the bridge, and stormed down the steps after him. The air fairly crackled with his power and soon enough, as his eyes began to burn with the first hint of tears, the gate which prevented access to the bridge slammed shut, causing the Potions Master to whirl around in shock to face him.

“Don’t you *dare*!” cried, every word enunciated clearly, every word riddled with emotion. He was still stalking towards him. “Have you even *looked* at your pendant?!” this demanded.

Severus’s eyebrow raised, though it was clear he was scrambling for control. “Mr. Potter, what *exactly* are you doing out here this early in the morning?”

But Harry would hear nothing of it. He was now less than two feet from the man. “What does it *look* like I’m doing?!” snapped. His hands were clenched at his sides and his breathing was labored from emotion. He had read the truth in his teacher’s eyes. “You *did*, didn’t you?! You’ve looked at your pendant, but you…you’re still going!”

“Mr. Potter, I hardly think---” the Head of Slytherin began.

“*Don’t* say it’s not my concern! It is! You’re *not* going; I’m not letting you! I can’t! I *won’t*!” The teenager looked stunned that this was even coming from him. His breath was hitching.

Severus’s face took on a tender look as the boy’s outburst struck him straight in the heart. He dropped softly to one knee, so that he was eye-level with his student, dark robes billowing about him. A slight breeze picked up strands of his black hair and caused them to waft. “Listen, Potter,” his voice was laced with unconcealed gentleness, “as strong as you are, this is something I do not believe you have any control over. I will come back.”

Harry’s own voice was *definitely* thick at this point. It cracked: “Th-They know you…you’re a spy…”

Severus’s tone gentled further. “And I know they do. But I *will* come back.”

The sixteen-year-old shook his head violently. “*Don’t* make promises you can’t keep! Don’t throw your life away!”

The Potions Master sighed. “Harry,” this was the first time he had ever used the boy’s first name; neither noticed, “I must go. The consequences will be far worse if I do not.” To emphasize his point, he reached out and squeezed the teenager’s shoulders tightly before he released him and stood. Severus nodded gravely to the young Gryffindor without a word. Then turned, and moved to leave.

A small hand slipping into his larger one halted him.

The boy’s voice was incredibly unsteady and wavered, as he barely managed, “Y-You don’t understand. All…all that I am, all…that has been given to me…y-you hold the key to that.”

Severus had since turned back to face him. “Occulmency?” quietly.

Harry shook his head. “Not just,” whispered.

Soft and confused: “Harry?”

Voice equally soft, the teenager answered, “Don’t you know?” He drew the man’s hand closer, trapping it between his two smaller ones. As he raised his head, a tear trickled down his cheek. The first.

Severus’s chest tightened. “Harry…” He knelt on the ground again. Just as he went to wipe the tear away, the Potions Master suddenly hissed in pain and jerked his hand away, grabbing the Dark Mark.

(Clock Tower Garden)

Blinding pain lanced through Harry’s awareness and he teetered slightly, gritting his teeth against it as his hand went to grab his scar, tears all but forgotten. He thought he heard a small cry suspiciously like Hermione’s. But no matter, Voldemort, obviously, was not in a very charitable mood right now. And he knew quite well why…

Forcing the pain to the very recesses of his mind and Occluding it as best he could, the young Gryffindor removed his hand from his forehead and pried his eyes open, blinking them rapidly to clear the foggy veil which had fallen.

He was in just enough time to see Severus stagger to his feet and lurch towards the bridge, clutching his left forearm in a by-now-familiar gesture.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Harry growled, lunging forward and damning Voldemort to hell for the pain he was causing the Potions Master. The Dark Mark was torture enough for the madman’s followers.

He grabbed Severus around his waist as the Head of Slytherin stumbled, forcing his teacher to sit on the ground before falling to his knees beside him. Seizing the older wizard’s left hand, he jerked the arm closer to him, mentally apologizing when Severus gave a half-stifled cry of pain at the rough treatment. But he did not have time to be gentle.

Harry’s attempts to pry the man’s right hand off of the Mark were to no avail as the Professor refused to oblige, mustering enough strength of will to raise his head slightly and shoot the teenager a faint glare. The young Gryffindor’s emerald eyes immediately snapped to his teacher’s obsidian ones, returning the look with a glare of his own---ten times sharper. “Severus. Arm. Now,” snarled with such force behind the words that the man started violently and quickly complied, if only out of pure reflex.

Under any other circumstance, it would have been horribly funny: the feared Potions Master of Hogwarts bested by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. As it was, far too much was on the line for that.

Severus scowled darkly, if weakly, at his student. “I must remember to assign you lifelong detention when we are through with this. *If* we get through with this.”

Harry’s glare hardened. “And *I* must remember to cast an unbreakable locating charm on you!” He wrapped one hand around the Head of Slytherin’s left wrist and the other tightly around the Dark Mark. “Now hold still!”

The sixteen-year-old shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. Oh, they were going to have a talk when they finished! Of that he was absolutely certain. No way in hell was he pleased with the older wizard’s tendency to throw himself headlong into danger without a second thought.

Harry, of course, could be accused of the exact same thing. But that thought never occurred to him; right now his entire being was focused on getting rid of that damn Mark. Mentally, he sorted through Removing That Which Was Never Meant to be Removed:

“To erase what once was and make it so that it never shall be, is a very difficult practice. A very difficult practice, indeed,” the book had said. “The removal is easy enough; the strength that goes into it, however…that is something else. Times will come when evil shall work its deeds through marks thought to be permanent: curse scars, and many others. And indeed, such things cannot be removed unless the remover intends it to never be needed again.

“Not everything can be removed, curse scars especially so, for they become far too much a part of one’s body and magic’s laws intended nothing of one’s body to be removed unless absolutely necessary. But for those Marks and those blemishes that evil has imparted upon a person, that is another matter entirely. These are not “natural,” as it were, but brands that were never meant to be seen upon flesh. Scars are expected to appear on one’s flesh, curse scars though they may be, for at one time they bled. Those Marks created and imprinted by magic, most particularly those with evil intent behind them, do not bleed. They are emblazoned upon the skin, burnt, but never bleed. And it is that which allows such magical workings as will be discussed in this book to be performed…”

Harry shook his head. No, that had been the Prologue. Within the book had been the different “Marks” and “blemishes” Merlin had written about, both definition and treatment were included about each. The young Gryffindor had read about the Dark Mark in a section entitled “Evil’s Bane”. He had discovered that the Dark Mark was, in fact, a very ancient Mark, one used by the earliest Dark Lords to mark their servants as Voldemort had:

“Servants loathed them, for they burned with a merciless fire, never ceasing, never stopping, forcing them to be at their Master’s every beckoning call. Through these Marks, and only these Marks, could the wizard identify his followers and trace their movements should he so desire. And their fire not only burned the flesh, but burnt the soul and the heart, as well.

“Long ago, Healers of both the mind and the body banded together and devised a treatment, for the Dark Mark is undoubtedly one of cruelest, most painful Marks within this entire book. To remove such a thing, a Healer need only picture the area as it once was and is truly meant to be. To douse a fire, one needs only water. In this case, the Healer pictured their magic in form of a fountain, river, waterfall…any form water took on. And it was this that they poured into their patient’s veins.

“Yet, Healer beware! Scale for scale, tooth for tooth! For every ounce of evil poured into the Dark Mark, an equal amount of light must be given, in truth!

“This treatment is assuredly the most dangerous and most draining in this book---such enormous power goes into the Dark Mark that a Healer can only take from their life energy. Life energy is * most* vital to a wizard or a witch, and if taken from, any number of situations can result! Death and magical shock are but two of them. Most commonly, Healers who remove a Dark Mark will have several years of life taken from them, sheered away…”

Harry, of course, was well aware of the price, but it did not stop him. Indeed, nothing short of unconsciousness or death at this point in time could have broken his will.

So he did as the book bid, shutting his eyes and picturing the area as it was meant to be: smooth, a bit too pale, perhaps, but unmarred. Keeping that image clear and firmly ingrained in his mind, the teenager took a deep breath and reached down into the very depths of his soul, finding and focusing the warm, pulsating energy which was wrapped around the very core of his being. He imagined it a mist, like that hanging in the sky some early fall morning before the birds awoke and began their morning tunes.

That mist wafted into his Potions Professor’s veins and by the stiffening of the man before him, he knew Severus had felt it. Idly, he wondered if the older wizard knew of the book he had read and knew what the teenager was currently attempting. But that was only a passing thought. Nearly his entire being was focused on getting rid of that blasted Mark.

He sensed it leaving---the energy he was pushing into the man’s veins---and knew without a doubt that somewhere in the future he would be dying a few years earlier than planned, but he somehow could not bring himself to care about that little fact. Not right now, and probably never again. The deed was done, and Harry could not have been more thrilled.

Dizzily, he opened his eyes and peered up at the man currently bent over him. That was odd, he did not remember falling over… “Sev’rus?” slurred. It took a moment for him to realize he was, in fact, not fully on the ground, but rather, his head was resting in the man’s lap.

Severus’s face looked incredibly pale, paler than usual, and fear mixed with searing worry clearly filled his obsidian eyes, causing them to look much brighter than Harry thought healthy. “Harry…*gods*, what were you thinking?!” croaked out, but obviously a demand.

The boy shut his eyes, trying to keep the tears---forgotten in the wake of healing---at bay. “Trying to prevent you from doing something stupid.” His voice was barely a whisper, if that, and he opened his eyes again…only to find his vision was tunneling in. Go figure.

Severus, to the teenager’s eternal surprise, clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, leaning down and very lightly resting his forehead against the boy’s own. He needed no words. Harry understood in the way his Professor’s grip tightened on his shoulders how very upset the man was over this entire situation.

Unfortunately, his body decided give out on him at that particular moment…

And for Harry, he knew no more.

(Hospital Wing of Hogwarts, Dawn the Next Morning)

“ALBUS, YOUR GOLDEN BOY IS A BLOODY IDIOT!!” bellowed. It jolted Harry out of unconsciousness, making him start.

His arms felt leaden as he moved to rub his face. “Lovely wake up call, Severus,” growled, not particularly pleased with the way he had been woken up.

Severus gave a cry from where he had been arguing furiously with the Headmaster for quite some time, whirling around to face the boy’s hospital bed. It was early morning and the Potions Master had spent a sleepless day and night worrying and praying at the sixteen-year-old’s bedside. Harry had no clue just how close he had come to dying yesterday, but his teacher most *assuredly* did. It was a knowledge that would not be leaving him anytime soon.

Least of all the fact that the teen had done this, all of this…for him.

The older wizard simply could not fathom it.

He moved forward…only to freeze in place as Harry shifted in the bed, trying to convince his heart of what his mind already knew. His eyes were slightly wide and his face awfully pale. Underneath his eyes, Harry could see dark shadows attesting to the fact that he had gotten very little---if any---sleep. One hand came up to cover his mouth and he kept staring at the boy.

Harry struggled to a sitting position with a soft grunt, perching his glasses on his nose. A glance around confirmed that he was on a medical bed in the Infirmary of Hogwarts. The first rays of morning were already spilling in through the tall windows.

“Professor Snape?” the teenager croaked as he turned back to face his mentor, when the man did not say anything.

A quiet, amused voice spoke up from the Potions Master’s left and Harry looked in that direction. “Don’t worry about him, my boy. You gave us all quite a scare yesterday.”

“All?” the young Gryffindor echoed, voice rasping.

Albus Dumbledore came over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, his eyes, for the moment, twinkling. Clearly he was pleased the boy had survived his first healing attempt, even more so because of the fact that he had achieved something that the venerable wizard had wanted done for a very long time.

The Headmaster did not answer right away, instead glancing over his shoulder in ill-concealed amusement at his Potions Professor. “If you are just going to stand there, Severus, at least make yourself useful and go get Harry a glass of water. Madame Pomfrey is out at the moment and you look like you could use some.” The latter part of this he directed at Harry.

His movements automatic, his mind still spinning with relief and shock, Severus did as bid, lending an ear to the two’s conversation. A dozen years’ worth of training was not easily forgotten...

Albus had since turned back to Harry and continued, “Why, yes, Harry.” He smiled warmly. “Your three friends were here for most of the day yesterday and would have stayed the night had Poppy and Severus not shooed them off to bed. Minerva came in during the breaks between classes and stayed for most of the night after dinner. Severus just convinced her to leave a few hours ago.” The smile broadened a bit as the man went on, “Although I was unable to persuade your Potions Master to go with her.” He nodded to Severus with a wide grin as the man handed him the full glass.

Harry accepted the glass from the Headmaster, and then shot a timid grin up at his teacher. The Potions Professor still was unable to speak as he stood back, his eyes flickering over the teenager’s face as he checked the state of the boy’s health. But still, he said nothing.

The young Gryffindor did not break their gaze. Not even when he sipped the water. Nor, even, when those sips turned to gulps as the cool liquid soothed his aching throat.

A soft chuckle and the Headmaster’s warm, wrinkled hand stilled his frantic guzzling. “Easy, Harry,” he laughed. “We don’t need you choking yourself.”

Severus finally spoke up, voice unusually soft. It caught. “No, we certain…we certainly do not.” He fell silent for a moment, clearly struggling with his emotions. “Headmaster, would…would you mind leaving us alone for a while? There are a few things I would like to discuss…with Mr. Potter.”

Twin sighs and the two with him spoke at the same time:

“‘Albus,’ if you would, child.”

“‘Harry,’ please, sir.”

The Head of Slytherin only nodded, not trusting himself to speak quite, yet.

Albus smiled at Harry again. And though the boy returned it, he did not look away from his teacher’s obsidian eyes.

Another sigh, this one of content and general well-being, and the Headmaster stood to his feet with a slight creaking of old bones. “I shall take my leave of you two, then.” He gave Severus’s shoulder a squeeze as he passed him by, and then exited the Hospital Wing through its double doors, swiftly and silently as he had come.

Once they were alone in the Infirmary, Harry placed the now empty glass on his bedside table and propped himself up more fully in his bed.

The two regarded each other in silence for a long moment, eyes expressing what words could not. Inwardly, Severus was reeling, dizzy with relief and fighting very hard to rein in his emotions. In stark contrast, Harry seemed incredibly calm---unlike his Professor.

Then the sixteen-year-old broke the stupor that had fallen over them in the simplest, most poignant way possible…

He held out his arms to the older wizard. A clear demand to be hugged.

And Severus found he was unable to hold back a sob as he complied.