“It’s nothing,” Harry said again, forcefully. “It’s only what Ginny said, and Ginny doesn’t really know Dark Arts – but I figured you did, so...”Professor Severus Snape frowned at Harry. “How many magical items must you pilfer before you’re satisfied?”

Harry bit his lower lip, recalling the Invisibility Cloak, bauble, Marauder’s Map, Godric Gryffindor’s sword, the Time-Turner, Tom Riddle’s diary, the mirror of Black’s, and now the book and monocle... odd, how many magical items he had, or had once possessed. He wondered if other wizarding children were the same, or if their magical items were merely toys that eventually outlived their usefulness.

Snape took the book from Harry irritably and flipped through it. “And so we must say goodbye,” he read an almost reverent voice, “And go, as lovers go, for ever; tonight remains, to pack and fix on labels and make an end of lying down together.” He frowned. “I’ve never read that one before.”

Harry felt slightly embarrassed, hearing his professor’s voice go soft and husky like that with emotion – emotions other than fury or disdain being a thing he hadn’t credited Snape as even having, a month ago. Now he knew better, but it still seemed odd. “Neither have I. All the poems changed again, once I left the room.”

“Did they now? Hmm, My Last Duchess,” Snape mused, flipping through the volume, “and the Second Coming.”

“I didn’t know you read Muggle poetry, sir.”

“In any art, there are very few who have an apt hand, an agile mind... there are even fewer prodigies and geniuses. A simple analysis of population will show the thoughtful wizard that Muggle poetry, literature, and music is going to be...”

“...better?” Harry breathed. “Really – you think so?”

Snape eyed him with no little amusement. “Would I say so if I didn’t? Much of the education of a forward-thinking wizarding family includes Muggle art. And then there are still a few families – very few – who follow the truly old ways, and include it as well. It is only the pureblood purists, whose way of thinking arose rather recently, who insist on teaching wizarding literature only.” Snape actually smiled then, a quiet smile that soothed the lines on his face and changed something in his eyes. “Their only blessing,” he added, “is that they have no idea whatsoever what it is that they are missing.”

Harry, eyeing his professor, resolved to bring Snape and poetry together more often, as it had a considerably salutary effect. He handed his professor the monocle, and Snape peered through it at the words written on the first page. He blinked in amazement at the obvious change, then moved to his couch to seat himself there, slowly turning the pages.

Harry sat on the other side of the couch, and, after a moment, retrieved Snape’s paper from the large, leaning pile to his left. They read companionably for awhile, both occasionally making some small exclamation under their breath.

Harry was right in thinking that Professor Snape would expand the thesis of his paper in its latter half; it discussed the Muggle and Wizarding worlds as being one and the same, or hinted at it. Harry was wishing, however, that Snape would pick one of these points he was making in passing and run with it, but he also recognized that was not in the scope of a Potions paper, but a paper on theory or even anthropology. (Was there such a thing as Wizarding anthropology, even?) He set the paper down on the table and Snape met his glance with another one of those uncharacteristic smiles.

“It’s a fairy tale,” Snape said without preamble, and handed both book and monocle to Harry.

Harry moved the monocle in front of his eyes and watched as the lettering altered to highly-stylized calligraphy:

Once upon a time, in a kingdom much like this one and in a day much like today, there lived two handsome enchanters. One was like the morning, with hair the color of wheat, and golden skin, and the other as midnight, hair black as pitch and eyes the color of coal. The two men lived in harmony because they were brothers, and no two were so close as they.

One night, the Evening Brother came out of the wood, the light of the crescent moon catching in his hair. “Brother,” he said. “Brother, I have a secret.”

The Morn Brother merely smiled, because, after all, even the brightest noontime keeps its own secrets. He smiled at his brother and sharpened his knife, because he was the older and the wiser and knew that, in time, every secret becomes common knowledge – or fades to dust.

The next night, Evening Brother emerged from the woods, a wild look of victory on his face. “Brother!” he sang, more exultant than before. “Brother, I have the most marvelous secret!” But Morn Brother paid him no heed, and went night-hunting instead.

The next morning, however, Morn Brother could not keep his mind from discovering Evening Brother’s secret. It was all he could think of, while chasing deer, while sipping water from the flowing stream, while teaching the children their letters. Finally, Evening Brother appeared at his doorway, a wreath of leaves on his head and fire in his eyes. “Brother!” he cried – and Morn Brother could tell, by looking into Evening Brother’s coal-black eyes, that this secret was so big that Evening Brother could no longer contain it.

“Tell me,” Morn Brother said. “Tell me this secret of yours.”

First, Evening Brother gazed about. Catching sight of Morn Brother’s golden-haired woman and four children, and his own dark wife, he shook his head. “These are enchanter’s children,” he said, “my nieces and nephews. First banish them far, far from here, so far that even they cannot spy us, and I will tell you my secret.”

So Morn Brother did, amidst much weeping and wailing, send his woman and children away, and Evening Brother’s woman, too.

Evening Brother examined their surroundings again. “The birds,” he said, “and the forest creatures. You must send them away as well, for if they hear me, I am undone.”

Morn Brother moved into the forest and moved against every living thing with bow and axe and flame. When the wood was empty, he returned to his house to find Evening Brother awaiting him there. “Now,” he said, “surely now you will tell me your secret.”

Evening Brother gazed down and saw a line of ants running from the outside to the pantry, and shook his head. “No,” he said, “I will never tell you my secret, because it ought never to be discovered.” So Morn Brother led him from his house and set it aflame, and the last obstacle was set firmly aside.

Evening Brother gazed at the empty wood and the remains of the house and finally, finally, in a language only the two of them understood of all the men living, he told his brother his secret.

Morn Brother drew back from Evening Brother and gazed on him for the last time. Then he withdrew his knife and cut his brother into many pieces, knowing that a powerful enchanter such as he could arise from a memory. The secret, you see, was too powerful for any man to have.

Then Morn Brother wept, for he had loved his brother as much as himself. And he gazed at the wood and the remains of his home, and cast about for his love and his children, and tossed himself to the ground with bitterness, wondering that a secret could engulf a man until he found no ease. He wept until a lake had risen up around him, until he drowned himself five times over, but he was still alone.

He rebuilt his house slowly, brick by brick and stone by stone, and secret by secret, until the walls were high and the magic deep. And then he called the children back, along with the women, and bade them enter.

And the secret – both secrets – were kept ‘til the end of his days.

“Ugh,” Harry said once he’d finished reading, turning the last page. The rest of the book was blank, save the one page towards the end that still read 'Pride and Prejudice'.

“Rather chilling, isn’t it?” Snape said. “One wonders what such a secret could be.”

Harry eyed him anxiously. “What do you think it is?”

“These two enchanter characters seem almost godlike,” Snape mused, leaning back in the couch and looking thoughtful. “I would imagine that Evening Brother learned something that could entirely alter the world in which they lived, and Morn Brother did not take too kindly to the idea.”

“So Morn Brother destroyed the world and rebuilt it again rather than have the world be different from the way he wanted it,” Harry deduced. “There’s something very creepy in it, Professor, no matter how you look at it.”

“It’s a very interesting little tale,” Snape admitted begrudgingly.

“Is it a common Wizarding one?”

“I’ve never seen it before,” the professor said with a grimace. “The theme about not peering into other people’s business – one which I am certain would benefit you, Harry – is rather common. The idea of a secret far too dangerous to be told is not.”

Harry slipped the monocle back around his neck, then slid it under his robes, where the metal cooled his sternum. “It means something, I think, and not just a moral.”

“What does it mean then?” Snape inquired, sounding only slightly curious.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied, “but no one would bother hiding it unless, somehow, it were a real story, a true one.”

Snape smiled grimly at him. “Another secret from the Chamber, I suppose, Potter.”

Harry grinned at him.

Snape glared in response. “Promise me you won’t go haring down there without any idea of how to escape?”

Harry felt a hot flush of shame. “’Course not, sir. I know you think I’m an idiot, sometimes, but I really wouldn’t do that.”

“I think you’re an idiot most of the time, but if you can figure out when that Chamber was built – using books – using the books in our library, here at Hogwarts – I should say you’d be well on your way to discovering your story’s origins.” Professor Snape stretched his hand out, and Harry offered him the volume with a slight hesitation. “Do not worry, Potter – I don’t plan on separating you long from your toy.” Snape muttered incantations over it, waving his wand with precise and measured motions. When he was done, he handed it back to Harry. “Nothing untoward about it,” he pronounced, “although you might want to hand it to Professor Lupin and see what he thinks,” he tacked on reluctantly.

“You and he seem to be getting on,” Harry hazarded, accepting the book and pocketing it.

“Getting on? The man hit me,” Snape retorted.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Professor Lupin HIT you?!” He shook his head in amazement. “This is Professor Lupin we’re talking about, isn’t it? The one who teaches Defense?”

Snape sighed heavily and moved into the kitchen to prepare tea. “Yes, the very same,” he intoned in a voice full of mock-injury. “I didn’t think he was capable of it. If I did, I certainly would have ducked.”

“Why did he hit you?” Harry wondered, suspicion gripping him.

“Some foolish misunderstanding or other,” Snape muttered from the adjoining kitchen.

“Hmm,” Harry said neutrally, and Snape emerged with tea, glaring at him, setting the teacups down on the table by the couch with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary. “I suppose I’ll have to ask him, then.”

“You do that,” Snape said faintly, sipping at his still-steaming cup. “Did you finish the paper?”

Harry nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah. It was brilliant.”

Snape smiled behind his cup.

“Only, half of the conclusions towards the end weren’t really followed up, were they?”

“What do you mean, Potter? I was seventeen, my paper-writing skills weren’t exactly up to par...”

“Listen, I said it was brilliant, all right? I said brilliant, I meant brilliant. It’s just... the end had so much promise, but it was like there wasn’t enough room to follow up on every lead.”

“It is a paper, not a novel. Although I do seem to recall feeling frustrated that there was not enough time to explore every idea that I wished to; that, even then, I felt as though I was leaving work unfinished.”

Harry reached for a cup and blew across the surface of his tea. “I liked the stuff about Kepler,” he volunteered. “And the comparisons you drew between the two databases were... exhaustive.”

Snape shrugged. “It was the only way to make the point, as I am certain you are well aware. I needed a number that that made it patentedly, transparently apparent that there was a correlation. And yet, it had to be enough to be absorbed in a glance. I toyed with doing a hundred, you know.”

“But then it might seem overwhelming, too technical,” Harry deduced. “Fifty fits on one page.”

“Exactly. Even Potions Masters can be intimidated by enormous piles of data, Harry.”

“No,” Harry said in mock-surprise.

“Yes,” Snape countered. He grimaced. “Especially Slughorn. He was an old fraud if ever there was–” He paused. “No, no, not a fraud, I suppose. How to describe the man?” He frowned in concentration. “He had favorites. But it was more than that. He picked and chose the best of the bunch and elevated them further, while treading the others into the mud.”

Harry blinked, attempting to picture Snape in his own position – as a student, constantly attempting to make headway with his Professor. It was considerably odd to hear Professor Snape talk about that attitude with such an expression on his face, when it was the attitude he evinced towards his class as well. Harry held no illusions that part of the reason that he was conversing with Professor Snape at this very moment was because he had somehow managed to become considerably better in Snape’s subject. Draco, whom Harry had always supposed was being favored because of his parentage was really one of the best students of the year. Hermione was probably the exception to the rule – and probably only because of her association with Harry.

Snape’s eyes had gone faraway, far enough away that Harry wondered if Snape still knew he was even in the room. “Your mother,” he said, suddenly looking at Harry, who flinched. “He liked your mother very much.”

Harry watched Snape’s eyes travel from his own to the paper in Harry’s hands... the paper, Harry suddenly recalled, that Lily Evans had read – and she’d been the only one to read it, before Harry.

Feeling suddenly awkward, Harry placed the paper on the table out of the way of his tea, smoothing it carefully. He wondered if he ought to try and probe a bit deeper – he was sick for any stories about either one of his parents, even if they were stupid bully-stories about James...

Luckily, though, Snape didn’t seem to need any encouragement for once. The Potions Professor’s dark eyes were still locked on the paper, and he seemed worlds away. “Slughorn paired people,” Snape commented far too lightly. “James Potter and Lily Evans – perfect for one another, of course, both from good wizarding families, both... high-spirited. Even during Potions, he would switch us around until he found pairs that got things done, that worked well together.”

Harry examined the tight lines of his professor’s face and decided with reservation to interject. If Snape wanted to tell him this, he would continue – if it had slipped his mind just who was truly present, it would serve to remind him. “Sir – who were you paired with?”

Snape jerked upright, and for a moment, Harry didn’t think he would respond. Finally, he did, in a low, almost surly tone of voice: “Lily and then Remus.”

Harry didn’t trust himself to say a word, so he kept silent.

“Oh, spare me the shock and dismay, Potter, I have not had a romantic relationship with your mother or your precious werewolf.” He frowned for a moment in confusion. “Rather, Lily and Lupin were... probably the only two who could tolerate me, at that point. Recall, this was right before I joined the Death Eaters – I was not a pleasant boy.”

Harry tried to look neutral, but something must have revealed him, because Snape barked an odd, humourless laugh.

“I was like a bear with a sore tooth,” he said dryly. “If you think I am hateful now, you have no idea just how unpleasant I can be.”

“It’s always smart people who are,” Harry replied, thinking of Draco, of how he had known exactly how to hurt him, where to strike. It took a sort of cunning, he decided, to figure people out. It took a sort of cruelty to then use that to strike out at them.

“It would have been smarter to befriend them both,” Snape countered.

“My mum read your paper.”

“Lily pitied me, I think,” Snape went on dispassionately, seeming more puzzled than upset. “She was clever, of course, but your mother had an odd way of looking right through me. And James. And everyone,” he muttered, running a hand through his lank hair distractedly. “I think she honestly knew what I was to become, and was sorry.”

“If she was sorry, she could’ve done more to stop it.”

“What, Harry, do you think the love of a good woman would have saved me?”

Harry felt himself turn bright pink and ducked his head, but not before he got up the courage to ask. “Did you love her? Lily, I mean.”

“Did I love her...” Snape paused, as if asking himself the question for the very first time. “I’m not certain. Did I love Lupin – or your father – or even Black? We followed each other’s every motion, every decision, from robes to classes to alliances... we were obsessed, they no more or less than I. Lupin, coward that he was, tried to distance himself as he does from everything, but to no avail. The five of us – myself, and the Marauders – were far more inextricably intertwined than any lovers. I won’t feel at peace until they’re all dead, I suppose – every last one.”

Harry heard the echo of Draco again: in the hatred, in the exhaustion inherent in sustaining that hatred when it was long since impracticable. Harry searched about for something, anything to say, and caught on to one of Snape’s more positive statements with near-desperation. “You said it would have been smarter to befriend them both.”

Snape eyed him with a small measure of his normal wariness, still looking unnaturally fatigued.

“Why not now?” Harry demanded.

Snape laughed again, with that same, humourless sarcasm.

“I’m serious. I’m sure Professor Lupin would try to be kind to you, if you were to him.”

“Lupin is always trying to be kind to me,” Snape said to Harry, his voice almost gentle. “It is one of the werewolf’s hallmarks that he at least attempts kindness; it is a weakness of his, if you will.”

“And?”

“And what, Harry? He uses that kindness to deflect, it isn’t any different from my being derisive, or your being brash, or your Miss Granger being supercilious.”

“And that was why you smiled talking about him hitting you,” Harry realized suddenly.

“It’s the first genuine emotion I’ve seen in the man,” Snape admitted. “The first in a long, long time. I think I was honestly delighted to see it.”

Harry shook his head dazedly as his entire perception of Remus Lupin lurched about in his brain, unseated from its usual position. He decided the conversation had long since lapsed into the uncomfortable and sought to move it back to himself, and therefore to more familiar ground. “I suppose it’s a good thing me and Draco are sort of starting to get along, then,” Harry said.

Snape stiffened, and turned to look at him. “Harry – remember what I have said. Enemies can have more power over us than friends could ever hope to do. I can say with certainty that Draco Malfoy has been more on your mind of late than Hermione Granger or Ronald Weasley.”

Harry frowned, feeling suddenly unsettled.

“Whatever you do, Mister Potter, do not stop associating with either of those two children. And do not – repeat, not – waste your hatred on Draco Malfoy... either befriend him, if you think it is in your power, or leave him to his fate.”

And when Harry left Snape’s rooms, stroking the spine of the poetry book beneath his thumb as he clasped it to his chest, he had to wonder if either option was, in fact, within his power, or had ever been.