THIRTY-TWO: In the Headmaster’s Office
Harry was furious to learn that the Potions-Master was perfectly serious. After dumping all of that in Harry’s lap, he actually expected his student to begin studiously examining the passage. It became immediately plain that he was not planning on revealing anything more until Harry had done so.
The passage discussed Occlumency as a whole, but then delved into the deeper matter of Obscura, otherwise known as the Double-Edged Sword because of its ability to keep the caster sane in an emergency, all the while eroding slowly at the same self-possession it artificially induced. The mix, altogether, of power and of price was an uneven one, Harry decided, even more firmly than before. He had to stop Obscura, no matter what it took.
When he finished, he looked up at his professor, who he found to be studying him as he studied the text. It was disconcerting to find Professor Snape eyeing him thoughtfully, even slightly warily. Harry had never felt a stronger sense of caution from the man; it was radiating from him like heat.
“Sir?” he inquired, the physical voice smaller and younger than it had sounded in his head.
Professor Snape seemed to shake himself free of whatever had briefly ensnared him. “Before we go any farther, let us have a Revealeo, Potter.”
Harry nodded, then stood, closing his eyes to picture the proper motion. “Revealeo!” he incanted, then frowned, his body tense, awaiting the pain.
“Try again,” Snape demanded when Harry neither cried out nor collapsed.
Harry frowned, repeating the spell, his wand slicing through the stale air of the empty Potions classroom. “Revealeo!” he said, more firmly this time.
Professor Snape stood suddenly from behind his desk. “Potter...”
Harry braced himself again, this time for a verbal assault.
“Your motion is perfect. It ought to have worked; unless... your previous Revealeo removed your last Obscura?”
“I still feel nothing about the whole Black debacle,” Harry said, one eyebrow raised. “Unless I’ve suddenly become completely soulless – and I’d prefer not, thanks – we’ve still got at least one to go. I must be doing something wrong.”
“Well, then, Harry, one more try,” Snape advised, folding his arms across his chest. “Keep the motion tight and contained, except for the last flick.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. Frowning in concentration, he completed the path of his wand, slicing it through the air with an unaccustomed brutality. “Revealeo!”
Harry dropped to his knees, the pain coursing through his body as though a bolt of lightning had grounded itself within him... the energy shot through him, burrowing itself into his soul and surrounding its target...
Harry was standing outside in the garden, dripping with sweat and filth as his Aunt Petunia, her horsy teeth gleaming, denied him entrance...
...telling him he could not get inside, that he could never get inside, that he never had one moment belonged there with she and his Uncle Vernon and his cousin, never had belonged with decent people...
...he was a FREAK, a mistake, just like his father and his mother had been, and he –
Harry wrenched himself back into the here-and-now, gasping and clinging tightly to –
Oh, Merlin. To Professor Snape’s arm.
Harry jerked away, bright pink, stammering apologies too rapid to follow. He realized his cheeks were wet and suffered a moment of humiliation so exquisite it actually hurt his physical body, feeling nearly like a minor heart attack.
Snape watched him for a moment, not quite the way he had before, in wariness of Harry, but almost wariness for Harry. Harry, not liking the scrutiny, straightened under that gaze, wiping his cheeks determinedly.
For another moment, Snape said nothing. Harry floundered; the moment was so horrifying he was afraid he would do Obscura again just to swamp it... he closed his eyes and felt the lurch of his broom underneath him, the sweetness of the speed and the air rushing past his face...
...which suddenly felt all too real. He opened his eyes to find that he had somehow summoned a light breeze into the Potions classroom. Snape was looking at him again, and Harry wasn’t certain this time what his professor’s eyes meant, because he was still just edging out of terrified...
Snape reached out and placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder, a warm, steadying grip.
Harry choked, air going in the wrong way in his surprise, and found himself on the edge of yanking his arm away... but Snape wasn’t Aunt Petunia to keep shutting him out... Snape wasn’t his family at all... Snape could be counted on to –
To what? his acerbic inner voice demanded. To be dodgy and sarcastic and hopeless?
Yes, he answered it steadily, yes, and also... Immediately memories shifted to the forefront of his mind: Snape saving him as he fell from his broom in first-year... Snape trying to find out if Sirius were all right in fifth-year while still maintaining a good face for Draco and Umbridge... Snape allowing him to stay on in his Potions class, even though his grade had probably been altered by some third party... Snape, stepping forward to banish the snake that Draco had cast in second-year...
Harry’s scar twinged as he looked up at his Professor in surprise, realizing for the first time that while Snape could say some truly horrid things to him, his actions utterly contradicted him.
Harry slowly relaxed, practicing some of the breathing exercises that Lupin had taught him, guided by the firm, almost painful pressure on his shoulder. He found himself nodding, saying, “I’m all right” until Snape nodded in return and released him.
“And now, Mister Potter, I suppose we ought to continue this conversation with the Headmaster. Don’t you agree?”
Harry was already on his feet, blinking as the room spun slightly. He found himself gripping Snape’s sleeve.
“Oh – is this where I ought to be saying, ‘there, there’?”
Harry snorted at him, but also leaned on him slightly as they made their way to the Headmaster’s Office.
Professor Dumbledore was seated behind his desk when they arrived. He smiled at them in that calm, welcoming way of his, as though there was nobody he would rather see in the world than Severus Snape looking ready to spit nails, a wan Harry Potter clutching at his arm.
“Severus, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted, rising with a twinkling smile. “Do come in and have a seat.”
Harry’s gaze traveled inquiringly to the small dish of sweets that always rested upon the Headmaster’s desk; it was a rare moment when he was called into the office without being offered any sort of candy.
Dumbledore, sharp as always, offered him a slightly wider smile. “By all means, take one, Harry, if you’d like. But I was under the impression you and Severus were here on a rather serious matter; am I correct?”
Harry took a lemon drop with an almost rebellious air, then flopped down next to the seat that Snape was already occupying, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t precisely know what was going on, and he hated the feeling with a passion.
Snape himself seemed oddly wary, and Harry noted that his professor’s left hand kept twitching ominously.
His wand hand, Harry realized in slight shock. His eyes flew to the Headmaster’s, which were also trained on Snape, but he did not look upset or afraid. If anything, the look in his eye was one of commiseration, of understanding.
“Just how many times have you cast Imperius on myself and Harry?” Snape shot out, his voice jangling and harsh from nerves.
Harry rounded on his professor, turning to stare. “You didn’t tell me this was what you meant! I wouldn’t’ve come! Dumbledore would never–”
“Once,” Dumbledore interjected quietly, “and solely on you, Severus. Although you won’t recall, you agreed, albeit reluctantly, that it was necessary. It was the Occlumency, you see, that required it.”
Snape sputtered, leaving all pretense at calm as he sprung to his feet. “The Occlumency required it?! For Merlin’s sake! I would’ve taught him – I would have done anything you asked!”
Harry had never seen the man so emotional, and he prided himself on having now seen Severus Snape in every possible mood. He almost sounded as though he were begging to be wrong, somehow – proven incorrect.
Dumbledore’s voice was low, soothing and persuasive. “Of course, dear Severus, in a heartbeat. I know.” Strong emotion suffused the Headmaster’s face, too, before he continued. “The Imperius... it was your suggestion.”
Snape paused, thrown, then moved forward with all the impetus and violence of a physical blow. “So you say,” he murmured, and Harry flinched in recognition of this voice, the one that was authority and venom and brilliance, dangerous as broken glass, the voice that cut to the heart of the matter and dashed its listener to pieces. “But you could say anything, couldn’t you? Sir,” he tacked on, as Harry had himself less than an hour before. “It’s rather convenient with my memory of the event completely wiped away.”
“But mine was not,” Dumbledore replied, seeming unfazed. “Would you like to see it? Harry?”
Harry, who had hoped he could remain unnoticed, flinched at the mention of his name.
“For Merlin’s sake, boy, what a time for that vaunted Gryffindor courage to desert you!” Snape exclaimed, and somehow that made Harry rise rather defiantly and stand beside him.
Dumbledore drew open a small cabinet, one that contained a medium-sized pensieve, and, closing his eyes in gentle concentration, reached his wand to his brow and withdrew two silver threads of memory. Shaking himself slightly, he gestured to Snape and Harry to draw forward.
Snape, Dumbledore, and Harry were standing directly in the middle of Dumbledore’s office; another, recent Dumbledore sat quietly reading something on his desk; it looked like a missive from the Minister of Magic – no, it was from the High Inquisitor at Hogwarts. Harry jumped slightly at a noise behind him, then whirled to view Snape entering the Headmaster’s office. This Snape looked far filthier than the one at his side, for some reason – and, unless Harry missed his guess, unhappier as well. There was something in the slant of his shoulders and the pallidity of his skin that caused Harry an unexpected and confusing pang of – of worry.
Harry slowly began to wonder if Revealeo made him feel more... exposed, raw, in the short-term. He found himself sidling back towards the real-time Snape and Dumbledore, halted only when his professor surreptitiously tugged his sleeve.
“Ah, Severus. I’m glad you could make it. Lemon drop?”
“I must say I wonder why you insist on offering me those infernal drops,” Snape said in disgust, his lip curling, making him look even more cold and harrowed than before. “You know I hate sweet things.”
“It’s a wonder you have to ask,” Dumbledore said, with a conspiratorial wink and a wry smile. “It discomfits people, Severus. Surely you know a tactic when you see one.”
“And surely you have no need of tactics with me,” Snape replied, relaxing marginally.
“Well – and how are Harry and Sirius?”
“Black is chafing. You had best find him something to do, before he resorts to invention.”
Dumbledore frowned. “I cannot risk him yet in open combat. He is a powerful man, and the Order needs him.”
“The Order needs his house, you mean,” Snape snorted, folding thin arms across his chest. “Find another space and leave the man be. I believe the strain of being around the Order and yet able to do nothing has driven him mad.” He paused. “Or perhaps it’s just Azkaban.”
“Flippancy doesn’t look well on you, Severus,” Dumbledore replied, shifting up his half-moon spectacles with one finger. “One would almost think you are enjoying the man’s distress.”
The Snape seated in the chair paused, suddenly, as though discomfited; then, he re-crossed his legs. “It... it felt good to argue with him.”
Harry blinked as the real Snape’s grip on his sleeve suddenly tightened.
Dumbledore tilted his head to one side in an attitude of earnest listening. “Why do you think that is?”
Snape suddenly moved his hands over Harry’s ears and pressed, hard.
“Hey!” Harry exclaimed. “Hey, come on, that’s not fair!”
“Neither is your listening to my personal ramblings!” Snape growled.
Harry subsided. It was not like he would really enjoy Snape sitting through a private conversation with Ron or Hermione, either. He slumped, waiting it out.
Eventually, Snape lifted his hands from Harry’s ears, and Harry heard the seated Potions Master’s slow, sarcastic drawl.
“...teaching him Occlumency of all things.”
Dumbledore sighed. “I do not want you to teach him Occlumency, Severus. At least not initially.”
Both Snapes stiffened in surprise. “What?” they said in concert.
Harry shook his head. “Weird,” he proclaimed. “Too weird.”
“He will have to make the first step on his own,” Dumbledore replied.
“Why?” Snape snapped angrily. “Is this some part of the boy’s sacred Hero Training Programme that I have missed? That he must stumble upon extremely difficult mental techniques completely independent of anyone’s aid? Perhaps it’s written next to the bit where he battles ancient serpents with the aid of a hat and a firefowl?”
Dumbledore was smiling quietly, and though it obviously infuriated both Snapes, Harry thought he saw why. Snape had just stood up for him, in however roundabout a manner.
“It is not any part of any prophecy,” Dumbledore replied gravely, just as though Snape’s concern had been a perfectly valid one. “It is because of Voldemort. I am afraid that we cannot risk you, Severus. If Tom were to gaze into Harry’s mind and see you painted there as a helpful wizard training Harry to defeat him... well, all your careful work would be for naught.”
“So what am I to do, then, in this hour or two of not-teaching Harry Potter?” Snape demanded, his voice acerbic and almost painful to listen to, repressed darkness lacing through it.
Dumbledore eyed him. “What you must.”
“Look the part, in other words,” Snape replied. “Well, then. I see perfectly, I suppose. Why the farce, Dumbledore? The boy knows well enough already that I dislike him.”
“I need a good Legilimens,” Dumbledore said, his voice measured and matter-of-fact. “We must see to what degree Voldemort has a hold on Harry – and, if the boy begins to catch hold of Occlumency even a bit on his own, you may subtly guide him into proficiency.”
“So I’m spying, then.” Snape gave an unhealthy little laugh. “I forget. Am I a double or triple agent by this point? Voldemort thinks I’m spying on you, you know I am spying on him – and now I am appointed to spy on the thoughts of the Boy Who Lived.” He stood, bowed. “Very well; I am nothing if not useful.”
By now, Harry was not certain whether Snape was holding on to his arm to steady him, or if it was the other way around. The Snape beside him looked pale, cold, his features etched with disbelief.
The scene bled, light streaming through the windows a different color, a different angle, and Snape was there again. Harry immediately noted another change for the worse, and wondered that he hadn’t noted it last year – but then, Snape had been Snape, just another adult no matter how odious, background for him by that point, not a new object to be examined or understood.
“...it is not that,” Snape was saying, filled with tension again even though he sat perfectly, incredibly still. “I have seen horrors that I may flatter myself you have never witnessed. It is only – it is...”
“He is not what you expected,” Dumbledore offered.
“Why?” Snape hissed, and more venom was invested in the word than Harry thought possible.
“Harry had to remain with his relatives,” Dumbledore replied.. “It is a greater protection than anything I could devise.”
“You could have thought of something,” Snape countered, with the stubborn insistence of a child who firmly believes in the omniscience of his elders. “I could have thought of something. Surely, Hogwarts–”
“Hogwarts is no place for an infant. Where would we have placed Harry, Severus? With you?”
Snape blinked in confusion. “Certainly not, Headmaster.”
“Should he have grown up in the wizarding world, then? Revered wherever he went? I am certain that there would have been a list of hundreds of wizarding families who would have taken in such a highly celebrated child... although they could easily have done far more damage to Harry, in their way.”
“So you were interested in molding a young hero,” Snape sneered. “Well, in that you have succeeded. I have looked into Harry Potter and found one, tailor-made to suit. But basically and most fundamentally he is still a child locked under the stairs, placed there – and kept there – by the one who should have been his most vehement protector. What, then, do you intend to do?” The Potions Master’s voice was barely accusatory; mostly it was cold, saturated with contempt.
“Severus,” Dumbledore said, and his voice was kind and soft. “Oh, Severus. I intend to save the wizarding world. I intend on doing whatever it takes. But you knew that. This has merely unsettled you.”
Snape looked more than merely unsettled. He looked odd, off – and Harry slowly recognized the picture of a man for whom the foundations have been rocked, leaving him off-balance. He’d felt that way after Cedric had died, as though the world was somehow completely different, as though everyone ought to have known that the universe was not the same today as it had been yesterday.
Part of Harry could scarcely accept what he was seeing, not least because he remembered this period as when Snape had been his most cruel, his most vindictive. It was so very hard to believe that, at that very moment, the man had been suffering a crisis of conscience.
Harry watched his Potions Professor wrestle with Dumbledore’s pronouncement, then shake his head slowly.
“I don’t know,” Snape said, just as slowly. “Maybe I’m no good to you anymore. I came to you when I was angry, but the anger is going. More and more, I just feel...” He shrugged, helplessly, looking lost. “Tired.”
Harry looked up to the real Professor Snape, but his eyes were trained on his slightly younger self, an expression of horrified shock writ on his features; he was obviously in no condition to judge whether Harry ought to be hearing all of this or not. “Sir,” he chanced quietly.
Snape’s black gaze shot to Harry, his expression firming as he saw the inquiry in his student’s eyes. “No,” he said. “We need to stay.”
“Tired, Severus? Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Not that sort of tired!” Snape snapped at the Headmaster. “I feel... very soon, I will make a mistake. The sort of mistake impossible to redeem, except with my life.”
“No,” Harry said, unaware he was going to speak until he had already spoken. Although he knew it was useless, he strode up to the Professor Snape of the past and shook his head; he turned to face the real Professor, his body rigid with determination. “I won’t let it happen.”
“The way you didn’t let Black?” Snape inquired tiredly.
“Severus!” the Headmaster exclaimed, but Harry waved him away, unwilling to explain about the Obscura. The conversation was going on without them.
“...to continue doing what you want me to,” Severus whispered. “I can certainly manage enough vituperation to fool Harry, but not enough to convince the Dark Lord if he looks through Harry’s eyes. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows me; he will know my attitude has shifted, no matter how slight the shift may be. Moreover, the Dark Lord is inventing a new form of Legilimency, stronger...”
“What do you suggest?”
The Snape seated at the other side of Dumbledore’s desk nodded smartly, his upright posture and attentive manner betrayed by a slight tremor in his hands and the purple half-moons under his eyes. “Imperius,” he suggested immediately. “Order me to behave as I always have – worse – and I shall. I won’t have a choice.”
Dumbledore’s eyes saddened behind their slender spectacles. “Severus. Are you certain?”
“As I am of anything,” the slender man replied. He paused, then, a small expression of doubt entering his eye. “Unless – unless it is time to stop spying for the Order?”
“Soon,” Dumbledore said heavily. “Very, very soon, my dear Severus.”
“Very well.” The certainty in regards to his imminent decision seemed to bolster the younger man. “Ready whenever you are, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore raised his wand.
The End.