Aside from the few vials full of oily, blue and green sludge that rested on the top shelf of Snape’s bookcase, the man’s office was rather uninteresting. At least Harry thought so as he kneeled, facing backwards on the large, leather sofa, his stomach draped over the backrest. He squinted at the three adjacent cabinets that Snape had scavenged through the time he had placed the portkey around Harry’s neck.

Snape would be back any minute now, and although Harry’s fingertips were beginning to tingle with the desire to discover any other important artifacts stashed away behind the dusty oak doors, he forced his knees to remain dipped into the stiff cushion.

After all, Harry didn’t fancy spending his last few days before Holiday break sore and misty-eyed.

But nothing could stop Harry from giving the matter furious consideration.

How had Ginny broken into Snape’s office anyway? Even Harry didn’t know the password, as the man had simply tapped his wand to the iron handle to enter. And why couldn’t Ginny remember anything? Harry hoped she wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming or something. But if she had only dreamt everything, then how had she gotten a hold—

Suddenly, a familiar soft tap and fumbling click resounded from the other side of the office door. Pushing his torso away from the backrest, Harry quickly turned and plopped his bottom down on his heels. He pressed his hands against the tops of his thighs as he watched the door swing open, discharge his grim-looking professor, and snap closed behind the man with practiced ease.

Snape frowned at the boy as he moved forward and pocketed his wand so swiftly that Harry barely caught a glimpse of the dark wood.

“Get your shoes off of the sofa, Potter,” Snape scolded in an absent, gruff voice that indicated that he had more important things to discuss than Harry’s annoying and improper habit of curling his feet up underneath him wherever he pleased.

“Oh…” Harry commented, staring down at his lap, as if noticing his position for the first time. “Sorry.” He shifted around to face front and slipped his feet out, wincing as the heavy, rubber soles scraped against the leather.

But Snape didn’t seem to notice as he lowered himself next to Harry on the far side of the sofa. He rested his elbow on the armrest and watched the boy squirm until he finally settled and crossed his ankles. Unconsciously, Harry placed his own elbow against his armrest, partially mimicking Severus’s stance.

Harry hadn’t planned on plunging into a detailed conversation about his fate over the Holidays. He just wanted to know—to get it over quickly so he could prepare himself. But Snape never went about anything the way Harry wished he would. And even though the man seemed to understand that returning to the Dursleys would be worse than scouring infirmary bedpans for two weeks, Harry wasn’t certain how Snape knew. Dumbledore obviously didn’t…

Sliding his thumbnail between his teeth, Harry clamped down as he waited for Snape to say something.

“I assume that having rested you are up to the task of informing me of your discussion with Miss Weasley; although judging by your nervous habit of nibbling on your extremities like a red squirrel, then perhaps not…” Snape remarked quite casually.

Usually, the man’s sarcasm irritated Harry enough to spark his insolence, but this afternoon, it didn’t faze him. Relaxing his head back into the cushions, Harry drew his hand away from his mouth and tucked both them underneath his thighs. His palms immediately began to moisten with sweat when he realized that he’d been sent to bed before reporting anything about Ginny or the diary… But honestly, the locket had been the only concrete item Harry’d been able to extract from her. And it still puzzled him.

“She didn’t tell me all that much,” Harry admitted, twisting his shoulders into an awkward shrug, the simple task made difficult by his trapped fingers. “Just that she’d been writing in that diary every night until she tried to get rid of it…”

“Nothing more?” Snape replied, disbelief creasing his features, his eyebrows elevated as if they were attached to tightened strings. “You were sweating and shivering like you’d seen a walking corpse, Potter…”

Harry’s stomach coiled painfully as the image of red hair plastered to wet cheeks invaded his memory. He didn’t want Ginny to get in trouble. Really, he didn’t. But the deep, uncomfortable stirring in Harry’s belly was targeting his conscience, and somehow, Harry knew that he needed to say something, regardless how wretched and low it made him feel.

I’m sorry, Ginny, he thought, the internal apology doing little to help soothe his raw insides. Harry closed his eyes.

“The diary writes back to her.”

Silence permeated the small space for several long seconds. Harry could feel Snape staring at him, and he hated it. He felt like a mutant. Ripping his hands out from underneath him, Harry thrust his fingers underneath his glasses and clutched at his closed lids.

He barely listened as his professor shifted briefly in his seat. “There is no need feel guilty, Mr. Potter,” Snape said quietly, his voice somehow muffled by the bursts of color flashing and dissolving behind Harry’s eyes. “Withholding information will not help Miss Weasley or anyone else involved. It only makes things worse. You know better than to believe otherwise.”

“No, I don’t…” Harry mumbled from behind his hands.

He waited for Snape to insist that he did know. For the man to wag his potion-marred finger in his face or tip his chin up, making Harry feel even more miserably responsible. But Snape didn’t even seem to be breathing loudly in preparation for admonishment.

Finally allowing his fingertips to drag down his cheeks, Harry stared at the wooden trim against the edge of the ceiling. “She’s afraid…” he said quietly.

“As are you.”

Hands flopping down like dead limbs, Harry snapped his head toward Snape. “I’m not afraid…”

Again, the potions master reacted little to the contradiction; the lines imprinted along his face remained stationary. “You value your friendships, Potter,” Snape stated impassively. “And you fear that by telling the truth, you will lose them.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?” Harry retorted, twisting two fingers around and around in his robes until he felt the threads pull. “She said I’m the only one who listens to her, Professor. But I don’t believe it. I was always around Ron in the summer, and I hardly ever talked to Ginny because she’s so shy. And it’s not like she tried to talk to me before she got rid of the diary… She must have figured she couldn’t trust me. She can’t trust anyone.”

“It is foolish to blame yourself for something you could not control,” Snape said quickly. But the deliberately calm words stabbed like knives.

A hundred possible replies swelled in Harry’s throat; however, the words were jumbled and couldn’t seem to develop. Reluctantly, he swallowed them. Harry could feel the blood draining and anchoring in his limp hands that rested on the sofa, but he made no effort to wiggle his rigid fingers.

Snape inhaled audibly, seemingly empowered by the lack of response. “What else?” he prompted smoothly.

There was a short pause as Harry’s brain zipped through the eerie, almost mystifying conversation he’d had with Ginny.

“The Portkey,” he suddenly remembered, trying to ignore the deflated sensation in his chest. “Ginny thought maybe it took her to a cave or something. I dunno…”

Another pause.

“A cave,” Snape repeated after a moment, his voice sandy and clinical.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You think so, Potter?” Snape urged, “Or is there something you are forgetting, perhaps?”

Harry shook his head feebly, feeling like a failure. “Nothing.”

“There must be something—“

“No, there’s not!” Harry shot back, his temper suddenly heated. Turning a bit and straightening his back against the arm of the sofa, he splayed his hands, stationing them in order to launch him onto his feet. “I’m not keeping anything from you, and I’m not frightened!”

“Lower your voice.”

“Why should I?” Harry cried, scowling and sliding his rear to the edge of the cushion. But despite the impertinent tone, the volume of the boy’s voice had decreased considerably.

“Because I am your professor, as well as your elder, and I refuse to be challenged by a pre-pubescent child in desperate need of an attitude adjustment,” Snape growled, his eyes dark and thin, his own back stiffened as he readied to spring into action to apply such adjustment to a deserving posterior if required.

But Harry only picked at the bundle of robes wrapped around his fingers. He hated being reminded of his inferior status as a twelve-year old, even if he knew Snape was making a valid point. “That’s all Ginny told me,” Harry muttered softly after a humbled moment of gazing at the faded and frayed rug beneath his feet. “She said she couldn’t remember exactly what she wrote…or anything else, really.” He tried to swallow, but his tongue felt bloated.

“There is reason to believe,” Snape began, inserting a meaningful pause to grasp the boy’s attention, “that Miss Weasley’s free will may have been dominated by the owner of the diary.”

Harry glanced up. “Tom Riddle, you mean?”

Nodding, Severus swallowed carefully. He hesitated for only an instant before replying, “Yes. However, he is known by a vast majority as the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s entire body instantly prickled with heat. The Dark Lord? “You… I mean…you don’t mean Lord Voldemort, do you?” the boy stammered blearily. It felt as if everything underneath him had liquefied. “But I thought—“

“Do not refer to him by his name, Harry,” Snape corrected.

“But that’s who you mean, right?” the boy maintained, rubbing a sodden palm back and forth across the furrowed lines in his forehead. The mottled design on the rug seemed to be blurring rapidly. Or perhaps his glasses had smudged…

“So you’re saying…erm,” Harry tucked a forefinger and thumb over the tops of his rims and rubbed at the corners of his eyes, ignoring the pressure of his glasses on his nose as he attempted to make sense of it all. “You’re saying that he’s the one Ginny’s been writing to? But I didn’t know he was an actual person once. Wait, how did you know?”

But the possibility that Snape and Dumbledore may have kept even more information from him was superseded by the horrifying fact that Ginny was interacting with Lord Voldemort. Or someone that eventually became Voldemort…

Suddenly, he felt the edge of his cushion plummet a bit with the nearness of another body. “Breathe, Potter,” Snape commanded, squeezing lightly at the pressure points on either side of the boy’s neck.

Eyes fluttering open, Harry dropped his hand to the armrest as he looked over at the potions master. “I’m all right, you know,” Harry assured him as his eyes traveled over the man’s pallid face. “I’m only…thinking.”

But Snape kept his hand against the knobs at the top of Harry’s spine. “How utterly astounding,” he retorted dryly.

Shrugging off the pressure at the base of his neck, Harry ignored the taunt. “If her free will was taken over by the diary, does that mean that Ginny was possessed or something?”

“It’s only a possibility,” Snape insured the flustered adolescent.

“But it can’t be the same thing that happened to Quirrell, though,” the boy rationalized. “Voldemort—“

“Potter…” Snape warned.

“I mean, You-Know-Who…he was stuck in the back of the bloke’s head, and Quirrell still knew what he was doing,” Harry continued, his voice growing more lively by the second. “And since Ginny only lost her memory, maybe she didn’t realize she was being possessed. She wouldn’t, would she? But wait—“ He scooted forward again, only to have Snape grasp the collar of his robes and pull him back. Huffing, the boy settled into the corner of the sofa and opened his mouth to plough forward with his proposition.

“Be quiet,” Snape ordered immediately, holding up a hand to silence him. “Do yourself a favor and listen for once.”

Exhaling dramatically, Harry sat on his hands again and waited. “Fine.”

Snape glared.

“Sir,” Harry added, the ghost of a cheeky smirk drifting about his face.

“Before you begin hyperventilating over presumed facts, you should know that the Dark Lord has not returned in full form; therefore, there is no reason for you to become frantic—“

“I’m not…”

“No interruptions, Potter,” Snape ground out, his finger finally jutting forward toward the boy’s face.

Harry’s eyes widened into galleon-sized circles as he pulled back at the emphatic gesture.

There’s the wagging finger, he thought.

“Furthermore,” the potions master continued, his voice steely and assertive, “the headmaster and I have discussed the matter thoroughly and are taking care of it, meaning that you need not concern yourself. Your task of retrieving information from the Weasley girl was sufficient and helpful. However, your involvement from here on out will be governed by only me.”

Knitting his eyebrows together, Harry twisted his lips in thought.

“Whatever you are pondering, Mr. Potter,” Snape began meaningfully, “I suggest you stop.”

What would I be pondering? Bloody nutter…

Harry drew in a sharp, defensive breath.

“Don’t speak.”

Teeth clicking shut, the boy sagged further against the sofa.

“I have informed you of the possible development in Miss Weasley’s condition only to make you aware, as I believe you should be,” Snape pressed on. “Nonetheless, as the diary is no longer in her possession, and she has clearly come to consciousness, I will, in no circumstances, tolerate your flitting about Hogwarts for the duration of the Holidays in an attempt to discover concealed information. Not only will you find nothing, but it is of little importance to the headmaster’s objective. Moreover, you will not place yourself in unnecessary danger—“

“Wait a minute,” Harry interrupted, hoisting himself up a bit as he eyeballed the man in disbelief, “you just said ‘the duration of the Holidays’. Does that mean I get to stay here over Christmas if I want?”

“It means, young man, that Professor Dumbledore and I have decided to house you of our own accord,” Snape rephrased, trailing over the last two words with an air of stern finality. “In no way will Hogwarts become your Holiday playground, Potter…”

Harry felt his stomach muscles loosen in delighted relief. He could hardly believe that Dumbledore actually agreed to let him stay. He wouldn’t have to watch Dudley soil the front his Christmas jumpers with boxes of chocolate fudge after all… But then suddenly, Harry’s elation began to evaporate as he considered his next thought.

What about Ron?

He began gnawing on his fingernails again, settling his shoulders back into the corner of the sofa, distressed.

Snape harrumphed under his breath as he gazed at the instantly crestfallen boy. “What is it, Potter?” he inquired, reaching over and tugging firmly at Harry’s wrist until his fingers relaxed and slipped from his teeth. “I would have thought you’d be overcome with joy at the prospect.”

Harry glanced up warily, briefly wondering if he’d insulted the man. But as always, Snape appeared unaffected. “It’s brilliant,” Harry admitted. “Kind of shocking, actually. But…” He wavered.

“But what?”

“It’s just…” Harry toed the back of one of his shoes, slipping it away from his sock-clad heel and back on again. He sighed. “Ron invited me to his house for Christmas. He’ll be completely gutted if I don’t come…”

“He’ll get over it.”

Swallowing to ease the thickness in his throat, Harry stared at Snape with narrowed brows. “No, Professor, he won’t,” the boy informed him. “He’ll think I don’t want to spend Christmas with his family.”

“Potter...” Snape began, a hint of warning lacing his tone for the second time.

“I’m not trying to be ungrateful or anything,” Harry broke in, “I just…” He looked away, tapering off. “Forget it. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s cheeks boiled with shame. He’d been offered a place to stay over the Holidays…twice…and both times he’d buggered it up.

“The value of friendship, Mr. Potter…” Snape reiterated quietly. “As nauseating as it may be, I assure you…I understand.”

Harry listened intently, but the hot needles that continued to jab his pink face and neck prevented him from lifting his eyes.

How was it that Snape understood when he didn’t even understand himself?

****************

Early Thursday morning, the cool infirmary air danced across the moderately wet kiss that Mrs. Weasley had planted against Harry’s cheek, making it seem a bit less appealing than usual. But he waited until she had turned her back to help Fred and George with their luggage before swiping the heel of his hand across his skin. 

Most of the students would be making their way towards the carriages around noon, but considering Ginny’s special condition, Dumbledore had agreed to allow the Weasleys to use the Floo network to travel back to the Burrow for the Christmas Holidays.

Ron, Fred, and George scowled at the idea of being escorted home by their mum. Percy complied without complaint. And as expected, Ginny hung back, hugging her arms across the middle of her blue, high-necked jumper. She stared at her shoes, eyes breaking away every once in a while to steal a glance at Harry.

Naturally, Ron had grappled sourly with the idea of Harry missing out on Christmas at the Burrow. But with a few well-placed pokes and private admonishments from Hermione, he’d eventually reckoned with it.

Still, Harry knew that his best mate was terribly put-out. He’d refused a game of Wizard’s Chess last night and had barely laughed along as the twins told their annual, crude Christmas jokes.

“Ronald!” Mrs. Weasley called out over her shoulder as she silently beckoned the twins toward Madame Pomfrey’s office. “Come along, dear. Make sure you’ve haven’t left anything behind, though I daresay it’s a bit late to go back now.” She smiled fondly at Harry for a brief instant before walking towards Ginny and draping an arm across her shoulders, murmuring light, melodious words of comfort in her ear as they followed.

Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets as he sauntered over to where Harry stood at the end of a hospital bed, gripping the rail behind him with cold, guilty hands.

“See you, Ron,” Harry mumbled half-heartedly, staring hard at his friend’s weathered trunk. “I’ll let you know if anything happens…”

“Right…” Ron replied, his voice gritty. “See you.”

Glancing up at the pale face smudged with freckles, Harry exhaled through his nose. He wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. Ron opened his mouth as if to speak, but was promptly cut off by Mrs. Weasley’s bustling approach.

She swept forward, nudging Ron out of the way. Cupping Harry’s face in her warm, soft hands, she smoothed her thumb along one of his cheeks. “Happy Christmas, sweet boy,” she whispered. Leaning down and kissing him on the forehead this time, she smiled again. “Mr. Weasley and I are only a floo call away if you need anything. Remember that, dear.”

“I will,” Harry croaked, sinking against her chest as she enveloped him in her arms, patting him lightly on the back.

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stay, Harry suddenly mused, feeling as if a corkscrew were being drilled into his throat.

But something inside of him, something wise and unidentified seemed to assure him that he’d be just fine.

“All right, then,” Molly breathed, blinking rapidly as Harry pulled away. “Come along, Ginny, dear.” She turned, holding out a hand toward the small girl.

Ron had already queued up at the fireplace next to Fred and George.

Harry watched as Mrs. Weasley stooped over, placing her face close to Ginny’s for a moment before nodding her head a few times and straightening up as she smoothed a strand of ginger hair from her daughter’s face.

Sparing one last affectionate glance at Harry, Mrs. Weasley ambled off toward the Floo, gaining less than ten steps before shouting for Fred to get his hands out of the cabinet before she resorted to slapping at them like a toddler’s.

In his peripheral vision, Harry caught sight of Ginny moving toward him, poking her fingers carefully into her trousers pocket and extracting a bundle of folded parchment. The edges were bent and curled, and as she wordlessly held it out to him, Harry could clearly make out the wilted bumps, most likely caused from clutching the parchment in a perspiring palm.

“What’s this?” Harry asked her, as he grasped it between two fingers and folded the thick bundle of paper over his knuckles as he flipped it over in his hands.

But as he thumbed one of the wilted edges as if to open the parchment, Ginny suddenly grabbed his wrist.

“No, wait,” she whispered, the rims of her lids stretched wide of the whites of her eyes. “Wait until I leave, Harry.”

He stared at her, bewildered. “Ginny, what—“ Harry began. But before he could say anything else, she briefly tightened her fingers around the cuff of his jumper once more and hurried away toward Madame Pomfrey’s office.

*****************

For a few unnecessary moments, Harry gazed at the closed door of the infirmary office, his ears buzzing with the lack of recent Weasley chatter.

Glancing down at the parchment in his hand, Harry thumbed the gathered corners once more before pulling apart the edges and staring at the small, diluted script visible through the clean side of the thin paper.

Clamping the tip of his tongue between his lips in concentration, Harry opened the rest of the letters and ironed out the creases with his fingers. With one quick glance at the infirmary entrance, he began to read:

Dear Harry,

I’m sorry that I’ve caused you so much trouble. I shouldn’t have asked you to keep my secrets. I still don’t remember everything, but Professor McGonagall told me to try to write down as much as I can remember about the diary, and I thought it was a good idea. It’s loads easier to write things down on paper. I hope you’re not angry with me after you read this. I’m going to tell Mum and Dad soon. It probably won’t be before Christmas, but sometime. Thanks for understanding.

Ginny

Heart thudding, Harry slid the first letter away from the rest and placed it at the bottom of the stack. He continued reading:

The first time I lost my memory, I woke up with rooster feathers all over my robes. Then on Halloween, it was red paint. I don’t know how either got all over my clothes…

Harry scanned the rest of the inked notes quickly, but his hands were already shaking too severely to take in any more information. He glanced feverishly at the clock on the wall. It was barely eight o’clock.

He’d bet his last sickle that Hermione was still double-checking her luggage to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.

Crumbling up the letters in his fist, Harry clumsily stuffed the whole wad into his pocket and sprinted toward the exit.