Harry bonked the heels of his rubber soles lightly against the stone wall below the window sill. Perched on the edge, he studied the back of his Potions Master with a clinical eye and a quaint, baffled expression.

Several minutes ago, Snape had suddenly halted in the middle of the last window-filled corridor before descending to the dungeons. Face etched with unspoken contemplation, he’d quickly brushed Harry away before sweeping towards the plated glass and embarking on a silent investigation.

“Why won’t you just tell me what you’re doing?” Harry asked after a moment of careful consideration, his tone curled with skepticism.

He flicked his thumbnail against the rock, watching as Snape peered out of the opposite, open window with pursed lips; his wand arm was poised with precision, yet the man appeared strangely relaxed. After a coiled, unresponsive moment, Harry sighed, figuring Snape was ignoring him, and glanced down at his lace-ups. He sustained the rhythm of heels on granite, perfecting the heartbeat-like thuds until he glimpsed Snape’s outstretched arm and index finger pointing toward Harry’s chest.

Choking back further comment, Harry exhaled lightly, internally nodding. He understood the gesture. His professor needed another minute of concentration.

Harry glanced out the window at the ice-white sky. The snow had stopped, and the naked branches that pierced the clean, winter air were ugly. Petrified and crooked—the color of dried blood. Blinking to clear his vision, Harry jutted his neck forward, desperate to see what had absorbed Snape’s attention, causing him to halt mid-trek to the dungeons. The cold air drifted in through the gap in the window and down the collar of Harry’s shirt. He reflexively hunched his shoulders and shivered a bit.

Seconds later, the bell gonged once to announce the afternoon hour, and instantly, as if triggered by the forlorn echo, Snape waved his wand and muttered a terse incantation. Harry watched, mesmerized, as a shapeless, wavering vapor hovered about the tip of the ebony wand.

Moving backwards slowly, Snape held his wand delicately, as if any sudden movement would rupture the iridescent form.

Eyes narrowed and intense, the man dragged his arm through the air, chanting, “Effingio.”

The quivering vapor dispersed and dissolved. And a second later, a heavy gong resonated throughout the corridor, somehow louder and more solid than its predecessor.

Harry jolted on his window sill, his backside buzzing from the slight vibration that zinged through the cold stone. Palms pressed against the foundation on either side of him, Harry pinned Snape with a startled look, his eyes darting back and forth between the satisfied smirk and the wand that slipped quietly back into the black robes.

“What was that?” Harry breathed.

“A chime, Potter, what else?” Snape remarked as he slinked toward the window and closed the open pane with a rattling click.

Harry easily slid off the edge and approached his professor. “I know what the noise was. I meant the spell… How did you do that?”

Cupping his hand around the back of Harry’s neck, and gazing straight ahead, Snape applied pressure, attempting to prod him forward. “Nevermind that now.”

“Wait,” Harry insisted, wiggling out of Snape’s grasp. “Hang on… You can’t just expect me not to ask questions about it! How’d you get the sound to echo? That was wicked…”

“A spell, Potter,” Snape said with a sigh, though his face remained rather calm. “As you so obviously pointed out…” His mouth twitched with harmless condescendence.

Harry backed up until his shoulders bumped against the wall. “But what spell?” he nearly huffed, mildly frustrated. It was just like Snape to freeze in the corridor without warning, perform some sort of brilliant incantation, and then pocket his explanation as quickly as he had his wand. “Why is it such a secret? You never show me anything cool anymore,” Harry grumbled, twisting his mouth into a slight pout as he deliberately studied the floor.

“On the contrary,” Snape retorted airily, seemingly unmoved by the ploy for sympathy, “I believe I have introduced you to a defensive spell that most fourth-years have difficulty mastering, am I correct?”

Stuffing his free hand into his pocket, Harry shifted his coat in his other arm and peeked up at Snape over his glasses. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Then your argument is implausible, Potter,” Snape immediately countered, flipping his robes smartly as he prepared to turn about.

Feeling obstinate and grumpy—and a bit stupid—Harry settled the small of his back against the wall, uncertain of why he had decided to follow Snape down here in the first place. “So what are the rules for tomorrow, then?” he mumbled, kicking at a tiny loose stone with the toe of his shoe. “You said there’d be some.”

The talk of rules felt as nasty on his tongue as the potion he’d choked down in November. But he asked anyway. Harry had a hunch that once he stepped foot inside Snape’s classroom, he’d be scrubbing cauldrons until his fingertips wrinkled and the skin fell off. Clearly, Snape had no intention of training him further in Defense.

Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Snape spun back around on his heel. “I did,” the man affirmed in a grainy, frowning voice. He ambled forward until his shadow loomed over the slumped boy. “However, I despise your tone at the moment.” He crouched down.

Eyes widening at the shadow hovering over his feet, Harry continued to pierce the floor with his stare and gritted his teeth.

But as Snape leaned down menacingly, placing a steadying hand against the wall near the tousled head of hair, Harry couldn’t help but flick his eyes up toward Snape. One glance at the no-nonsense visage had him slanting his mouth in an apologetic manner, though he wished he could stand his ground.

“I was only joking…” Harry attempted, flashing Snape a half-smile that proved to be more of a grimace.

“Doubtful, Mr. Potter.”

Harry squirmed, eyes raking over the peculiar emotion that seemed to slither about his professor’s face without ever declaring itself. He squashed his bottom against the wall in self-preservation; Snape was sort of unpredictable lately.

“The rules for tomorrow are as follows:” the Potions Master continued. He leaned in ever-so-slightly. “You will follow my lead at all times. And you will listen. I will not tolerate any deliberation on your part, and I will not go astray. I refuse to chase you about the castle…”

“You won’t have to,” Harry said softly, squinting at Snape in disbelief, but the man only inclined his brows and stared. “So what else?”

But still, Snape said nothing. For a long moment, he gazed at the boy with stagnant features and fingertips that turned to porcelain against the granite. There was no talk of consequences for disobedience. No demand for confirmation of understanding. And somehow, Harry was crushed by the solid weight of his professor’s silence.

The gravity of it.

Harry stepped away from the wall, soberly draping his coat further across his arm. He glanced up carefully. “Should I stay up in Gryffindor Tower until tomorrow, then?”

The lines in Snape’s forehead instantly smoothed, though his dark eyes glossed over with confusion. He peeled his hand away from the wall, straightening quickly and stiffly. Tilting his head curiously, he peered down at his student. “That won’t be necessary,” Snape muttered with a shake of his head.

“But I thought—“

“You may come with me.”

Harry plucked his hand out of his trousers pocket and scratched at his forehead as he pinned Snape with a questioning look. “Where? Your chambers?” the boy asked.

“No,” Snape replied, jerking his head once to prompt Harry into moving. “Hagrid’s hut.” He extended a hand, resting it at the base of the child’s neck as he cautiously sidled forward.

“Hagrid’s?” Harry virtually screeched. “What for?”

They rounded a corner of the gloomy, narrow corridor to a rather inconspicuous exit that led to the vast courtyard spread along the back of the school.

“It has come to my attention that he has recently obtained a young rooster…”

“A rooster?” Harry echoed and then instantly faltered. Sucking in a mouthful of air, he reached out and clutched a handful of his professor’s sleeve without thinking. But this time, Snape simply spun around without reprimanding him. “A rooster’s crow can kill a basilisk! Remember?”

“Clearly.”

Harry’s mouth stretched open with sudden revelation, his whole body tingling. “That’s why you tried out that spell, isn’t it? You can echo the crow!”

“How perceptive, Potter,” Snape said, quirking a cynical brow as he pushed open the dense, wooden door. “It is a wonder the House of Ravenclaw has been able to carry on without you…”

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

The breakfast table in the Great Hall was surrounded by meager company.

Aside from Albus and Minerva, Severus couldn’t have chosen a more irksome handful of Hogwarts professors to dine among on a bleak Friday morning. He flashed a brief, yet rather nauseated glare over the rim of his pewter mug toward the corner of the table that seated Professors Lockhart and Trelawney.

The imbecilic fraud only countered the disdain with a stiff-jawed grin, and Severus’ loathing of the man seemed to increase with every sparkle of the bleached teeth.

Exhaling into his coffee, the haughty rippling of the shiny, black liquid mirroring his disgust, Severus pulled his gaze away from the incompetent pair, past the Headmaster’s countenance of pure jollity.

His eyes rested on Potter.

As expected, the boy was wriggling in his seat, endlessly repositioning his feet as he sank his teeth into a sweet roll smeared with icing. Even though his face was partially veiled by the tacky mass of bread, Severus could clearly decipher the boy’s excitement over his success in convincing his half-giant friend to lend them his rooster for the weekend.

A severely keyed up Potter—precisely what Severus had feared… And to make matters worse, the child was now cramming himself full of sugar.

Severus expelled a grumbling sigh that caught Harry’s attention. Lowering his roll, the boy smiled through sticky lips and a mouthful of breakfast before reaching for his pumpkin juice and gulping several enormous mouthfuls in a row.

Focusing intently on the adjacent bowls of melon and mixed berries, Severus smirked, satisfied by his abiding competency of wandless magic, as a portion of each separated itself from the rest of the fruit, hovered for an instant, and then floated over to Potter’s plate.

The boy’s expression instantly flattened when he noticed the array of fruit covering traces of caramel icing left on his plate. His sweet roll sagging heavily against his fingertips, Potter slowly glanced up, his lips slightly pinched into the incensed mope he demonstrated so frequently.

Severus merely twitched his brow, silently daring Potter to a challenge.

But to his astonishment, the boy only glared an instant longer before picking up a hunk of melon and popping it into his mouth. Potter grinned again in a cheeky manner, as if effortlessly proving his stark obedience for the day to come.

Severus nearly snorted. Agreeing to consume a balanced meal was simple enough. But he couldn’t help but visualize Potter sprinting down the corridor at the first sign of any remote clue that would aid them in entering the Chamber of Secrets.

Smile while you can, Potter, Severus thought, though he felt an odd twinge in his chest at his musing.

Albus was a fool for thinking Harry was an asset to the search. And he was an even larger fool for giving into the boy’s frantic pleas, even though Potter’s knuckles were pale and poking against the skin of his fists as he held onto Severus’ robes.

He should have disregarded Potter’s panicked, heaving breaths and rigid muscles. Should have disregarded the boy.

But as each day passed, awareness of Potter’s despondency stabbed Severus deeper and deeper, twisting like a dagger in his gut. And he knew now that he couldn’t.

He glanced over at Potter, pleased to see that the boy had polished off the melon and was now moving onto his berries, though he made sure to continue plunging his teeth into sizable portions of his sweet roll in between mouthfuls of fruit.

Severus resisted the urge to snap his fingers in Potter’s face and scorn him for his slovenly ways when he noticed the boy staring at Gilderoy Lockhart. Curiously struck by the slow, disgusted manner in which Harry chewed his breakfast as he listened to the idiot’s babble, Severus abandoned his thoughts to focus in on the conversation, though he’d always appreciated his own adept skill of mentally dispensing any irrational banter.

“…occasionally creates quite a ruckus among the second floor, I must say,” Lockhart was explaining as he twisted the end of his fork between his forefinger and thumb; his head bobbed and swayed with every other word.

“It’s only Moaning Myrtle,” Harry spoke up, pushing his plate away, appearing rather unperturbed even as six sets of adult eyes bore into him simultaneously. “She’s always upset…”

“Quite right,” Lockhart jovially agreed, tacking on an award-winning smile for good measure. “I’m afraid the poor girl couldn’t stop weeping long enough to be consoled by one of my most riveting tales. Of course, one can always find a recounting of the event in my world-wide sensation Gadding with Ghouls...”

Inhaling a ferocious, yet silent breath of air, Minerva went back to her coffee and kippers, while Albus nodded once, politely, before his twinkling eyes traveled to the opposite side of the table.

Sybil Trelawney squinted up at Lockhart through thick, convex lenses while he prattled on in a sugary tone, oblivious of his scanty audience.

Harry scowled as he maneuvered a droopy-laced trainer onto the flat seat of his stool and propped his elbow next to his plate, leaning against it in poorly concealed repugnance.

Thoroughly chagrined by the bumbling fool to his left, but even more vexed by the deplorable manners exhibited by the boy across the table, Severus lowered his goblet onto the wood with a noisy thunk and rapped the area in front of him with his fingertip.

Flicking his eyes up toward his professor’s dour, disapproving look, Harry straightened up and pulled his foot out from under his thigh, letting it flop to the floor. He rolled his eyes, jerking his shoulder toward Lockhart as if the small gesture explained everything.

Severus’ stern deportment diminished slightly at the amusing display, but he spared the boy a dark glare of admonition before shifting his attention toward the Headmaster, who alternated calmly sipping his tea and dipping his head in acknowledgement of Minerva’s muttered concerns.

Trelawney’s squint had developed into an odd contortion. And Lockhart continued to swagger in his seat.

“As I was saying,” Lockhart proceeded, settling back into his high-backed chair as if it were a throne, “an invaded toilet isn’t much to whinge about, in my opinion. One would think hearing such an exhilarating tale would put a spring in poor Myrtle’s step. Though if anyone would understand the temperament of ghouls and their possessiveness of space, I suppose the lucky blighter would be none other than yours truly, would it not?”

He trailed off, tittering under his breath at his own cleverness and grandeur.

As the coffee drained into Severus’ throat, thick and bitter as oil, he hastily swallowed to thwart off the choking sensation. The conversation continued around him, but the air had tightened. And without looking, he could feel Potter’s eyes burning into him.

Lockhart’s words must have throttled the child as well.

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

Harry gripped the edge of his seat with both hands as he stared at Snape, waiting for his professor to look at him. Trelawney stumbled behind him as she passed, stammering an apology when she palmed the top of Harry’s head to catch her fall.

But he didn’t pay her any mind.

Lockhart swept past him too; the mild, casual gust of wind that followed cooled Harry’s neck but hardly alleviated the perspiration gathering in his underarms. How could Lockhart just leave? How could he overlook something so obvious? Why was Dumbledore just sitting there, drinking his tea like nothing was wrong?

And why wouldn’t Snape look at him?

McGonagall rose from her chair, concluding her discussion with a brisk nod of her head and a tight smile. She laid a hand on Dumbledore’s shoulder and then left without another word.

Harry coughed to clear the stinging hoarseness in his throat. The hazy image of a shivering Ginny swam to the front of his mind, swaying menacingly. She’d been in the bathroom when she tried to throw away the diary. But had Myrtle’s toilet been her only invaded haven? She traveled through the pipes—Hermione had told him that much. Did she consider those her space too? And if so-

“You are excused, Potter.”

Snapping his head up, Harry struggled to speak for a moment. Snape’s stature was unyielding as brass next to the Headmaster’s placidness. He searched the still eyes, silently begging Snape to be different, desperately hoping he hadn’t blown off Professor Lockhart’s mention of Myrtle like the others had.

“To where?” Harry croaked as he held fast to the wooden seat.

Dumbledore carried on, nursing his tea with delicacy.

“Wherever you will remain out of mischief,” the man snapped, though the odd look in Snape’s eyes dominated any smattering of provocation Harry might have felt over the remark. “I doubt an escort is required, boy…”

Harry stared hard at Snape, trying to understand but not wanting to defy him.

He’d given the man his word, after all.

Slowly pushing his chair away from the table, Harry stood, clutching one of the wooden knobs atop the chair back. “Can I ask you something?” he ventured quietly.

“Later,” Snape said without hesitation, his tone identically hushed.

Harry gnawed on the inside of his lower lip, hesitating a moment longer. Surely, Snape knew. Maybe he was going to tell Dumbledore about it, though it hardly made sense for Harry to miss this conversation.

Snape eyelids and chin began to lower in concurrence—a signal which Harry was well acquainted with.

Yeah I know, the boy thought giving his chair a final, slightly resentful push against the table edge. I promised.

Taking a final swig of pumpkin juice, Harry sloshed the sweet liquid between his teeth and departed.

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

A part of Severus—a very young and vindictive part of him—could have snarled and gnashed his teeth in response to the Headmaster’s evaluative silence. His gentle, assessing eye…

The patient way his aged lips drew in those impossibly tiny drafts of tea after absorbing Severus’ delivery of his most recent discovery.

More importantly, of yesterday’s moment of weakness with Potter…

But instead, Severus’ older self—his feeble, yet wiser self merely responded with an overwhelmed sigh. He jabbed the table top with his elbow and poked his two most sturdy fingers alongside the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t do this anymore, Albus.”

Dumbledore took his time swallowing before noiselessly replacing his teacup. “Cannot do what, child?”

Severus cringed at the moniker, but did not react. Didn’t speak. Albus needed no clarification.

“We doubt because we are human,” Dumbledore began. He gazed over at Severus, who was tiredly massaging the corners of his eye sockets, and smiled to himself. “And though you have exhibited remarkable strength over the years, you too take part in this frailty, Severus.”

“I have never claimed to be flawless.”

“No,” the Headmaster agreed. “And neither have I.”

Lowering his forearm to the table, Severus pierced his mentor with pained eyes. “No, you haven’t.”

Dumbledore smiled softly once more, bowing his head toward his half-empty teacup.

Severus continued to stare at the man. “I have appeased the request of a twelve-year-old, Albus. I am a fool.”

Nodding as if he were already aware, Dumbledore’s eyebrows peaked as he inclined his chin and appraised the Potions Master. “You and Harry have come to an understanding…”

“We’ve come to nothing. He could be killed in the Chamber—“

“Harry is more than capable of lending aid in your favor, Severus. And he is a Parselmouth.”

Severus felt the walls of this throat thicken and burn at the pragmatic statement. “Of course he is, your little hero,” he rasped, wholly conscious of the irrational weight of his words. Severus swallowed as he attempted to obliterate the vague ache. He failed.

But the Headmaster’s placidness was constant. “You are torn, my boy,” Dumbledore asserted gently, laying a fragile hand against Severus’ arm. “And I am anything but indifferent of your feelings…or Harry’s for that matter.”

The man’s fingers curled in on themselves at the touch, but he made no move to dispel the wrinkled hand.

“However,” Dumbledore continued, his tone increasingly mild, “you must persist in discerning past emotions from those of the present, Severus, for I believe your isolating Harry has nothing to do with prohibiting his heroic tendencies.”

Severus said nothing. His ribs felt as if they had cracked and collapsed.

“We strive to instill discipline in those who are still young enough to benefit from it because we care for them.” Albus tightened his hold on the tainted forearm, leaning in close. “And we hurt because we love, child. We are human.”

The injured eyes sought out the unfailing balm of the blue as they had so many times over the years.

“You will not fail her twice,” Dumbledore assured him, the crackling of his voice oddly soothing. “Regardless if you realize it, you are making amends. And as long as you continue to keep Harry close, you will not fail him either. You will keep him safe. So to be quite plain, I must disagree and say that you can do it.” The old man’s eyes twinkled fondly. “You already have, Severus.”

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

Scuffing his toe against the floor outside of the Great Hall, Harry ground his teeth together, his stomach fluttering with nerves as he watched his Potions Master approach. Snape hadn’t specifically told him to go anywhere. But—

Harry paused in his musing; he cocked his head, squinting. For some reason, Snape seemed…different. Not as tense, perhaps?

Definitely a good sign.

Briefly wetting his parched lips, Harry took a deep breath through his nose as Snape arrived within reaching distance. “The bathroom on the second floor,” he spouted importantly. “I think maybe—“

“I know, Potter,” Snape cut him off, nodding. He immediately reached for Harry’s face, cupping his chin.

The boy almost pulled back from the unexpected touch of coarse skin against his face. But Snape’s grip was surprisingly tender as he leaned down.

“You do?”

“Stay close to me, Harry, do you understand?” he murmured, ignoring the request for confirmation.

Harry’s eyes flickered like Morse-code over his professor’s face as he ogled the man, open-mouthed. “Erm…” Harry began in his customary stammer. “I will, Professor. I mean… I said I would before, I thought-“

“I want you to mean it.”

“I do…” Harry nearly whispered in puzzled astonishment as he continued trying to decipher the sudden and strange combination of fierce gentleness in his professor’s tone.

Snape perused the boy’s face for a short while longer, trailing his thumb swiftly along a sticky spot at the base of Harry’s cheek that could only be discovered by vigilant inspection. “I suppose we should test this outlandish theory of the rooster’s crow before your friend Hagrid becomes any more distraught over its absence.”

“Now?” Harry gasped, gazing up into Snape’s face as the man pulled his shoulders back and rearranged his robes.

“Only after you plunge your face into a basin filled with soap and water,” Snape grumbled, steering the boy forward with firm fingers against the top of his spine. “No more sweet rolls for you this early in the morning, Potter.”

“But I had fruit…”

Snape ignored this as he plodded forward with determined steps, more aware than ever of the twelve-year-old’s proximity.