“Potter!” Severus Snape spat from the front of the dungeon classroom in an icy voice that echoed off of the stone walls surrounding them. 

Harry, his heart thudding madly, had just finished hastily stuffing his parchment and quill into his shoulder bag and turned to flee the deadly silence of the classroom. Snape’s voice, dripping with malice had caused him to jump and snap his head around to face his irate potions master. 

He can’t have known it was me, thought Harry as he glared at his professor with a mingled look of anxiety and disgust. 

However, Snape’s whispered warning of a guaranteed expulsion loomed in Harry’s mind, and the bespectacled twelve-year-old swallowed hard attempting to relieve the dryness in his throat.

Both of them said nothing for a very long minute, professor and student, each possessing an equal amount of loathing for the other, until Harry finally spoke.

“Yes, sir?” he said weakly, unconsciously biting his lower lip. 

“To me, Potter.”

Snape sharply shook back a lock of dark, lanky hair that had strayed in front of his piercing eyes and took his usual stance, arms folded beneath his black, billowing robes.

Oh, no, thought Harry.  He could feel his legs beginning to shake as he made his way to the front of the dimly lit room.  But he quickly recoiled.

 Get a bloody grip, Harry! he told himself as he came face-to-face with his professor, straightening a bit and staring defiantly at the familiar sneer.  He’s got no proof 

“So, you think it’s comical to be the catalyst for exploding potions in my classroom?”  It was a statement, not a question. 

Harry’s knees nearly gave out.  His mind scrambled desperately for a response.  His tongue felt thick in his throat.

“If you’re trying to say that I…”

“Silence!”

Harry flinched, breathing shallowly. 

“No excuses from you, Potter.”

Although he remained much calmer on the surface, his hands were sweating and his heart was pounding in his ears. 

He knows…how does he know?  I’m going to be expelled, Harry thought, feeling nauseous; yet for some strange, unknown reason, he suddenly got a vision of Malfoy staggering up to the classroom with his engorged, potion-soaked nose, whining a bit as Snape used the deflating antidote.  Harry was horrified that when he found himself gritting his teeth together to keep from smirking at the thought. 

What a git, thought Harry, but was yanked roughly back to reality as Snape’s fingers clutched painfully around his upper left arm, giving him a firm, but brief, shake. 

“I saw you, Potter.  Don’t even think of trying to deny it,” said Snape, his dark, penetrating glare burning right through Harry’s pupils to the back of his skull.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, his brain desperately trying to conjure up a lie, but resorted to pressing his top teeth into his lower lip once more.  He lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling extremely small and stupid for getting caught.  For one blissful moment, Harry had thought he’d gotten away with it all.  Obviously, he was wrong.  Harry felt like an idiot.

“My office.  Now.”

Harry stared with wide eyes.  He’d been in Snape’s office only once that year—the very first day back to Hogwarts.  And he knew that nothing good could come out of being dragged in there.  Stunned, Harry briefly thought of pleading with Snape.  He didn’t want to give Snape that satisfaction, but Harry couldn’t bear the thought of being expelled.  Couldn’t bear the idea of returning to the Dursleys for good.  The musty, suffocating smell of Dudley’s second bedroom came back to Harry with a sickening rush. 

Suddenly, Snape grabbed the front of Harry’s robes, jolting him out of his momentary stupor.  He twisted them in his fist, pulling the dark-haired boy towards him so that they were standing less than an inch away from each other.

“What part of ‘now’ confused you, stupid boy?  Go!”  And as he screamed the last word, Snape thrust Harry, stumbling, in the direction of the exit leading to his conjoined office and study. 

Inwardly, Harry seethed.  He hated being shoved.  Hated it!  Being pushed around was something he had been grateful to leave back at Privet Drive, and he wasn’t about to let Snape make him feel as worthless as Uncle Vernon did.  He looked momentarily over his shoulder at Snape.  The man was not kidding around.  Taking a few deep, shaky breaths through his nose, Harry pulled himself together and steadily made his way toward the exit.  He reached for the doorknob, but Snape got there first.  Clenching Harry’s arm again tightly, Snape pushed open the dungeon door and nearly dragged him through the corridor.

“Dumbledore may allow his precious Golden Boy to bend and break the rules, but you will learn, Potter…you will learn…that is not the case with me,” Snape spat at the small boy in his grasp.

Harry said nothing, but instead he worried about what would happen to him once he reached Snape’s quarters.  He’d never seen the potions master in such state before.

Several people turned and watched as Harry was jerked roughly through the corridor. His face burned hot with shame and rage.

“Alohamora,” Snape firmly recited as he pointed his wand at the office door he apparently kept locked, and once more, shoved a staggering Potter in front of him as he turned and slammed the door behind him. 

Snape’s face contorted in anger as he loomed over Harry.

“Do you, Potter, realize the damage you could have caused by your thoughtless, ignorant prank?!” Snape’s voice was like ice.  “You may not give a damn what happens to anyone but your stupid fellow Gryffindors, but I assure you, had I not brought along a vial of the deflating potion—and that was my last vial—your classmates could have been seriously injured!”

Harry was surprised to see Snape shaking and white with rage. 

But at the man’s words, Harry could feel his temper rising as well.  He knew what this was about. 

“Oh, and I suppose if Malfoy would have caused a potion to blow up in Hermione’s stupid face, you’d be giving him just as much grief…” Harry said bitterly, but knew at once he had made a grave error.

Snape took a step forward, and without meaning to, Harry cringed.  Snape froze for a brief moment.  His open hand was splayed in midair as if he were going to slap the boy.  And Harry gazed wildly at the rigid fingers. 

But the hand grabbed his arm instead.  An instant later, Snape spun Harry around fiercely and clouted him hard across the bottom.   Harry involuntarily gasped at the sudden pain, jolting forward from the impact.

Turning an absolutely startled Harry back around to face him, Snape spoke in a deadly voice barely above a whisper:

“You should count yourself lucky, Potter, because were you in Slytherin, and you pulled a stunt like you just did in my classroom, you’d be eating your meal standing up tonight after I finished with you.”

Harry stared, bewildered, his mouth still open as if he were trying to speak.

What in the hell had just happened? 

“Close your mouth, you look like an idiot,” Snape chided in disgust.  But it was obvious by the awkward way Snape brushed back his hair that he was surprised by his own actions.

Slowly, Harry relaxed his jaw.  But still, he couldn’t erase the dumbstruck look on his face.  Harry didn’t know what to think.

In the past, Uncle Vernon had made a habit of chasing Harry around the house, his belt flailing as he clutched it by the buckle in his fat fist.  The hefty man usually only managed to land one blow on the side of Harry’s thigh before giving up completely, clutching his chest and wheezing as if he would die on the spot.  After one of these debacles, Harry always ended up locked in his bedroom for days.  The thought of Uncle Vernon and his belt-threats made Harry’s stomach boil with anger.  Never had any of these “chasings” been justified, as Harry had done nothing more serious than pouring himself a glass of milk without asking. 

But this was the first time anyone had managed to give him a well-deserved smack on his behind.

And Harry was embarrassed.  However, it was a deeper kind of embarrassment.  Harry felt ashamed.

But confused…

He’d been in trouble before many times with Professor Snape.  And, of course, the man was livid when he’d discovered Harry and Ron had crashed a bewitched car into the Whomping Willow at the beginning of term.  At the time, Harry had expected to be expelled or harshly punished by Snape before Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore clambered into the room, saving the two nervous boys from Snape’s wrath.

However, Snape seemed to act differently this time.  What had caused him to react with such a personal, embarrassing physical reprimand?

Harry knew very well that he had crossed the line with his retort, but he hadn’t expected this from Snape.  By the gleam in the man’s eyes, he would have suspected his professor to be roaring again for his expulsion—maybe even threatening to backhand him or throw him bodily out of his office.  But not this.

Harry tried to look away from the intense charcoal glare of his potions master, but the eyes held him. 

Why is he looking at me like that? thought Harry.

The sneer was there—painted on the professor’s face with familiar ease—but he seemed crestfallen somehow. 

Harry’s cheeks burned intensely with shame again as his stomach clenched.  And to Harry’s horror, hot, heavy tears burned at the corners of his eyes.  He didn’t cry.  He couldn’t cry!  Why were his eyes watering?!

The swat had stung but was not really painful enough to cause him to weep.  However, the look Snape was giving him made his stomach churn.  And Harry felt younger than ever.

Since Harry had been wrongly accused, bullied, and ridiculed by his most hated professor since he stepped foot into Hogwarts, he had always felt justified in his anger and disgust towards him.  Each taunt only fueled the venomous fire of hatred.

But Harry suddenly realized that this time, Snape’s accusation proved true.  He’d done something that could have caused injury to many, simply for his own gain, regardless the reason.  Harry never did that.  Gryffindors could have been sitting behind Malfoy and gotten injured. 

Harry swiped his knuckles hastily under his eyes to rid his lids of the tears but ended up having to look away.  Desperately Harry clamped his lips together feeling the muscles in his face tightening.

Dammit, Harry inwardly swore.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said silkily, quietly, “look at me.”

Harry slowly shifted his eyes to meet his professor’s, barely inclining his head from the direction of the slimy jarred ingredients on the shelves in Snape’s office.

The man said nothing for a long moment but gazed at Harry inquisitively, as if he’d never seen the boy in his life.  He stared into Harry’s eyes, watching as the wet lashes rose and fell over the emerald eyes.  Familiar eyes that held his own dark, slate stare so intensely without purpose. 

The same sort of eyes that, years ago, had been able to relate the identical emotion of mingled sorrow and desperation.  But there was something different in this set of green eyes—repentance, perhaps.   

Severus looked away hastily, attempting to shake off the memories of youth and swallow the acid that was climbing up his throat. 

He took a deep breath.

“Potter, you will be serving detention with me for the rest of the week, as well as Saturday morning,” Snape stated quietly, fighting to regain the terse sneer to his voice.

Stomach still aching, Harry nodded.  He’d noticed the gloom that passed across his professor’s pale face, but for now, he didn’t feel like discovering what that was about. 

“Wear something old on Saturday.  You’ll be doing a bit of…cleaning.”

The boy tipped his head miserably once more but added a whispered, “Yes, sir,” hoping to finalize the occasion and make his way back to Gryffindor tower.

Snape turned from the boy with a dramatic swoop of his robes, and Harry, taking this as permission to leave, made his way toward the door.  After closing it softly behind him, the click resounding through the stone corridor, the boy methodically dragged his way back to the dormitory—eyes downcast pensively.

Hearing the door close, Severus inched towards his desk, unknowingly clutching the edge with his hands. 

He didn’t know why he had just let the boy go.  And he certainly couldn’t believe he’d just given Potter a smack, the way he often did when one of his Slytherins was being too cheeky.  What had he been thinking?

But once again, as Severus closed his eyes, the ghostly image of the child’s bottle-green stare haunted him.  He shuddered.  The eyes had nearly impaled him.  Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Severus pushed away the image of the serene, honest stare.  Rather, he allowed his mind to bask in the memory of the way the sun glimmered warmly on the long, ginger hair as he listened to the methodical tick of his pocket watch against his ribs.  Eventually, Severus was able to neutralize his expression entirely, smothering the stray emotions under the porcelain pretense. 

Harry was halfway to Gryffindor Tower when he realized that he’d been walking for several minutes without realizing he was moving.  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t been expelled. 

If there was one person Harry did not understand at the moment, it was Professor Snape.  Since when did the man ever not follow through with a threat?  A week’s worth of detentions down in the dungeons with Snape was bad enough.  Harry didn’t even want to think of the countless slimy, dead creatures he would have to sift through over the next six days.  But what had kept Snape from reporting him to Dumbledore?  He’d blown up a bloody cauldron…in Snape’s classroom!  Harry groaned. 

And then flushed.

Snape had swatted him.  Harry reluctantly recalled the embarrassing event as his face heated so deeply that his cheeks prickled.  His eyes felt a bit itchy around the edges, and he unconsciously pressed his top teeth into his lower lip as he remembered the tears that he had tried so hard to stifle but failed.

Oh, God, Harry thought, what the hell is wrong with me?

As he reached the entrance of the Tower, Harry shook his head from side to side in attempt to rid his brain of all thoughts except the promise of his favorite, soft armchair in front of the fire in the warm common room.  But before he reached the stairs, he decided at the last minute to slip into the bathroom in order to splash his face with cold water…just in case. 

Harry leisurely surveyed the stalls for feet, hoping that there was no one lingering.  Finding the room thankfully empty, Harry turned toward the mirror.  Even though the room was dimly lit, the flames from the torches flickering and glowing in his reflection, Harry could faintly make out the redness still present around the delicate the rims of his eyes behind the round glasses.  One would have to stare intently at Harry’s face, standing about an inch or two away, to notice the mild aftereffects of his tears, but he knew they were there, and that was reason enough to rid all traces. 

Harry removed his glasses, placing them on the ledge of the sink beside him.  He ran the tap and cupped a large handful of icy water before splashing it carefully over his warm face and eyes.  He allowed his cooled fingers to remain pressed against his closed lids for a few seconds longer before reaching for the role of paper.

When Harry replaced his glasses, he slowly edged his face closer to the mirror, examining the eyes that Snape’s own had borne into so intently only a quarter of an hour before. 

The redness was definitely on the fade.  Harry squinted at his reflection, studying the patterns of speckled green that framed the blackness.  How often did one stare into his own eyes?  And what was it Snape had seen that had caused the man to cock his head like that?

You look like a bloody idiot, Harry inwardly scorned himself as he realized how odd he must look, staring at himself while fogging up the mirror.

Running the sleeve of his robes across the moisture, Harry exited the lavatory and climbed the stairs that lead toward the Gryffindor Common Room.

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

The minute Harry entered the common room, Hermione attacked him with a flurry of questions.

“Harry!  Where were you?!  Are you all right?  Someone said they saw Snape dragging you out of the dungeons!  What happened?  I got what we needed, by the way…” Hermione seemed to add the last statement as somewhat of an afterthought.

Harry realized he had backed into one of the wooden tables and knocked over a stack of books in an involuntary attempt to escape the girl’s interrogation.

“Well?” Hermione prompted, a bit impatient at Harry’s lack of immediate response.  She stared at him, a hand resting on her left hip.

“Erm…well…yeah, he caught me.  Throwing the firework into cauldron, I mean…” Harry began, but his explanation was promptly cut short by Hermione’s gasp.

She clapped both hands over her mouth.

“Oh, Harry, no!” Hermione exclaimed sadly, almost disbelieving.  She removed her hands and let them drop heavily at her sides. “Snape said he’d expel whoever did it!  Are you?  Expelled?”

“I…erm…well, no, I’m not,” Harry attempted to reassure her. “I’ve just got detention for the rest of the week.  Nothing to cheer about, but at least I’m not kicked out.”

Harry pushed aside another stack of books and hoisted himself up into a sitting position on top of the table.

Hermione narrowed her gaze.  “You…aren’t expelled?” 

Harry shook his head and shrugged.

“But this is Snape we’re talking about…not Professor McGonagall or Flitwick, who would most definitely be furious, but wouldn’t expel you!” she ranted rather loudly, causing Harry to scoot back a bit more. 

Hermione could be pretty intimidating when she wanted to be.

“I know,” Harry stated simply.  But he really didn’t know...not really.  Part of Snape’s reaction had been predictable: the silent anger, the sweeping robes, the bruising grip on Harry’s arm...  The other part, well, Harry just wasn’t sure. 

Harry couldn’t explain it.  He had always thought that Snape had hated him.  But people who hate you don’t have enough room for things like disappointment.  They could care less.  Not even McGonagall’s glare during last year’s infamous “dragon incident” had made him feel so ashamed.  It didn’t make sense.

Hermione sighed, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

“Well, anyway,” she continued, “you should count yourself lucky Harry.”

“Yeah…”

Hermione reached into the pocket of her robes, “At least we’ve got these,” she claimed as pulled out two vials—boomslang skin and bicorn horn.

Harry stared at the ingredients.  It didn’t seem like such an accomplishment anymore. 

“Let me keep those in my trunk,” he stated quickly, and noticing the retort forming on Hermione’s lips, Harry continued.  “That way, you can’t be accused of anything.  I’m already in trouble.”

“But Harry, there’s no way you could have gathered the ingredients when you--”

“Please, Hermione, just give them to me,” Harry said softly.  He was too tired to argue.  He held out his right hand.

Hermione sighed again, “Oh, all right.”  She placed them carefully against his palm and watched as Harry’s eyes traveled over the glass bottles before he clenched his fingers around them and carefully placed them in his pocket.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked, suddenly remembering his ginger-haired friend.

“He went to find Fred and George…to tell them what happened, I think,” Hermione stated off-handedly as she gathered up the last of her books and shifted them to a comfortable position in her arms.

Harry rolled his eyes, “Great,” he said sarcastically. “They’ll be quite proud, I reckon.”

“Probably.”

“Yeah,” Harry stated and gave a small wave as he watched Hermione climb up the steps to her dormitory.  He stared at his hands that were resting lightly on his thighs. “Probably...” 

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

Harry sluggishly dragged himself through the rest of his afternoon classes.  He was almost sick with dread every time he thought about his first detention that night with Snape.  His stomach was twisted in knots, and his hands wouldn’t stop sweating.  He wasn’t necessarily nervous about the detention.  He’d had plenty of those. But rather, he felt unsure and jittery about facing his professor so soon after their confrontation. 

Hastily, Harry made his way to the Great Hall for dinner, but he didn’t really have an appetite.  He had received a note a couple of hours ago at the end of his last class, delivered by a Slytherin first year, that announced the time of his detention: 6:30 p.m. 

As he traced patterns in his mashed potatoes with his fork, giving up all hope of actually swallowing the gloppy mess, Harry heard, without really listening, Ron’s endless prattle about Harry’s new and coveted hero-status, according to Fred and George. 

Hermione tried to talk to him about the particularly tricky Transfiguration essay that was due at the beginning of next week, but Harry could only respond with half-hearted smiles and nods.  Hermione didn’t pressure him to talk; she probably figured he was dreading his detention, Harry imagined.  She rolled her eyes as Ron’s obliviousness and joined in Pavarti’s and Lavender’s conversation when she heard the words “insect versus arachnid transformation”.

It was after 6:10 when Harry left the Great Hall.  He wasn’t sure how long he’d be trapped down in the dungeons and wanted to allow himself the liberty of walking slowly, enjoying the cool, damp air.  After stopping briefly by the loo, he decided he’d stalled long enough.  Standing in front of the heavy, wooden door, Harry wiped his cold, clammy palms on the front of his trousers before hesitantly pounding his knuckles three times against the door.

“Enter,” Snape called tersely.

Harry pushed open the door, thoroughly dreading the remainder of the evening.

As Harry stepped into the classroom, he peered slowly around the room wondering from which corner Snape’s voice had echoed.

But the room was empty.

Still holding the heavy door open, his fingers gripping the ledge, Harry blinked a few times, attempting to detect the movement of ebony robes amongst the patches of darkness.

He wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of preservatives that was wafting from the nearby buckets. As the boy took another few steps forward, he let the door slip from his fingers, feeling a gentle, damp coolness brush over the back of his neck, causing his skin to prickle.

Another step, and then the door suddenly slammed closed from behind him. Harry’s body jerked from the unexpected thunder of wood against wood. He spun around.

Snape stood in front of the closed door, his left arm outstretched, palm splayed against the wood. He glared down at Harry from his turgid stance and remained completely still. The muscles in his stern face refused to give way to a milder expression.

Harry was as startled by the silence almost as much as from the slamming door. The boy breathed evenly, making every effort to slow the pounding of his heart. Aside from the blood thrumming against his eardrums, the lack of noise buzzed in the stone-insulated room. Harry wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. It was uncharacteristic of his professor to allow Harry the initiating words of a detention.

However, Snape remained silent for the next several seconds, and the room throbbed with the absence of his silky, sneering voice.

Gathering up all of his Gryffindor bravery, Harry shifted his stance, attempting to appear nonchalant, and opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m…” Harry’s voice cracked on the first word. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m here for my detention.” Another cough from the boy, and then he lowered his gaze to the floor. “Sir.” At the last word, Harry looked up briefly through his fringe and back down again when he noticed that Snape had narrowed his gaze ever so slightly.

Trying to play off the apprehensive dryness that had temporarily encompassed his mouth and throat, Harry coughed a couple of times and then risked another hasty glance into the cold, coal-black eyes.

Snape paused for a few seconds and then slowly smirked, gradually cracking the stone pretense.

But it was not an amused smirk, Harry noticed immediately. It was a sneer that Harry remembered well, as it was so very similar to the one that Snape had impressed upon him last year during the first Potions class when the man had referred to him as Hogwarts’ new celebrity.

Harry recalled the intense heat that had crept up the back of his neck, causing his ears to simmer with embarrassment and anger. Not that Harry would ever admit it, even to Ron and Hermione, but his feelings were hurt over the flippantly harsh statement. He’d been rather excited for Potions. It reminded him of the muggle subject, Chemistry, that as a ten-year-old, ignorant of magic, he’d looked forward to studying in secondary school.

But at that very moment, a little over a year ago, Potions became his least favorite subject. In the blink of an eye, his eager excitement had been snuffed by a few venomous words.

It pained Harry to see such a look again, so different than the one he had experienced earlier this afternoon. But the embarrassment was lacking this time and Harry schooled his expression, forcing contempt to take over—to calm him down.

Mutual disdain was what Harry was used to, and it allowed him to emerge from the hurtful recollection.

Irritated, Harry was about to speak again, when Snape straightened up and began to move toward him. Harry forced himself to remain planted, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

“You’re early,” Snape growled, halting a little more than a foot away from Harry.

“I am?” Harry inquired, genuinely curious, looking around the classroom for a clock, even though he knew there wasn’t one. He wasn’t expecting Snape’s first words to have anything to do with time. Besides, he couldn’t be that early. He’d even stopped off at the loo…

“The time is now 6:29 in the evening. There is no clock in here, boy, so you can cease the inane swiveling of your overly large head,” Snape sneered, almost evilly.

“Erm…okay,” Harry retorted. Is this man serious? We’re talking one minute, here!

With a sweep of his robes, Snape ambled over to the nearest counter where several glass vials and jars were arranged, cloudy and clearly in need of cleaning.

“However…” the man said slowly picking up a vial without turning around, “since I am nearly finished taking inventory in the storeroom,” Snape spun on his heel, looking directly at Harry, “I believe you are ready to begin.”

The boy furrowed his brow in confusion and gazed intently at his professor’s deadly glare.

“I…yes, sir,” Harry began, a sense of bewilderment coating every word.

Snape strode forward until he was towering over Harry.

“And seeing, Mr. Potter, as I possess a bit…less than I did last week, it certainly will not take me long to complete my task,” Snape spat through clenched teeth. His voice was cold, steely.

What is he playing at? Harry thought.  He's a complete nutter.

Harry cocked his head at Snape.

“All right..." The boy’s eyebrows were still narrowed in thought, “What would you like me to do? Sir?”

Snape glared for several seconds longer before shaking his head in disgust. “The spitting image.”

Harry felt his temper rise. Oh, I see…  He’s comparing me to my dad again. 

Before Harry could form a response, Snape briskly swept back over to the counter and began noisily gathering the filthy, empty vials, placing them nearer to the basin. The clinking of the glass resounded sharply in Harry’s ears.

“There are over one hundred vials here, Potter,” Snape stated, motioning to the rest of the glass bottles glistening dully on the far right counter.“You will wash each of them thoroughly with a wire bursh and set it to dry."

Harry’s stomach plummeted. How had he not seen those other vials?

“When you are finished, you may begin disemboweling this bucket of toads,” Snape exclaimed matter-of-factly.“If I am satisfied with your work, you may leave.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, spectacularly disheartened.

“Begin now,” the Potions Master snarled, and without meeting Harry’s eyes, without further comment, he walked over to his storeroom, entered, and slammed the door.

Standing stock-still for a short moment, Harry glanced pitifully over at the vials. He would never finish. Would Snape make him stay here all night if he didn’t?

And what was wrong with Snape anyway? Harry asked himself.

The boy sighed and set to pushing up the long sleeves of his robes. He grabbed a vial—the first of many—and began scrubbing. After Harry had finished rinsing his twelfth piece of glass, he lifted his hand to brush the sweaty hair away from his eyes.

The classroom was cold, but the dampness always cacused him to perspire, especially when he began working.

Reaching for the thirteenth, Harry grumbled when his sleeve fell back down over his wrist. Replacing the vial for a moment, Harry unfastened his robes and removed them from his shoulders.

A clinking of glass tinkled from within the pocket.

The boy froze, icicles forming in his stomach; his face heated.  Slipping his robes the rest of the way off, Harry suddenly remembered what he had forgotten to do before his detention.

He reached his cold hand into the deep pocket and carefully pulled out two full vials of boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn, taking care not to make any noise. Snape was still in his storeroom with the door tightly shut.

Oh, God, Harry thought wildly, how could have forgotten about these? No wonder Snape is so angry. He knows.

Feverishly, his stomach clenched into knots, Harry tried to formulate a plan. If Snape found out, he’d surely be expelled now!  How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not known what Snape was snarling about…taking inventory…less than last week…

Harry, you prat, the boy scolded himself.

He had to think. And fast.

For one awful, shameful moment, Harry remembered that, technically, he hadn’t actually been the one who had stolen from Snape’s storeroom—it was Hermione. But feeling immediately disgusted with himself, he forced his brain to conjure up another idea.

Just then, the store room door banged open. Harry jumped, even more startled than he’d been at the first sound of a slamming door, and thrust his hand beneath his robes, draping them over his right forearm.

Okay, what now? Harry thought.

He carefully folded his robes and placed the bundle on a nearby table. Harry felt as if he were backing away from a bomb that was set to explode in thirty seconds.

He glanced over to see where Snape had gone, but the man was nowhere to be found. He must have entered another storage closet.

Harry turned back to his work  but couldn't concentrate.  Every few seconds, he peered over his shoulder.  Harry's knees felt like jelly and his hands were shaky.  He wiped the sweat from his brow once more.

Two vials later, and the classroom was still empty.

Drying his hands, Harry tentatively moved away from the basin towards the middle of the classroom. A door was flung open in the wall behind Snape’s desk. Harry listened carefully to hear any stirring in the background.

Silence.

Slowly, Harry backed up, inching toward his original place in front of the sink. He leaned over, keeping his eyes fixed on the open door.  Harry picked up the bundled vials, delicately--as if handling a swalldled newborn--and tiptoed over to the storeroom.

Please, just give me one minute. One sodding minute...and everything will be back to normal.  And I'll never steal anything again.  Ever.

Harry was sweating more than he thought possible in such a cool atmosphere.

But then Harry froze again.

He’ll know it was me, he thought.  Snape knows he's missing ingredients from his stock.  Either way, I'm dead.

Harry felt trapped. He’d never felt so vulnerable and idiotic in his life.

At that moment, Harry heard a muffled noise cascading through the back closet.

Snape.

Harry snaked around desks as quickly as he dared, dropped his robes and grabbed the nearest vial, upsetting many of those surrounding it.

But before he could catch them, several bottles tipped over and came crashing to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces.

Harry swore under his breath and immediately stooped to gather up the jagged remains.

“Potter!”

Harry jumped and lost his balance, falling back into the glittering slivers.

He could feel the tiny, sharp spears piercing through his jumper, grazing his back like needle points.

The boy groaned in pain as he tried to sit up and felt the slivers push into his skin.

“Potter, don’t move!” Snape exclaimed, pointing his wand at the boy, and levitated Harry from the mess.  He landed heavily on the soles of his lace-ups, wobbling a bit before regaining his balance.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” Harry tried but was shorted.

“Turn around.”

Harry blanched. Was he going to get it again? Glass in his back and all?

“Potter, turn around!” Snape barked.

Harry obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut for whatever was to follow. But all he felt was a tingling sensation down his spine, and the acute stinging disappeared.

Slowly, Harry opened one eye and then the other.

He turned around to face his irate Potions Master.

“Is it possible for you to avoid getting yourself into trouble for one measly night?” Snape growled sternly.

Harry couldn’t look at him. He felt small and stupid as he stared at the bit of floor that had recently been covered with hundreds of microscopic shards.

Snape sighed heavily.  “Get back to work. It’s already half-past seven and you’ve barely begun. I will not have you slacking off during your detentions, is that clear?” He spoke more quietly this time, but his tone was like ice.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, blinking at the floor.

As Harry turned back to the basin to grab another vial—carefully this time—Snape swept back to his desk and pulled out a large stack of essays from the bottom drawer.

Harry winced at the loud slap of paper on wood as Snape plunked them on the desktop.  The man sighed again, and Harry began scrubbing.

Thirty-seven vials later, Harry still felt rotten.  His fingertips were wrinkled from overexposure to water, his sleeves were soaked, and the uneasiness in his stomach intensified as the moments melted away.

Once or twice, he risked a glance over his shoulder at the bundle of robes that hid the stolen items before shifting his eyes over to his silent professor, who was marking essays in earnest.  Every once in a while, the furious sound of a quill tip scratching against parchment battled with the scratching of wire on glass.

Harry was on his sixty-eighth vial when Snape’s voice suddenly startled him out of his dismal thoughts.

“Huh?” Harry turned and stared at his professor.

“Potter, that is not an acceptable way to address me. Try againn

Harry shifted.  "I just didn't hear what you said," the boy offered lightly.  He was exhausted and in no mood to argue.

Snape rolled his eyes, “I said that you are dismissed, boy!”

“Oh. Okay.”

The Potions Master snorted and continued marking essays in his distinct, spiky scrawl, stray locks of dark hair swaying with each stroke of the quill.

“The spitting image,” Snape growled to his parchment once again.

Harry stared, stung. He dried his hands off on the damp towel that was draped over the basin, collected his robes, and made his way slowly towards the door leading out of the dungeon classroom.

As he passed Snape’s desk, he stopped. The man didn’t look up but briefly abandoned his grading and waited.

Figuring that he couldn’t feel any worse than he did now, regardless of what happened, Harry felt his way through the knotted robes,

He placed his hand around the cold bottles for a few seconds and then pulled them out.

This isn’t Hermione’s problem. It’s mine. Be a Gryffindor. Be a Gryffindor. Come on, Harry!

Clamping his lips together tightly, Harry reached over and placed the two bottles, side by side, on the edge of Snape’s desk; the light, dull, thunk of glass on wood was unnaturally loud in the terse stillness.

Harry turned once again and dragged his feet toward the exit.

“Mr. Potter.”

The boy paused again, took a deep breath, and turned.

Snape said nothing for a moment as he surveyed the small face carefully.

“Seven o’clock. Tomorrow. Do not be late,” he gave the tiniest of nods and returned to his work.

Harry’s heart pounded in his ears again, and he nodded, even though he knew Snape couldn’t see. Head spinning and feeling strangely light, Harry exited the classroom for the second time that day.

Turning, for only a second, to stare at the closed wooden door, the boy was unable to see that Severus Snape was also staring intently from the other side.

Disoriented, the man averted his gaze until he was staring at the two gleaming bottles resting delicately in his open hand.

Severus continued staring at the recently returned vials, even after he had set them back in their respective places on the storeroom shelf. The glass, Snape imagined, was still warm from his intense hold.

He backed away slowly, pushing the heavy door closed with both palms flat against the wood. Severus kept his hands on the sealed door for a moment in thought. However, it didn’t take very long for the man to come to a practical decision.

With a brisk sweep of his dark robes, Severus marched hastily over to the classroom exit, threw open the door, and strode down the corridor to Dumbledore’s office, his lips pursed the entire way.

As Severus rounded the corner and stood in front of the stone gargoyles that guarded the entrance, he stopped.

Dear Merlin, what am I doing? he thought, closing his eyes and sighing so deeply that the rise and fall of his chest was visible.

For a moment, Severus continued to stand idly, unconsciously tracing the contours of his lips with a fingertip.  But try as he might, he couldn’t rid his mind of the distinct image of Potter’s face, the slight, controlled tremble of the boy’s fingers as he carefully placed the vials on the edge of the desk.

Snape knew that Potter had been involved somehow in the ingredients’ disappearance.  He was disgusted by the incident, yet minutely relieved, as his wrath towards the boy was rekindled. Pure antipathy was the only emotion that had radiated in thick waves between professor and student over the past year and a half, and suddenly finding his storeroom lacking was enough to plunge Severus into familiarity. He'd basked in it.

But only briefly.

Never in a century would Severus have expected Potter to come clean. After all, he had no proof of the boy’s involvement, except for the mysterious coincidence of items stolen only seconds after a cauldron exploded. It had, without a doubt, been one of Potter’s little side-kick nuisances who had done it. But for reasons unknown, Potter had taken responsibility.

A twelve-year-old...boy, Severus thought scathingly, placing emphasis on the latter as if it were a vile curse.

The son of James Potter. He grimaced.

Lingering over the last epithet, Severus sighed weakly. It was this final thought that pressed him into spouting the words “chocolate frog” with a roll of his eyes. The final consideration that deterred the man from slinking back to his dungeons in apathy...

Severus listened to the grumbling movement of the stone door and stepped inside.

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

Albus Dumbledore was perched behind his desk like a careless toddler playing in his spilled, smashed bananas.  His silver head was bowed over a length of parchment that lay unfurled before him.

He glanced up at the terse knock and smiled softly, knowingly.

“Come in, Severus,” the headmaster called gently, his eyes adopting a twinkle as he followed the Potion Master’s rigid strides.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” Severus greeted tightly with a single, curt nod of his head when he stood only a few paces away from Dumbledore’s large, gleaming desk.

The smile lines etched around the headmaster’s eyes deepened as he surveyed Severus’ poised stance.

“A pleasure to see you, my boy,” Albus spoke up once more. “Judging by the late hour, I assume this is not simply a social call?”

Severus inwardly snorted. When did he ever simply make social calls?

“Indeed, Albus,” Snape began but hesitated, as he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

However, it was clear that Dumbledore could subconsciously sense this as Severus rarely delayed a conversation unless something was troubling him.

“Have a seat, my dear boy,” Albus commanded easily, motioning to one of the chairs that sat across from his desk. “Lemon drop?”

Severus shook his head.  “Thank you,” he added. He had almost declined the offer to sit as well, but at the last minute, he decided against it. There was no need for Severus to give Albus the need to think something was bothering him.

The headmaster said nothing but raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Sensing that he would inevitably be the one to speak first, Severus sighed, shifted, and began.  “In regard to Potter--” Severus paused.

“Ah, yes…Harry,” Dumbledore tipped his head and popped a small lemon drop into his own mouth. “Go on, Severus, what is your concern with the boy?”

Severus hesitated, unsure of how to continue.

“He…the boy is beyond control, Headmaster!” Snape exclaimed more loudly and quickly than he intended.

He hadn’t actually meant to relate it exactly as such either; recoiling, he opened his mouth to speak again before Dumbledore could retort.

But he wasn’t quick enough.

Damn.

“I see,” Dumbledore said softly, his blue eyes briefly trailing over the parchment that still lay in front of him. “What has he done?”

Snape considered this for a moment. He thought about revealing the day’s events to the headmaster but felt inwardly barricaded by an indistinguishable force.

He tried again.  “What I meant to say, Albus, is that the Potter boy knows no limits. He is immune from consequences.”

Feeling more able, more confident, Severus cleared his throat and continued.

“I cannot keep the boy…out of harm’s way…” Snape stumbled over those few words,” if he is unwilling to keep himself accountable. Potter needs boundaries.  He needs consequences for acting like an idiotic, little-”

“I believe Harry found himself in detention several times during his first year, as well as this year has he not?” Dumbledore rhetorically inquired.

“And yet he still managed to crash a flying car into the Whomping Willow,” Severus sneered.

Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, staring intently at Severus with a look of mingled confusion and curiosity. “He did,” the elderly man agreed with a nod. “And he was punished. Minerva saw to that.”

Severus huffed, leaning forward.  “On the contrary, Albus, the boy was rescued from punishment.” Snape felt his patience waning, and quickly. “If it had been any other student besides your precious Potter, he would have been suspended without mercy!”

“Now, Severus…” the headmaster began gently.

Snape stood up, brushing his robes behind him.

“It is the truth, headmaster!” Severus was pacing now.  “Potter could not have cared less about the measly detention he was assigned! The boy has no regard for his safety and others’”

“Oh, I believe quite the opposite, Severus,” Albus replied. “True, he may not adequately look after his own safety, but I believe he cares very much about his friends.”

Snape paused, maintaining his rigid stance but attempting to remove the scowl that had creased his features. He gazed intently at the headmaster.

“I cannot,” Severus said quietly, fiercely, “look after a boy who flippantly disobeys every rule without sufficient consequences. The bloody Boy-Who-Lived may not give much thought to his own life.  But I imagine there are many that do, including you, Albus.”

Snape hesitated another moment before returning to his chair, sitting down roughly, a hand cascading exhaustedly over his face.

“Ah, I see…” Dumbledore offered again mildly. He steepled his fingers in thought and gazed faraway over the tips.

“Enlighten me, Headmaster, what do you see?” Severus retorted tiredly, without removing the hand from his eyes.

Dumbledore ignored the question.

“What are you suggesting, Severus?” the headmaster inquired, shifting his eyes to meet the professor’s.

Snape allowed his hand to drop heavily on the arm rest. He looked up at Albus.

“If I am expected to keep Potter…safe,” Severus barely restrained from choking on the word.  “If I must do precisely that, than give me the authority to ensure that safety by having more control over his discipline."

Dumbledore paused a long moment without unlocking his own eyes from the muddy black.   “Discipline, Severus?...”

Snape nodded.

“The boy needs proper consequences, as well as someone who can consistently follow through with them. After last year’s…events….it is beyond clear that Potter is far too impetuous.”

Dumbledore nodded, still gazing at the Potions Master in deep thought.

“He is quite a remarkable individual, Severus. The boy certainly has a knack for trouble, just like his father,” Dumbledore smiled again, failing to draw attention to the adjacent snort of disgust. “But I firmly believe that his inclination for compassion…for honesty…is what makes him so much more…like his mother.”

The two men held each other’s stare for a moment longer before Severus turned his head away, swallowing thickly.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued.  “Tell me, my boy, how would you plan to employ this...discipline?”

Wrenched back to the present, Snape took a deep breath. “The same way I deal with my Slytherins: high expectations and a firm hand. It is precisely what the boy needs.”

“Perhaps,” nodded Dumbledore. “However…”

Severus grumbled inaudibly. This was a waste of time.

“…a firm hand requires a soft disposition.”

Snape felt the blood rise to his cheeks again; his impatience was edging towards exasperation.

“If you expect me to provide Potter with a bedtime cuddle, you are sadly mistaken, Old Man…”

Dumbledore chuckled, his cobalt eyes twinkling in amusement.

“I’ll consider your request, Severus.”

Snape froze, startled by Albus’s sudden compliance.  But quickly regaining his neutral expression, he jerked his head into a nod.  With a sweep of his robes, he stood up and made his way toward the exit.

“Oh, but Severus…” Dumbledore called to the man, who had just made his way through the doorway and was about to turn the corner.

Snape stopped, turning expectantly.

"A word of warning: I believe Minerva might require a bit more convincing than I."  With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore slowly closed the door on Severus’s aghast expression.

A flash of the headmaster’s mischievous smile was the last thing Snape glimpsed as the heavy door swung closed with a snap, concealing Dumbledore’s office from view.

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

Harry couldn’t sleep.

His stomach was twisted into knots and his feet were cold and clammy as he lay restlessly in his dormitory bed. Even though Harry was hot underneath the heavy blankets, every time he threw them off, he’d start to feel shivery again and ended up cocooning himself in the smothering heat of his covers.

His head swirled. Harry’s mind felt disconnected from the rest of his body. His eyes were heavy and remained closed, but sleep refused to engulf him. Likewise, his body was exhausted. The muscles in Harry’s arms ached from scrubbing so many vials, and the muscles in his legs twitched tiredly, endlessly, begging for the release of slumber.

But it was useless.

Today had been one of the most confusing, most intense days of his life, and Harry felt that he’d made a thousand mistakes, each one worse than the last. He couldn’t believe he’d given himself up—given his friends up. Ruined the entire plan. Now they’d never be able to sneak into the Slytherin common room undetected.

But another part of Harry felt relieved. Cleansed. And Snape hadn’t even said anything! Harry had braced himself for an explosion as he had attempted to exit the classroom but received nothing. Snape had only given him the time for his next detention the following day—7:00 instead of 6:30.

He’s probably cooking up something really vile for tomorrow night, Harry thought miserably.  That is if I make it through ‘til then.

But Snape wasn’t the kind of person that made anybody wait for anything, and Harry knew it. He was the most swift, reactive adult that Harry had come in contact with. Ever.

Snape never hesitated a second to deduct points from Gryffindor and had somehow seen Harry chuck the firework into Goyle’s cauldron, even though Harry had been so careful to do it when Snape had his back turned.

No, Harry’d been spared again, he decided. He just wasn’t exactly sure why.

Giving up all hope of falling asleep, the boy sluggishly, but quietly, dragged himself out of his bed and down the steps to the common room. A meager fire was still blazing, and Harry plopped himself heavily onto his favorite arm chair.  He draped his legs over one of the arms and relaxed back into the corner of the plush chair.

Suddenly, miraculously, it occurred to him:

It was simple, really. Of course, he would have to locate the Slytherin common room first, and then he’d have to think of a plan once he got in it. How could he get Malfoy to talk about the Heir of Slytherin?

Harry decided he could think about that later; he could ask Ron and Hermione. They could all concoct a plan…together.

Forgetting for the moment all of the worry over Snape and his strange behavior...the stolen and returned boomslang skin…the next day’s detention, the flickering flames in the fireplace began to blur and swivel as relief washed over him.

Sure, Harry would have to worry about everything else tomorrow, but right now he could only smile over his sudden spark of brilliancy and surround himself with the warm thoughts of his friends. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all.

Instantly, Harry's eyes drooped as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Severus was in his chambers gathering and arranging the few piles of essays he had graded the night before. It was ten minutes before seven o’clock in the morning, although the vast dimness in his study made it seem much earlier.

Breakfast was served in the Great Hall at seven-thirty, and Severus knew he would have plenty of time to organize his classroom a bit before he made his way over to the morning meal.

He always arrived early, even though he loathed the chipper breakfast greetings. Flitwick’s cheerfulness was enough to make him regurgitate his kippers. Snape would have been more than content to simply take a cup of strong coffee in his study. Alone. Nevertheless, Albus insisted on Severus’ company, and he reluctantly, but dutifully, complied.

Materials in hand, Snape was no more than four paces from the exit when the distinct crackle of flames washed over his senses. Severus didn’t need to turn around to identify the intruder—or the sharp voice that followed.

“Severus Snape!” Minerva McGonagall barked from behind him. “Care to inform me where you’re headed so early this morning?” The delicacy of age had done nothing to soften the edge of the bespectacled woman’s blunt voice.

Severus cringed and closed his eyes before spinning on his heel to retort.

Merlin help us all, he thought, a bit disgustedly.

“Good morning, Minerva,” Snape offered woodenly. At least this conversation wouldn’t be one that was deterred by purposeful procrastination. “I was on my way to the classroom—as I routinely do—before breakfast.

The woman stood with her right hand perched on her hip, lips pursed and eyebrows raised over her small, square spectacles.

“Very well, Severus, but seeing as you routinely arrive at the morning meal quite a bit before the rest of the staff, I believe a few of those minutes could be spared for me. Do you disagree?” Regardless of the early hour, Snape could sense a hint of smugness in the old woman’s expression.

Snape inaudibly sighed and schooled his expression to conceal his gritted teeth.

“Of course not, Minerva.” Snape nodded. Outwardly, his irritation at her slight patronization was undetectable.

He was in the process of gesturing to one of the armless, ebony chairs that sat across from his desk; however, McGonagall, without waiting for an invitation, stiffly sat down and motioned for Severus to do the same.

Snape clenched his right fist that was hidden beneath the sleeve of his dark robes and wordlessly obeyed.

This will undoubtedly be a short conversation, Severus inwardly assured himself.

There was a brief moment of silence between the two professors, but as always, Minerva spoke first.  “I suppose you know what this is about, Severus?”

She remained seated on the edge of her chair, refusing to recline even the slightest.

“Perhaps, Minerva,” Snape stated emotionlessly, continuing the game of repeatedly stating each other’s first names to ensure that this conversation was, indeed, a serious one. If the old woman could be condescending, so could Severus. “However, I would be obliged if you would assert your endeavor…”

McGonagall narrowed her gaze, wringing her hands.

“Don’t play games with me, Severus Snape, you know exactly why I have come—to discuss Po—“

“Potter,” Snape finished with a sneer and tilt of his head, “the medium of most—if not all—congregational concerns of the wizarding world.” He sat back, waiting for her to speak.

Minerva allowed her hands to rest on her lap, the fingers laced tightly.

“I received quite a lengthy letter from the Headmaster early this morning,” McGonagall began.

“I see. And…?” Severus raised an eyebrow.

Minerva paused once more…but briefly.

“And I fail to see what you are trying to accomplish here, Severus!”

Any other person sitting across from McGonagall may have flinched from her sudden eruption.  Snape didn’t bat an eye. He simply cocked his head once more, eyebrows slightly pinched.

“Elaborate.”

The old professor took a deep breath before continuing. “You and I both know that you have had it out for Mr. Potter the minute he stepped foot in Hogwarts.” Her tone was thick with exasperation. “And now you simply want more control over the boy in order to…to…thrash the son of James Potter!”

Amusement threatened to turn the corners of Severus’s mouth, and he fought to control it.  “As you wish, Minerva…”

“This is not a joke, young man!” McGonagall barked. Her spectacles had slipped down to the very tip of her nose, and the professor corrected them impatiently.

“And that has never been implied,” Severus retorted, seriously attempting to swallow his irritation.

“Then explain.”

Minerva finally allowed herself to recline.

Severus averted his gaze for a moment, pondering over his future words.  Clearing his throat, he met McGonagall’s stern, expectant expression with his own. He spoke firmly and simply.  “Potter is in dire need of proper, consistent discipline--”

"And you mean to tell me, Severus, that he currently isn’t receiving this from his head of house?

Snape sighed. He’d had a notion that this was going to occur.

“Do allow me to continue.”

Another pause.

“Very well,” McGonagall complied with a curt nod of her head.

“As I was saying, it is obvious that the Potter boy possesses issues with authority. He is disrespectful, insolent--”

“Not to me,” Minerva stated simply, interrupting once more.

“Disobedient,” Snape continued, raising his voice, “with no concern for his safety.”

McGonagall softened her expression a bit at the latter statement, narrowing her gaze in consternation. The woman was clearly remembering the troll incident of Potter’s first year. Perhaps Severus had a point…

“Why now?” she inquired lightly, yet sternly, leaning forward.

“I beg your pardon?”

Minerva allowed a smile to crinkle only the corners of her eyes.  “I mean, Severus, why now are you suddenly giving further thought to Mr. Potter’s well-being? You would have enjoyed nothing more than seeing the boy sent back on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term for his and Mr. Weasley’s unfortunate encounter with the Whomping Willow.”

Severus frowned. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling. He also didn’t care to relate yesterday’s events to the old woman any more than he did to the headmaster. Severus only knew that, unlike the previous year, he sensed an inkling of repentance in the boy. He wasn’t sure any seventh-year Hufflepuff would have possessed enough honesty to return the stolen vials as Potter had the previous night. 

Snape cleared his throat once more.  “If the boy were in my house during the times he pulled any of his recent stunts, he would have gotten much more than a detention…”

“Oh, I am quite aware of what Mr. Potter would have gotten, Severus; though I believe the boy requires more than just a trip over your knee,” Minerva replied matter-of-factly.

Snape snorted but said nothing of this particular statement.  “Whatever you are thinking, Minerva, the fact remains that your Golden Boy is out of control and requires proper discipline. Clearly, detention is an unsatisfactory deterrent for Potter, as he still cannot seem to keep himself out of trouble.”

McGonagall stared at him, searching his face for a long moment before finally speaking.  “Very well, Severus,” she replied with a sigh, rising from her chair. “You will allow me the day to take this into consideration?”

Snape rose from his seat as well.  “Of course.”

He glanced at the clock: seven-fifteen. So much for organizing his materials for the day…

McGonagall stepped over to the fireplace and threw in a handful of Floo powder. She paused, ignoring the wild flickering of the warm, emerald flames for a moment.

“You never cease to amaze me, Severus Snape,” Minerva smiled softly and shook her head.

Snape gave no reply to this; his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.  She had given him the same, vague look that Dumbledore had last night.

The old woman stepped into the flames, and with a terse command of Gryffindor Tower! spun away to her destination

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

Someone was shaking Harry’s shoulder firmly, and it slowly stirred him out of his delusional state of sleep. It took him a while to register the fact that he wasn’t in his dormitory bed but draped over the large armchair in front of the common room fireplace.

“Harry, wake up!” Hermione’s voice sounded far away.

The boy turned his head to the right from its position on the couch and winced at the stiffness in his neck. His eyes felt gritty and his heart was pounding from lack of sleep.

Harry moaned.

“No, don’t go back to sleep,” Hermione chided. “We’ve got breakfast in ten minutes.”

“Not hungry…” Harry mumbled but kicked his feet around so that he was sitting properly in the cushioned chair.

How long had he lain awake in his bed last night before coming to the common room? Harry wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t completely certain how many hours of sleep he had gotten.  Judging from the dizziness that kept threatening to clog his head, Harry guessed two…maybe three hours?

Hermione sat down across from him on the stone ledge next to the fireplace.  “You don’t look good, Harry,” she stated, worried.  “Did you sleep out here all night?”

Harry took some deep breaths and rubbed the tips of his fingers against his eyes to try and wake himself up.  “No. Only a few hours.”

“Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey,” the girl suggested.  “You’re a bit pale.” Her brow was deeply furrowed.

When Harry looked up again, Hermione’s face was so close to his that he could barely see past her bushy hair.

He shook his head and yawned. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, you’d best go and get ready, Harry, you don’t want to be late for Charms.”

Harry yawned once more and nodded sleepily.

“See you at breakfast, then,” Hermione said as she flounced off to the Great Hall, her heavy bookbag bouncing against her hip.

Harry stood up and walked over to the stairs leading up to his dormitory. Ron came down almost a second later.

“Hey, mate,” Ron called out brightly, and then noticing a still pajama-clad Harry, he asked, “You coming to breakfast? It’s getting late, you know…”

“No, you go on. Hermione’s already down there. I’m not hungry.”

Ron, taken aback at the mere thought of refusing a meal exclaimed, “You all right, Harry?”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. The lack of sleep was obviously wearing down his level of patience.

“Yeah, mate, I’m fine,” Harry replied as he began climbing stairs, the stone almost achingly cold on his bare feet. “I’ll see you in class.”

Ron watched his friend climb to the top.

“Okay, then, see you.”

As Harry entered the dormitory, he plopped heavily on his bed. His head was still spinning slightly, and he rested it in his hands for a bit before reaching for his uniform.

I can’t tell them yet, Harry thought. He’d fallen asleep before he could come up with a good excuse for losing the ingredients and a proper plan of action. Maybe he’d mention it at dinner before his second—

Oh, son of a…

Now Harry remembered why he couldn’t sleep last night.

He moaned miserably for the second time that morning. Allowing himself to fall back onto the mattress, Harry wallowed in self-pity for a moment longer before sluggishly succumbing to the inevitability of dressing and sitting through a day of lessons.

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

Severus had left the Great Hall just before six o’clock; he was glad he’d pushed Potter’s detention back an hour, as it gave him sixty wonderful, student-free moments to unwind and organize his classroom—something he wasn’t able to do this morning.

Stopping briefly by his chambers to retrieve a stack of clean parchment, Severus noticed a small, rolled-up piece tied with a bit of twine resting on the edge of his desk.

Placing the larger stack on a nearby table, Severus slinked over to his desk and untied and unrolled the parchment.  He couldn’t suppress a hint of a surprised expression at its contents:

Severus,

I consent to your request. However, abuse your power and an unruly boy will be the least of your worries.

Regards,

M. McGonagall

Severus reread the letter and shook his head the second time through. That woman would be the death of him. Melodramatic…Irritating…

But surprisingly, she’d consented. Severus would deliver his expectations to the boy first thing tonight.

If this news doesn’t knock Potter off his stool, I don’t know what will, he thought.

Perhaps he’d eventually turn The-Boy-Who-Lived into The-Boy-Who-May-Still-Live-Yet. It’d sure make Severus’s job a hell of a lot easier.

Satisfied, Snape returned the parchment back to his desk and watched as it rolled tightly in on itself once more. Sighing, he strolled briskly over to the deposited stack, scooped it up, and made his way to the dungeon classroom.

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

Harry sat awkwardly on the stool in which he’d been summoned to perch himself only a minute or two after he’d entered the classroom for his detention.

Harry had timed it so he arrived about twenty seconds before seven o’clock. When the boy had knocked and entered, he’d been startled to find Snape sitting calmly at his desk grading papers. The man was still scratching away, Harry noticed, but not as furiously as last night.

As the boy sat on the stool behind one of the higher tables toward the front of the classroom with his sweaty hands tucked underneath his legs and his ankles crossed, he glanced around the classroom.  The glass bottles he had scrubbed last night were nowhere in sight. The sharp, sickening smell of the dead, preserved toads had disappeared as well.

Odd, Harry thought. What’s left for me to do?

Snape cleared his throat and put his quill down on the paper. Harry’s heart rate increased.

Great, I’m dead. Goodbye Quidditch; farewell treacle tart…so long cute Ravenclaw girl that sits in front of me in History of Magic.

As the potions master stood up from behind his desk, he didn’t look at Harry. Instead, he walked over to another table, grabbed a stool and carried it over with him, placing it across the table so that it was facing Harry.

Er…okay…

Taking a seat himself, Snape now stared intently at Harry, his expression neutral. He paused a few seconds before beginning.

“You did not steal from my storeroom, Potter,” Snape said firmly. The sudden echo of his professor’s silky, stern voice caused the boy to jerk a bit in his chair.

Harry didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to follow up a statement like that? He must have been giving Snape a funny look, because the man only narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

“Answer me, Mr. Potter. I do not tolerate silence from anyone when asked a question.” His voice was a bit colder than before.

That wasn’t really a question…

“No, sir, I didn’t,” Harry finally replied softly, wondering where Snape was going with this.

Snape’s arms were now resting fully on the table. He wouldn’t break eye contact with Harry, and it made his insides squirm uncomfortably.

“But someone else did, correct?”

Harry nodded and then added a whispered, “Yes, sir.”

“Yet the vials were in your possession--look at me, Potter!” Harry’s head immediately snapped up.  "You had the ingredients last, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”  Harry was beginning to sweat. He was still a bit dizzy with fatigue, and he clenched his teeth as a shiver ran down his spine.

“You know who stole from me, don’t you?”

Harry felt like throwing up but couldn’t help noticing that Snape didn’t look especially angry—just very stern.  He nodded.

Snape nodded as well, “And the exploding cauldron…you did this to help that person steal the ingredients, yes?”

Harry nodded again, weakly.

Please don’t make me say it. Please don’t make me say it. Please…

Snape studied the boy’s face for a moment, scrunching up his eyes inquisitively.  “You aren’t going to tell me who it was, are you Potter?”

Harry’s head was spinning wildly.  “No, sir,” he whispered, barely audible.

Snape tipped his head once in a nod as if he’d already expected this.

Harry stared at his professor, breathing heavily. He already felt sick before he came to detention. Now, he felt worse.

Wordlessly, Snape stood, picked up his stool and swung it around to the side of the table so he was sitting closer to Harry. Plunking it back down, he reached out for the seat of the boy’s stool and pulled it closer so that the two were positioned as if they were going to have a staring contest.

Harry held on to the table in order to steady himself when Snape had, without warning, scraped Harry's stool closer to his own.

Resting his right hand and forearm on the table, Snape leaned in and spoke again.  "It ends here, Potter.”

Huh?

“Sir?” Harry was bewildered.

“No, don’t speak. Listen.” Snape’s voice held a steely edge that was unfamiliar to Harry.  “You have gone far too long and have overstepped too many boundaries without sufficient consequences during your career at Hogwarts.”

“But, I…”

“Potter, Do. Not. Speak,” the man growled, glaring. He continued. “In other words, Mr. Potter, there will be no more late-night wandering around the castle, no rule-breaking, no disrespect in my classroom, no stupid, dangerous stunts that harm you or your classmates--”

"I said I was sorry!"

Snape glared again, and Harry dropped his head, trying to swallow the growing thickness in his throat.

“Count yourself lucky, Potter,” Snape said very quietly, “because had you not redeemed yourself, you’d be in far worse trouble than you are right now.”

Redeemed myself?

“However," the Potions Master continued, his voice icy again, “if you ever do anything like that again—in my classroom or anywhere else—if I catch wind of one of your mindless stunts or roguish plots, regardless of your intent, you will face my consequences and will find yourself in serious trouble.”

Harry was flabbergasted, “But...I don't...I mean--"

“Allow me to put it plainly, Potter.” Snape leaned in closer. “If I find out you’ve done any of the things I’ve mentioned—eyes up!—just one, you will receive a spanking.”

Harry felt his cheeks burn intensely at Snape’s threat.  He can’t do that!  he thought.  And Harry would liked to have told him so, but the words congealed in his throat.

Snape sat back and shook the dark hair out of his face, waiting for the message to sink in.

Harry chewed on his lip and blinked his eyes several times to relieve the burning sensation that was forming at the corners and throughout his sinuses.

He can’t be serious, Harry thought. But there was no mirth playing about the professor’s face—no condescending smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. Nothing but solemnity and sternness threaded Snape's features. 

Shit, he really IS serious.

Crossing his arms tightly against his chest, Snape spoke at last. “Well, Potter, have I made myself perfectly clear?”

No effing way.

“Yes, sir,” Harry croaked, feeling utterly chastised. And hating himself for it.

"Good."

Snape stood up, moved the stool back, and stalked over to his desk, “Now, for tonight’s punishment…”

Harry’s insides coiled but immediately released when Snape returned with only a small stack of parchment.

“Professor?

“Potter.”

“I…it’s just that…” Harry stammered, “I don’t understand. Why does it matter what I do as long as it’s not in your classroom? Professor McGonagall gives me detention all of the time. I mean…”

But Harry stopped. He didn’t really know what he was trying to say, and he felt like an absolute idiot.

Snape sighed and moved forward.  “Ah, Mr. Potter,” he replied with the tiniest of smirks. “I would imagine the hero of the wizarding world would expect nothing less than the full treatment…”

Snape slapped the pile of paper in front of the slumped boy.

“Take out your quill.”

Giving the moderate stack of parchment a fleeting glance, Harry swiveled around and checked the floor for his shoulder bag, even though he knew he hadn’t brought it along to detention.

When did he ever?

He looked up at his professor with an expression of mingled incredulity and irritation.

“I don’t have one,” Harry stated. “I mean, I thought I’d be doing what I did yesterday…you know…cleaning out those glass bottles.”

Snape rolled his eyes as he turned and walked the short distance to his desk.

“Potter, if I wanted any more of my vials broken, I would have, indeed, set you to the task of scrubbing them.” Snape’s voice was slightly muffled as it echoed off the small drawer he was rifling through.

“Oh…”

Git.

Harry shifted on his stool. He felt a bit stiff and achy. His head hurt and seemed to be stuffed up. Resting his cheek on his left hand, propped up by the elbow, Harry watched as Snape retrieved a spare quill and bottle of ink from the bottom drawer.

His face was still warm and prickly, most likely from the waning embarrassment that had flooded his face over the past few minutes when Snape had threatened to…

No way. I am NOT going to think about it, Harry told himself as his brain fought to destroy that horrendous moment.

Items in hand, Snape stood up and stalked back over to Harry who was now stretching his eyelids wide to keep them open.

The professor looked at Harry strangely but said nothing. Instead, he set down the ink with a clunk at the right hand corner of the parchment and held out the delicate writing instrument.

Wordlessly, Harry took it and straightened his head, dropping his left forearm flat on the table.

He sighed.

Snape glared.

Harry shifted again, attempting to neutralize his expression into one of polite expectation. He wasn’t sure it worked, since it was hard to appear as if he were anything but exhausted and dizzy. But Snape seemed to have accepted it, as the man cleared his throat and proceeded with his instructions.

“Every action is accompanied with a consequence, is it not, Potter?” Snape began, his voice clear and commanding.

“Mmhmm,” Harry answered with a small nod, wishing Snape would just hurry up so he could finish his lines and bury his head in the depths of his pillow for the rest of eternity.

“Mr. Potter, I believe we’ve already discussed my intolerance of your mumbled slurs,” the man snarled. “You will address me with respect.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied automatically, resisting the urge to crumple a few pieces of parchment up in his fist.

With a firm nod of his head, Snape continued, “As I was saying—are you listening to me, Potter?”

“Yes!” Harry glanced up at his professor. He really was listening; his brain was just having a difficult time absorbing the information.

Snape raised an eyebrow, but moved on.  “It is vital for you to realize that you will go nowhere in life without possessing accountability for your deeds—or in your case, Potter,” Snape added, “your many misdeeds."

It would probably be bad if I gave him the finger right now, Harry thought to himself, amusedly.

Snape crouched down slightly so that he was at Harry’s eye-level.

“Therefore,” the man proceeded in his infamous, silky tone, “you will begin by repeatedly relating the following message in writing for the duration of your detention.”

Removing a dark wand from the inside of his robes, Snape gave it a smart flick and watched as the sentence slowly bled into the very top of the first piece of parchment:

I will no longer be immune to the consequences of my foolish actions.

Harry stared blankly at his professor. 

“Problem, Potter?” Snape inquired with a smirk, taking his usual stance, arms folded beneath his robes.

Harry shrugged. He just wanted to start his punishment so he could finish it.

“Nope,” Harry stated, quickly remembering to add the “Sir” as he risked a glance through his fringe at Snape's piercing stare.

“Very well. You may begin.”   With a sweep of his robes, Snape turned and sauntered towards his desk.

“Oh…wait,” Harry added quickly, half-expecting Snape to turn and hurl something at him.  “How many times do you want me to write this? Sir?”

But Snape only reached for a stack of essays he had arranged, and without looking at Harry, sat down and replied, “What part of ‘for the duration of your detention’ did you not understand, Potter?”

Harry barely suppressed a groan.

“All right,” he sighed.

Picking up his quill and arranging it comfortably between his fingers, Harry dipped it into the ink and began.

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

For the first page and a half of lines, Harry concentrated on nothing but his cursive handwriting and the pounding ache in his temples. He practiced writing as neatly as possible because, really, what else was there to do? The damn tyrant had given him an endless task.

But is he really that much of a tyrant? Harry questioned himself as he wrote.

After all, Snape could have easily had Harry expelled (or tried to anyway), or the man could have skipped the warning and walloped his bum the minute he stepped over the threshold of the classroom entrance…

I will no longer be immune to the consequences of my foolish actions.

Harry paused, his quill poised in midair.  He flushed yet again.

As much as he tried, Harry couldn’t bury the reality any longer: Snape could smack him?  Since when?

But obviously, the man could or else he wouldn’t have even mentioned it.

Harry glanced up from his parchment. Snape appeared to be absorbed in his grading but paused the second he realized that no quill-scratching was taking place from across the room. The professor looked up at Harry at almost the exact moment the boy dropped his eyes again, hastily returning to his lines.

“Concentrate, Potter,” Snape commanded sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Harry spoke without lifting his head, pretending that he was attempting to do just that all along.

Searching for the place where he left off, Harry began writing again, resting his head even more heavily on his propped-up hand. The words began to blur a bit.

Harry blinked a few times and rolled his eyes around so that he wouldn’t be tempted to close them, giving in to the heaviness of sleep that was slowly threatening to crush him.

It’s cold in here, he thought blearily.

Shifting his legs a bit to warm up, Harry focused on completing a few more lines.  The word consequences leaped out at his tired eyes every time he wrote it. He tried to concentrate but couldn’t stop the thoughts from bubbling over. Harry felt as if he were carrying on a one-man conversation in his head.

But detention’s a consequence, isn't it? I mean, I hate having to give up my free time, and I learn a lot from it…  Okay, that’s a lie.   But still, when have I ever gotten away with anything?

The dueling thoughts were only increasing the painful pressure in the boy’s head.

You get away with stuff all the time, stupid, Harry continued scolding himself.

He looked down at his work; he'd misspelled “actions”.

Shaking his head to clear the swirling, shouting thoughts that refused to go away, Harry squinted more closely at the shiny, black ink:

I will no longe be immune to the consequence of my of my foolish atcions.

More spelling errors.

Dammit, I really need to concentrate! Harry inwardly shouted. He felt like pinching himself.

Just then, a mild pop echoed throughout the classroom. Harry glanced up to see a rolled up piece of parchment hovering above Snape’s head. Wordlessly, without removing his eyes from the parchment, Snape slowly reached his left hand up to grasp the floating document while he continued marking an essay with his right.

Harry watched as Snape set down his quill, unrolled the parchment, and read the note swiftly.

“Merlin’s beard… Can the man accomplish anything by himself,” Snape muttered.

Harry pushed his hand further up on his forehead so that his fringe was smoothed back and pressed the tip of his quill to the parchment.

“Potter?” The Potions Master stood up and pushed the wooden chair underneath his desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need to inquire about something. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. I trust you can sit still and work on your lines until then?” Snape was already making his way toward the exit.

No, I thought I’d play a little Exploding Snap…

Snape raised his eyebrow in impatient expectance.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“See that you do,” Snape firmly added and left the classroom, closing the door behind him.

Harry breathed a tiny sigh of relief. However, he had to admit, the convulsing tenseness in his stomach wasn’t nearly as severe as it was during the hours before tonight’s detention. His palms weren’t even sweaty anymore.

Sure, it was downright humiliating being scolded, but Harry had expected yelling. He just wasn’t prepared for the burning shame that had followed. In the past, Snape was always scorning Harry for something, but he’d never rebuked the boy as sternly and seriously as he had tonight. And at the time, it caused Harry’s insides to ache with something…unfamiliar. He just couldn’t explain it.

Trying not to dwell on the night’s events, Harry forced his hand to keep moving.

Write, then bed. Write. Bed.

Thankfully, the dizziness had diminished, but Harry now felt incredibly sleepy. He was still a bit cold and his nose felt stuffy. When Harry tried to sniffle, he felt that his eyes were going to pop out.

Lifting his head, Harry removed his fingers from his tangled hair. He laid his left palm flat on the desk and considered for a moment before finally resting his cheek against the back of his splayed hand. Harry moved the parchment closer and continued working on his lines, truly not caring that the words were slanting towards the bottom of the parchment.

As he wrote, Harry decided that he would go to Dumbledore tomorrow and talk to him about this whole situation.  Snape couldn't give him a babyish, bloody spanking for any reason.  He couldn't.  And hopefully the headmaster wouldn’t tell Snape that Harry had spoken with him. After all, Harry could just ask his professor and demand to know what was going on.  But he’d already tried that and had made a fool of himself, hadn't he? Stammering like some sort of idiot...

Why is Snape so bloody intimidating? Harry thought, even though he hated admitting it.

The boy yawned heavily and shivered. He attempted a half-hearted sniffle, but found, again, that it only made his head feel clogged.

Finally, after two more lines, Harry gave up completely and allowed his eyes to droop.

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

Severus strode briskly down the corridor approximately twenty minutes after he’d left Potter to tend to the Squib’s measly, trivial concern.

Argus Filch was forever creating vast tribulations out of petty occurrences.

The idiot had confiscated four pieces of Droobles chewing gum from Fred Weasley, after forcing the ginger-haired miscreant to empty his pockets, and kept insisting to Snape and anyone who would listen that the size and color of the candy was suspicious.

With a wave of his wand, Snape had been able to examine them and assure Filch that, indeed, the Weasley twin was up to nothing more than blowing menacingly large bubbles during Transfiguration.

What Severus really wanted to do was chew up all four pieces at one time and press the wad into the dunce’s forehead; however, Snape simply left Filch’s office with a dramatic roll of his eyes and signature sweep of his robes and made his way back to his own classroom.

As Severus rounded the corner for the second time that night, he hurriedly threw open the heavy door and stepped inside.

He froze.

Potter was sound asleep. 

His messy head was resting on the desk as still as a piece of driftwood, and his left cheek was stupidly squashed against his hand making the boy appear cherubic,

Disgusting.

Instead of letting the door bang closed, Severus released it softly and sauntered over to the sleeping boy, preparing to crouch down and scare the daylights out of him with an abrupt awakening.

But as Snape moved in closer, he noticed something…odd about the boy.

Potter seemed to be shivering. The boy was attempting to breathe through his nose but wasn’t having much luck.

Severus moved even closer and squinted.

Potter was a bit pale, and the expression on his face was not one that reflected the comfortable release of a deep slumber.

Straightening himself up, Snape grimaced and closed his eyes.

Let Pomfrey deal with him…

As Severus opened his eyes, Potter stirred a bit and moaned very lightly but did not wake.

Tentatively, Snape reached a hand out and held it very close to the boy’s face. Pausing for only a moment, the potions master sighed and gently touched the back of his fingers to Potter’s upturned cheek.

Very warm.

Frowning, Severus shifted his hand to feel the boy’s forehead. Clammy heat soaked into the back of his wrist, but as his fingers brushed past Potter’s nose, the man noticed that it was icy cold to the touch.

For the first time that night, Severus noticed that Potter was not wearing a jumper—only his white school shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Foolish boy, Snape thought.  You’ve had detentions in the dungeon before.

But Snape also remembered Potter mentioning that he thought he’d be scrubbing out more vials.

Finally, Severus’s hand strayed over to the quill that Potter held lightly in his hand. Very small drops of ink dotted the desk where the soaked tip had been suspended. Removing the delicate instrument, his knuckles brushed past the icy tips of the boy’s fingers.

The man felt like snapping the quill in half.   The only thing worse than an unruly Potter is a sick Potter, Snape inwardly growled, his frown deepening.

Wasting no more time, Snape reached into his robes and pulled out his wand. With an elaborate swish, he cast a warming charm on the boy’s clothes.

He half-expected Potter to wake up at the unfamiliar sensation, but the boy simply shifted a bit and sighed.

Bloody hell.

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

Crouching down to the boy’s level, Snape spoke mildly.  “Potter…”

No movement.

“Potter,” he tried again, a bit louder.

Somewhere, muffled in the back of Harry’s brain, he faintly heard himself being summoned. Slowly, the boy opened his eyes and lifted his head. His world was spinning again. Harry groaned and turned his head. Snape’s pinched face was inches away from his own.

Harry jumped and nearly fell off of his stool. In the midst of his wild movement, his right hand swept the small jar of ink to the floor.

With a loud clink the ink splattered everywhere.

Without thinking, Harry bolted down from his stool, trying to ignore the pounding in his ears; he squatted and reached for the bottle. But before he could grab it, Harry felt strong arms grasp him around the shoulders and slide him firmly underneath the lab table away from the mess.  His school shoes squeaked against the floor as he was dragged forward.

Harry wobbled on his feet as he stood up, but before he could register the dizziness, Snape lifted him from under his arms and plopped the small twelve-year-old on top of the table.

“Don’t move,” Snape commanded firmly, pointing a finger at Harry before stepping around to the side of the table and quickly banishing the mess. Retrieving the empty ink jar, Snape grabbed the pile of parchment and deposited both items on his own desk.

The professor exhaled strongly before turning back around.

Harry sat slumped on top of the desk; his right elbow rested on his thigh while he pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses with the corresponding hand.

Listening to the noises in the room, Harry could only guess that Snape had moved to a nearby cabinet and was rifling through many items that clinked and clattered.

The boy rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his closed lids to relieve the ache behind his eyes. He sniffled again and then cursed himself for forgetting about the uselessness of that…

“Potter, look up,” Snape stated.

Harry complied.

Without warning, he felt thick wool brush against his glasses and cheeks. Snape had put something over his head. A jumper.

An light gray, ugly, ugly jumper.

Where the hell did he get that? Harry wondered, the aching in his head obviously barricading his mind from the common sense of simple transfiguration.

Snape held the jumper out and shook the sleeves impatiently.  Harry finally put his arms through the holes, giving his professor a look of incredulity.

“Here,” Snape snapped as he held out a folded, white handkerchief.  “Your incessant sniveling is giving me a migraine.  Blow.”

Harry tried, but his ears popped instead.

“I can’t.”

Snape was busy measuring out a portion of some sort of amber liquid.

“Potter,” the professor huffed, irritated, “I never thought the day would come when you would actually fail in accomplishing even the simplest of tasks…”

Harry was too tired to be offended.

“No,” the boy mumbled, “I mean…my nose is stuffy. I can barely breathe out of it.”

Snape strode once again to the cabinet, which Harry now saw was crowded with jars full of multicolored potions, and chose one—a deep blue liquid.

Closing the small door with a snap, Snape returned and handed Harry the small portion of the amber potion.

“Drink it.”

“Er…” Harry hesitated. He’d tasted a good deal of Madame Pomfrey’s potions and not one of them was remotely appetizing.

“Drink it now, Potter, before I spoon it up and feed it to you,” Snape growled.

Harry could tell the man’s patience was waning.  He tipped the small glass to his lips and swallowed.

Sick.

Harry made a face and handed the glass back to his professor.

“Ugh.”

But already, Harry’s headache was going away.

“Quiet, Potter. Drink.”

Snape handed Harry another small glass filled a fourth of the way with the indigo-colored potion.

Harry closed his eyes and downed it.

It tasted like the smell of a dirty sock.

This particular concoction actually caused Harry to stick his tongue out in disgust, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

Immediately, his head began to feel lighter, and he sniffled noisily.

Snape held the handkerchief out once again, and this time, Harry was able to blow his nose.

He felt a little better—still extremely tired, but better.

Gathering up the bottles and empty glasses, Snape marched over to the counter and set them down gingerly. When he returned, the man leaned against the lab table and looked at Harry gravely.

“Have you felt ill all day, Potter?” Snape questioned.

Great, here we go again… Harry thought miserably.  Maybe if I pretend to pass out he’ll just leave me be.

“Only after lunch. Sir,” Harry muttered. He crossed his ankles to prevent his feet from swinging involuntarily and sat on his hands again.

“And you failed to visit Madame Pomfrey, even though you continued to feel worse, am I right?”

“Well...” Harry began.  "It’s just, I thought that…” He paused.

“Go on.”

“I just didn’t get much sleep last night."

Snape frowned.  “Explain.”

Explain what?

“I was just thinking….about stuff,” Harry mumbled. He really just wanted to go back to his dormitory. Or finish writing his lines, now that he felt better. Snape’s glare was sizzling a hole through his forehead.

“Mmmm,” Snape commented; he continued to frown as he stared at Harry. “Very well, Potter, you are dismissed for the night.”

Harry looked at his professor in disbelief.  “Really?”

“I mean what I say, foolish boy!”

Harry sighed in relief and moved the heels of his hands to the edge of the table to push himself off.

“However,” Snape continued in his silky tone, "you are to go straight to bed. No lounging about in your common room.”

Harry’s mouth fell open involuntarily.  “It’s not even nine o’clock yet!” the boy cried, “Professor McGonagall doesn’t give us a bedtime!”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Potter, I just did, and as long as you are spending the next two nights in my dungeons for the remainder of your detentions, I will not tolerate your dozing off in the middle of them. Is that clear?” Snape stated in an icy voice.

Harry swallowed.  He really wanted to say You can’t tell me what to do! But he held his tongue.

Fine, the boy thought, we’ll see what Dumbledore has to say.  At that precise moment, Harry had decided to see the headmaster first thing in the morning instead of waiting.  He figured there had to be something he didn’t know…

“Well?” Snape demanded.

Harry cracked his knuckles.  “Yes, sir,” he muttered, struggling to suppress his glare.  “Can I go now?”

Snape hesitated.

“You are to see Madame Pomfrey if you begin to feel ill again.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry pushed himself forward.

“Straight to bed, Potter. I won’t have you slacking off during any more detentions.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry stated quickly, his bottom teetering on the edge of the table. He just wanted to go!

Snape nodded curtly. “Come tomorrow immediately after dinner. No later than five-thirty. You may go.”

“Thank you!” Harry sighed in relief, hopping off and speeding toward the door.

“Walk!” Snape called after him.

Harry slowed. 

"Blasted little dunderhead..."  the professor grumbled to himself.

Snape watched as the boy yanked open the door and stepped through, taking care to close it gently behind him. But after a few seconds, he could faintly make out the boy's quickened steps once he had reached the other side.

Rolling his eyes, Snape stalked back over to his desk.

“Your welcome, Potter.”  He found himself smirking around the sarcasm.

Running both hands through his dark hair, Severus sighed as he sat down, pulling the temporarily neglected essays close as he settled into the comfortable monotony of grading.

Startled awake by the echo of a sudden, sharp snore, Harry emerged slowly and clumsily from a deep sleep that had comfortably smothered his consciousness for the past several hours. Hey lay motionlessly on his side, his eyes still closed, but Harry knew he was awake. The last vague traces of his strange dream flashed sporadically in his mind, but as each second passed, his memory became muddy, and the details of the dream rapidly slipped away until he had barely any recollection of it.

It didn’t matter. Harry rarely had pleasant dreams, and the quicker he forgot about them, the better.

Lazily, Harry rolled onto his back and finally opened his eyes. The lashes were a bit stuck together with sleep, but even through the delusion of an abrupt awakening, Harry could tell that it was very early. And Neville continued to snore soundly.

Slapping his hands against his face, Harry rubbed at his eyes deeply for a few seconds to alleviate the remaining daze and fatigue before allowing them to fall limply back onto the pillow, palms open, resting along either side of his head.

A light sniffle immediately transformed into a heavy yawn, and Harry involuntarily stretched his limbs, his hands balling into fists before he slipped them behind his head. His headache was gone, but his nose still felt stuffy. Harry suddenly realized that he felt well-rested and warm underneath his cozy blankets. He’d done what Snape had told him to and had gone to bed right after his detention. Well, actually, Harry had been planning on going to sleep early anyway, before Snape had gotten completely weird and began bossing him around as if he were six years old.

Harry sat up and glanced over at the clock on his night stand. Five-forty in the morning. He would go talk to Dumbledore a little before seven o’clock. That way, Harry would have plenty of time to go down to breakfast to talk to Ron and Hermione. He had to tell them today about the lost ingredients. Hermione had mentioned something about “the plan” in Herbology yesterday, but Harry had quickly changed the subject. But he couldn’t put it off any longer. Harry just hoped that his friends would be understanding and willing to try something else.

Knowing it didn’t take him very long to get ready, Harry allowed himself some time to lounge in his bed and think. However, he focused his attention on his upcoming conversation with Ron and Hermione rather than worry about what he would say to Dumbledore. Harry would figure that out on his trek over to the headmaster’s office. He may have thought different last night, but right now, maintaining the stability of friendship seemed to float to the top of his priorities.

Listening to Neville’s ragged breathing, Harry waited and watched absently while the deep blue shadows of early dawn lifted from the surrounding walls, and for the next twenty minutes, was lost in careful contemplation.

Harry stood outside of the headmaster’s office, repeatedly crumbling and releasing the edges of the long sleeves of his robes in his hands.

How in the sodding…

What was the password? Harry hadn’t ever been inside of Dumbledore’s office, but he had walked by it a few times, always staring at the stone gargoyles and sealed entrance, wondering what lay behind them.

“Well?” the gargoyle growled, causing Harry to start. Man, he was jumpy lately!

“Oh…I…er…” Harry stammered in surprise. This was just like talking to the Fat Lady, right? Maybe if Harry just told the ugly thing that he needed to see Dumbledore and it was urgent—okay, maybe not urgent—but important, nonetheless… “I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore, but I don’t know the password.”

The gargoyle laughed evilly, softly, “Then you may not enter.”

Damn. Harry fought the urge maim the stone mutant by a fierce kick to send it flying off its pedestal.

He sighed in frustration and stood fidgeting for another moment before turning on his heel.

“Oh, forget it,” Harry irritatingly exclaimed.

But just as he started down the long corridor, a loud grinding echoed from behind him. Harry snapped his head toward the pronounced scraping and watched as the door slowly rotated a few seconds before opening.

Perhaps it was because of the deep, billowing growl of the entryway that Harry was shocked and a bit amused when tiny Professor Flitwick toddled through the door. He’d expected someone more along the height and width of Hagrid to emerge from such an entrance.

“Harry!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, delighted, “you’re up early this morning.” The petite man closed in on the boy.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied hastily, “is Professor Dumbledore still in his office?”

Stupid question, Harry thought, where would he have gone in the three seconds it took Flitwick to leave?

But Professor Flitwick only smiled and piped up, “Oh, of course. You’d best hurry before the entryway seals itself again,” he squeaked, pointing towards the stone that was beginning to grumble.

Harry strode toward the grinding noise quickly, barely remembering to call out a “thanks” over his shoulder. He slipped in, sweeping his robes out of the way just in time.

Standing in front of the smaller entrance to Dumbledore’s office, Harry cleared his throat and released the wrinkled edges of his robes that he had clutched in his fists. Lifting his hand to knock, the boy heard a faint, “Come in,” resound from the other side. Harry complied.

The boy inched his way through the vast, elaborate office, allowing his eyes to sweep over everything swiftly, but immediately taking in the grand bookshelves, telescope, and beautiful motley phoenix perched beside Dumbledore’s desk.

“Ah, Harry, dear boy,” the headmaster smiled softly, the tone of his voice light and clearly pleased, “my second visitor this morning. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry moved forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off, speaking gently.

“Can I interest you in an excellent piece of chewing gum?”

“Oh…no thank you,” Harry said politely, resisting the urge to bury his hands in his pockets.

Dumbledore gestured to one of the chairs across from his desk, and Harry sat down gingerly, but this time, he couldn’t fight the urge to tuck his hands underneath his thighs in his habitually, familiar position. If he didn’t, Harry knew he would soon begin to twiddle his thumbs or something as equally idiotic.

“Lemon drop?” the old man offered his favorite tin.

“Er…”

Oh, what the hell.

“Sure,” Harry exclaimed as he leaned forward and chose an imperfect, golden sweet, “Thanks, sir.”

“You are very welcome, Harry,” Dumbledore nodded. His soft eyes possessed their usual sparkle.

The man appeared, Harry noticed, as if he were a bit giddy at the unexpected delight of the boy seeking him out; however, the headmaster also had a gleam in his eyes that perhaps suggested that he knew that Harry was coming all along.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He definitely knows something I don’t…

“I assume, my boy,” Dumbledore began, “that since you have taken the trouble of rising so early to visit me in my office, there is something you wish to speak with me about.”

Harry shifted on his hands, noticed that they were beginning to tingle, but kept them there anyway.

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered but hesitated. The headmaster’s voice was calming, but Harry wasn’t sure how to put his concern into words.

Dumbledore nodded and waited patiently.

“Well…it’s about Professor Snape,” Harry stated, a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“Ah, yes,” the headmaster smiled approvingly, “Tell me, what about Professor Snape concerns you, Harry?”

Harry narrowed his eyes a bit at the man’s cheerful demeanor and emphatic delivery of Snape’s title.

Okay…

“It’s just that he…erm…seems a little off…lately,” Harry attempted.

“Lately…” Dumbledore echoed as he schooled his expression a bit, steepled his fingers, and leaned forward.

“Yeah, I mean…the past two nights in detention—“ Harry paused and swallowed so thickly it felt as if a snitch was lodged in his throat. His face burned instantaneously. He didn’t know whether or not Dumbledore was aware of his week’s worth of detention.

Harry tread carefully, glancing up at the headmaster who seemed unhinged by the announcement that Harry had been in detention for two nights in a row. The boy felt a mild heartbeat pulsing in his hot cheeks, but Dumbledore’s soft expression gave Harry the courage to continue:

“He’s just been acting kind of weird,” Harry finished, knowing very well he hadn’t explained himself well enough.

But at that moment, Harry’s head swirled with thoughts from last night. Snape’s stern, rather than sneering expression—the look that made Harry feel ashamed for the first time in Snape’s presence—flashed through the boy’s mind. The intense lecture. The forced eye-contact. Threat of punishment. The lines. The sweater…

The potions…

And for the first time since he’d left the dungeons, Harry thought about how quickly Snape had sprung into action when he’d woken up from his feverish sleep. Before Harry could even register what was going on, Snape had shoved a sweater over his head and forced him to drink disgusting potions that…made him feel better.

Harry had been sick before—many times when he was younger. But Aunt Petunia never gave him any type of medicine to relieve his headache or stop his nose from dripping profusely. She only scowled at him, keeping Dudley as far away from germy Harry as possible, leaving the boy to shiver under his thin blankets in the cupboard and swipe repeatedly at his own nose with the back of his hand until it was red, sore, and stuffy.

But he’d learned to deal with it. What choice did he have?

Now that Harry thought about what Snape had done for him, he kind of felt like a prat for blowing off the situation and then for getting angry over being ordered to bed. He wasn’t used to anyone telling him what to do—not like this anyway. But the medicine thing…that was kind of…nice of him.

Whoah, Harry thought wildly, this is Snape we’re talking about. I need to focus on the fact that he somehow thinks he can beat me now… Okay…well not beat me, but…

“Harry, would you mind telling me what you have found so ‘weird’ about Professor Snape the past few nights?” Dumbledore inquired gently, startling Harry out of his thoughts.

“I…”

Just get it over with! Harry sighed.

“Well, he…he said he’d punish me from now on if he found out I did anything stupid or…disobedient or whatever…” Harry explained, the embarrassment returning, “and not with detention or house points, professor; he said he’d really punish me. He can’t do that, can he?”

Silence from the desk.

Oh no.

“Professor!” Harry cried, not caring that a small, panicked whine had crept into his tone, “that’s not fair! He can’t do that…” The boy had ripped his hands out from underneath his legs and was now gesturing madly.

“Now, now, Harry,” Dumbledore soothed, “if you will please calm down, I will try to explain.”

Harry swallowed, struggling to extinguish his flaring temper. He sat back heavily in his chair and gave a small nod.

“Thank you,” the headmaster smiled and cleared his throat, “You must know, Harry, that after last year’s…mishaps…”

The boy glared.

“…and the recent events of this year, Professor Snape has asked permission to keep a firm hand on you—“

“Why?” Harry interrupted bluntly, not bothering to add the sir, “I mean, why me? I’m not the only one who gets in trouble, you know…” He knew he was being rude, and if Snape were here...

No! Stop thinking like that. Who gives a damn what the man tolerates?

Dumbledore was no longer smiling, but his face was gentle.

“Professor Snape is just as adamant about keeping his Slytherins in line…” the man attempted once more.

“Yeah, right,” Harry retorted.

And the twinkle left the aged, blue eyes.

Harry cowered immediately, “Sorry,” he stared at his knees, “it’s just…he can’t really do that to me, can he, sir? Doesn’t he need some sort of permission…from my aunt and uncle or something?

Dumbledore sighed, but the ghost of a smile returned to the man’s eyes, and Harry relaxed a bit.

“You are correct on one thing, Harry, you are indeed a ward of the Dursleys…in the muggle world,” Dumbledore spoke slowly, but seriously, “However, eleven years ago, when I delivered you to your aunt and uncle as a mere infant, I retained the right to make decisions based on your well-being here in the wizarding world. The Dursleys may house you, but they virtually have little say in what goes on here at Hogwarts. I made sure of that.”

Harry was confused.

“So does that make you my…erm…” Harry searched for the correct word.

“Not exactly,” Dumbledore answered, sensing what Harry was asking, “I do not possess guardian rights; however, Harry, I care about your welfare very much, and that is precisely what prompted me to consent to Professor Snape’s request.”

Harry sat very still for a moment.

“So…you’re saying he can, then.” Harry stated and without waiting for affirmation, he continued, “but Snape hates me, sir. He’ll murder me!”

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly and held up his hand. Harry quieted.

The man gazed at Harry intently over his clasped hands.

“Do you trust me, Harry?” he spoke very softly.

“What?” Harry was minutely taken aback by such a question.

“Do you trust me?” Dumbledore repeated patiently.

“I…” Harry bit his lip and surveyed the man’s face. Professor Dumbledore was one of the only people in the world that Harry could count on, “Yes, sir, I do.”

The headmaster nodded, his eyes were twinkling more than ever, “Then believe me, Harry, when I say that you will not be murdered. In fact, you will remain very much alive. Professor Snape will see to that.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He felt defeated, yet oddly comforted by the man’s words.

The boy nodded, even though he still didn’t fully agree with the situation, “All right.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore stood up and offered the tin once more, “another lemon drop before you go?”

Harry shook his head and pushed himself up as well. Dumbledore rounded his desk and proceeded to walk Harry to the door.

“I am always here if you wish to speak, my boy,” the man assured him as they strolled to the exit.

Harry nodded, “Thanks, sir.” He stepped through the open door.

“Oh, and Harry,” Dumbledore added as a signature afterthought, “Remember, it’s Professor Snape.”

The boy didn’t respond to this; he couldn’t deter a strange look from creeping onto his face as he backed away from the man’s smile and small wave. Harry shook his head and sighed deeply as he turned and made his way down to breakfast.

“So let me get this straight,” Ron exclaimed, giving Harry an unbelieving look, “you accidentally brought the ingredients to detention, Snape caught you with them, he took them back, and you’re actually still alive to tell about it?”

Well, if that’s what Ron wanted to believe had happened, Harry wasn’t going to argue with him. Putting it that way made Harry feel like less of a git for voluntarily returning the stolen items.

“Well, yeah, I guess…” Harry answered, “I mean, I have to write lines now, but it’s not a big deal.”

That wasn’t exactly true either. Of course, Harry was writing lines, but he wasn’t sure that was a direct result of the boomslang skin incident; it seemed more like Snape’s way of reiterating that Harry was now on constant thin ice.

Ron swore under his breath, and Hermione shot him a piercing look that was so fierce it caused the redhead to lean back a little on his bench. Ron glanced at Harry in search of unspoken back-up that solidified the idea that girls were ridiculous. But Harry was staring at Hermione. She looked back at him very sadly.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione croaked, her voice thick with genuine remorse, “It’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry said firmly, “I’m the one who was dumb enough to leave the vials in my pocket.”

“But the polyjuice potion was my idea in the first place, and it failed…miserably,” she exclaimed before covering her face with her hands, “And now, you’re in so much trouble!” The words were muffled from behind her palms.

“No I’m not,” Harry reassured her, as he grabbed onto her wrists and lowered her hands to the table, “besides, I’ve got a new plan.”

And Harry proceeded to tell them about his idea with the invisibility cloak. To tell the truth, he wasn’t as enthusiastic about the whole ordeal as he’d been the other night, now that he knew what would happen to him if he were caught. But Hermione looked so dejected that Harry had to say something to cheer her up.

“But that’s all I’ve got so far,” Harry stated as he finished explaining.

Hermione looked interested now, “Well, I’ll think of something. Give me until the end of the day. We can talk about it tonight—when’s your detention, Harry?”

“I have to be there at five-thirty,” Harry groaned.

“Why does that sod keep switching the time?” Ron growled, irritated.

Harry shrugged, “Dunno. He let me out early last night. Maybe he’ll do the same tonight.”

“Speaking of early, mate, you were conked out when I came up to bed last night. I thought you were still in detention,” Ron exclaimed with a frown.

“Yeah, I was tired,” Harry explained, “I didn’t sleep well.” He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about the head-clearing potion or the sweater or even the handkerchief. And he definitely was not going to tell them about the fact that Snape dismissed him from detention only to send him to bed. Or anything else, for that matter.

How embarrassing.

“Anyway,” Hermione glared at Ron, sensing that the lanky boy wouldn’t let up on Harry about falling asleep so early unless someone actually made him shut up, “Don’t worry about it, Harry, I’ll come up with a definite plan, and Ronald will do what he does best: sit around with his mouth gaping open like a brainless fish…”

“Oi!” Ron sat up.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said quickly before the two actually starting quarreling for real. He downed his pumpkin juice.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea, Harry,” Hermione smiled at him as the stood up to leave, “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before. It’s so simple.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, still glaring daggers at Hermione, “it’s real good.”

Harry smiled at both of them, feeling better than he had in days. He didn’t care at the moment about getting in trouble. The important thing was that Ron and Hermione weren’t mad at him.

Glancing at his pocket watch, Severus continued working on the lesson plans he had begun for next term. It had been about forty-five minutes since Potter arrived for his detention, and now the boy sat quietly, finishing his lines from the night before.

There were no dark circles under the boy’s eyes, and he didn’t look ill from what Snape could observe. He would not check Potter’s temperature when he was awake. Besides, the clumsy boy would most likely flail from surprise and destroy yet another fragile item in the classroom.

Snape looked up at Potter every so often, mostly scolding him when he noticed that the boy was daydreaming.

Potter was acting oddly again. Severus had noticed the boy and his little friends huddling together during breakfast, speaking quietly, no doubt brewing up some other mindless scheme. For what? Severus wasn’t sure. But he was certain that if Potter thought he’d get away with this one, he had another thing coming.

“What are you up to, Potter?” Snape asked suspiciously, causing Harry to snap his head up in surprise.

The boy frowned, “What do you mean?”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Sir?”

“I can tell when the wheels are turning in your head, Potter, as it rarely—if ever—happens in Potions,” Snape snarled, “What are you plotting?”

“What?! I’m not plotting anything!” Harry nearly shouted.

Snape threw down his quill and stalked over to the desk where Harry was finishing his lines. He placed a hand on either side of the parchment and leaned in closely.

“Mind your tone, Mr. Potter!” Snape ordered coldly, “You’ve been giving me insolent, shifty glares for the past hour, and I will not tolerate it.”

Harry immediately relaxed the glare that was currently etched on his face and swallowed. Without waiting to be told, Harry went back to his work, resting his forehead against his propped-up palm as he wrote. He sniffled. To Harry’s dismay, his head was feeling a bit clogged again—not nearly as severely as last night—but the boy could tell that the effects of the potions were wearing off. Actually, they had been for the past few hours, but Snape didn’t need to know that.

He sniffed again. And Harry could sense, without looking up, that Snape had once again sauntered over to his table. Although the boy ‘s vision was restricted to the parchment due to the hand over his forehead, a curtain of dark hair slowly came into view as Snape crouched very closely down to Harry’s level.

Wincing, Harry removed his hand and slowly glanced up.

Snape was definitely angry.

“What part confused you, Potter,” the man spat icily, “when I said that you were to go to the infirmary if you were feeling ill?”

Harry was stunned. He’d actually felt a lot better for most of the day. It was only recently that—

“Potter!”

“I felt fine all day, honest!” And seeing his professor’s eyes narrow even further, Harry added, “it’s just ever since I got here…”

“Well of course, idiot boy!” Snape exclaimed as he marched over to the potion-filled cabinet, throwing open the doors, “the potions only sustain you for sixteen hours, at the most…”

Snape sat the bottle and empty glass down heavily. He had taken out the dark-blue one. The sock potion.

“Oh no...” Harry groaned without thinking.

Slamming the cabinet door closed, Snape gathered up the items and walked back over to Harry with long strides.

“Drink.”

Harry grimaced, but accepted the glass, pinched his nose, and downed it in one gulp. He handed it back to Snape. Harry sighed contentedly as his head cleared in a rush. He risked a glance at his professor. Snape looked very stern. Harry chewed on a thumbnail as he waited in the uncomfortable silence.

“Disobey me again, Potter, and suffer the consequences,” the man snapped before strolling briskly back to his desk and sitting down heavily.

So much for the short-lived happiness caused by his friends’ approval. It was unbelievable how quickly Harry’s bliss could be snuffed by the condemnation of one sneering potions master.

Around seven-thirty, Snape collected Harry’s lines and ordered him to spend the last part of his detention immersed in a bucket of dead toads.

But At eight forty-five, to Harry’s pleasure, he was dismissed; he washed his hands vigorously in the sink. As he was gathering his things to leave, Snape called Harry over to his desk.

Great, what now? Harry complained to himself, but dragged his feet over anyway. He stood for perhaps two minutes while the man finished scribbling notes on a piece of parchment that was so filled with ink the edges were beginning to curl.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape began finally setting his quill down. He opened up a drawer and fished out a small bottle and held it up between his thumb and middle finger, “to be taken between three and five o’clock tomorrow, regardless if you think you need it. Is that clear?”

Harry looked at Snape silently for a few seconds. For some reason, an odd feeling bubbled at the base of his stomach.

But he simply took the indigo bottle and nodded. Harry was also nodding his thanks, but he knew Snape couldn’t see that. The boy hoisted his bag over his shoulder and turned to flee.

“Oh, and Potter,” Snape continued as he returned to his work, “if you dare come to my class tomorrow sniveling and snorting like some sort of imbecile, I’ll know you haven’t followed my orders. Do not test me.”

Bloody hell…Harry thought miserably, Potions! This has officially been the longest week of my life.

“No, sir,” the boy mumbled, “I won’t.”

“Indeed,” Snape retorted, more to himself than to Harry.

As Harry exited, he walked as quickly as he dared down the dark corridor. He was anxious to get to the common room to see what sort of plan Hermione had drawn up. Harry was also a bit nervous about the prospect of getting caught again. But this was different. They weren’t hurting anyone or stealing anything. He knew that in Snape’s little mantra of Harry’s misdeeds, he had included no wandering the corridors. But if Harry was extremely careful…

And besides, it was a much better plan than before. Loads safer. Someone had to at least give him credit for that.

“So what do you think?” Hermione asked as she twisted a lock of thick hair around the tip of her finger.

She had posed the question generally, but her eyes remained fixed on Harry who was sitting on the stone ledge next to the fireplace, his head propped up by his cupped hands, elbows resting heavily on his knees. The boy’s eyes were glazed over and were focused lazily without intent at the knobby material of the small sofa in the common room.

A brief pause.

“Harry?”

Receiving no answer, the girl became instantly impatient. She huffed and leaned forward.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, raising her voice and emphasizing the stern inquiry with a sharp clap so close to his face that her fingertips almost clipped the end of his nose.

Jerking spasmodically, Harry instinctively threw his head back stiffly away from the noise. His eyes were wide.

“What?” the boy responded a bit more loudly than necessary, “God, Hermione, I hate when you do that…” he continued, his demeanor suddenly shifting to annoyance. Harry combed his fingers clumsily through his hair

Hermione ignored him.

“Well?” she pressed on with habitual relentlessness.

“Well, what?” Harry asked flatly, his right hand straying to his mouth as he spoke. He nibbled on his fingernails.

Hermione sighed again, but this time, Ron spoke up:

“Focus, mate…”

Snapping his head toward the unfamiliar command, Harry gaped in disbelief at Ron as the red head proceeded with the “suck-up” routine that he often employed after a quibble with Hermione.

“You complete—“ Harry began, but was cut off.

“Harry, watch your language,” Hermione prematurely scolded.

Harry stared at the sharp-tongued girl with a mixed expression of mirth and befuddlement.

“Are you kidding me?” the boy retorted quietly, “I didn’t even say anything yet…”

She titled her head as she gave him a stern look, “But you were thinking it, weren’t you?”

“Er…no…”

Ron snorted, “Yeah, whatever, mate.”

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head with an amused huff, Harry sat on his hands to prevent any further disapproval from Hermione, as his fingers itched to throw a rude gesture in Ron’s direction.

Hermione took a deep breath and repeated herself a bit more placidly, “The plan, Harry. What do you think of it?”

Inwardly, Harry smiled at his friend’s ability to block out the potential confrontation between the two boys and bring the intent of the conversation back in focus.

“I think it’s really good,” he stated earnestly.

And really, it was a decent plan.

Late that morning, right before lunch, when Hermione had been studying in the library, she had miraculously overheard a conversation between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini who sat huddled at a table toward the back of the room. Malfoy mentioned that his parents were supposed to be sending “something extra” in his usual Friday evening parcel sent by his eagle owl. Hermione wasn’t as concerned with the additive as much as she was with the possibility of tampering with that package. It was risky and a bit dishonest; however, after almost illegally going through with the whole polyjuice potion idea, the girl was up for anything.

“What do you mean by ‘tampering’ with it, Hermione,” Ron questioned doubtfully, “and how will that get Malfoy to start talking about the Heir of Slytherin with the rest of those slimy idiots?”

Hermione glared at the gangly boy venomously, “If you’d stop interrupting me, I could tell you…”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Well, there’s usually a letter sent with Malfoy’s package on Fridays at dinner, right?” Hermione began.

“Yeah…” Harry answered, offering her a prompting nod to continue.

“And the owls all have to wait in the Owlry with all of the packages until five-fifteen, don’t they?” the girl exclaimed, the excitement becoming increasingly evident in her voice.

“Right…”

“So,” Hermione continued, shaking her bouncy hair back off of her shoulders, “if I wait in the Owlry until then, I may be able to open and read the letter—kind of bad, I know—she replied with a grimace, “but if everything works out up until then, I can alter some of the words in the letter, or add a part from Lucius, that tells Draco to discuss what he knows about the Heir of Slytherin with Zabini or Nott…secretly tomorrow night in the dormitory or something…”

Ron looked incredulous.

“Merlin’s pants, Hermione, Malfoy’s a git, but he’s not stupid. I mean, good plan and all, but you’ll be lucky if his owl doesn’t tear your hand off!” Ron all but shouted.

“Shhh! You’ll wake someone up!” Harry whispered emphatically to Ron.

The ginger-haired boy glanced around meaningfully and shrugged.

“Don’t worry about that, Ron,” Hermione chided, “I know what to do.”

Ron snorted.

“It might work, Hermione,” Harry replied thoughtfully.

She glanced over at Harry with a vaguely worried look, “I would need to borrow your invisibility cloak before dinner tomorrow night, if that’s all right…”

Harry hesitated for a second, “Yeah, it’s fine,” he said. Harry had never loaned his cloak to anyone before, but he trusted Hermione to keep it safe.

“You could go with me, but you’ve got detention, right?” Hermione asked tentatively as if she already knew that answer.

“Unfortunately…” Harry mumbled.

The common room was very dark now. It had been empty for the past half hour, and despite Hermione’s and Ron’s small outbursts, the three continued to speak in hushed voices. The light from the fireplace flickered erratically causing dark orange shadows to dance around their cheeks as they huddled together.

“We’ll need the cloak again when we sneak into the common room,” Hermione continued, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, “we’ll meet up again after your detention. I probably won’t see you until then, Harry, but I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow night.”

Harry stretched his legs out in front of him and balanced his stiff limbs on his heels as he pressed his palms down flat on the stone ledge as if he were preparing to rise any moment. He looked up suddenly.

“I’ll do it,” Harry replied quickly.

“You’ll do what?” Ron asked, squinting slightly.

Harry stared at his right foot that he’d been rocking back and forth on his heel.

“I’ll be the one to go under the cloak. We can’t all do it,” Harry explained without making eye contact.

“Why not?” Ron retorted. His face began to scrunch up into its usual mask of defensiveness mixed with confusion.

Harry tried to keep his expression neutral. After all, he honestly wasn’t intending to play the hero in this situation. Pragmatically, Harry was the smallest of the three. Even Hermione was an inch taller than he was, embarrassingly enough. And with only one person under the cloak, the plan would run much more smoothly. Besides, Harry still felt that it was his fault that they had to develop a new plan; he didn’t want his friends to be the ones to get in trouble if someone were to catch them.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

Spending time plotting strategies would also help take his mind off of what was currently clogging his thoughts: Harry had heard it again—the voice-like hiss that was so chilling it caused the top of his head to prickle. Even thinking about it now caused shivers to pulse through the boy’s shoulder blades.

Plodding back from detention a couple of hours ago, the icy whisper had caught Harry off guard. It had been days since he had heard it. And although Harry would never admit it, he’d been frightened.

“Well, then what am I supposed to do?” Ron asked after listening to Harry explain his reasoning—most of it anyway.

Thinking quickly as to spare his friend’s feelings, Harry’s brain latched onto an idea:

“You can be the lookout.”

“Huh?” Ron questioned, his voice remaining a bit tense around the edges.

“The lookout, you prat,” Harry repeated jokingly, “to make sure the whole plan isn’t shot to hell…”

Hermione nailed him in the arm with two protruding knuckles.

“Ow!” Harry complained with a laugh, rubbing his upper arm.

Ron smiled amusedly and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“All right,” the redhead said finally, “where’s my post?”

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

On Friday afternoon, Harry entered the Potions classroom more uneasily than usual. As always, there was a mingled sensation of dread and dull anxiety settled in the base of his stomach, as Potions was his least favorite class to sit through. However, another unidentified feeling lingered among the usual trepidation. Every preparatory item was positioned in its standard location, and the regular damp gloom that permeated throughout the room was as pronounced as ever.

But the general atmosphere just seemed a bit…different.

Perhaps it was because Harry’d spent more consecutive nights in the dungeons with Snape than he ever had before. Or maybe it was because Harry now knew exactly what type of potions lay within the small cabinet above the sink. Only Harry knew that the legs of the stool in which Millicent Bulstrode was currently banging her heels against was once splattered with the blue-black ink that the boy had used to compose his punishment lines. Maybe that was it.

Or maybe not. However, as the rest of the Slytherins and a few Gryffindor stragglers sauntered into the classroom, Harry forced himself to shrug off the slight aura of unfamiliarity.

He slid into his usual seat between Ron and Hermione and began unpacking his satchel. As Harry dumped a flattened chocolate frog wrapper out of his cauldron and set it on the table, the back door of the classroom banged open as Snape entered in his customary, billowing way, strolling briskly to the front of the room.

“No talking,” the man commanded immediately. However, the imperious tone was quite unnecessary, considering the students had fallen silent at the sharp crash of wood on stone. They always did.

Harry got in a quick roll of his eyes before the professor turned to face the class. A few students continued to wordlessly unpack their school bags, but of course Snape only chided the Gryffindors to hurry up on penalty of deducted points, even though Crabbe and Goyle were the most sluggish ones in the room.

Sitting in his usually slumped stance, head rested against his fist, Harry cracked his knuckles against his temple, and lightly flicked a fingernail repeatedly against the pewter cauldron, consciously focusing on the barely audible ping in order to distract himself from thinking about the injustice of it all.

Okay, maybe nothing’s changed. He is so bloody unfair, Harry couldn’t stop himself from thinking. He cracked another knuckle.

“Today, you will be brewing a potion that produces the opposite results of what most of you clumsily threw together on Tuesday,” Snape sneered as he retrieved his wand from his robes. And with a wave of his wand, the instructions for the day’s assignment gradually appeared on the blackboard next to Snape’s desk.

“Deflating solution,” Hermione whispered, a stray curl tickling the back of Harry’s neck as she leaned in close.

Harry didn’t respond. He knew exactly what Snape was doing.

Can’t the tosspot just give it a rest, Harry thought disgustedly, I get it. I screwed up. The boy continued to produce a steady clang on the cauldron.

But Snape didn’t look at Harry. He simply stalked slowly between the rows of desks as he methodically explained the instructions.

“You have until the end of the class period to finish the solution, bottle it, label it, and place it on my desk. Perhaps I will be able to salvage one or two vials for my storeroom, though I highly doubt many of you even possess the competence to select the correct ingredients from the cupboard,” Snape smirked condescendingly.

As he moved toward Harry, Snape reached out and grasped the boy’s fingers very firmly, without glancing his way, to prevent them from producing any more of a racket against the cauldron.

Harry was so startled by his professor’s sudden movement, that he jerked upright and almost upset his cauldron. Lucky for Harry, it was still empty. That could have been utterly disastrous.

Toward the front of the room, Malfoy let a small snort of laughter escape. Snape snapped his attention toward the blonde immediately, and Malfoy rid his face of amusement. Harry tried to yank his fingers from Snape’s grasp while the man’s focus was elsewhere, but Snape only tightened his grip, almost painfully.

“Begin now,” Snape ordered, as he turned around, his piercing eyes scanning the young students for the smallest remaining trace of jollity.

There was a simultaneous scraping of stools as the students stood to collect the ingredients.

Snape glared sternly at Harry for a few seconds before releasing his fingers roughly, almost tossing them off to the side. But among the bustle, and only fleetingly, Harry caught a glimpse of disapproval in the man’s eyes that made his stomach clench.

However, before Harry could even register the emotion, Snape had turned and stalked off to the front of the classroom. The boy tucked his freed fingers into a fist, rubbing a thumb over his faintly tingling knuckles. Sighing, Harry slipped off of his stool and plodded over to the supply cabinet to see what was left.

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

Twenty-five minutes later, Harry was stirring his potion continuously clockwise. At this point, the liquid was supposed to be a translucent sea-green and emitting a light eddy of fumes around the rim. Harry’s potion was a denser mint-green; however, it was more accurate than any other potion he’d concocted in the past year and half, and Harry had decided that today he wouldn’t give Snape the satisfaction of watching him royally botch this one up.

But Snape had only slinked by Harry twice during the class period, and both times, he hadn’t said a word. The man hadn’t even patronized him with a disgusted sneer.

Maybe he could tell that Harry had taken the potion like he was supposed to and was rewarding him by taking a break from antagonizing the boy. Harry had barely sniffled all day, but he drank the disgusting crap anyway to avoid an unnecessary confrontation. It wasn’t worth it.

As Harry meticulously stirred, he allowed his mind to drift just a bit. Hermione was concentrating so hard that she’d clamped her tongue between her lips, her face four inches from the cauldron, and Ron was rifling through the text. They hadn’t spoken for several minutes now.

Harry thought about tonight’s plan and whether or not Hermione would be able to pull it off. Truthfully, the more he thought about it, the stupider it sounded, and he began to get nervous.

And on top of all of that, Harry’s thoughts kept straying to the memory of the chilling voices. He hated thinking about it, but every few minutes, Harry’s mind was smothered in bleak fear. He had a feeling deep down that the unnerving echo that reverberated through the stone walls had something to do with the Chamber of Secrets.

But Harry couldn’t piece it together. And he desperately wanted someone else besides Ron and Hermione to know about the voices. Harry was sick to death of the tension that radiated throughout his stomach.

I wonder what Dumbledore would say if I told him, Harry contemplated, Merlin knows he’d probably just tell me to ignore it or something else pointless like that…

Besides, Ron had specifically told him that hearing voices in the wizarding world wasn’t a good thing.

Yeah, well neither is feeling like I’m gonna sick up every half-hour, thought Harry glumly.

The boy’s eyes had locked tiredly on the corner of Snape’s desk, but Harry was too settled in his thoughts to even attempt to shift his gaze.

What if I told Snape? Harry pondered briefly, but shook his head to rid himself of that possibility, He probably wouldn’t believe me.

Only a couple months prior, Professor Snape had almost accused Harry of petrifying Mrs. Norris. Knowing that Harry was hearing something moving and speaking within the walls of the castle would not only cause more suspicion in relation to the boy being the Heir of Slytherin, but it would also more than likely cause Snape to think Harry was a complete nutter.

But things are sort of…different now…aren’t they?

Were they?

Breathing deeply through his nose, Harry wrenched his eyes away from their comfortable, stationary focus. He sat up and peeled his sweaty hand away from the desktop, watching the perfect, damp imprint slowly evaporate.

Suddenly, Hermione’s harsh whisper startled Harry out of the pensive swamp:

“Harry! Your potion!” she breathed, panicked, as she nudged him hard with her elbow to get his attention.

Inhaling sharply, Harry swore under his breath as he surveyed the dark-green, congealed mess bubbling in his cauldron. Hermione slapped his hand away from the stirrer and attempted to salvage the disaster, but Harry could already tell that her efforts would be fruitless.

He’d buggered this up after all.

Harry could sense without looking the looming presence behind him.

“Congratulations, Potter,” whispered Snape in a dangerously quiet tone, “I believe you’ve now digressed below even Longbottom’s level of incompetency.”

Harry didn’t even have to turn around to face Snape to ignite the white-hot anger that threatened to sear his chest. Gritting his teeth so forcefully that his jaw hurt, the boy simply closed his eyes and dug his nails into his palms, wishing emphatically that the potion would somehow combust and deflate him into nothingness…

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

The pounding of the soles of his shoes against the stone floor resonated heavily in Harry’s ears. He was so angry when by the end of class that he had run off without even waiting for Ron and Hermione. Harry supposed his parchment was immensely crumpled from the furious way he had crammed it into his shoulder bag, but he didn’t care.

A zero, thought Harry wildly as he stormed down the corridor, an effing zero.

Snape had banished the deplorable solution without a second thought and had stalked away, leaving Harry to stare at the empty cauldron, his cheeks prickling hotly and his pride smarting painfully from the ridicule.

For the last forty-five minutes of the double period, Harry sat stiffly in his stool, chewing on the same fingernail barely responding to Hermione’s sympathetic reassurances.

Harry walked over to the nearest exit, preparing to slam his palms as forcefully as possible onto the face of the closed door to get the hell out of that wing of the castle when a voice from behind made him cringe.

“Harry!” Professor Lockhart exclaimed as he hurried to catch up with the boy.

Oh no no no no no… Harry thought begrudgingly as he turned slowly around to face the man who Ron often referred to as “the biggest wanker on the planet”, inevitably earning quite a pinch from Hermione.

“Have you got a moment?” the professor pressed on, motioning for Harry to follow him “I’d like to show you something.”

As Lockhart turned with a dramatic sweep of his lavender robes, Harry threw his head back and groaned.

“And I thought this day couldn’t get any worse,” Harry muttered to himself as dragged his feet to follow the swaggering, blonde man.

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

It was five twenty-seven, and Harry had missed dinner. As furious as he was before he was summoned into the sod’s office, Harry felt like that malice had doubled after he was finally released from a room full of teethy, grinning portraits. A pile of the professor’s personal notes that had been stuffed into novels-in-progress weighed down the boy’s shoulder bag. Harry fought the urge to cram the whole bag into the rubbish bin.

“And with a wave of my wand—like this—I charmed the python and reduced it to nothing but its skin!” Professor Lockhart had mused while demonstrating and finishing off with a flying leap across the blue rug, “…described more in detail in my notes, of course,” he had explained, gesturing toward Harry’s overstuffed bag.

The trip to Lockhart’s office was, as always, a complete and utter waste of time.

And now, as Harry sped quickly to detention, he let fly every bitter, vulgar thought that bubbled up about the two adults who had officially ruined his afternoon.

At five thirty-three, Harry barged into Snape’s classroom, breathing heavily. He was three minutes late, but Harry honestly didn’t care—not today.

It took several great gulps of air before the boy’s breathing began to slow. Harry could hear Snape moving about in the storeroom, but he simply leaned back against the high desk and said nothing. There were several buckets of some sort of dead…creatures…waiting patiently in the back of the classroom.

“You’re late, Potter,” Snape called out from the storeroom, the steely edge to his voice echoing off of the surrounding walls in the cramped space.

Harry jerked a bit in alarm as Snape’s stern voice sliced into the thick atmosphere of the dungeons.

But the boy remained silent; he brought his elbow back to rest on the table behind him, trying his best to appear impervious to the man’s intimidation. Harry’s heart rate had increased slightly, but Harry didn’t think that Snape would be able to tell.

As if materializing out of thin air, Snape emerged from the storeroom, glaring.

“Well?” he snarled. When Snape didn’t receive an answer, he moved forward slowly, “Tell me, Potter, since when have I ever tolerated a lack of response? You will explain your tardiness.”

Harry pressed his back as far as it would go into the edge of the table. Using all of the courage he had, the boy shrugged, his risky impudence causing him to feel jittery.

Snape narrowed his gaze dangerously and continued to close in on Harry. But the boy was unmoved. The professor leaned forward.

“Tardiness is inexcusable, Mr. Potter; it is disrespectful, indolent, and most importantly, it wastes my time.”

Intense heat rushed in waves up the back of Harry’s neck, but he was still too angry to allow himself to disclose the embarrassment, “It was only three minutes…” Harry mumbled, averting his eyes from the dark piercing ones that threatened to impale his.

A shadow passed over Snape’s face.

“Choose your words carefully, Potter,” the man whispered frigidly, “for you are treading on very. thin. ice.”

Harry swallowed and wedged his bottom lip between his teeth. Since when am I not?...

Snape paused a moment longer before continuing in a clipped tone, “If you are late for your final detention tomorrow, you will receive another week’s worth. Is that clear?”

Gritting his teeth, Harry barely nodded.

“Sit,” Snape commanded as he turned and walked over to the storeroom door to close it.

Harry shook his head and glared as he rounded the desk. Climbing onto the stool, the boy hoisted up the bag full of Lockhart’s rubbish and forcefully tossed it onto the table top, thoroughly irritated.

However, the boy wasn’t prepared for the deafening thunk as the heavy bag landed. Nor did he expect the flap to suddenly throw itself back open.

Several books spilled out and slammed onto the stone floor in one loud and florid movement.

Harry froze.

Snape had spun around swiftly. The silence throbbed throughout the room.

“Pick them up, Potter,” Snape finally growled quietly.

“It was an accident—“

“I said pick them up!” Snape roared. And surveying the boy’s immobile state, he added a fierce, “now!”

Harry clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his small chest. He was beyond fed up with being ordered around and belittled. Lockhart had no right to make Harry act out scenes from his bloody books in front of the whole class. And if that weren’t enough, the brainless git had even caused him to miss dinner tonight just so he could pawn off a few of his worthless scribbles to Harry. At the moment, Harry wasn’t exactly sure with whom he was the most furious, but currently, Snape was the one standing over Harry like an enormous bat, and Harry knew that if he didn’t stand up for himself, he’d never be a true Gryffindor.

“No,” Harry stated quietly. And immediately, his legs began to feel rubbery.

Snape’s chest began to rise and fall more rapidly. He looked terrifying. But he continued to speak softly. Deadly.

“That was not a request, Potter. Obey me.”

Harry pressed his lips together, almost painfully, but he shook his head.

“This is your last chance,” Snape warned coldly. Harry blanched. His professor’s entire body radiated with fierce seriousness.

The logical part of the boy’s brain desperately screamed at him to just pick up the damn books. But his defiant side won over once again, and Harry remained in his seat, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands.

As Snape moved forward with brisk strides, something inside Harry snapped.

“Okay, okay!” he cried quickly, hopping off of his stool, and scrambling to gather the discarded volumes, “Okay, I’m doing it—“

But Snape paid no attention to Harry’s last-minute attempt at reconciliation. Rounding the edge of the desk, Snape grabbed the boy firmly by the arm and turned him.

Sensing what was coming, Harry unconsciously arched his back to move his backside out of the line of fire, but Snape’s aim was precise, as he drew his arm back and smacked the boy hard. Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the stinging impact.

Pausing only a brief second to consider, Snape cracked his palm a second time across the same area. Harry emitted a soft, strangled groan at the concentrated burn of the unexpected follow-up.

Snape stopped and spun him around. The man gripped Harry firmly by the shoulders as he spoke.

“Potter, do you honestly wish to discover just how well I keep my promises over something as foolish and petty as this tantrum you’re throwing?”

Harry couldn’t look at him; he was so humiliated.

“No, sir,” the boy replied so faintly that he almost mouthed the words.

Harry, you coward, he scorned himself, scared of a smack…

Just then, Harry felt a firm grip on his chin as Snape forced him to look forward. Snape’s hold didn’t hurt, but he was grasping powerfully enough to squeeze Harry’s cheeks together slightly.

Weakly, Harry tried to pull away, but the potions master retained his solid grip, and Harry gave up his attempt, knowing already that it would lead nowhere.

“What is the matter with you, Potter?” Snape demanded, giving Harry’s shoulder an emphatic shake.

Harry stared at him…The matter?...I’m hearing voices in the walls, Hermione’s tampering with mail in the Owlry, I hate Professor Lockhart, you gave me a zero and embarrassed me in front of the whole class, and now, I’m stuck in detention with you…

The boy attempted to void his face of all emotion, but the act of putting up such a stony façade was impossible. A thick, painful knot formed in Harry’s throat, and he opened his eyes wide to stifle the tears that were forming.

You are twelve years old! Stop crying! You never cry, Harry scolded himself frantically.

Snape gave Harry a strange look as he surveyed the boy’s rigid expression. The man could tell that something was bothering him, but he knew better than anyone that the child’s insufferable pride would suffocate any logical reasoning. Snape could feel Potter’s jaw bulging from his clenched teeth. His green eyes were watery. But the boy wasn’t going to spill a word. They both knew it.

The professor released his grip and pointed towards the stool. Harry obeyed stiffly, hating himself for his weakness.

“Put your head down, Potter,” Snape ordered, “I don’t want anything to do with you until you have controlled your emotions,” the man added as he strolled back around to the front of the table.

Harry gaped at him in shock, Put my head down?...

“I’m twelve…” he croaked, as if that counted for something.

Moving forward, Snape extended a hand and pressed on the back of Harry’s neck until the boy finally gave up and dropped his head to rest on the hand that was splayed on the tabletop.

Snape snorted as he returned to his work area, his disgust toward adolescent angst and arrogance clearly evident, “That is precisely my point, Mr. Potter.”

Harry lay with his cheek smashed against the top of the table.  He had removed his hand from under his head long ago and now sat slumped on the stool, staring absently at the uneven pattern of the stone wall.  The boy barely noticed the slight warmth that radiated through his bottom after the mild prickling had subsided, for the hollow ache in his stomach was much more profound. 

Stabbing pangs of anger and embarrassment throbbed throughout Harry’s insides, as well as a feeling he couldn’t quite explain.  However, he was aware of the heaviness it produced.  Harry was almost exhausted by the clashing emotions.  He didn’t want to sit here for another moment basking in the humiliation.  And to be honest, Harry could have cared less about slinking through the dungeon corridors in his invisibility cloak tonight.  The boy wanted nothing more than to hide in some forgotten corner of the castle, bury his head in his arms, and scream at the top of his lungs until he was hoarse.

Alone.  Isolated and forgotten where no one could give him strange looks and whisper about the Heir of Slytherin…or patronize him by forcing him to take potions and then swatting him like a child.  A place that was so dark and muffled that nothing—not even chilling whispers—could be heard.  Where Harry could rip off the mask of bravery and just be frightened.  And it didn’t matter because no one could see him.  Maybe the churning in his stomach would eventually stop.  And perhaps he could forget about the fact that the school and students were in increasing danger and simply worry about whether Ron would forget about his pride for once and accept a brand new Wizards’ Chess set from Harry for Christmas.

But Harry knew that reality couldn’t be smothered so nonchalantly.  Not for him.  And there was no one to confide in.  Dumbledore was oblivious.  McGonagall refused to listen to reason.  And Snape…

The bastard…Harry thought angrily, swallowing so thickly that he felt his temple press against the flat surface.

Snape obviously wanted “nothing to do” with Harry. 

Or at least that’s what he said before forcing me to put my head down like some sort of two-year-old…

However, somewhere in the splintered depths of Harry’s conscience, he knew that he sort of deserved those wallops and the following admonishment.  After all, Snape had warned him, hadn’t he?

Even so, remaining angry at Snape—forcing Harry to focus on one emotion—kept the tears behind his eyes.  But they continued to burn hotly.

And his stomach still twinged painfully.

Suddenly, Harry felt a shadow looming over him as dark robes encompassed his peripheral vision.

Resting his head heavily on the table, Harry struggled not to wrench his eyes upward.  He kept them stubbornly fixed upon the wall as his hands, which were pressed against the tops of his thighs, clenched the fabric of his trousers.

“Head up, Mr. Potter,” Snape ordered, keeping his tone of voice clear and commanding rather than menacing. 

Taking a bit longer than necessary, Harry lifted his head, feeling the skin of his cheek peel away from the surface.  He tried to maintain a defiant glare but found he had a hard time even making eye contact. 

Perhaps his resentment wouldn’t sustain him.

“I am only going to say this once, Potter,” Snape began, silkily as ever, “Eyes up when I am addressing you!” the man asserted his authority a bit more harshly with this second imperative statement.

Harry gritted his teeth as he snapped his head up.

Snape was in closer proximity than Harry thought.  The man was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the desk with the heels of his hands.

“I am not an idiot.  You are clearly up to something, Potter,” Snape informed the boy quietly, “and you are doing a poor job of hiding it.  Your countenance is easier to read than a first-year Hufflepuff’s.”  The man couldn’t suppress a smirk at the last.

Breathing shallowly, Harry was torn between shouting an obscenity at his tormenting professor and bolting from the room.  But he knew that he’d do neither.

“As such,” Snape continued, leaning even closer, “I would advise you to either come clean right now or cease whatever scheme you are plotting, because I promise you Potter, I will find out one way or another.”

Harry tried hard not to squirm under the penetrating glare.  There was no way in the nine circles of hell that the boy could give himself up and betray his friends again.  And besides, Harry knew—he just knew that Snape would pummel his arse either way. 

No…Harry would do what he always did—work it out on his own.  He was the one with an invisibility cloak, and obviously the only one who cared enough to take risks for the good of Hogwarts.  Besides, he had Ron and Hermione to stand beside him.  Harry didn’t need anyone else.

The boy suddenly felt a stream of confidence surge through his veins, and he hardened his eyes.

“It’s as simple as that, is it?” Harry retorted softly. 

Snape straightened up and narrowed his own gaze.

“Mind your cheek, Potter.”

Harry’s heart hammered in anger and exasperation, but he said nothing.

“Very well.  Consider yourself warned,” Snape said coldly as he turned and stalked over to the supply cupboard in the back of the room. 

Wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers, Harry listened to the blood thrumming thickly against his eardrums, barely conscious of the clanging noises and quite apathetic toward whatever Snape was gathering. 

Strolling briskly to the front of the room, Snape surprised Harry by slamming a slightly rusted cauldron in front of him, along with an old set of scales and a few other ingredients.

“Before officially beginning your detention for the night, you will spend the next hour rebrewing the deflating antidote that you so thoroughly destroyed this afternoon,” Snape exclaimed, the iciness in his voice still evident around the edge, “If you are able to bottle an acceptable potion by the end of the hour, you will receive half-credit for the day’s work.”

What is he playing at? Harry wondered, bewildered.  One minute, Snape was scowling and smacking, and the next he was offering up some sort of make-up assignment.  Since when did he ever do that?

“Er…I don’t really—“

“Whatever your about to say, Potter, spare me,” Snape snarled, his back turned as he waved his wand at the chalkboard for the second time that day, “You do not have a choice in this matter.  I suggest you begin.”

Harry briefly wondered what would happen if he refused to brew the potion—better yet if he just took the zero.  It was his grade, wasn’t it?  If he wanted to fail, he had that choice.  Snape was already taking control of too much in Harry’s life.  If the git thought he was going to start monitoring Harry’s academic progress, well—

“Unless you’d like to sit here all night on that stool, you will begin now,” Snape stated firmly, imperiously, jerking Harry out of his thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled, reaching over the top of the cauldron to pick up a knotted clump of ginger root.

Slicing the root carefully so he would not have to start over, Harry began working on the potion.  Maybe he didn’t have any control over this situation.  But he did, however, have the power to do whatever he wanted when Snape wasn’t watching him.  And tonight, that included taking Malfoy down if the slime ball happened to spill his guts in the dormitory. 

No one but Harry possessed the means to uncover the Slytherin’s secret, and regardless whether he wanted to go through with this, Harry felt obligated.

If everything went as planned, Harry would have no problem getting into the common room undetected.  He just knew it.  And once he got the information he needed, Harry would cool it for a while—stay out of trouble, he decided as he peeled and sliced another ginger root. 

Glancing miserably over at the three glimmering buckets filled to the brim with slimy toads, Harry also decided at that moment that he would concentrate as hard as he could on completing his work.  He didn’t want to spend a second longer than necessary in the gloomy dungeons. 

He couldn’t risk any mistakes tonight.  Not when so much depended on this plan, whether or not anyone would realize it...or even appreciate it. 

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

A few minutes past 9:30, Harry clambered into the Gryffindor common room only to have his wadded invisibility cloak thrown towards him.  Just missing the cloak by centimeters, it hit him in the face and rolled down his torso.

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, slightly indignant.

“Oh, Sorry!” Hermione cried as she moved forward to retrieve the crumpled cloak, “I thought you would catch it.”

Hermione’s face was flushed with excitement, and she was uncharacteristically hyper.  That could only mean one thing…

“I did it, Harry!” the girl whispered enthusiastically, “You should have seen the look on Malfoy’s face at dinner…all sly and secretive.  He definitely knows something.”

Harry tried to match her excitement.  He really did.  But he was still a bit nauseous from the fumes of dead toads, not to mention, he was still smarting mildly from Snape’s cold indifference over the past few hours.  Harry had brewed a nearly perfect deflating antidote, and as he brought the labeled vial up to Snape’s desk, he was rewarded with nothing more than a Get to work on the toads, Mr. Potter. 

But Harry didn’t care really.  It’s not like it was uncommon for Snape to ignore Harry’s accomplishments.  He just thought that maybe…

No…I don’t care, Harry told himself firmly. 

The only thing he needed to worry about now was his upcoming return to the dungeons. 

Harry moved over to the empty long table surrounded by several chairs and hoisted himself up to sit on top of it.

“So what did you write in that letter anyway?” Harry asked, swinging his legs as forced his mind to focus on the present. 

“Oh, just something about sharing important Slytherin knowledge with dependable comrades,” Hermione answered, walking over to stand by Harry, “I added the words ‘midnight’ and ‘dormitory’ near the bottom of the note to try and give Draco a clue.  I figure that even if it causes a bit of confusion, some sort of conversation will have to take place, won’t it?” the girl added as she bit her lip uncertainly.

Harry shrugged.  Who even knows…

“Sure,” he told his friend, attempting to reassure her.  Besides, there was no turning back now...no need to harp on all of the details.  “Hey, what about Malfoy’s owl? Harry suddenly remembered, “How’d you get it to give you the package?”

Hermione smiled and leaned against the back of an armchair, “Calming draught,” she replied simply, “I mixed it in some bread crumbs.  At first, I thought of a sleeping draught, but then I thought that Malfoy might get suspicious if his package were delivered by a school owl instead of his own.”

“Good thinking,” Harry said genuinely.  Why couldn’t he think as quickly and carefully as Hermione?

“Well,” she exclaimed with a sigh, “All we have to do now is wait for Ron.”

“Where is he?”

“He should be coming back from the Great Hall.  Percy stopped us on our way through—he was spending time with Penelope before curfew,” Hermione informed him.

“He’s still dating that Ravenclaw?” Harry wondered outloud.

Hermione rolled her eyes, “She’s a girl, Harry, not just a Ravenclaw.  Who cares who he dates…”

“No, I know,” Harry retorted quickly, not really in the mood for one of Hermione’s lectures, “I just meant that—“

But the boy paused mid-sentence as he watched the common room entrance swing open and emit an annoyed redhead. 

“Sometimes I think Mum and Dad just found Percy as a baby one day in Diagon Alley,” Ron said with a scowl, “He’s such a prat…there’s no way he can be my brother.”

Hermione fixed Ron with a scowl of her own, “Oh, that’s really kind, Ronald,” the girl scoffed sarcastically, “but if you’re going by prat-factor—“

“So are we ready then?” Harry interrupted before the two erupted into an argument.  He slipped off of the table and shook out his invisibility cloak.

“Whoah, mate, hold up a minute,” Ron exclaimed, “We have to wait until at least eleven when all the Slytherins will be going back for curfew.”

Harry sighed.  He was getting restless already and just wanted to begin the whole ordeal so they could finish. 

“I need to go down in the dungeons anyway and follow someone to the common room.  It’s got to be close to Snape’s office.  I know where that is,” Harry muttered, not wanting to go into detail about that.

“Still,” Hermione added, “It’s barely ten o’clock.  It’ll be a good half-hour before anyone heads down there.  Ron’s right.”

The tall boy smiled in thanks while Harry frowned and rolled his eyes.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione inquired suddenly, “You seem a bit on-edge.”

Harry knew that was most likely an understatement, as the boy was fidgeting and cracking his knuckles profusely.

“I’m fine,” he lied easily, “Just anxious to get down there, you know?”

Yeah…down and back…and away from Snape, Harry thought.  It was ridiculous how quickly his confidence was waning.  One minute he was completely poised, and the next, he wanted to climb under his covers and forget the whole thing.

But Hermione simply nodded, and Harry was grateful.

“Well,” Hermione continued, “I think the two of you should get into your pajamas before you get under the cloak.”

“What for?” Ron wondered as he narrowed his eyes and claimed Harry’s spot on the tabletop. 

“Because, Ronald, if either of you are caught, you could pretend that you’ve been sleep walking or something,” Hermione explained a bit impatiently. 

Ron chortled under his breath.  “Very smooth.”

“Oh, shut up, Ron!  At least one of us is thinking about these things!” Hermione nearly shouted as she pushed herself angrily up from the back of the chair.

“She’s right.”

Ron looked at Harry, the boy’s mouth open to retort.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione replied with a nod, clearly satisfied. 

Unlike Harry, Ron didn’t even attempt to stave off a vulgar gesture.  But Hermione had turned her back and didn’t catch it. 

“Go get changed, you two,” Hermione ordered, as she stooped to pick up her books, “I’m going to go read in my room.  It’ll look less suspicious.”  Hermione began to make her way toward the stairs, “Harry,” she added, pausing at the door, “be careful.  You too, Ron.” 

“We will,” Harry answered quietly.

“Good.  But if you’re not back by midnight, just know that I’ll be sitting up here in the dormitory, very nervous,” Hermione exclaimed as she started climbing the stairs, “So hurry!” the girl called over her shoulder.

Ron shook his head after they watched Hermione climb to the top, “She’s completely mental.”

“In a good way, though,” Harry answered, continuing to stare at the empty stairs.

“Whatever you say, mate,” Ron said with a sigh.

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

Severus reclined in the leather arm chair that sat across from the fireplace in his study.  He sipped at the bourbon he had poured only minutes before, delighting in the potency and burn of the light drink as it ran warmly down his throat. 

Friday night after lessons was the only time of the week that Severus allowed himself a finger-full of firewhiskey to wind down from the stress of teaching so many classes full of incompetent dunderheads. 

And if that weren’t enough, now the Potter brat was making his day.  A part of Severus longed to simply fall back into a comfortable, apathetic pattern when it came to dealing with the boy.  The more time he spent with Potter, the more he became aware of the child’s stubborn aloofness.  But although the boy had a knack for causing Severus distress, his outright defiance tonight had been slightly startling.  However, Severus forced himself to remain quite composed, delivering the two smacks as a mere warning, even though he felt like giving the boy a thorough lesson on respecting authority.  But deep down, the professor knew there was something…off about the boy.  There was a vast rigidness in Potter’s face, and entire body for that matter, that spoke of a different kind of distress…

Suddenly a crash-like noise reverberated off of the walls outside of his Severus’s study.  

Replacing the barely drunk bourbon on a side table, the man stood up quickly but quietly, listening for any further noise. 

It was well past eleven o’clock.  Even though he didn’t expect his Slytherins to be asleep this early on a Friday night, he knew they should all be pent-up in the common room.  And the odd, clanking crash hadn’t come from that direction. 

The only Slytherin that Severus had caught out of bed lately was Draco Malfoy, and that incident had occurred almost a year ago.  McGonagall’s look of smug triumph as she dragged the small blonde by his ear to Severus’s office was quite disgusting, the man had decided.  Needless to say, Draco wasn’t foolish enough to shame his head of house twice.  The boy had learned his lesson the first time—Severus made sure of it.  The arrogant child remained subdued for an entire week, appearing grave even around Crabbe and Goyle…

Another clang.

Begrudgingly, Severus threw on his outer robes over his dark shirt and trousers and marched briskly to the door of his study.

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

Harry froze at the sound of the crash.

The distinct clanking could only have come from the suit of armor that Ron was crouching behind at the far end of the corridor. 

For the past ten minutes, he had been kneeling in front of the sealed common room, desperately tugging at the edge of his cloak that was wedged between the tightly closed entrance. 

Harry had waited impatiently against the stone wall until the very last Slytherin came barreling down the corridor.  Malfoy had been one of the first to return, a determined look plastered on his face as he walked quickly—alone. 

Carefully, Harry followed Adrien Pucey as closely as he dared, the straggling Slytherin moving swiftly as it was only a minute or two until curfew. 

The common room was only a half-corridor’s length from Snape’s office.  Harry was right. 

“Pureblood,” the chestnut-haired Chaser spoke clearly as the portrait swung open to reveal the room laced with green and silver.  He stepped through.

And the door was swinging shut already—much faster than the portrait of the Fat Lady—and Harry peeled himself away from the wall, almost jogging. 

But almost as if the door could sense a stranger, it snapped closed before Harry could even slip through the crack. 

“Damn!” Harry whispered. 

I’m such an idiot!  Why didn’t I follow closer?

The boy tried to move away, before he suddenly realized that his invisibility cloak had gotten caught.

“Oh no…” Harry groaned as he stooped in an attempt to free it.

He was stuck.  And Harry couldn’t risk ripping the cloak. 

After waiting fruitlessly for a while in hope of another Slytherin, Harry finally sat back on his heels and did the only thing he could think of:

“Pureblood,” he whispered.

Nothing happened.  Harry was beginning to sweat.

He tried again, louder this time, but still, the portrait remained tightly shut.

A crash from down the corridor caused him to jolt madly, and Harry froze in tingly fear. 

Another sharp noise, and Harry bolted into action.

“Pureblood!” he cried loudly.  And when the portrait had swung open only an inch, the boy swept his cloak out of the way and dashed down the corridor, seeming to forget that with only two steps forward, he would have been in the Slytherin common room.

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

Harry ran.  He didn’t care if his ankles were peeking out from underneath the cloak as it swept behind him. 

The sudden glitch in the plan coupled with the crashing noises had caused Harry to panic.  If Ron was caught, it was all his fault. 

Thinking only of his friend, who didn’t have the luxury of concealing himself under an invisibility cloak, Harry dashed around the corner.

As the boy flew past Snape’s office, an icy whisper penetrated through the stone walls to Harry’s brain, louder than ever before. 

Chills ran up and down the boy’s body as he stood in place, turning around wildly, searching for the source of the noise.

Kill…Kill…

Harry felt dizzy, and he couldn’t suppress a small, sob-like noise from escaping his lips. 

He made to run again, almost reaching Ron’s hiding place.

 Ripping…Tearing…Blood… 

Harry stumbled and banged his knee painfully on the stone floor, skidding a few inches as his invisibility cloak flew over him.  The boy buried his head in his arms as he lay on his stomach. 

Just make it go away…please, Harry thought desperately. 

“Potter!”

Harry didn’t move. 

Oh, god…

The boy felt strong hands grasp him underneath his arms—none too gently—and set him roughly on his feet.  His invisibility cloak was gone. 

Snape grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him sternly.

“I knew it!” the man spat, his face slightly contorted in the moonlight.  He tightened his fingers around Harry’s upper arm and dragged the trembling boy back down the corridor to his study.

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

When they reached Snape’s quarters, Harry expected to be shoved roughly into the office as he was the last time Snape had hauled him down the corridor.  However, the man only stood Harry next the fireplace as he moved behind his desk to retrieve the chair that was pushed underneath it. 

One of the legs of the armless chair smashed into the desk as Snape pulled it out and plunked it in the middle of the rug. 

Harry unconsciously backed up a few steps.  He knew what was going to happen.

“Don’t you dare move!” Snape barked, causing Harry’s stomach to shrivel from the harsh tone.

The professor reached out and grabbed Harry around the shoulders with both hands, yanking him forward.  But before Snape sat down, Harry began writhing in his grasp.

“Don’t!...” Harry yelled as he struggled, his own voice sounding foreign in his ears, “Get off of me!”

But as always, Harry’s exertion was pointless.  Snape held him firmly until he stopped squirming.

“Please don’t…” Harry finally croaked, feeling exhausted and jittery and close to tears, as he stood stiffly.

“Potter,” Snape spoke quietly, “You were warned what would happen, were you not?”

Harry stared into the fire and barely nodded.  He half-expected Snape to grab his chin again and force him to make eye-contact.  And if that were the case, Harry might explode. 

But he didn’t.

“Then there is nothing to debate.” 

Snape sat down, now holding onto Harry’s wrist. 

“Bend over,” Snape commanded instead of pushing the boy across his lap.  He figured that the less forceful he had to be, the more Potter would realize that he, and no one else, had gotten himself into trouble. 

Harry chewed on his bottom lip, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure it could be seen.  The boy knew he should be mortified…twelve and about to receive his first spanking…but Harry couldn’t stop trembling.  He was scared.

“Go on, Potter,” Snape nodded, slightly surprised at the state of the boy. 

Rigidly, Harry leaned over until he felt a hand pressing down in the middle of his back.  Was he just supposed to hang there?  He didn’t know.  But the pressure on his back told him to continue lowering his torso. 

Snape adjusted the boy before wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him.  It was clearly obvious that Potter had never been spanked before.  The child was clenching every muscle in his body.

Pushing Harry's sweatshirt out of the way, Snape raised his hand and smacked the thinly-covered bottom before him. 

Harry jerked over the man’s lap and held his breath as the sting began to blossom.  He silently cursed Hermione for the pajamas suggestion.  He wished he were wearing jeans.

The boy held his breath as the next several smacks fell low and hard.  He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been tonight.  It was as if every burning smack went straight to his brain, punctuating the memory of each idiotic thing Harry had done this week. 

Trying not to squirm from the concentrated, methodical ache, Harry squeezed his shut and grabbed two handfuls of whatever material was before him. 

 Why didn’t he just tell Snape?...It couldn’t have been worse than right now…And then there was the noise…and how chilling it was…and Harry couldn’t take any more funny looks from his classmates…and now they’d never know about Malfoy…and more people would be petrified…and Harry should have told someone…anyone…and god, it stings…and he wondered if there was a potion that would take the twinge out of his bum…the way the sock potion cleared his sinuses…and the twisting in his chest…and oh no, Harry…don’t cry…don’t!... 

And suddenly Snape felt a heaving pressure on his knees.  He knew the boy was crying.  Not loudly, but deep, almost silent sobs.  The stiffness of Harry's limbs had diminished.  Snape stopped the spanking.  He’d barely delivered a good twenty smacks, and the boy was weeping, his body wracking each time he inhaled. 

Flabbergasted, Snape place his hands under the boy’s arms to lift him.  The man’s robes were still tightly clenched in his small fists.

“Let go, Potter,” Snape ordered, almost gently, and slowly, Harry’s fingers released the wrinkled material. 

As he stood, Snape moved over to the sofa and sat the boy down on one of the cushions to compose himself. 

Harry immediately brought one hand up to cover his eyes, pushing his glasses up to rest on his forehead.  The twelve-year-old was still crying quietly, as he sat, hunched over.

Tentitively, Snape took a seat on the sofa next to Harry.  He slowly reached out and removed the boy’s glasses from the top of his head, as they threatened to come toppling down. 

“I hope you have learned your lesson, Mr. Potter,” Snape stated awkwardly.  He wasn’t exactly sure whether to console the boy or lecture him. 

Harry didn’t even nod.  His face was scrunched up tightly behind his palm.

Something was wrong with this boy.  No one cried this heart-brokenly over a spanking.

Snape moved closer.

“Potter…” he tried again.

But as soon as the word left the professor’s mouth, Harry removed his hand, and without warning, dropped his head heavily on Severus’s shoulder.  The boy didn’t attempt to put his arms around the man; he simply rested his forehead, his breath coming in hitches. 

Completely taken aback, Severus stared down at the child.  Potter looked pathetic.  The man was almost half-tempted to shrug him off.  But he didn’t.  Instead, he slowly reached his arm around, lacing his fingers through the boy’s untidy hair and held the back of the his head.  Snape’s hand itched from delivering the sharp smacks, and Potter’s hair felt prickly to the touch, but he retained his hold.

Snape said nothing for several long moments, listening only to the crackling of the fire and an occasional hiccoughing sob.

Finally, he found his tongue but struggled with the words:

“What is it, Potter?” Snape inquired simply, bewildered. 

And receiving no response, Snape gave the boy’s head a fleeting squeeze and waited patiently, watching as the tears bled through the fabric and soaked the shoulder of his robes.

The rough, damp cloth of the professor’s robes felt itchy against Harry’s hot forehead, but the stationary pressure on the back of his head was oddly reassuring.  And for the moment, Harry didn’t want to lose that.  The tears had stopped several minutes ago.  However, the reality of the recent breakdown was slowly creeping up on Harry, and he felt increasingly embarrassed, especially since he was having a difficult time slowing down his brokenly hitched breathing.  Even when Harry held his breath, his chest convulsed.  So he finally succumbed to the involuntary, gasping sniffles and simply waited it out. 

Harry turned his head to the side, the cool air stinging his wet cheeks and chin that were a bit raw from the river of salty tears that had cascaded down his face during the past fifteen minutes. 

But the warmth from Snape’s hand continued to radiate through Harry’s hair, and its constancy allowed the boy enough strength to open his mouth, even if it was Snape’s hand holding him against the strong shoulder.

“So stupid…” Harry whispered, the words almost muffled from his barely parted lips.

At the initiating words, Severus slid his from the untidy hair, resting it on the back of the sofa as he spoke. 

“Elaborate, Mr. Potter, what is stupid?” he inquired softly.

The vibration from Snape’s voice rumbled against Harry’s forehead, but the back of his head felt suddenly chilled.  Slowly lifting his head, Harry sat up and ran his hands across his swollen, itchy eyes and the sore skin of his cheeks before sniffling noisily and alternating rubbing the backs of both hands across his runny nose. 

“I dunno…everything,” Harry mumbled miserably, swiping at his nose again.  He watched as Snape pushed himself up from the sofa and walked over his desk.  Opening a drawer and pulling out a thin handkerchief, Snape moved back toward Harry, extending his hand.

“Use this,” Snape commanded as he sat down again, a bit further away from the boy than before.  He held Harry’s glasses in the other hand. 

Harry looked up at his professor through his fringe as he brought the soft cloth to his face and noisily complied.  He was feeling more ashamed by the second.  However, the shame seemed different than before.  The knot in Harry’s stomach that had been constantly twisting for the past several days had loosened considerably.  Now, he just felt sort of timid and…vulnerable, not to mention exhausted.  Harry’s chest felt hollow, as if he’d just sprinted down the corridor.  But it was almost a pleasant sort of emptiness.

Dropping the side of his head to rest against the back of the sofa, Harry took back his glasses from Snape and placed them on his nose before turning the handkerchief over and absently rubbing it across the back of his hand.

Grimacing ever so slightly, Harry shifted a bit on his cushion, suddenly aware the achy heat. He focused intently on the handkerchief that he was twisting between his fingers, hoping desperately that Snape wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. 

“There is a fine line, Mr. Potter, between bravery and recklessness,” Snape stated firmly without raising his voice.  

Perhaps it was the unexpected placid tone or the lack of a witty retort at Harry’s obvious discomfort…the boy wasn’t certain.  But the professor’s words caused Harry to glance up into the man’s unreadable face with a confused look of his own.

“What do you mean?” Harry croaked through a scratchy throat.

Snape tilted his head and stared briefly at the fire as if trying to decide how to best explain his reasoning to a distraught twelve-year-old.  He cleared his throat and allowed his folded hands to remain calmly in his lap as he shook back a stray lock of dark hair. 

“Traipsing around after curfew in your invisibility cloak is not only unnecessary and against the rules, Potter, it is dangerous,” Snape informed the boy sternly, “especially at a time like this when—“

“But I--”

“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking,” Snape closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he interjected his command, appearing almost as weary as Harry felt.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered, staring at his hands.  He furrowed his brow a bit, surprised at how quickly he apologized.  Where was this coming from?

Snape paused for a moment before nodding tersely in acceptance.  But due to Harry’s deeply bowed head, the boy missed the small gesture.

“Perhaps, Potter, you would care to explain the reason for your latest bout of unruliness,” Snape continued dryly.

No way, Harry inwardly scoffed.

But he knew very well that Snape’s words were not spoken as a request. 

Harry didn’t feel like telling Snape anything.  He didn’t think he did anyway.  At the moment, all he wanted to do was scratch the tingly irritation out of his behind with both hands and go back to bed. 

But Harry knew he wouldn’t do any of that. 

Taking advantage of his turn to sigh, Harry tucked his left foot underneath the other leg and gave a final squirm as he settled into the leather cushion of the sofa.

Bravery or recklessness…

“I was trying to get into the Slytherin common room,” Harry muttered at last, startled by the denseness of his voice due to his tears and runny nose.  He fought the urge to duck his head again.  Harry’s heart pounded, and the air felt balmy in his lungs.

Snape’s eyes darkened considerably as he narrowed his gaze, “Which one of my Slytherins did you wish to prank, Potter?”

Harry sat up briskly.

“No…it was nothing like that, sir…” Harry began, shaking his head emphatically.

“Then explain yourself.”

“I…erm,” Harry stammered and then pressed his lips together, inching away slightly from the professor’s stern gaze, “I just needed to…see about something…”

“In the middle of the night,” Snape spouted, his voice was gradually becoming colder.

Eleven o’clock, actually. 

Harry wisely kept this thought to himself.

“Well…yeah,” Harry continued, crestfallen.  His explanation was pitiful.  Good fortune just didn’t seem to be on his side tonight.  Harry took a few seconds to rub at his itchy, tired eyes, studying the bursts of color behind the lids. 

“You were cowering when I found you, Potter.  Why?”  Snape inquired with a hint of curiosity in his tone.

Harry dropped his hands and jerked his head up.  Snape was tilting his head in a probing manner as Harry chewed on a finger nail; his insides felt like they were bursting. 

Tell him…Just tell him…

“I…”  Harry stopped; his teeth ground against the now-jagged nail.

“Go on.”

Harry breathed shallowly.  “The voice,” he sputtered, “It was…I mean, I heard it again.”

Blood pounded in his ears.  It was only a matter of seconds before Snape would cart him off to the loony bin. 

“Again, Mr. Potter?” Snape questioned with a frown.

Harry nodded weakly, feeling the bile rise in his throat.  He began to shiver. 

Oh, why did I tell him? Harry thought dismally, shutting his eyes tightly, angry at himself for his weak, desperate outburst. 

For the next moment, the hissing and crackling of the logs in the fireplace was the only sound that cut through the silence until Snape finally cleared his throat and spoke up.

“Tell me about this voice you’ve been hearing,” Snape said quietly, the former concern of the Slytherin common room seemingly forgotten. “Open your eyes, Potter, this is important.”

Harry slowly lifted his securely closed lids.  Snape was near him again, his pinched eyes studying Harry’s face.  The boy continued to breathe heavily, feeling dangerously close to passing out.  The fingernails of Harry’s hands cut into his tightly balled fists. 

“Are you hearing this voice in your head, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head.

“Where then?”

There was no way that Snape would believe him.  After all, not even Ron and Hermione were hearing it. 

“Potter…” Snape began, clearly fighting the exasperation in his voice.

“The walls,” Harry whispered, inwardly wincing, waiting for the inevitable scorn. 

Snape sat up straighter, continuing to view Harry with an odd expression of mingled concern and disbelief. 

“And this…voice,” Snape pressed on. “Is it low?  High?  Does it speak actual words?”

“I…yeah,” Harry answered, a bit taken aback by Snape's genuine interest in the matter, “some words…and it’s kind of high and whispery.”

“Screeching?”

“No, sir,” Harry continued, shifting on his now warm and tingling seat, trying not to shiver. “It’s kind of like a hiss…or something.” 

“Mmmm,” Snape responded absently, considering this for a moment.  Harry sniffled noisily again, and Snape motioned toward the handkerchief still clutched in Harry’s fist.  He blew his nose again as Snape stood up and walked over to an area behind the sofa.  But this time, Harry didn’t watch him.  He simply bit his thumbnail again, folding the cloth into an impossibly small wad. 

Snape spoke as he rifled through a few items that Harry could see.  “You are a parselmouth, Potter, did you know?” Snape’s voice seemed to echo off the wall—perhaps shelves, and it sounded like he was leaning over. 

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, his curiosity getting the better of him as he finally turned around to see what his professor was doing.  But Snape was already standing beside the arm of the sofa.  He held out a forest-green afghan. 

Harry stared at it.

“Well, take it, you foolish boy,” Snape ordered.  Slowly, Harry did so.  The knitted blanket felt heavy in Harry’s hands.  As Snape swept over to stand in front of the fire, Harry shook out the large blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“Perhaps you are hearing a snake that is loose in the building,” the man suggested, the flames dancing around the contours of his pale face as he stared into the fire.

Harry poked his fingers through the tiny holes in the afghan.

“But it’s different than a snake,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I’ve talked to one before…at the zoo last year.  This is louder…like it’s all around me.”

Snape said nothing for a moment.    Harry took this as permission to continue.

“And…and the stuff it says is different…like it wants to kill someone or hurt them…” Harry trailed off as Snape turned from the fire.

He moved forward, quickly, and surprised Harry by crouching down in front of him.

“Have you told any of this to Professor Dumbledore,” Snape demanded, an edge of urgency evident in his voice. 

Harry bit his lip.  “No, sir.”

“Your Head of House?”

Harry shook his head.

“You thought to tell no one? Snape inquired, a bit roughly. “Did you even take a moment to be seriously concerned about this?”

“Of course…” 

“And yet you still had no reservations about wandering about building at night, did you, Potter?” Snape growled sternly.

Harry held his breath, feeling his stomach tense up. 

“No…it’s just...”

“It’s just what, Mr. Potter?  No, I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Snape scolded. “Tonight’s stunt was purely reckless and idiotic.”

Gripping handfuls of the blanket, Harry felt his temper rise.  “I had to, professor!” Harry cried, “Malfoy obviously knows something about the Chamber that no one else does…and besides, I’m sick of people thinking I’m the Heir of Slytherin…”

“Draco Malfoy knows nothing about it, I can assure you.  He is only a boy,” Snape stated firmly as he stood up, “And you, Mr. Potter, are not to concern yourself with the Chamber of Secrets.  Is that understood?”  Harry followed his professor’s movements, blanching suddenly, and hoping that he wasn’t moving back over to the desk chair. 

“Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied dully. 

Snape nodded, “For the sake of your safety, not to mention your hide, you will do well to remember what I’ve said, Potter.”  He watched Harry for a few seconds longer as the boy stared at the floor, looking extremely defeated.  Snape moved over to his desk once again and grasped at a handful of air only centimeters above the flat, wooden top. 

With a flick of his wrist, Snape flipped over and revealed the detectable side of Harry’s invisibility cloak. 

“There it is!” Harry exclaimed.  However, as Snape carefully straightened refolded the cloak, Harry became wary, “That’s mine…can I have it back?”

Snape looked at Harry with one raised eyebrow, but continued folding.  Grasping the vacant chair with his free hand, Severus lifted it and swung it forward before placing it directly in front of the sofa where Harry now sat elevated on the edge of the cushion.

“May I…have it back?” Harry tried asking again. 

“You may not,” Snape replied simply, taking a seat in front of the boy and resting the folded cloak on his knee. 

Harry felt his face burn in anger and frustration.  If he hadn’t just bawled for all he was worth, he might have even had a few tears to spare over this situation.

“You can’t take my cloak,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “That was my dad’s.  Dumbledore gave it to me last Christmas!”

“And the headmaster clearly made a grave mistake,” Snape retorted.  However, the man couldn’t help but notice the severely dejected look on Potter’s face. “I am not taking this from you, Potter,” he added, “I am merely keeping it until you prove to me...and Professor Dumbledore that you are responsible enough to use it wisely. 

Harry twisted fingers around in the afghan and stared at his lap, “You don’t understand, professor.”

Snape sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, “Really, Potter, how so?”

Harry swallowed and looked hard at his professor.

“I need my cloak.  We never would have been able to get the Sorcerer’s stone last year without it…”

“You should not have been within one hundred feet of that dog, Potter, you could have been killed,” Snape snarled.

“But I wasn’t!” Harry replied, incensed from the fact that Snape was completely disregarding the fact that he’d managed to defeat Quirrell, even with Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head.  “Besides, it’s not like anyone would listen to me when I tried to warn them about...” Harry stopped himself just in time, “…about…someone going after the stone.” 

Snape retained a stony façade as he sighed once more, but his eyes remained locked on Harry’s. 

“You are twelve years old, Potter,” the man said finally.

Harry opened his mouth to retort in outrage, but Snape held up a warning finger to silence him. 

“And it is time you learned to distinguish acts of bravery from acts of stupidity,” Snape asserted, leaning forward, “However…you should also realize that not every situation is immediately salvageable...  And you must accept that.”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip. 

“Neither the Heir of Slytherin or the Chamber of Secrets is your concern,” Snape repeated firmly, “There are a dozen adults at Hogwarts who are more than capable of handling the situation…”

“'Cept for Lockhart…” Harry mumbled before he could stop himself.  But he was surprised to see Snape fighting to control an amused smirk. 

“The first valid argument you’ve established all night, Potter.”

Harry gave a half-smile that turned into a deep yawn.  A headache was beginning to pound in his temples. 

“So what do I do about the voice?” Harry asked, feeling sleepy and wanting to finalize the discussion and head back to Gryffindor tower to check on Ron—assuming he got back all right.  But he couldn’t help worrying about the noise within the walls.

“You do nothing,” Snape replied, “If you happen to hear the voice again, you will go directly to me, is that clear, Mr. Potter?” 

“But what if you’re not here,” Harry asked.  It seemed that whenever Harry actually needed an adult, they were never around…

“Then you will go to Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore…or…another adult,” Snape suggested the third quickly, noticing the makings of a retort in the boy’s features.

Harry nodded, feeling somewhat relieved.    

The professor pushed back his chair and stood. “Additionally, you are to keep your wand with you at all times, am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry responded, shucking his blanket, “But I don’t know how to do much with it…”

Snape stopped, seeming to ponder over this for a moment.

“Regardless,” the man continued, “Do as I say, Potter.  You know what to expect if you don't.”

Harry swallowed hard.  He definitely didn’t want that to happen again. 

Snape moved swiftly to the exit of his office and opened the door. “I believe it is past your bedtime.

Harry stretched as he stood up, attempting to be discreet as he got in a quick rub at his bottom.

“It’s Friday,” Harry grumbled as he walked toward the door. “I don’t have a bedtime…not even during the week.” 

“I suppose that will have to be remedied then, won’t it, Potter?” Snape stated with a smirk.

“Er…no,” Harry exclaimed.

“Bed,” Snape ordered, pointing down the corridor. 

“All right.”

“Wait, Potter,” Snape called out when Harry had gone only a few paces. “Do you have your wand with you?

“Yeah,” Harry said as he bent down to retrieve the wand that he had stuffed down his left sock.  He’d pulled the sock all the way up to the middle of his shin in order to hold it in place, since he wasn’t wearing any shoes and hadn’t wanted to risk keeping his wand in the loose waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Retrieving the requested item, Harry held it out for Snape to see.

“Very well.  Come here.” Snape said as he reached inside of his robes and removed his own wand, “Hold it firmly by the end and repeat after me.  Follow my movements.”

Harry did as he was told.

“Lumos,” Snape recited as he waved his wand in a figure eight pattern.  The tip of the wand illuminated with a bright, bluish light. 

“Brilliant,” Harry breathed, practicing with his own wand a few times before trying.

“Lumos,” Harry said, and watched as a soft blue light ignited for a fleeting second and went out.

“Try again, Potter, do not connect the movement.  End with a flick of your wrist.”

Harry nodded and attempted it once more.  This time, the light radiated and remained. 

“Cool,” Harry said, extending his arm and swirling his wand around so that the light bounced in all directions.  He glanced up at Snape brightly.  Harry’s eyes were still quite red around the rims, but the excitement in his face was evident over conquering the basic charm. 

The boy seemed to catch on more quickly than Snape had originally thought.

“Do not try it now, but when you return to your dormitory, extinguish the light with a simple flick of the wrist.  Nox,” Snape recited as he demonstrated the movement, “Keep your light out the entire way to Gryffindor Tower.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded, holding his ignited wand like a sparkler. 

“Your final detention will begin tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Potter,” Snape informed. “ I was being quite serious when I instructed you to wear something old.”

Harry wrinkled his nose.

“That said, do not be late,” Snape stated authoritatively.

“I won’t…”

“Go on, then,” Snape said as he nodded toward the corridor once more. 

Harry walked forward, amazed at how much the lumos charm had brightened the stone walls.  It wasn’t until he emerged from the dungeons that Harry thought with a slight twinge of regret that perhaps he should have shown a bit of gratitude. 

Harry sighed.  But then he found himself smiling.  For the first time in days, the only thing burning in Harry’s stomach was hunger.  Things weren’t perfect, but they were better. 

I wonder if Ron has any chocolate frogs left, Harry wondered as he waved his glowing wand in elaborate patterns along the portraits causing several to squint and shield their eyes.

Suddenly, Harry stopped, his wand arm frozen in mid-air.

"Oh no," he whispered to himself. 

Ron...

Harry ran the rest of the way to Gryffindor tower, the blue light jerkily trailing along the stairs.

The minute Harry barged into the Gryffindor common room after Noxing his ignited wand with a jostled flick of his wrist and stating the password as loudly as he dared, Hermione leapt up from one of the armchairs facing the fireplace and attacked him.

“Harry, where have you been?” the girl nearly screeched as she closed in on the boy briskly.  Hermione was clad in pajamas as well, her curly hair plaited into thick braids on either side of her cheeks.  A few stray pieces of hair had escaped the knotted ends, most likely in her distress over the past hour, and were now floating amidst the bushy braids as she spoke. 

Immense worry creased Hermione’s face as she stood near Harry and waited for an answer.

Harry was sweaty from running up the stairs.  His pajamas bottoms and oversized sweatshirt felt hot and smothering, and Harry’s throat was so dry that his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth when he attempted to swallow.  He breathed heavily, ignoring Hermione’s question and commencing his own interrogation.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry gasped as he turned and placed his wand on a nearby table before gripping the ledge with both hands, tightening his stomach muscles in order to control his breathing.

Hermione looked confused, “What do you mean, Harry, I thought he was with you.”

Turning slightly from the table, Harry placed one hand on his hip, still inhaling more deeply than normal through is nose.

“He was.” 

“And…” Hermione prompted sounding increasingly panicked. 

“And I was almost in the common room when I heard some sort of clanging noise—like metal—from down the corridor where he was standing,” Harry explained, panting every fourth or fifth word, “I was going to go check on him but my cloak got stuck and I—“

“Did you get it out?” Hermione interrupted, apparently too stricken to guess the obvious.

Harry looked up at her strangely and swallowed dryly, “Well…yeah, Hermione, I’m here, aren’t I?”

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head, “Yes, of course,” she muttered to herself.  She walked over closer to Harry and put a hand on his rapidly rising and falling shoulder as she leaned over and peered into this clammy face, squinting.  “Forget about Ron for the moment.  What about you…are you all right, Harry?”

Harry glanced up sharply.

“Huh?  I’m fine,” the boy said, as if she’d posed the most ridiculous inquiry on the planet, “And what do you mean, ‘forget about Ron’?  He should have been back here by now, Hermione,” Harry continued, trying to appear collected on the surface when on the inside, the concern he felt for his friend was icily eating away the previous, yet short-lived, appetite for chocolate frogs that had been gurgling in his empty stomach. 

“Your eyes are all red,” Hermione noted quietly, leaning in even closer, “What happened, Harry—“

But at that precise moment, before Harry could even begin to ponder over whether to tell her the truth or to conjure up an excuse, the portrait swung open fiercely, almost slamming into the wall.  Ron stepped in looking absolutely furious.  Two identical spots of dark pink burned high on the boy’s cheeks. 

Harry and Hermione simultaneously whipped around to face their ginger-haired friend who looked more enraged than they had ever seen him before. 

“There you are!” Harry exclaimed, relieved.  But he quickly suppressed the urge to move forward and clap Ron on the back as Harry stared, a bit confounded, at the mutinous expression on his friend’s usually good-natured face.  “You okay, mate?” Harry asked tentatively. 

“Oh so now look who cares…Perfect timing!” Ron retorted coldly as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“What’s your problem?” Harry questioned, more surprised than angry at his friend’s harsh demeanor, “What happened?”

Hermione was looking back and forth between the two boys, utterly lost among the inconspicuous conflict that seemed to be brewing. 

“What happened? Ron repeated, incredulously, “What HAPPENED?”  The redhead looked over at Hermione, “He wants to know what happened!” Ron scoffed, pointing at Harry.

But the girl was not taking sides so easily. 

“So what?  It’s obvious something happened, Ronald, so tell us,” Hermione said, not bothering to keep the slight disgust from her voice. 

Ron huffed indignantly, “You were supposed to come back and get me!”  He directed his statement at Harry, who was standing with his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pajama pants.  The boy nervously curled the toes of his left foot inside his sock as he stood, figuring out the best explanation he could offer Ron. 

“I know…But I didn’t have a chance,” Harry began, his ears burning, mostly in embarrassed recognition of Hermione’s discovery of his red, puffy eyes.  Harry hadn’t planned on ever telling anyone about getting a smacking in Snape’s office and blubbering all over his shoulder.  But now that Hermione could tell he’d been crying, Harry was basically doomed. 

Why didn’t I stop off in the loo to wash? Harry thought miserably, scorning himself for his carelessness. 

“Yeah, and I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell after you left me behind that suit of armor without the invisibility cloak!” Ron all but shouted.

At this, Hermione stepped in.

“Be quiet, Ron!” she whispered fiercely, “It’s late.”

Ron continued to scowl but lowered his voice, “You just left me there…” 

Harry was beginning to get irritated.

“I didn’t leave you there,” Harry replied in agitation, “You were the one who had to go and make all that noise…”

“Mrs. Norris was standing right by the sodding armor!” Ron cried, raising his voice.

“That still doesn’t mean you had to squirm around like some sort of idiot and try to get caught!” Harry yelled.

“Shhhh!” Hermione shushed, looking around wildly at both sets of adjacent staircases, but Harry and Ron barely heard her.

“YEAH, WELL I DID GET CAUGHT, YOU GIT, AND NOW I’VE GOT DETENTION TOMORROW NIGHT…CLEANING OUT BEDPANS IN THE INFIRMARY…AGAIN!” Ron shouted, his arms flailing angrily. 

“Ron, shut up!” Hermione squealed, her palms covering her face.  She’d buried her head at the exact second that Ron’s shout of “bedpans” echoed off of the common room walls. 

“Why should I?” the redhead continued his tirade sourly, “I was supposed to have a game of Wizard’s Chess with Fred tomorrow night…”

Harry clenched his jaw and fists equally hard.  His face stung as if it had been slapped and Harry’s feet felt cemented to the floor.  Now, he didn’t care about trying to smooth it over or pretending like everything was okay.  He was tired.  And sick to death of being the martyr among his friends without recognition.  Harry didn’t expect a bloody parade, but he didn’t need this either. 

Breathing heavily, the boy’s rigid stance served as a poor deterrence, for Harry, without thinking, suddenly moved forward, placed both of his hands on Ron’s shoulder’s, and shoved him as hard as he could. 

Ron stumbled backward, tripping over his own long legs and fell back on his hip, barely catching himself with his hands.  He sat on the ground, stunned, his mouth open as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

For Harry, watching the plethora of emotions flash across his best friend’s face was as satisfying as it was painful.  Ron’s surprise had quickly shifted to anger, his eyes darkening, but finding no words to support this, Ron’s fury seemed to melt into silent hurt that penetrated right through Harry.

It took all of the strength Harry had to fight down the guilt that threatened to bubble up in his stomach.  His breath came in shallow gulps.

“Harry…” Hermione began, but he ignored her. 

“You’re not the only one who has detention,” Harry croaked, staring down pointedly at Ron, “and you’re not the only one who got caught tonight.”

 He heard a gasp from Hermione, but Harry didn’t turn around to witness her expression. 

“So now we’re both punished,” Harry continued, trying desperately to control the tremor in his voice, “And I know…detention’s rubbish.  Believe me, I’ve had it all week…”

Ron remained silent, staring at Harry with a look that they boy couldn’t decipher. 

“But I’m not going to apologize,” Harry said firmly—more steadily than he felt, “You wanted to do this too, Ron.  We all did.  And we tried, but it didn’t work.”

Ron gazed down at the floor.  After a while, so did Harry. 

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” Harry finally mumbled, “I’m going to bed.”  He reached over and picked up his wand that was still resting on the table.  It was still warm, radiating with heat from the recent incantation.  Harry clutched it with his sweaty hand as he made his way towards the stairs, deliberately avoiding eye contact with both of his friends. 

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

Lying on his side, the covers draped tightly over his left shoulder, Harry rested, but his eyes remained wide open.  He’d been in bed for what seemed like fifteen minutes.  And during that time, Harry had closed his eyes, forcing his mind to focus on nothing but the blackness behind his lids. 

It was obvious that Seamus and Dean had leapt into bed when they heard Harry pad up the steps, but Harry didn’t pay them any mind.  He simply placed his wand on his night table, taking care that it wouldn’t roll off, and slipped under his sheets, pulling the curtains closed on all four sides. 

Ron and Hermione were most likely talking about him down in the common room.  But Harry didn’t care about that either.  If Ron wanted to stay mad at Harry, that was his problem—not Harry’s. 

However, a few minutes later, Harry heard light, slow footsteps on the stairs.  And he knew it was Ron.  But he didn’t open his curtains or even acknowledge the fact by turning over. 

A brief silence, and then Harry heard the distinct scraping of metal on metal from above him. 

“Harry?  You awake?” Ron whispered shortly. 

For a split second, Harry considered just pretending to be asleep, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good.  And it certainly wouldn’t make him feel any better.

“Yeah,” Harry answered softly, without turning around. 

Harry heard and felt the slow crunch and dip of bedsprings as Ron took a seat on the end of the bed.  This unfamiliar gesture was enough to make Harry shift to lie on his back. 

Ron was sitting awkwardly, one leg dangling off of the bed.  Harry waited for his friend to speak first.  It felt odd to be lying down while Ron sat perched on the edge of the mattress as if he were going to tell Harry a bedtime story.  Harry almost laughed at the idea.

“I’m not—“ Ron’s voice squeaked, and clearing his throat, he tried again, “I’m not saying this just because Hermione told me to—“

Harry rolled his eyes.

“No, really, mate, she didn’t,” Ron explained, a note of pleading in his voice, “But I guess what I’m trying to say is…sorry, Harry.  I acted like a prat down there.”

Not really knowing how to respond, Harry simply chewed on the insides of his cheeks. 

“I know it wasn’t your fault I got caught,” Ron continued, but then he fell silent too. 

Sighing, Harry pushed himself up on his elbows.  He couldn’t believe Ron had actually apologized.  Harry supposed it was his turn now.

“Sorry I shoved you,” Harry said quietly, glancing toward the dark crimson curtains before tilting his head towards his friend.  “It just hit me the wrong way, you know?”

Ron smiled a little, his expression falling somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. 

“Yeah, that surprised me…I didn’t think you had it in you, mate.” 

“And who knew your voice went up so high when you yell,” Harry replied jokingly, laughing when Ron suddenly leapt forward and pretended to smother Harry with the blanket. 

Unexpectedly, Neville snorted in his sleep and sat up abruptly.  Harry and Ron froze mid-wrestle. 

Neville mumbled a few incoherencies thickly—something about putting his clothes in the wash—rubbed his eyes, and fell heavily back on the pillow. 

Harry and Ron, who were listening intently to Neville’s mutterings behind the velvet curtains, looked at each other meaningfully before erupting in silent laughter. 

Finally, Ron sat up and bounced off of Harry’s bed.  He kicked off his slippers and slid beneath the covers of his own four-poster. 

“What time do you have to go to detention tomorrow?” Ron whispered, turning over on his side.

“Ten,” Harry answered with a yawn as he snuggled beneath his comforter, “Infirmary?”

“Seven,” Ron replied, “…at night, that is…”

Harry nodded into the pillow, “I’ll wait up for you, okay?  We can play chess or something.” 

“Brilliant,” Ron said sleepily, “Night, Harry.”

“Night.” 

Harry rolled over, the cool, smooth surface of the pillow felt comforting as he rubbed his face deep into the feathers.  He was almost positive that Hermione had talked Ron into leaving the Heir of Slytherin matter alone—at least for now.  Usually, Harry would have been a little offended at such blatant patronization.  He also would have also been jumping to come up with another plan. 

But not tonight.

Perhaps Snape’s reasoning had stuck with Harry more than he thought.  Or maybe he was just tired.  But miraculously, Ron wasn’t angry anymore, and his lack of mentioning tonight’s disaster was probably for the best. 

And for Harry, it felt nice to fall asleep with nothing on his mind for once, except the promise of a game of chess tomorrow night. 

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

Harry slept until almost nine o’clock.  The morning light was dim and without glancing at the window, Harry could sense that it was considerably cloudy outside.  Harry was warm and comfy under his covers, but he kicked them off anyway.  He was hungry and wanted to grab something for breakfast before heading to Snape’s classroom for his final detention. 

Freedom from a week of tedious detentions was tangibly close, and Harry felt a thrill run through his veins at the prospect of eventually being able to play with his friends after dinner instead of continuously plodding to the dungeons.

Harry swung his legs over the mattress and put on his glasses.  Ron and Neville were gone, but Dean and Seamus were still breathing deep and evenly, lying on their stomachs, so Harry moved quietly about the room so he wouldn’t wake them.

Kneeling down in front of his trunk, Harry carefully opened the lid and peered inside.

Something old…Harry thought, as he began sorting through the small pile of clothes that lay folded at the bottom. 

He had Mrs. Weasley’s sweater from last Christmas, but Harry didn’t consider that to be old.  He still wore it on the weekends. 

Harry also had spotted two small, white school shirts from last year that were a bit short at the sleeves, but they were still quite nice.  Who knew what kind of grime Harry would be plunging into this morning… 

Finally, Harry reached the very bottom where he kept a few of his—or rather Dudley’s—old, large t-shirts and a pair of over-sized, grass-stained jeans that Harry had worn almost every other day last year at Privet Drive. 

Was that what Snape meant by old?

Harry pulled them out, wrinkling his nose at the rather grungy state.  His jeans smelled like the dirt from Aunt Petunia’s garden. 

Harry didn’t want to wear these. 

In fact, he never wanted to look at them again; however, when the Weasleys had rescued him from behind bars this summer, he didn’t have a chance to organize his trunk as Fred and George dragged it up the stairs from the cupboard and shoved it in the old car. 

So the hand-me-downs remained. 

But the boy still didn’t want to put them on.  Nevertheless, Harry cared enough for his decent things not to ruin them.  Although he had his small fortune in the wizarding world, Harry was basically a pauper in the other. 

Setting the jeans aside for the moment, Harry leaned over deeper into his trunk to find his old belt that he always wore with these jeans to keep them up.  He didn’t need one with his school trousers, as they fit perfectly. 

Harry continued to search, but he couldn’t find it. 

“Bloody hell,” the boy whispered in frustration as he moved his hands wildly along the bottom. 

It was nine-fifteen.  And Ron was probably waiting for him in the common room with Hermione to go down to breakfast. 

With a tremendous huff, Harry stood up and shucked his pajama bottoms, making a face as he stepped into the loathsome jeans.  They were so baggy that he didn’t even need to unbutton them to get them on. 

Harry thought about just wearing his sweatshirt to detention but decided that he didn’t want to destroy it either…

Sighing, Harry removed his sweatshirt and chose the least-dingy looking t-shirt he could find.  The short-sleeves still hung past his elbows and the hem of the faded blue shirt fell mid-thigh, but at least there were no holes in it. 

However, Harry couldn’t wear these jeans without a belt.  He was dangerously close to wearing a pair of his nicer khakis when he noticed something gleaming in the bottom of his trunk. 

It looked like a large safety pin. 

As Harry bent down to examine it, his suspicions were confirmed.  Funny how those things just seemed to end up in trunks, drawers, and the like…

Holding onto the hem of his jeans, Harry picked it up with his forefinger and thumb.  He folded the hem over so it was snug against his belly and clumsily inserted the pin into the thick material.  After a few tries, Harry finally succeeded.  Yanking his t-shirt down to hide the evidence, Harry didn’t even attempt to look at himself in the mirror. 

He knew he looked wretched.

Pulling on his trainers, Harry grabbed his robes, put his arms into the sleeves, and fastened the front all the way down to his middle.  After all, some students—mostly Slytherins and Ravenclaws—still wore them on the weekends.   

The long, dark material would hide his grubby clothes—for now, at least. 

Feeling rather disgusted, Harry closed his trunk and grabbed his wand off of the night table before making his way down to the common room.

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

A half-hour later, pleasantly full of toast and scrambled eggs, Harry entered Snape’s classroom in much better emotional condition than he had been in over the past week. 

He’d explained his state of dress to Ron and Hermione, and thankfully, they seemed to understand. 

However, Harry would soon have to remove his robes if he didn’t want to get them dirty.  But Harry didn’t care much.  Besides, Snape was the one who told him to wear something old, didn’t he?

As Harry walked into the classroom, he could already tell that Snape was in another room off to the side, not just by the noises, but rather by the lack of billowing robes.  Glancing around, Harry noticed that the door behind Snape’s desk was propped open—the same room that Snape had been rifling in during Harry’s first detention. 

“In here, Potter,” Snape voice echoed from inside the room. 

As Harry stepped inside, he could see that several lanterns had been lit, considerably brightening the windowless haven. 

Harry’s eyes fixed on the abundance of boxes first.  But before he could begin to wonder what was inside, Snape continued speaking. 

“You will find a pair of suitable gloves over there in the corner,” Snape informed, pointing to Harry’s right without turning around, “Put them on, and then wait for my instructions.”  As Harry removed his robes and draped them over a nearby box, he walked over to the corner and donned the thick, rubber gloves, watching as Snape peered into and stacked several boxes. 

Harry flexed his fingers inside the smothering gloves.  They were very much like the ones he wore to wash dishes at the Dursleys, except those were yellow. 

Studying the smudged, black rubber, Harry didn’t notice that Snape had turned around, or that he’d been staring at the boy for several seconds. 

“Potter, what on earth are you wearing?”

Harry snapped his head up, giving Snape a questioning look before glancing down at his t-shirt.

“You…er…told me to wear these, sir,” Harry explained, blushing as he surveyed the strange look on Snape’s face—as if he the man were gazing at something particularly hideous. 

“I instructed you to where something old, Mr. Potter, not decrepit,” Snape stated, his brows deeply furrowed.  He walked towards Harry.  “Where did you get those clothes?”

Damn…Harry thought, I didn’t think that were that bad…

After all, Harry had worn them all last year and no one in Surrey seemed to care one way or the other...

“I…they’re…erm…just play clothes, professor,” Harry lied, stepping back a few paces from Snape. 

“They’re huge, Potter,” Snape scoffed, bending down a bit to get a better look, “You will undoubtedly get them caught on something…

Harry was growing angry.  He felt stupid for believing that Snape would just leave his clothes alone. 

“Here…” Snape began, reaching out to grasp a handful of Harry’s shirt. 

The boy wasn’t sure what his professor was meaning to do, but in Harry’s embarrassed anger, he jerked back.

“Don’t!” Harry cried, annoyed at how childish Snape made him feel sometimes. 

But the potions master only straightened up and grasped Harry’s shoulders. 

“Drop the theatrics, Potter, I am in no mood this morning,” Snape spat, giving Harry a brief shake, “Now hold still.”

“Leave me alone!” Harry nearly yelled and continued wriggling.

Suddenly, the boy felt a stabbing pain in his stomach, causing him to jump violently. 

“Ow!” Harry groaned, pushing away from Snape. 

And without warning, Harry’s jeans began to slip from his hips.  The safety pin scraped painfully across his thigh as the boy caught a handful of his trousers by the button before they fell. 

Harry was humiliated. 

“Here…Potter…” Snape began, crouching down.

“Get AWAY FROM ME!” Harry shouted and tried to pull back, but Snape had his left arm in a strong grasp. 

On instinct, Snape raised his hand over Harry’s underwear-clad rear end, preparing to swat the boy firmly for his disrespect, but Snape caught himself at the last second. 

Potter had flinched as if he knew what to expect, and Severus noticed. 

The moment of hesitancy allowed the man to peruse the ridiculous scene: Potter hunched over and clutching his jeans for dear life, the sharp point of the pin dangerously erect, and Severus—his open hand poised in mid-air. 

Utterly ridiculous. 

Snape relaxed his hand and instead of reprimanding, he grabbed the wayward waistband of the boy’s trousers and hoisted them back up.  With the other hand, he gingerly pulled the safety pin out from the dense fabric and tossed it on top of a nearby box. 

“Hold your trousers up, Potter—both hands” Snape commanded. 

Harry, red-faced and confused, slowly obeyed.  Standing up, Snape pulled his wand out from inside of his robes.  He grasped the hem of the back of Harry’s t-shirt and lifted it up, tucking the end into the boy’s collar.  Harry stood with both hands on either side of his waist clutching handfuls of denim. 

Snape pointed his wand at Harry, “Tell me when.”  Muttering a quiet incantation, the boy’s jeans immediately began to shrink. 

Harry looked down at his belly-button, watching as the waistband slowly contracted.  He glanced up at Snape.

“Watch, Potter.” 

And Harry complied.  When the waistband was comfortably snug, Harry looked up once more, “That’s good,” he whispered. 

Snape nodded and withdrew his wand with a flick of his wrist.  In one swift movement, Snape untucked Harry’s t-shirt from the collar and let it hang loosely. 

“Arms out,” Snape instructed woodenly, and once again, Harry obeyed. 

The professor repeated the same process until Harry’s t-shirt fit him perfectly.  Dropping his hands to his sides, Harry looked down at his clothes.  They were still faded and dirty, but they fit. 

Harry suddenly felt a finger lifting his chin. 

“Do not speak to me like that again, Potter.  Do you understand?” Snape demanded quietly, yet sternly.

Harry swallowed convulsively and nodded.

Snape withdrew his hold.

“Now, Potter, I believe you are actually wearing play clothes at present…not swimming in them like before,” the man exclaimed with a smirk. 

Harry bit his lip, still embarrassed. “Thanks.” 

“Come,” Snape ordered, leading Harry over to the boxes he was organizing with a sweep of his robes.

This can’t be the end of it…Harry told himself as he sauntered forward, a bit stunned at how easily Snape had dropped the matter. 

“You will spend the morning discarding the contents of each one of these vials,” Snape said as he held up a glass container full of a black, congealed liquid. 

Okay…maybe it is the end…

Harry made a face, “What is that?”

“An expired blood-replenishing potion,” Snape replied simply, “created several years ago by one of my N.E.W.T.S pupils.” 

“Newts?”

“A seventh-year,” Snape elaborated. 

Harry moved forward to get a better look inside the box.  It was filled to the top.  The boy’s heart sank.

“Professor?”

“Potter,” Snape absently answered as he searched for another vial. 

“If it’s useless, why can’t you just chuck the whole bottle?” Harry wondered.

Snape sighed, “The potion is useless, silly boy; however, the vial has not been harmed in the least.”  He paused and glanced up at Harry, “A shame to waste perfectly good glass, wouldn’t you agree, Potter?”

Harry grimaced.

“Not really…”

“Regardless,” Snape replied firmly, “This is your task for the morning, and you will work diligently.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry barely mumbled, plunging his hands into his back pockets, but finding them clad in rubber, dropped them to his sides with a miserable sigh. 

“When I hand you five vials, Potter, I would like you to take them over to the basin and dump the contents of each vial down the drain.  Rinse it out quickly, and then leave it to dry on the counter,” Snape continued, “We will wash them thoroughly later.”

We?

“You’re staying in here with me?” Harry asked, taking a thick, oily blue potion from Snape’s extended hand.

“I am.” 

Harry paused in thought, “Oh,” the boy said simply. 

“Thrilling, I am sure, Potter,” Snape said dryly without looking up. 

Harry shrugged, “No, it’s all right.”

Snape brushed back a few strands of black hair as he looked up at Harry.  Several seconds of silence passed while Snape stared at the boy oddly. 

“I see,” Snape said finally before holding out a large vial filled with a chalky, orange substance.

Wordlessly, Harry reached out and took it. 

Harry watched as Snape scrubbed at a slightly stained vial with a wire brush. Leaning over the basin, the damp edge pressed against the boy’s stomach soaking his t-shirt with water, Harry unconsciously scrunched his fingers inside the externally slick rubber gloves, unaware of the steady squeaking he was producing.

The potions-master paused mid-scrub. And barely shifting his head, the man looked over at the growing nuisance beside him.

“Do you mind, Potter?” Snape said dryly.

Immediately catching on to the unfriendly delivery of the rhetorical question, Harry slowly unclenched his fingers, the wet gloves emitting one last forlorn squeak. This time, the noise was magnified in Harry’s ears.

Yeah, I guess that is kind of annoying…

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, dropping his hands and leaning over further as he rested his elbows on the edge of the basin.

Snape simply rolled his eyes as he returned to his work.

“I would advise you not to get too comfortable, Mr. Potter, as I am almost finished with this vial,” Snape informed as he held the small glass container up to the rather dim lantern light to inspect it, “You may rinse these and set them to dry in a minute,” the man continued, gesturing with his chin to the dozen and a half wet vials that sat compacted at the bottom of the basin.

Brilliant…Harry thought sarcastically, making a face that he knew his professor couldn’t see. But the boy kept his voice void of any over-emotion.

“All right,” Harry answered, rocking back and forth slightly as he absently tried to balance on his stomach.

“Stop, Potter” Snape commanded quietly without averting his gaze from the stubborn stain.

And sensing his professor’s growing irritation, Harry straightened up. With a sigh, the boy, instead, leaned against the edge on his side and waited.

For the past half-hour, Harry had walked carefully back and forth between the extra storeroom and the basin in the classroom, emptying and depositing vials on one of the tables behind the sink so that they could be washed. Snape had spoken little to Harry, mainly giving instructions with the occasional warning for Harry to walk slowly and to hold them with both hands, foolish child!

However, Harry discovered that the time was passing in contented silence for the most part, and he had to remind himself several times that…yes, this indeed was his detention. But watching the dense, multicolored liquids swirl and drain into the basin was strangely satisfying and a bit…interesting. Harry never knew there were so many types of potions.

“Professor?”

“Mmmm…” Snape replied with a non-committal grunt, still not making eye-contact.

“How come that potion is so hard to scrub off of the glass?” Harry genuinely wondered, figuring that he might as well ask a question instead of slouching in bored silence for the next five minutes.

Lowering and stunting his occupied hands for a moment, Snape shook back a curtain of dark hair and glanced over at Harry who gazed up expectantly while attempting to scratch the side of his forehead with his upper arm since his gloved hands were still wet with a variety of expired substances.

“The ingredients used in the potion are rather opaque,” Snape exclaimed after a brief moment of watching the twelve-year-old scratch in the most awkward manner, “What are you doing, Potter?” the man continued with a furrowed brow.

“What’s opaque mean?”

“Heavy,” Snape answered automatically, “Now answer my question. You look quite the fool, you realize…”

“My forehead itches!” Harry replied with a huff, his glasses slipping crookedly on the bridge of his nose as he attempted to tilt his head toward his shoulder.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake…” Snape mumbled, rolling his eyes once more but turning towards the basin, placing the vial and wire brush gingerly in the bottom.

Snape held out his hand.

Harry paused.

“What?...” the boy asked.

“Give me your hand, Potter! What else?” Snape growled, his patience waning.

And jerking slightly from the abrupt harsh tone, Harry lowered his shoulder and slowly held out his hand, palm up, as he gave Snape a funny look, not completely sure of the man’s intent.

However, Snape only grabbed the fingertips of the black glove and briskly slipped it off of Harry’s hand, tossing it down on top of the nearby table with a flop.

“Scratch,” Snape stated imperiously, turning his attention away from Harry.

I guess I could have done that…Harry thought, feeling rather stupid at the prospect of being de-gloved like a four-year-old and ignoring such a simple solution.

Harry chewed on his lower lip but scratched at his head lustily. He reached out for the glove, but to Harry’s embarrassment, Snape got there first. And shaking out the glove, the man held up the open end.

“The potions are not dangerous but may be irritating against bare skin,” Snape explained as he sensed—and witnessed—the color rise in the boy’s cheeks, “You would have to tuck your thumb inside the glove to get this back on.”

Harry nodded and quickly slipped his hand inside the glove, feeling like an infant and hating the logic of Snape’s explanation. But his professor had a point.

“Begin rinsing,” Snape ordered, “And take care not to break anything, Mr. Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Set them to dry on the towel when you’ve finished,” Snape continued, moving to the side of the basin to make room for Harry, “And if you roll your eyes at me again, I will pluck them out and preserve them…”

Widening his eyes in anxious uncertainty, Harry moved forward leaning over the basin, and choosing a small vial, he obediently plunged it underneath the light stream of warm water.

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

Another half-hour passed.

And finally, Harry took a step back from the basin, the soaked front of his t-shirt clinging to his skin, and allowed his eyes to drift over the dozens of gleaming, upturned vials still drying in the cool dungeons.

Snape had been standing behind Harry for the past fifteen minutes, sorting through a mantra of acceptable potions that the man had separated from the aged ones only an hour before. Again, the two had spoken little in the midst of the morning chores; however, for the first time since he’d been put to task, Harry noticed that, oddly, Snape’s presence wasn’t smothering. It was actually sort of…nice to work along side someone.

Vigilantly, Harry took a few steps closer to his professor, who was shaking a filled and corked vial back and forth, watching the pinkish solution eddy in swirling clouds.

“Professor…”

Snape’s eyes remained glued on the contained whirlpool, “What is it, Potter?” he replied rather neutrally.

And finding little trace of exasperation in Snape’s voice, Harry persisted.

“I’m finished…” the boy notified softly, “…with rinsing, I mean.”

“So I hear,” Snape commented, finally setting down the vial and turning towards Harry.

Harry picked at the clingy material against his belly as he squinted at his professor in a questioning manner, “Hear what?”

The potions master snorted in a way that almost spoke of amusement but also retained its usual condescendence, “Nothing, Potter…that’s the point.”

“Oh…”

Another grunt from the dark-haired professor, and Snape turned back to his work, but instead of resuming his shaking and sorting, the man gathered two combined handfuls of approximately eight vials and moved towards Harry.

“Can you get your hands around these?” Snape inquired, giving the boy short nod.

Harry lifted his hands and carefully stretched his gloved fingers around the glass. “Yeah, I think so,” the boy replied after a few seconds of testing the traction.

And making sure that Potter was holding on securely, Snape released the vials, but kept his hands corralled about Harry’s wrists for a moment longer.

“You are certain, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked again for clarification in a grave tone that required nothing more than absolute assurance from the boy.

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered with a nod, keeping his grip firm.

“Very well,” Snape said as he dropped one of his hands and reached into his robes with the other. And pulling out his wand, the professor gestured toward the ajar entrance of the large storage room, “Return those to the empty box where I retrieved them.”

But as Snape spun back around to face the table, he casually, yet swiftly, pointed his wand toward Harry’s torso, and with a subtle jerk of the wrist, he cast a silent spell that instantly dried the sopping wet cotton of Harry’s shirt. In a flash, the man tucked his wand back into his robes and picked up a remaining vial, giving the hazy green potion a sound shake before holding it a few inches away from his face and scrutinizing the solution with black eyes.

Harry glanced down at his stomach—the warm material now soft and comfortable against his skin.

“Enough gawking, Potter… Move,” Snape demanded, still hunched over the glass.

And Harry snapped to; however, he couldn’t help shaking his head at Snape’s ridiculous way of disregarding his own small acts of consideration. Harry was sure that if asked, the dour professor would deny them to the grave.

As Harry sauntered into the dreary storage room, he knew exactly where the empty box lay, and he moved as quickly as he dared to the back of the room. Kneeling gently as not to jolt suddenly and drop any vials, Harry nudged open the flap of the empty box with his elbow and placed the cluster of potions into a far corner of the box, taking care not to clink them together too much.

Potions returned, Harry made to stand up. But the boy paused and crouched down once more when he noticed a similar, but sealed box only a couple feet away.

Looking over his shoulder once, Harry grabbed the edge of the box and scooted it towards him. Finding the flimsy container heavy with items, the boy gingerly untucked and lifted a corner of the box.

Its contents were beyond dusty.

However, Harry’s eyes immediately fixed upon the grimy gold lettering of Defeating the Darkness—A Study in Complex Defense. The pages were liberally bookmarked, but the edges were surprisingly unmarred.

At that moment, Harry remembered Percy Weasley’s words about the potions master on Harry’s very first night at Hogwarts during the welcoming feast: …Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape…

But maybe Percy wasn’t completely right. Maybe Snape knew just as much about fighting against them. Besides, Harry had to admit that each moment spent in Snape’s presence seemed to be weakening his own conviction against the man.

Harry’s fingers tickled with a strong desire to look through that book. It would be the first interesting read on defending the Dark Arts that Harry had gotten a hold of all year…

He reached for the volume.

“Potter!” Snape snapped from the other side of the classroom, causing Harry to jump and jerk his arm back as if he’d just touched a hot stove, “Quit playing around in there!” the man called out sternly, “What are you getting into?”

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief, realizing that Snape hadn’t seen him delve into the nearby box.

“Nothing…” Harry responded quickly, “I’m coming.”

Pushing himself up from the ground, Harry brushed the dust and grit off of his black gloves and half-jogged back into the other room.

The boy avoided Snape’s glare as best as he could as he reentered the classroom. Snape was standing with an armful of glass vials—about five or six more than Harry was able to carry. Harry stood at a safe distance, resting his back against the edge of the counter top near the basin.

After glowering down at the boy for quite a long moment, Snape nodded toward a nearby stool, “Sit,” he ordered as he swept toward the store room that Harry had recently vacated, “I will be back in a moment. Do not move,” the professor threw over his shoulder as an afterthought.

Where in the sodding hell would I go? Harry reflected with a scowl, climbing up on to the stool. He sat quietly, plucking at the rubber gloves, longing to remove them. The skin of his hands felt hot and stifled, and at this point, Harry was ready to risk the possible irritation caused by moldy old potions.

But he kept them on and simply rested his hands in his lap.

Snape wasn’t in the storage room for very long, but when he returned, he swept toward Harry with a determined look in his eyes, and the boy barely kept from shrinking back from the penetrating gaze. However, the professor said nothing. Instead, he took Harry’s previously occupied place against the sink, and continued to look at Harry in a probing way.

Feeling a bit nervous, knowing that nothing spectacular had erupted from a one-on-one with Snape as of yet, Harry desperately tried to remember if he had given himself away by leaving a flap of the box open. But surely Snape wouldn’t lecture Harry about that, would he? It’s not like he’d taken anything…

But the man didn’t seem angry. Rather, he appeared deep in thought, as if he were choosing his next words carefully.

“You can most likely imagine how thoroughly I loathe a liar, Mr. Potter,” Snape began, a bit too calmly, Harry thought, as he shifted stiffly, perched on his stool.

“I haven’t lied about anything…” Harry retorted, struggling to keep the defensiveness out of his tone. But honestly, sometimes Snape made Harry feel like he’d committed some sort of terrible transgression when the boy was quite certain he hadn’t done anything.

“And I did not imply that you had,” Snape said simply, “I am merely informing you of something that needs to be said.”

Harry frowned. He was completely lost.

“As such, Potter, if I ask you a question, naturally, I expect you to answer truthfully,” Snape proceeded, leaning back on his elbow as he spoke.

Not knowing how to respond, Harry just looked at Snape, his heart beginning to beat thickly. Any minute now, Snape was going to accuse Harry of snooping around in his things. Finally, unwillingly, Harry nodded feebly.

“Have you worn those clothes simply for play, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly, yet the slight brashness in his tone didn’t seem directed at Harry necessarily, the boy noted.

Still, Harry internally cringed.

“The truth,” Snape continued demandingly.

No, not this…I thought this rubbish was over and done with…Bring up the box. Let’s talk about the Defense book. I’ll spill anything…

But Snape’s stare was unwavering, and Harry knew that saying nothing wouldn’t be tolerated.

“No, sir, not really,” Harry nearly whispered, feeling filthy and ashamed. He hated talking about the Dursleys. No one made him talk about the summer while he was at school—no one. Not even Dumbledore. Snape had no right.

“Explain, if you would,” Snape prompted yet remained composed. The man uncharacteristically kept his distance as well.

However, Harry passed swiftly over these subtle gentilities. He didn’t want Snape to know about his wearing dirty clothes or using the washing machine at three o’clock in the morning about twice a month if he was lucky. And he definitely didn’t want Snape to know about the bars on his window. Or the cold soup—and how the jagged edge of the tin can cut his finger and how Harry had to use a pair of torn underpants to stop the bleeding because his door was locked. Snape couldn’t know.

“There isn’t anything to explain,” Harry replied coldly, using the only defense-mechanism he knew how—avoidance.

“On the contrary, Mr. Potter, I believe there is much you are failing to tell me,” Snape continued, still adamant in his query, “And remaining silent is nearly as fallible as a bold-faced lie…”

“So what…” Harry interrupted rigidly, his face hot from frustration and disgrace, “…So what if I don’t say anything? Are you going to beat my arse if I don’t tell you about the stupid Dursleys? Fine…go ahead,” the boy said his voice suddenly high and wavering, “See if I bloody care…”

Severus gritted his teeth in aggravation at Potter’s stubborn defiance. However, the man knew very well that shouting or punishing the child would only make things worse. Cringing at the boy’s blatant disrespect, but using every ounce of control he possessed, Severus remained where he was standing, but he gave Potter a stern look.

“No, Potter, I will not,” Snape said matter-of-factly. Harry swallowed but still wouldn’t make eye contact. “However, I may put a piece of soap in your mouth if you continue to use such crude language, as well as that impertinent tone…”

Snape expected a cheeky retort at his delivery, but to his surprise, the boy only stared into his lap, the rubber gloves squeaking as he attempted to scratch absently at the top of his hand.

A moment of silence passed until it was broken by another rubbery squeak.

Sighing in agitation, not necessarily aimed at Harry, Snape moved forward and gently grasped the floppy fingers of both gloves, pulling them off simultaneously. Harry had almost yanked back his hands in anger. But he didn’t. Instead, at this intimation, Harry glanced up at his professor, but Snape wasn’t looking at him. He seemed to be staring at Harry’s hands. And following Snape’s eyes, Harry looked down at his own left hand, a bit splotchy from the scratching.

Unexpectedly, Harry watched as Snape held out his own hands, gesturing slightly with his fingers as the boy gaped in confusion. Awkwardly, and glancing up at his professor sporadically, Harry also put his hands out in front of him, palms up, quite oblivious to the whole ordeal.

Using just his forefingers and thumbs, Snape took hold of the boy’s wrists—to Harry’s astonishment—and turned the small hands over briefly as if to check for blighted skin. Discovering none, Severus flipped the palms face up once more and released him rapidly.

Balling his hands into loose fists, Harry glimpsed fleetingly into his professor’s eyes and for the first time, he noticed the tired lines around eyes that were as dark as the coffee he often had to brew for Uncle Vernon. But at the moment, they seemed to resemble rain-soaked mud.

And finally, Harry decided maybe he did owe Snape the truth—at least part of it. An adult that took enough care to check Harry’s hands for potion-irritation and shrink his clothing couldn’t be anymore shocked by the reason for his gigantic trousers…

Harry took a deep breath.

“They were my cousin’s,” Harry said softly, “He’s bigger than me…and he’s grown out of these…”

Hesitating for several seconds before leaning back against the basin, Snape offered Harry a curt nod, “And they’re not just for play, correct?”

Harry lowered his chin and shook his head.

Work…play…what’s the damn difference…

“Where is your uncle employed, Mr. Potter?” Snape continued, quietly probing.

“Grunnings Drills,” Harry mumbled, rubbing at a grass stain on his jeans.

“And your cousin…where does he attend school?”

Harry glanced up, looking at Snape strangely, unsure of what any of these questions had to do with his clothes.

“Smeltings…” Harry answered, “It’s a private school.”

Snape nodded, seeming to focus on something across the room. Briefly, Harry turned around in his stool to see what it was, but there was nothing except stone walls and a few desks.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” Snape exclaimed after a pensive moment.

Harry waited.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his face melting into an all-too familiar smirk, “One more question…”

Slumping in his chair, Harry threw back his head a little. He hated questions.

“What were you doing in the storage room when I asked you to return the vials?” Snape inquired, his voice taking on a more customary edge.

The boy closed his eyes, groaning inaudibly.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter,” Snape said silkily, standing with his arms encompassed in the black robes, “Just as I expected. Out with it.”

Swinging his feet, Harry opened his eyes, tilted his head and sighed, “I found something,” he began…carefully.

“Where?”

“Erm…” Harry stammered, “In a box…”

“I see,” Snape replied, “And did you have permission to go looking for anything other than what you were instructed to find?”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, feeling a bit ashamed again.

“No, you did not,” the potions master agreed sternly, “Now…you will go into that storage room and show me precisely what you…discovered.”

Pressing his lips together, Harry slid down from the stool and walked ahead of Snape, looking back every few seconds at the positively smug professor who was following close behind. Slipping doubtfully into the storeroom, Harry dragged his feet over to the dismal-looking box, its flaps hanging wide open.

How did he know? Harry wondered.

“This box here,” the boy mumbled, kneeling down, gazing up into Snape’s indistinct façade, waiting for a reaction and still deciding whether or not the man was angry…

“Those are my things, Mr. Potter,” Snape said with a frown, “What could you have possibly found fascinating in that box…”

“A Defense Against the Dark Arts book,” Harry replied, relaxing back on his heels but cracking his knuckles in uncertainty.

A shadow suddenly passed across the man’s face, “Which book?” he demanded hotly.

Grimacing, Harry reached into the box and pulled out the requested volume.

“This one.”

Snatching up the offered book, Snape gave Harry another stern look before pulling it close and reading the title. He lowered it forebodingly.

“You are not to look through this book,” Snape scolded firmly, causing Harry’s stomach to clench at the childish rebuke, “This is not even appropriate for seventh-years…”

“I didn’t!” Harry cried, defending himself, “It was just on top of the pile!...”

“I would not have left his lying around so carelessly…”

“But you did, professor!” Harry insisted, rising up a bit on his knees, “I swear it…”

Snape squinted again at the title: Defeating the Darkness. Harry sank back on his heels, watching intently.

“What’s so bad about Defense?” Harry asked, a bit timidly, “It’s my favorite subject—well…it was until this year…”

“There is a difference between Defeat and Defense, foolish child,” the potions master snapped.

“Oh…”

But to Harry, the distinction wasn’t really that profound.

How would I know? Harry thought scornfully, You’d think I was taking dramatics with Lockhart this year instead of Defense…leaping around like an idiot on some sodding stage…

“You’re interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potter?” Snape questioned, dropping the book to his side, softening the stern demeanor the tiniest bit.

“Yeah…” Harry responded, “I was…”

Snape considered this for a moment, and then swept forward, crouching down and rummaging through the box. After a moment, Snape pulled out another book, less than half the width of the apparently off-limits version.

“Here,” Snape said, shoving the book into Harry’s hands.

“What’s this?”

“You can read,” Snape retorted, still crouched as if waiting for Harry to deliver the title.

However, Harry glanced over the mildly marred cover, reading the title himself before sharing.

Functional uses of Defensive Magic—Volume One

“What’s this for?” Harry wondered, staring up at Snape.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and shook his head, “You said you were interested in Defense, did you not?” The words were a bit muffled against the professor’s cupped palm.

“Well….yeah...But I have a lot of stuff to read for class, though,” Harry all but stammered.

“Now you’ve got one more.”

Unsure whether to feel elated or dejected, Harry flipped through the skinny volume with his thumb and immediately perked up.

“Hey, this has demonstrations in it!” Harry said excitedly, “Look at all those pictures…” His first-year text had been mostly explanatory.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Snape took Harry’s chin in his hand and forced him to lock eyes, nearly startling the boy out of his wits.

“Listen to me carefully, Mr. Potter,” Snape asserted very firmly, “Defense against dark magic is not something you do for fun. It is not a game. It is something you study. Something you practice. Something that may one day save your life or someone else’s.”

Harry was flabbergasted at Snape’s seriousness. The man definitely wasn’t playing around when it came to this stuff… The sudden shift in atmosphere sobered Harry right up.

“Yes, sir, I know,” Harry replied meekly.

“No, Potter, you don’t know,” Snape cried, giving the boy’s cheeks a squeeze, “However, you should have known the seriousness—the vitality—of this subject matter by your very first Defense lesson.”

Well, whose fault’s that? Harry inwardly scoffed, but didn’t feel like losing his cheeks, so he kept his mouth shut.

After several tense seconds, and most likely sensing the recoiling look in the boy’s eyes, Snape relaxed his hold, as well as the muscles in his face. Harry noticeably calmed down as well.

“Take the book, Potter. Read it,” Snape instructed, releasing Harry’s face, “Perhaps if you can concentrate and sit still in Potions on Tuesday, we’ll discuss some beginner’s tactics in Defensive magic at the end of the period.”

“Really?” Harry asked, brightening, “You’ll teach me?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you said…”

And receiving yet another cold glare, Harry wisely bit back his retort.

“Mr. Potter, look at me,” Snape commanded quietly. And Harry obeyed, “You are to read this volume. And that is all. If I find out that you have even attempted any of these defensive tactics without my permission, I will take you across my knee and give you the spanking of your life. Is that absolutely clear?”

The boy blushed and nearly groaned in mortification, but there was nothing to do but respond.

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Snape stood. And Harry followed. But the professor didn’t move. He continued to look meaningfully at Harry.

“Do not disappoint me, Potter.”

Harry could only stare. No one had ever said anything like that to him in his entire life. The boy shook his head, “No, I won’t.” And somehow, Harry knew he meant it.

Snape smirked, “We shall see, won’t we?”

But before Harry could answer, the man turned briskly, brushing his robes aside as he swept forward, leaving the boy standing alone in the storage room.

Nerves buzzing, Harry stared down at his book, not sure of what was feeling.

But after a few seconds, Harry simply tucked the treasure underneath his arm and hurried after his professor.

"Checkmate."

Harry slumped on the bench he was perched on in the Great Hall and gave Ron a friendly scowl. It was a little after ten thirty at night and the two boys had been playing chess for over an hour. After two games, both in which Ron had been the victor, Harry couldn’t help but smile. It was Saturday night, he had no more detentions with Snape, and for the first time in a week, Harry was able to eat his treacle tart in at dinner without any sort of impending doom hanging over his head.

No more sorting and scrubbing of vials. No more nightly prowls. Harry was almost giddy with relief. And besides, he was rubbish at chess for the most part and usually didn’t mind when Ron beat him. Sometimes Harry sensed that Ron felt second-best at everything. But not when it came to chess. And that fact alone made Harry’s chest swell with warmth for his best mate.

"Well done," Harry commented, leaning over the chessboard, absently fingering an undamaged pawn with his right hand. Harry usually would have made some sort of smart, joking remark about how cleaning bedpans must have really helped Ron to focus, but he left it alone.

Ron smiled his thanks.

"Do you want to go back to the common room and see what everyone’s doing?" Harry continued.

"Yeah…" Ron answered as he began to stand up, "You reckon Hermione’s still in the library?"

"No," Harry replied, watching as the chess pieces slowly repaired themselves and slid across the board, arranging themselves in the worn leather case in which Ron stored his chess set, "It’s kind of late. She’ll be coming back soon. The library closes at eleven on Saturday nights."

Ron nodded. "Can you imagine studying that much on a weekend?" the redhead wondered outloud as he snapped the lid closed and scraped his chess set across the gleaming wood of the table top and tucked it vertically against his side.

"Nope," Harry said as he stood up, "She is a bit mental when it comes to schoolwork…"

"Barking mad is more like it…"

Harry snickered under his breath as he shoved his jumper over his head, and then immediately jolted at the clear voice that emanated from across the table, the thick wool scratching against his cheeks as he tugged it down quickly.

Even with a face-full of dark gray jumper, Harry knew exactly who had craftily sneaked up behind Ron.

"Maybe if you two spent more time in the library studying rather than playing this ridiculous game, you’d be able to answer questions in class instead of sitting there all glassy-eyed and bored…" Hermione said haughtily, relishing in the ability to startle the both of them.

"Hermione! Where’d you come from?" Ron inquired, spinning around in surprise, "We were just…"

"…talking about me, I know," the girl finished, clutching two large books to her chest and blowing a piece of stray curly hair out of her eyes, "Very smooth, Ronald," she added softly with a smirk, using one of Ron’s popular catch phrases that he had thrown her way the day before.

Ron looked over helplessly at Harry. But Harry only stuffed his hands into his back pockets and shrugged, biting his lip and finding it very hard to keep the mirth out of his eyes and to fight down the twitch of laughter on his lips.

"Listen, Ron," Hermione began, shifting her pile of books to rest heavily in the crook of one arm, "I need to talk to Harry for a few minutes." And seeing that the boy was cooking up a hefty complaint, Hermione continued hastily, "And you should go over and talk to your sister. She looks a bit sad."

"Ginny?" Ron asked, whipping around and gazing inquisitively at his little sister who was staring vaguely at the table top, her usually shiny, ginger hair looking stringy and drab, a few pieces hanging in her face.

"Huh…" Ron remarked, "Has she been here this whole time?"

Again, Harry shrugged, but this time, he couldn’t help staring worriedly at Ginny. She’d never looked so dejected.

"Just go, Ron," Hermione commanded quietly, "This is only her first year…maybe she’s having a hard time adjusting."

"It’s been like three months…"

"Go!" Hermione said again, forcefully pointing towards the smallest Weasley.

"Fine," Ron huffed, "I’m going…"

Harry and Hermione could hear him muttering as he trudged between the rows.

"What do you think’s the matter with her?" Harry nearly whispered, still gazing at the very end of the long Gryffindor table.

"Oh, I’m sure she’s all right," Hermione replied, swinging a leg over one of the benches and taking a seat in Ron’s previously occupied spot at the table. And gesturing toward the opposite side of the table, Harry took a hint and plopped back down as well.

Hermione folded her hands on top of the table and took a deep breath before speaking, "Harry, if I ask you something, will you promise not to get angry?"

"Why would I get angry…"

"Well, you have to admit," Hermione interrupted, "you’ve been rather moody lately." She shifted a bit as she raised her eyebrows as if to emphasize her point, "Just promise, Harry."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, narrowing his eyebrows and scratching at his nose with the back of his hand, "I won’t."

Hermione grimaced in a funny way, and for some reason, Harry suddenly knew her intention. He felt his face grow warm and he rubbed at his nose again, even though, this time, the itch was gone.

She’s going to ask me about last night, Harry thought, knowing very well that sooner or later, he would have been nearly throttled by one of the girl’s inquisitions. Why does one of my best friend’s have to be a girl...they can tell everything…

"About last night, Harry…"

Damn, Harry thought as he clenched his fists underneath the table. He should have known that this was inevitable.

"What about it?" the boy asked, determinedly keeping the irritation out of his tone.

Hermione brushed her hair back and sighed without making any noise, "You were crying," she stated quietly after a while, "You never cry. And then you and Ron arguing…" Hermione trailed off, glancing down at her small, pale hands that were now clasped tightly together. "I’m worried about you, Harry."

Harry stared meaningfully at Hermione, who now looked as sad and confused as Ginny. And he knew he couldn’t lie to her. Not only would she peg him right away the minute he opened his mouth, but lying now would undoubtedly destroy something in their unspoken bond of friendship that, at the moment, meant more to Harry than his pride.

"Yeah, I was crying," Harry mumbled hoarsely, wishing his face didn’t warm so easily, "I tripped on my way back to find Ron….and Professor Snape was the one who caught me." Harry couldn’t look at Hermione, but he could certainly hear her small, sharp gasp.

"What did he do?" the girl asked breathlessly

Harry knew that this could be the moment where he unloaded every unjust thing Snape had put him through this past week—could complain about the smarting reprimand and concoct some sort of plan with Hermione to pay back Snape for what he’d done and demand that Dumbledore recant his decision to allow the potions master to deal with Harry as he saw fit.

But all Harry could think of was the fact that he would never have to safety pin his old jeans again. And try as he might, the boy couldn’t help but feel a small flutter of excitement in his stomach over the chance to learn Defense properly.

"He took me into his office and punished me," Harry explained quickly, his neck so hot he was sure it was emitting heat waves. And Harry hurried on to the next concern before Hermione could stop him, "I was kind of upset over a lot of—"

"Wait," Hermione interrupted.

Harry gritted his teeth.

"He punished you how?" the girl continued, squinting her eyes and tilting her head in a probing manner.

And wishing fervently that he could relate to his friend the misfortune of a brutal whipping or even a hexing from Snape to justify his tears, Harry blushed and gazed hard at a glossed-over nick in the wood surface, "I just got a few smacks is all…" Admitting it outloud suddenly made Harry feel like a miserable wimp.

"What?!" Hermione nearly screeched, causing Harry to jump on the bench, "He can’t do that! That’s….that’s…"

"That’s what I thought too," Harry muttered, not sure if he felt more embarrassed about the subject matter or Hermione’s passionate outburst, "But I talked to Dumbledore, and apparently…Snape can. Dumbledore gave him permission," the boy continued, chewing on a thumbnail as he waited for further reaction from the girl.

But Hermione only shook her head in a way, silently moving her mouth in a way that indicated that she was trying desperately to think of something to say. And for a brief moment, Harry felt like saying But he fixed my trousers just to break the awful, awkward silence that hung in the air, despite the mild tittering from around them, but he thankfully realized how stupid that would sound and simply clamped his lips shut, letting his hand drop back into his lap.

"I don’t understand," Hermione said thoughtfully after a while, "Why would Dumbledore give Snape permission to hurt you like that?..."

"He’s not hurting me," Harry immediately cut in without realizing the weight of his words, "I mean…he’s actually been kind of decent during detentions," the boy continued. Harry didn’t feel lie telling Hermione about his Defense book, so he pressed on, stammering an explanation, "I don’t really understand it either. But….I think it’s…erm…maybe because everybody knows who I am in the wizarding world…and Dumbledore doesn’t want me to look bad….or get into anymore trouble…or something…"

After a moment, Hermione nodded slowly, considering this, "Especially after the flying car."

"Yeah…maybe," Harry mumbled, a bit relieved that Hermione was taking this better than he thought she would, but also somewhat depressed that, perhaps, like Dumbledore and McGonagall, Hermione thought it was a good idea.

Hermione twisted a lock of hair around her fingertip as she glanced down the table at Ron who appeared to be trying to cheer Ginny up without much luck. She kept her eyes fixed on the two Weasleys as she spoke, "When are you going to tell Ron about this?" Harry blanched. He knew he couldn’t keep this from his best mate for much longer. But Ron was different than Hermione, and Harry was quite sure that it would take Ron much longer to accept it without swearing and ranting and threatening to put something lethal in Snape’s morning coffee. And he’d most certainly give Harry a hard time for putting up with it.

"Soon," Harry promised, gazing down the long table as well, "But let me tell him, okay?" He averted his gaze very solemnly toward Hermione, almost pleadingly, "It’s kind of embarrassing…"

The girl nodded and tried to smile at Harry, but still looked slightly put-out. "I think Ron’s just worried about you...after finding out that your aunt and uncle put bars on your window this summer," Hermione exclaimed softly, "I don’t think he means to be so aggressive sometimes, Harry. I bet he’d understand about Snape…eventually, anyway."

"Maybe," Harry answered, aware deep down that Hermione was probably right. But Harry wasn’t in the mood to risk the ridicule just yet.

"You swear Snape’s not being awful to you…"

"No, he’s really not," Harry said, as if he didn’t truly believe it himself. He gave the girl a half-smile, "I think that’s almost more disturbing than the fact that he can wallop me now.

Hermione laughed lightly through her nose. "Good point," she agreed as she glanced at the large clock that hung over the teachers’ table, "It’s almost curfew. Let’s go get Ron and go back to the common room. If he hasn’t cheered Ginny up by now, he’s more than likely driven her mad."

Harry laughed as he stood up, "No kidding."

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

Late Sunday morning after breakfast, Harry sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed flipping through the Defense Against the Dark Arts book that Snape had given him. He’d been gripping his wand feverishly and tapping it against his knee as he glanced at the elaborate drawings among the detailed descriptions of shield charms and reflective spells.

Harry was dying to try something—anything—in the book. Reading the first three chapters had been more interesting than he had originally thought, and the defensive spells seemed quite easy.

However, Harry knew better. And he wasn’t daft enough to deliberately land himself in trouble after he’d been given a clear warning, not to mention a penalty for disobeying.

Sighing heavily, Harry shut the book and tossed it toward the foot of his bed. And lifting his wand, he practiced igniting the end of his wand with the Lumos incantation over and over, until the soft blue light was so robust it was almost blinding.

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

Severus drummed his fingers in a steady rhythm against his desk during second-year Potions on Tuesday afternoon, glancing up every so often to monitor the students as they stirred and bottled their solutions that, if mixed properly, would heal very small surface cuts on the skin. Severus frowned. Something had been brewing between Malfoy and Potter ever since the two had entered the classroom.

He’d seen Draco pass a note to Potter as discreetly as possible, and Severus could tell from the gradually mutinous look on the boy’s face as he read its contents, that the note contained something particularly offensive. But instead of scribbling back a reply, Potter simply crumpled the note in his fist before Weasley, who had leaned over, could read it and stared at the back of Malfoy’s head, penetrating him with an icy glare. Potter’s face was crimson.

Instinctively, Severus wanted to snatch the note and cuff the Slytherin in the back of the head for interrupting his class. But the man rarely, if ever, reprimanded his Slytherins in public. They later paid dearly for their misconduct. Instead, Severus ignored them both and allowed the situation—whatever it was—to diminish on its own.

But as the bells chimed to indicate the end of the double period, Potter was clearly still fuming as he angrily stuffed his belongings into his satchel, and Malfoy was smirking in his customary superior way that often infuriated Severus.

He watched as the blonde swaggered out of the classroom, Crabbe and Goyle in tow, while Potter, shrugging off his own friends’ comments, bolted ahead of Granger and Weasley, obviously forgetting his appointment to discuss Defense with the potions master.

However, the boy’s eyes were hard, unfamiliar, and determined as he nearly threw open the door to the classroom.

Severus knew exactly where Potter was headed.

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

Harry pushed his way ahead of several meandering students, spotting the glowing blonde hair a short way down the corridor. Harry was so angry—so disgusted—he felt like his insides were bursting. The blood pulsed in his cheeks as he barreled forward.

Catching up with Malfoy, he grabbed a fistful of the Slytherin’s hood and jerked him backwards away from his cronies. Malfoy stumbled in surprise and looked up at Harry with a startled look that quickly melted into rage.

"What’s the idea, Potter?" Malfoy spat hatefully, holding both hands askew to stop his larger friends from mechanically charging forward, their meaty fists clenched.

"Harry, wait…" the boy heard Hermione say.

But Harry didn’t back down an inch. He breathed heavily, "I would worry about your own family, Malfoy, instead of making comments about people who are worth more than you and your fucking slimeball of a father will ever be!" the boy nearly shouted, shaking with fury.

For an instant, Malfoy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him—his pale skin flushed instantly. However, the moment was fleeting, as Harry watched the blonde’s eyes grow wide with fear and he seemed to be glancing over Harry’s shoulder.

But the boy didn’t have a chance to even turn around as he was grabbed by the collar of his robes and wrenched around roughly. Harry stared into Professor Snape’s hard, furious face. The man glanced wildly around at the small crowd that had clustered around the potential conflict.

"Go!" Snape barked to the surrounding audience. They all dispersed quickly. Crabbe and Goyle scampered away nearly as hurriedly, but Ron and Hermione moved more slowly, especially Hermione, her face creased with worry.

"Malfoy, you will stay." But the Slytherin stood petrified. He hadn’t even attempted to move.

Snape glared coldly at the two Gryffindors until they rounded the corner anxiously. When all traces of adolescent witnesses were nowhere in sight, Snape pulled Harry a few feet down the corridor and stood him against the wall, pressing his nose up against the stone. The man bent down slightly as he spoke directly into Harry’s ear.

"Move an inch from this spot, Potter, and you will sorely regret it," Snape seethed in a whisper, causing shivers to cascade quickly up and down the boy’s spine.

Harry’s heart was pounding thickly, and he was having a difficult time gaining his breath—especially now, but he only closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the jagged stone.

Oh, no…Harry thought miserably…I’m dead…

He was still unbelievably angry at Malfoy for the unprovoked, low blow against the Weasleys—but now the rage that pulsed in his chest was accompanied by a sickening jolt of panic at Snape’s words.

Standing rigidly at his place against the wall, Harry could hear the professor’s low, stern mumbling several feet away where Malfoy stood.

"But professor…" Malfoy whined in a small voice, "That will take me all night!"

"Now!" Snape thundered. And Harry jumped, his forehead scraping against the wall. He cringed as he heard Malfoy’s footsteps grow faint down the corridor and Snape’s become increasingly louder. Suddenly, Harry felt a rough, warm hand on the back of his neck.

"Back to the classroom, Mr. Potter," Snape ordered tersely. Immediately, yet full of regret, Harry obeyed the pressure on his neck and moved forward, dreading whatever was to come.

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

When they entered the classroom, Harry started to tremble. He was going to get it for almost attacking Malfoy—a Slytherin; he just knew it. But Harry had to at least try and explain.

"Professor, I didn’t mean to…" Harry began weakly as he was marched over to the counter next to the basin.

"Quiet," Snape said shortly. Without a second thought, he turned Harry to face him before removing his hand from the boy’s neck. And then quickly, Snape lifted Potter from under the arms and dumped him on the counter top firmly. Harry’s shoes involuntarily bounced against the cabinet doors underneath him, but Snape didn’t notice. The man had crouched down and moved over a few cabinets, opening a door and reaching far into the back.

Harry’s hands were sweating profusely as he watched his professor. It didn’t take Snape long to find what he was searching for. Straightening up, Snape juggled the small, thin bar of cream-colored soap in his hand. Harry stiffened and pressed his damp hands against the counter as the potions master broke off a thumb’s length of the pale yellow bar. The boy nearly whimpered in horror when he realized that he wasn’t being punished for approaching Malfoy so viciously—he was going to get soap in his mouth for his language. Had he really yelled it that loud?

"I’ll never swear again," Harry attempted shakily, staring at the tiny, bitter fragment in Snape’s hand, not caring how stupid he sounded. He didn’t want that disgusting crap on his tongue.

"Oh, I am sure, Potter," Snape said mockingly as he rolled his eyes, "Open up."

Already wrinkling his nose and gazing pitifully at the soap, Harry opened his mouth as far as he dared. Reaching forward, Snape deposited the square on the boy’s tongue.

"Two minutes," the man informed as he pressed Harry’s mouth closed with his forefinger, "Teeth together." He reached into his robes to retrieve his pocket watch, and glancing down once at the gold face, Snape gestured with the watch as if to remind Harry that he was, indeed, keeping track of what would possibly be the longest one-hundred and twenty seconds of the boy’s life.

At first the soap tasted almost sweet, but after a few seconds, Harry felt his tongue begin to sting with a pungent tang.

Breathing powerfully through his nose, Harry chose a spot on the opposite wall on which to focus. He sat with his back arched, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried to mentally count down the seconds.

Okay…you can do this Harry, the boy thought as he pep-talked his way through his first taste of soap.

"One minute," Snape called out from his desk. Harry wouldn’t look, but it sounded as if he were shuffling papers.

No, I can’t do it…the boy thought bleakly, trying not to shift the soap around on his tongue. But his eyes were beginning to stream, and Harry could feel the saliva pooling at his bottom row of teeth.  I’m gonna sick up…

Harry jiggled his foot in desperate impatience as he waited for Snape to announce that his final minute was up. Then finally, right when Harry felt like he might cry for real, he saw Snape in his peripheral vision rise from the desk and glance down at the pocket watch.

"That will do," the man said.

And without meaning to, Harry made an odd sound in the back of his throat—something between a whimper and a cry of relief—as he opened his mouth as wide as he could. Sticking out his tongue, Harry let the slimy soap drop into his professor’s outstretched hand. He had never had to spit so badly in his life.

Frowning at the glimmering bar in his hand, Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry before chucking the used bar in the sink with a dull thunk. And wiping his hand off on a nearby towel, Snape lifted Harry off of the countertop and placed him in front of the basin.

Without waiting for instruction, Harry emptied his mouth of soapy residue before turning the faucet on full blast and sticking his open mouth underneath the powerful stream, allowing the cold water run over his tongue.

However, all too soon, Snape shut off the water, to Harry’s disappointment, and handed the boy a towel. As Harry dried his face and the edge of his fringe that had accidentally gotten wet, he swore on everything he loved that he would never say ‘the f-word’ again in his life. Ever.

Snape leaned against a nearby table, waiting and looking very stern, and Harry knew that the moment he set down his towel, he was in for a scolding. Feeling properly chastised, Harry moved over to his stool, and pulling it out from underneath the table, he climbed up. He stared down at his dark trousers, dotted with small splashes of water from the basin.

"Eyes up, Potter," Snape commanded quietly, "Because it is important that you completely understand what I am about to say."

Slowly, Harry looked up, the taste of soap on his tongue just barely lingering but no longer bitter.

"Although your language is deplorable," Snape began, not a single trace of warmth in his tone or face, "The discipline you just received was not merely about watching your mouth."

Harry found it very difficult to look Snape in the eye when he was being scolded, but he did it anyway, hating his weakness—the way his face felt like it was made of putty. At times like these, Harry felt very juvenile at twelve years old.

"Rather, Mr. Potter, it is about learning self-control," Snape continued, his eye-contact purposefully penetrating, "About restraining yourself in uncontainable situations. And unless you learn to hold your tongue when necessary, for instance, you will never acquire the skills to learn Defense. You will not succeed in life."

Harry’s face grew warm in shame, but he retained his own eye-contact.

"As such, you will one day, eventually, be forced to make your own decisions regarding all things in your life—good and bad—and without proper discipline, Potter…Look at me…without control, you will fail."

Harry bit his lip. He knew that there was something important about Snape’s lecture. But he couldn’t help feeling that although he shouldn’t have sworn so viciously at Malfoy and berated his father, Harry was justified in standing up for the Weasleys. Malfoy had no right to call them dirty and scum and blood-traitors—whatever that meant. Obviously no one had taught him the benefit of self-restraint…

"Do you understand what I’m telling you?" Snape demanded solemnly, tilting his head as if he were trying to read Harry’s face.

The boy wanted to nod and offer a hearty yes, sir, but he could only squint as he struggled to find words.

"Listen carefully, Mr. Potter," Snape said with a sigh, trying a different approach, "You are young. And the correction you are receiving for poor decisions and uncouth behavior will deter you presently."

And finally, Harry nodded, trying hard to understand.

"However," Snape continued, softly and more slowly than before, "The aftertaste of soap in your mouth will fade and the pain left in your bottom after a sound smacking does not last. But the consequences of a poor decision, most especially when there is no one around to prevent you from making that choice may leave scars that cannot be repaired."

Harry stared.

"Therefore…you must begin practicing self-discipline now, Potter." Snape straightened up and looked carefully at the tousled child perched awkwardly on the stool in front of him, "Even at twelve years old, you are capable of control."

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, his voice cracking on each word, as he found his tongue to be a bit dry, most likely from the soap, "But professor, how come you let Malfoy get away with saying whatever he likes?...You should hear what he calls the Weasleys…"

Snape closed his eyes, fighting back the frustration. He meant for his small soliloquy to have quite a different effect—a long lasting result—but alas, Potter was just a boy. Of course he’d find Malfoy’s escape versus his own punishment to be undoubtedly unfair. And that above all else, would be prioritized as most important.

"Potter," Snape said, more loudly this time with an air of his usual smirk, "Mr. Malfoy is currently in his dormitory completing seven hundred lines for me. Would you care to join him?"

And sitting up straight on his stool, Harry shook his head quickly, "No! No, sir. Nevermind."

"Mmmm," Snape commented absently, the corners of his mouth curling in his own amused way, "Very well, Potter, I trust you have the volume I gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

And with a sweep of his robes, Snape strode swiftly to the door of the classroom, holding it open and glaring at Harry who was sitting stock-still in his seat, "Must I put you under the Imperius curse to get you moving, foolish boy?"

"The what?"

"Get up, Potter," Snape instructed,

"Where are we going?" Harry asked slipping down and hoisting up his shoulder bag. He walked slowly toward his professor.

"Have you heard the noise among the walls at all since you last informed me of it?" Snape inquired, eyeing Harry as he moved forward.

"No," Harry shook his head, "I haven’t."

"Well then, Mr. Potter," Snape said with a slight jerk of his head, pressing his hand in the middle of Harry’s back to steer him out of the classroom, "Perhaps we may see a turn of events this afternoon."

"Huh?"

And allowing the door to swing shut, Snape narrowed his dark eyes at the boy’s inarticulate slang but paid no notice this time, "Welcome, Mr. Potter, to your first lesson in Defense."

Harry half-jogged down the dark dungeon corridor in order to keep up with his professor’s long strides, but he wasn’t having much luck.

Buggering hell! Slow down! Harry thought in frustration, as he walked swiftly, the cool, damp air sweeping across his shins. However, as Harry gritted his teeth, his recently scoured tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, and he immediately frowned in repulsion…and blushed in remembrance.

The flavor of the strong soap lingered on his taste-buds like a chewed-up peppermint. But it definitely didn’t taste as good. Harry pressed his lips together as he walked, making sure that nothing else vulgar flew out of his mouth—even on accident.

Suddenly, Snape halted and spun around. Stopping as well, but jolting back in surprise, Harry held his breath as he stared up at Snape, grimacing oddly. Good god, could the man hear his thoughts?

Snape lowered his eyebrows, curling the right side of his mouth in a questioning manner, “Problem, Potter?” he asked in a low voice, his narrowed eyes perusing the boy’s awkward stance.

“Erm…”

Harry, you idiot… Glancing down himself, the boy noticed that his hands were splayed out stiffly in front of him.

“No, sir. You startled me, is all,” Harry explained quietly, feeling stupid. He lowered his hands quickly.

“Comforting to know I still have that effect on even you, Potter,” Snape said in a slightly sardonic manner as he pulled out the ebony wand that he’d tucked inside of his robes. He gestured with a curt tilt of his head, indicating for Harry to follow.

Unsure whether or not Snape was making fun of him, Harry hurried over to his professor’s side, taking larger steps this time. He fixed his eyes on the somewhat sodden stone floor, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, feeling partly ashamed and partly irritated at the remark.

“In Defense,” Snape spoke up suddenly as they rounded a corner, “it is vital not simply to be aware of your surroundings, but rather to be precisely certain of them…”

And pausing again in his trek forward, Snape held out his forearm against Harry’s middle, preventing the boy from gaining distance as well.

Harry stilled, but this time, he only allowed his eyes to travel slightly upward, deliberately avoiding eye-contact with the potions master. However, to Harry’s surprise, he felt a solid hand on his left shoulder, and as if drawn magnetically, the boy turned his head to the side, his eyes sliding over to identify the warmth. His professor’s hand was so close that Harry could make out the barely visible ridges on the fingernails. The boy briefly thought about pushing Snape’s hand away, but he was pretty sure that wouldn’t go over well.

“Potter…” Snape began, gazing down at the top of the dark, messy head of hair. And then Harry felt his chin being lifted gently. Snape’s hands smelled faintly of the soap that Harry had nearly gagged on and…something else…new wood, perhaps.

Harry glanced up at Snape through a smudge on his glasses.

“It was not my intent to startle you,” the man said gravely, yet softly, “Nevertheless, I do expect your full attention when I am explaining something as important as this.”

Cracking his knuckles, Harry wanted badly to chew on his fingernails the way he often did when he wasn’t sure how to respond. Was Snape lecturing or apologizing? Harry had no idea. All he knew was that his stern professor didn’t explain himself often. And for some reason, the calm in Snape’s tone gave Harry the strength to retain eye-contact with the man.

He nodded against Snape’s fingers.

“Very well,” Snape replied, removing his hand from underneath Harry’s chin but leaving the other one resting on the boy’s shoulder as he picked up where he left off, “As I was saying, Mr. Potter, you must become conscious of everything that surrounds you. You must pay attention…”

“To what?” Harry wondered, reaching up to give his glasses a firm nudge.

“To your senses.” Snape removed his hand. “Come along.” As they began moving again, Harry noticed that Snape was walking slower than before—slowly enough for Harry to maintain a brisk pace alongside the man.

“I don’t get it,” Harry said after a few minutes of walking in silence. He looked up at Snape with a squinty expression.

“You will,” Snape assured him without returning the stare, “You seem to catch on rather quickly.”

Even if Harry wanted to, he couldn’t have suppressed the small smile that strained the corners of his mouth. He shifted his eyes up toward Snape once more, knowing very well that the potions master wouldn’t look down at him, having already disregarded the subtle compliment. But still, Harry couldn’t help smiling.

When they reached the stairs that led to the first floor, Harry shot forward, suddenly overcome by a surge of energy. Bouncily, he took the steps two at a time. “Where are we going, Professor—Whoah!” Harry nearly lost his balance halfway up the staircase as he felt a tug on the hood of his robes. And then Snape was very close.

“Enough of your flitting about, Mr. Potter,” Snape reprimanded, releasing the boy’s hood but remaining near by, “You will keep this juvenile behavior under control.”

“Sorry…” Harry offered in a slightly bewildered apology, yet the edge of the boy’s tone was curled with a hint of mirth at Snape’s touchiness.

“I would advise you to channel that absurd energy into your Defense lessons,” Snape continued, more mildly, pressing a firm hand in the middle of Harry’s back to propel him forward.

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled as he plodded up the stairs in single steps this time. He wiggled his shoulder blades, hoping Snape would take a hint, but the pressure on his back only increased. And finally, Harry gave up. With a scowl, he allowed Snape to guide him. Of course, only then did Snape remove his hand and gesture toward the final flight of stairs. For some reason, it suddenly struck Harry that he really was acting childish. And it made his stomach squirm with embarrassment.

“Which floor are we going to, Professor?” Harry inquired, attempting to sound as polite as possible. After all, Snape didn’t have to give him extra lessons in Defense.

“The second.”

Harry really felt like asking How come? But he only nibbled on the corner of his bottom lip as they climbed up the last three steps and nodded.

There were no classrooms on the second floor that Harry knew of. The corridors were dark—almost as dismal as the dungeons—and the heavy wooden doors were all sealed. But as much as Harry wanted to ask questions, he figured Snape’s patience was just about spent. So Harry simply let his eyes wander back and forth between the width of the corridor as he and Snape made their way through the gloom.

However, Snape cleared his throat in a preparatory way that caused Harry to snap his head up in the man’s direction.

“Many of the rooms in this particular wing of the second floor are used for storage,” the man explained, nodding toward one of the closed doors to Harry’s right, “A few are classrooms that are no longer in use.”

“Can I go look in one?” Harry piped up before he could stop himself, “I mean…may I?”

“No, Potter. Not now.”

Harry felt his cheeks sag a bit in disappointment, even though he figured Snape would say something like that.

“What is most useful to our lesson at the moment, Mr. Potter, is not an empty classroom but rather the empty corridor,” Snape continued, slowing down as they edged around a corner and reached a long corridor with only three gleaming closed doors and smooth stone walls on either side.

“What’s the difference?” Harry wondered aloud, tracing a ridge in the stone with the tip of his forefinger.

“Today, Mr. Potter, I am going to teach you how to magnify sound,” Snape began, virtually ignoring Harry’s question. The man gave a minute roll of his eyes as he reached out and clamped Harry’s absently trailing finger in between his thumb and a few of his own fingers. Harry watched as Snape simply escorted his small hand down to hang by his thigh. And he certainly didn’t miss the tired, vaguely aggravated glare that followed. “Are you capable of focusing for the next half-hour, or shall we simply skip this afternoon’s practical session and work in the text?” Snape exclaimed in—what Harry felt to be—a quite patronizing way.

What am I, a bloody toddler?

“I’m listening…” Harry emphatically stated.

Snape held up a finger in a warning gesture, but before he could begin scolding, Harry pressed on.

“I mean, I think it sounds pretty cool…I’ll probably be able to hear the voice better, won’t I?”

Biting his lip, the boy studied his professor’s face for a reaction. The first Defense lesson didn’t sound terribly exciting, but Harry was sort of proud of himself for suddenly catching on.

“Possibly,” Snape replied slowly, straying over each syllable as he cocked a single eyebrow. The minute of consideration was most likely Snape digesting the miracle of Potter actually understanding his intention without having to resort to relating an intricate, adolescent version of the mechanism.

Harry could tell this simply by the look on Snape’s face. And at the moment, he found that concept hilarious. The boy gave himself a discreet pinch on the thigh to help himself swallow the laugh that was threatening to burst from his throat.

“I shall demonstrate the incantation, Potter, and you will observe,” Snape informed in a serious, quiet tone that sobered Harry right up. Knowing that Snape’s solemn demeanor indicated importance, Harry backed up a few small steps and leaned his shoulders against the wall, the cold stone penetrating even through his robes.

Pushing up his sleeves, Snape cleared his throat and fingered his sturdy wand in a delicate way that Harry found almost mesmerizing. But as Snape poised his wand, he seemed to change his mind, instantly lowering the wand and crooking his finger toward Harry. “Come here, Mr. Potter.”

And Harry, figuring he was already quite close, offered his professor a confused look, but he moved forward until he was about a foot away from the man’s nose. Snape put a hand on either one of Harry’s shoulders and crouched down, looking him right in the eye, “I want you to go down to the end of the corridor—the very end—and when I give you leave, you will recite the ingredients of the potion you brewed in my class today,” Snape instructed in a very low voice, “You need to speak as quietly as I am speaking right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered, feeling a bit odd, as if the two were sharing a secret.

“Why do you suppose I have asked you to do such a thing?”

Harry thought for a moment. Magnification. Loud noises.

Probably like when Dudley turns his Nintendo up on the loudest volume and Aunt Petunia tells him his eardrums are going to start bleeding…

“Because yelling or talking loud when the sound is magnified will hurt your ears, won’t it?” Harry answered, still speaking in a hushed voice.

“Precisely,” Snape agreed with a nod, “Now do as I’ve instructed.” Snape ended the peculiar, quiet conversation by giving Harry’s shoulders a brief squeeze and swiveling him around toward the other end of the corridor. “Go on.”

Harry bolted down the corridor in a jog, spinning around when he had almost reached the end and continued taking a few steps backward, like some boys did in primary school when they were getting into position to play cricket. “Is this good?” Harry called out.

“That will do.”

Harry stood very still while Snape pushed his sleeves up again and gracefully raised his wand.

“Sonitus Amplificarum,” Snape recited clearly as he waved his wand in a broad circular motion.

Harry stiffened. He waited for some sort of spark to fly out of the dark wood. Waited for the air to start swirling…or something. But everything was still. He stared hard at Snape, waiting for a signal. The man was blurry standing so far down the corridor—even through Harry’s glasses. However, Snape not only nodded, but gestured with his wandless hand for Harry to begin his recitation.

“Crushed nettles…” Harry began, speaking as softly as he often did in History of Magic when Professor Binns was droning on about nothing, “Lavender…powdered forewings of…erm…Brine flies?...”

Harry thought he saw Snape nod.

Can he actually hear me?

The boy continued down the list of ingredients until he reached liquefied bee pollen.

“Is that it?” Harry whispered, feeling silly—it was as if he’d gone crazy and was talking to himself.

Snape waved his wand in a brisk pattern and pocketed it inside his robes. “All right, Potter, come back,” he called out in a moderate voice that echoed hollowly off of the surrounding walls.

Strolling forward quickly, Harry met Snape halfway, chewing on the insides of his cheeks and surveying the potions master’s face carefully for any sign that spoke of Harry’s failure to list off the correct ingredients. Harry thought he’d done it correctly…but he was pretty much rubbish in Potions…

“Did it work?”

“Inspiring recitation, Potter,” Snape said, smirking condescendingly. But Harry wasn’t as bothered by his professor’s patronization as he was during his first year. The man’s eyes weren’t piercing and dark the way they often looked last year when he’d slinked around Harry’s workspace in Potions, pointing out his mistakes every few minutes.

It was a different sort of smirk.

And Harry counteracted the expression with his own half-smile.

“Wand out,” Snape ordered. Harry complied, lifting his jumper a bit and pulling his treasured holly wand out of the waistband of his trousers. Even though the spell was simple, Harry felt his palms tingle with excitement. He loved doing magic.

“Repeat after me. Sonitus Amplificarum,” Snape enunciated clearly.

Harry repeated the incantation.

“Again, Potter. Accent the fourth syllable this time.”

When Harry did so, Snape had him practice the wand movement without speaking the incantation simultaneously. It took three tries before Harry got it right.

“Acceptable,” Snape exclaimed in a clipped tone, “When you are in position, after you have spoken the incantation, I will say something this time, and you will repeat it back to me when you return from your end of the corridor. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered with a nod. He pushed up the sleeves of his robes just as Snape had while he walked back to the place he’d just vacated.

When Harry was in position, he raised his wand slowly, closing his eyes in concentration and twisting it a few times in his hand before reciting the spell.

The fourth syllable…the fourth syllable…

Harry opened his eyes.

“Sonitus Amplificarum!” the boy waved his wand elaborately as he spoke.

Nothing.

He bit his lip in embarrassment and gave a small shake of his head.

“Try Again, Potter. Relax your arm,” Snape prompted, appearing as if it was completely normal to botch up a spell the first time around.

Taking a deep breath, Harry relaxed the muscles in his neck and shoulders and repeated the process.

Instantly, dull white-noise erupted all around him, crashing in his ears. It sounded like a massive amount of radio static. When Harry lowered his wand, he heard every rustle and swish of fabric against fabric.

“Can you hear me, Potter?”

Snape’s voice sounded odd—like he was speaking through a pipe—but the words were clear. It sounded as if Snape was standing right beside him, speaking into his ear. The closeness and crispness of his professor’s voice caused his skin to break out into goosebumps.

Harry nodded. His own breathing roared against his eardrums.

“Good. Listen carefully: the following three ingredients are essential in producing a wit-sharpening potion—“

But all of the sudden, Harry could only see Snape’s lips moving as all of the boy’s senses were engulfed by a strong whispering, unnerving voice. Louder than ever.

Harry’s limbs turned to ice and his tongue went instantly dry.

Must kill soon…Blood…Kill…KILL…

“Professor…” Harry squeaked. His mouth felt as if it were full of dust. His voice echoed—heavy and slurred—in his head as he spoke.

Snape stopped speaking. Harry couldn’t make out distinct features on the man’s face, but he definitely thought he saw his professor moving forward. He must have heard.

Harry spun around. The voice was now hissing—like sharp, heavy, continuous breaths sucked through teeth. There was another corridor to his right. And the heavy scraping against the walls told Harry that the thing was moving.

Among the rasping noise that throbbed all around Harry, he vaguely heard Snape call out to him. The man sped up, his robes flowing, cape-like behind him.

“I heard it, Professor!” Harry cried, as he beckoned toward the potions master. Snape was almost twenty feet away. A great feeling of bravery flowed through Harry’s veins and melted his frozen limbs. He wasn’t alone in this. Elated, he sprinted forward down the nearest corridor. The pounding of his soles crashed madly in his ears as he ran. “It’s moving!”

All the sounds were one—Harry’s panting, his footsteps, the scraping, Snape’s voice.

As Harry whipped around to see how closely Snape was following, he suddenly stumbled, splashing through two inches of standing water. The edges of his robes and trousers were soaked and heavy, and in his confusion, Harry tripped among the sopping wet material and fell forward, catching himself painfully on his hands and knees. He felt the flesh of his palms scrape sickeningly across the rough, stone floor.

But before he had time to register the acute smarting or even ponder over the source of the water, he heard Snape’s booming, muffled voice close behind.

“Finite Incantatem!”

It was as if all sound had been sucked into a vacuum.

Harry sat back on his heels in the dense puddle, panting. Through the water drops on his glasses, he saw that he was kneeling in front of the girl’s lavatory. He heard brisk splashing behind him, and Harry looked over his shoulder at Snape.

“Ugh! Is all this water from the toilet?—

But Harry was cut off instantly as he felt himself pulled up roughly from around the waist and carried a few feet away from the water before he was placed firmly on the ground.

“I heard it…” Harry began feebly, taken aback by the forceful way in which he was retrieved from the water.

But as he tried to turn around to face his professor, Harry felt his drenched robes swept to the side, and not more than a second later, he felt a hard hand crack him solidly across the bottom.

The sharp echo caused by the hard smack to the wet seat of Harry’s trousers bounced impressively off the stone corridor. Stunned, Harry lost his breath for a moment. That was the last thing he’d been expecting. And it hurt.

Snape yanked him around and grasped his shoulders firmly.

What did I do? Harry thought wildly, pulling back. Snape looked livid.

“You, young man, do not run from me!” Snape lectured severely.

“I—I wasn’t!” Harry explained, shaking his head vigorously. “I heard the voice in the walls…and it was moving…and I…I saw you following…”

“I called out to you, Potter!” Snape continued his tirade, “I told you to come back…”

“I didn’t hear you!”

“And you simply ran ahead, without waiting for me, directly into a potentially dangerous situation…”

“What are you talking about?” Harry cried, throwing up his hands in frustration, “It could’ve gotten away! It did get away, Professor!”

“Potter—your hands…” Snape said with a frown. Releasing the boy’s shoulders, he leaned down and carefully took one of Harry’s damp, chilly hands and gazed pointedly at the scraped and bleeding palm. He repeated the same process with the other hand. Harry frowned sourly at Snape but allowed him to survey the damage.

Snape glanced up into the pinched face, “Your first lesson in Defense, Mr. Potter, and already you’re bleeding and soaked to the skin.”

The man shook his head as if he were at a complete loss. Harry only shrugged.

Snape sighed heavily and began removing the boy’s robes gingerly, as not to touch his injured hands. He bundled up the sodden material and tucked it under an arm, “All right, Potter, let’s get you cleaned up.”

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

Standing at the ever-familiar basin in the dungeon classroom, clothing now warm and dry, Harry reluctantly held his hands—palms up—above the drain. He made a face as he looked up at Snape, who was holding a skinny glass bottle full of a clear, liquid substance. The man seemed to have calmed down considerably during the walk back to the classroom, and although Harry wasn’t sure why Snape had mellowed out, he was definitely grateful.

“That stuff is gonna burn…” Harry matter-of-factly informed his professor but made no move to jerk his hands back.

Only a baby would be afraid of that…

“It is only hydrogen peroxide,” Snape said as he took hold of one the boy’s wrists, “It shouldn’t.

Harry held his breath and sucked in his stomach as Snape poured the solution over his scrapes. The liquid began bubbling madly, but Snape was right—it didn’t sting.

“Brilliant,” Harry commented and held his other palm closer to the potions master so he could get it cleaned as well.

“Mind-boggling…” Snape followed up in a dry tone.

When the bubbling stopped, Snape gently patted the boy’s wounds dry with a thin towel.

“And now, to heal the skin,” Snape said as he walked back to a near by cupboard.

Harry gazed at his hands as he waited for Snape to grab the bandages and whatever else he was going to use to fix the abrasions. Unfortunately, the sting in his hands was no longer doing battle with the sting in his bum. Not that either situation was a good thing… However, the pain in his hands had doubled and caused him to wince every once in a while. Too bad the humiliation of getting scolded hadn’t faded as quickly… But even so, Harry tried to just forget about it. He decided, as they walked backed to the classroom, that he couldn’t spend the rest of his second year embarrassed and timid over a little telling off. Ron seemed to get over that howler by the end of the day it had come… And if his best mate could survive getting chewed out by his mum in front of the whole school, Harry supposed he could deal with Snape…

He just wished the guilty twinge would leave his stomach.

Closing the cupboard, Snape stalked back over to Harry and handed him a small vial filled with a light blue solution. Harry frowned in puzzlement as he read the label:

Potter, Harry

Surface cuts solution

Harry looked up at Snape, perplexed. “But this is the one I made,” he said softly.

“It is,” Snape replied, with a nod as he leaned against the counter top.

“How do you know it’s going to work?” Harry asked, tilting the thick, cloudy potion back and forth in his hand.

“Try it.”

“It won’t work,” Harry insisted, shaking his head, “I’m no good at making potions.”

“Potter…do you honestly believe I would give you a potion that would harm you?” Snape demanded, holding on to his calm façade.

“Er…”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter…”

“Oh, all right,” Harry said with a sigh, uncorking the bottle and pouring a small circle of the creamy blue potion in the middle of one palm. Gently, he rubbed it in, gritting his teeth and bracing himself in case the skin of his hand just melted right off.

However, a cool sensation immediately spread over his palm, followed by a pleasant tingling. And slowly, quietly, the scraped skin repaired itself. Harry looked up at Snape, his mouth open in befuddlement.

“Do the other hand,” Snape told the boy, and Harry obeyed.

When both hands were healed, the skin soft and pale again, Harry wordlessly sealed the remaining substance and handed it back to his professor. He couldn’t believe it. He’d actually brewed a potion correctly.

“Two successes in one day, Mr. Potter,” Snape commented as he replaced the half-empty vial back in the cupboard. Inwardly, Harry smiled. Closing the door once again, the man turned, “And one disappointment.”

Harry cringed, the guilt twisting and dripping like a wet, wrung-out rag in his stomach.

“I didn’t run away from you on purpose,” Harry muttered, rubbing his right thumb in circles along his repaired palm, “I wasn’t trying to prove anything…”

“Perhaps not, Potter,” Snape replied, moving forward and resuming his position against the counter, “However, you must take into consideration the consequences of your actions before you rush headlong into them.”

Harry nodded, staring at the floor. “I know.”

“If you know, then you will not make the same mistake next time. You will do better. I expect nothing less.”

There it was again. Snape expected something from him. Harry shifted his eyes up to meet his professor’s and nodded again. “Yes, sir,” he replied. What else was one to say?

After several seconds of quiet, Harry spoke up again:

“Professor?”

“Potter…” Snape replied in his habitual fashion.

“We need to do something about what I’ve been hearing in the walls,” Harry said, more strongly he felt, “I think it really wants to hurt someone…”

Snape said nothing as he considered the boy’s words.

“I will investigate further.”

“But Professor,” Harry pleaded, “I’m the only one who can hear it… And who knows when I’ll hear it again—“

Snape held up his hand for silence. And Harry closed his mouth grudgingly, biting back a glare.

“Fine, Potter, we will investigate further…”

Widening his eyes in disbelief, Harry’s face brightened.

“However…” Snape continued, pointing his finger at sternly for emphasis, “You will only seek out the source of the noise when you are with me. And you will obey everything I instruct you to do during Defense lessons and the like. Is that clear, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded intently, “Yeah, it is. I swear it.”

“Gather your things, then,” Snape instructed, gesturing toward Harry’s shoulder bag that, at the last second, he’d hastily thrown back onto one of the tables before heading to the second floor. “We will meet again after Potions on Friday. Read the second half of your Defense book, beginning with chapter five if you haven’t already.”

“I will,” Harry replied as he reached for his shoulder bag and threw it over his head. Snape walked over to where Harry stood and handed him his dry robes.

“In addition, you may want to inform your friends that you are, indeed, alive and well,” Snape remarked absently, nodding toward the door.

“What do you mean?”

And with a swish of his wand, the door to the classroom flew open.

However, all Harry heard was an odd squeal followed by fast, clipped footsteps and Hermione’s gradually diminishing, admonishing voice. Ron had to be with her.

Oh, no…

“How did you know?” Harry asked, his eyes wide. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be horrified. Merlin, his friends were daft sometimes, but still…they were his friends.

Snape gestured toward the small window at the very top of the door. Harry glanced up at the window and back toward the potions master, baffled at how he seemed to miss either Hermione’s bushy head or Ron’s bright red one peeking over the top of the door.

“Run along, Potter,” Snape said with a smirk, “You need to eat dinner.”

Harry nodded as he walked toward the exit. But holding onto the doorframe, he paused before twisting over his shoulder to look at Snape.

Might as well try it, Harry thought as he offered the man a light smile.

“See you, Professor.”

After a brief pause of his own, Snape gave a quick nod in acknowledgement, “Goodnight.”

Reaching over and pulling the door closed, Harry removed his shoulder bag, alternating holding the strap in his left and right hands as he slipped on his robes. They were still warm. And the twisting ache in his stomach was long gone, Harry suddenly noticed. Funny how quickly that feeling came and went…

He sighed. All he had to worry about now was how to break the news to Ron that Snape really wasn’t a git after all. Not really. But knowing Hermione, Harry was almost certain that she’d liberally hinted at that fact.

Shaking his head, the boy shrugged his shoulder bag closer to his neck and exited the dungeons.

Biting his lip, Harry walked hesitantly through the dim, nearly-empty corridor toward the Great Hall.  At only about fifty feet away, Harry could hear the muffled, jumbled chatter and the scraping of utensils on plates from inside the dining area.  Mostly everyone was eating dinner.

But if Harry knew his friends…

“Oh…there he is!  Harry!” Hermione exclaimed breathily as she darted around a corner and ran towards him. 

I knew it.

Ron was following quickly, only a few steps behind Hermione.  His pale hands were shoved deeply in to his trousers pockets and his face was pinched. 

Oh, no…Harry thought.  He stopped where he stood and crumpled the edges of his sleeves into his fists as he waited for the inevitable. 

Hermione slowed as she reached Harry, taking a deep, important breath in preparation for what could only be one of her infamous inquiries.  Her bushy hair had been pulled back, but Harry could tell by the stray, floating curls that Hermione had made herself sick with worry over the past eighty-five minutes. 

“You were gone a long time, Harry.  Are you all right?” Hermione asked, placing a hand lightly on his forearm.  Her eyes flickered up and down his face, obviously searching for tear tracks and puffy eyes. 

Harry felt his cheeks warm in awkward embarrassment. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” the boy assured his friend, averting his gaze as Ron sauntered forward, his ginger head bowed ever so slightly.

Here we go… 

But as he held his breath, Harry noticed that, strangely, Ron’s expression wasn’t clouded with fury the way it had been before their argument last week. 

Ron glanced up at Harry with round eyes and an odd, serious expression.  “He clobbered you, didn’t he, mate…” he stated in a grave, throaty voice. 

Suddenly Hermione’s hand shot out as she clouted Ron right in the arm, glaring at him dangerously.

“Ow!...” Ron complained, whipping around towards the girl.  He frowned as he rubbed his arm, “Bloody hell, Hermione…”

Even though Harry already figured Hermione would have informed Ron of Harry’s situation after the two had been ordered away by Snape, Harry didn’t spare his friend an irritated look as Hermione turned back around to face him. 

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry, but when we saw Draco run to his dorm and…and you didn’t come back, we were worried that Snape had dragged you off again…”

“He did,” Harry whispered, now twisting the wrinkled material of his sleeves in both hands, “But he didn’t—“

“And of course,” Ron broke in, removing his hands from his pockets and throwing them up wildly, “the stupid git just let Malfoy go back to his dorm even though he’s the one who started it.”

“It wasn’t like that—“ Harry began, but was cut off again.

“I’m gonna kill the slimy bastard…” Ron growled, shaking his head.  Harry wasn’t sure if Ron was referring to Snape or Malfoy…  Harry opened his mouth to try and explain again.

“Ronald, just be quiet and let Harry tell you what happened!” Hermione scolded, glancing between the two boys before her stormy eyes rested on Harry.  She nodded.  “Go ahead Harry.”  Ron scowled but clamped his mouth shut.

However, now that Harry had gained the full attention of his friends, he wasn’t sure how to proceed.  He’d been running over the words in his mind ever since he left the dungeons.  But now that Ron was obviously somewhat knowledgeable of the type of authority Snape had acquired over Harry, the boy’s brain scrambled furiously to think of something else to say.

The air in the corridor seemed stuffy and hot.

“I didn’t get in trouble for the note or for Malfoy,” Harry mumbled, his hands tightened in a death-grip around his robes, “I mean, I didn’t really even do anything to him…”

“But then why—“

“Snape did hear me shout at him though...” Harry trailed off.  His neck and shoulders were suddenly sweaty underneath his robes.

Hermione’s eyes widened.  “And?” the girl prompted.

“He…erm…put soap in my mouth,” Harry said as he looked away, completely mortified. 

Hermione gasped.  But after a few seconds, to Harry’s surprise, Ron snorted.

“He did what?!” Ron cried, causing Harry and Hermione to snap their heads in his direction, “Of all the things Snape could do to you, he washes your mouth out?” 

“It was disgusting…” Harry retorted defensively.  Merlin’s pants, Ron was unpredictable. 

“And you let him?”

“Shut up, Ron!” Hermione said through gritted teeth, her hand at the ready to smack the redhead again if needed.  Ron pulled his arm back.  Hermione rolled her eyes, “He’s a professor…what should Harry have done?  Besides, your mother’s given you soap before,” the girl continued haughtily. 

Ron blushed crimson.  “Says who?!”

“Your sister,” Hermione said with a satisfied smirk.

And ignoring Ron’s expression of degradation, the girl faced Harry again and fixed him with a sympathetic look.  “Well, that couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes,” she exclaimed thoughtfully, “Did he have you clean cauldrons before dinner or something?”

Harry shook his head, keeping a watchful eye on Ron, whose face was stuck between irritation and curiosity, “No.  He taught me a spell that amplifies sound.  I heard the voice again…on the second floor—“

“Wait,” Ron interrupted, “Snape gags you with soap and then decides to teach you a spell that actually makes the voice louder?”  But before Harry could answer, Ron’s eyes grew large. “Wait a minute…you told him you were hearing voices?!”

“Well…yeah…” Harry shrugged, relying heavily on his act of nonchalance.  His friends didn’t need to know that the confession was delivered among pathetic blubbering and heaving.  “And he believes me,” Harry continued, suddenly annoyed, “So just save it, Ron.”

“I didn’t say anything—“

Harry didn’t let him finish. “You’ve got your mum and dad…and Fred and George and Percy and Charlie and whoever else you want to teach you spells...or tell you whether or not it’s normal to hear voices if you’re a wizard.  I don’t.” 

Ron looked down at his fingers which were twisted into an odd sort of clasp.  “I know, mate,” the boy replied quietly. 

“No, you don’t,” Harry muttered, leaning back heavily against the stone wall, studying his thumbs in the same manner as Ron. 

After a moment, Harry felt a hand on his arm again.  He looked up slowly into Hermione’s shiny eyes; she was looking at him in a way that made his stomach ache.  “You’ve got us, Harry.  And I know it doesn’t seem like much sometimes, but we care about you.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley care about you too.”  Hermione glanced fleetingly at Ron who was still staring at his toes. “So does Dumbledore…and Hagrid…” 

“I know,” Harry said quietly, feeling the guilt prick at his stomach.  What Harry really wanted to say was ‘It’s not the same’.  But he didn’t quite know what he meant by that.  Harry wasn’t even really sure what he was referring to. 

And he was too tired and hungry right now to figure it out. 

“Listen,” Harry continued, glancing up into the pained faces of his friends, “Snape’s just teaching me some Defense, and you have to be really disciplined when you learn it.  He’s not being cruel or anything.”

 Where the hell is this coming from? 

“But why Snape?” Ron questioned quietly.

“Because Lockhart’s a sodding git.  We’re not learning anything from him…”

“Harry!” Hermione admonished, “He is not!”

Ron looked for a moment as if he was going to laugh, but he didn’t.  “Why you?  I mean, Snape’s always had it in for you, hasn’t he?”

Harry thought for a moment.  Besides the fact that he was the only one who could hear the voice, he honestly had no idea why things had turned out the way they did.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall.   And he left it at that. 

The bells chimed once to indicate the half-hour. 

“It’s five-thirty,” Hermione spoke up, “We need to go before we miss dinner.”

Harry nodded and moved forward a few steps.  However, Ron didn’t say anything.  He simply stuffed his hands back into his pockets and fell in line beside his friends.  Harry knew that Ron wanted to—and very well could have—asked thousand other questions.   But for once, Harry was a bit glad that the redhead was at a loss for words. 

“He gave me a book on Defense,” Harry said to Ron after a few seconds of silence between the two of them, “It’s brilliant.  I’ll show it to you when we get back into the common room.”

Ron barely nodded as they entered the Great Hall, which was flooded with the warmth of rumbling voices and the rich scent of roast beef.  As usual, the three of them sat down together—Harry across from Ron and Hermione. 

It was awkwardly quiet as they loaded up their plates with meat and vegetables.  But after a few moments of silence, Hermione sighed heavily and looked determinedly at Harry.  “We learn some things in Professor Lockhart’s class,” she claimed. 

Harry gave her a funny look.  Out of everything they’d covered in the past ten minutes, Hermione was thinking about that?  But before Harry could retort, Ron spoke up. 

“What’s that Hermione?” Ron mumbled through his mashed potatoes, “How to chase a banshee away with an award-winning smile?”

Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

Hermione glared at Ron who had plastered a look of innocence on his face. 

“What?” he asked, “He’s a brilliant teacher.  Probably the best we’ve had.”  Ron shoved another forkful of roast beef.

“Oh…be quiet, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, returning to her carrots. 

Ron glanced at Harry and gave him a subtle smile—as much as was possible with his mouth full of food.

Harry returned the grin before taking another gulp of juice. 

Yeah…he’ll get over it…

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

As Harry padded down the stone steps to the Gryffindor common room, shivers ran up and down his back as the cool air that hovered among the staircase drifted across his bare feet.  It was late—after midnight—and he’d accidentally left his shoulder bag next to his favorite armchair by the fireplace.

Moving quickly, Harry entered the common room, starting slightly when he noticed Ginny huddled in one of the armchairs, furiously writing in a book filled with yellow parchment.  Trying not to disturb her, Harry slowed down when he came close.  As he gingerly leaned down to grab the handle of his shoulder bag, he saw, without really meaning to, a few words, wet with black ink, in Ginny’s Diary:

  Dear Tom,

 I think I’m losing my memory.  There are—  

All of a sudden, Ginny jerked back, clutching her journal to her chest.  Harry jumped and nearly cried out in surprise.  His heart thudded in his ears as Ginny stared at him in horror.  Her face was white.  Her small, pale fingers covered part of a name stamped in gold lettering at the top of the small book:  TOM MARVOLO R   was all Harry could make out.

Who’s that?

“Ginny…” Harry began, the word cracking in his dry throat.

But as soon as Harry spoke, the terrified girl hastily scrambled out of her chair and ran up the steps that led to the girls’ dormitory. 

Harry listened to the soles of her feet slap against the stone.  Her quill lay unmoving on the small carpet next to the fireplace.  Harry stared for a moment at the glimmering ink on the sharp point of the quill. 

What is wrong with her? Harry thought, gazing at the empty, silent staircase.  He shivered again as he stood in confusion, his shoulder bag lying forgotten on the floor.

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

Exactly one half hour remained in Potions on Friday afternoon, and Harry planned on using all thirty minutes of it to brew his Hair Raising Potion correctly the first time.  Harry had told Ron and Hermione about Ginny and the strange diary over breakfast the next day, but neither of them had a clue who Tom Marvolo was.  Hermione had tried to talk to Ginny but received little response.  Thinking about it had made Harry uneasy all week.  But right now, Harry knew he needed to concentrate.  He didn’t want to spend a second of his Defense lesson making up this assignment, especially since the weekend was so near. 

As Harry added his two pickled rat tails and stirred, he suddenly felt something poking him at the elbow.  Glancing over his shoulder to identify the annoyance, Harry saw that it was a piece of parchment that had been folded up angularly into a note.

Not again… Harry thought crossly. 

The note had been folded in the exact same manner as the last one Draco had passed him; however, this one was floating on its own as it continued to stab at his elbow. 

Harry reached around with his other hand and swatted the note away.  There was no way he would let Malfoy get to him this time. 

But a few seconds later, the poking continued.  Harry looked over at Snape.  The man’s attention was completely dedicated to Millicent Bulstrode’s bubbling cauldron. 

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, knocking the note a few feet backwards as he slammed it with his fist. 

Harry felt Hermione nudge his shoulder absently—a silent gesture that told Harry to get back to work.  But she was too engrossed in her potion to pay further attention to whatever was going on next to her. 

“What, Potter?” Malfoy sneered in a soft voice, “Afraid you’ll have to stand with your nose against the wall again?”

Feeling his cheeks flame hotly, Harry spun around and glared hatefully at the smirking Slytherin. 

“No, but I bet your hand is still sore after those seven-hundred lines…”

It was Draco’s turn to blush. 

However, before either of them could say anything else, Snape straightened up and glanced over to his left.  Harry spun around quickly and stared hard at his cauldron.  As Snape sauntered slowly over in his direction, Harry’s stomach clenched.  He squinted at the blackboard, as if he were focusing on what to add next.  As the professor passed, he stilled next to Harry’s desk.  Pressing his lips together, Harry shifted only his eyes up toward the potions master, who in turn gave Harry a stern look and pointed firmly at the boy’s cauldron.

As the professor continued to survey the classroom, Harry bent over his cauldron and forced himself to concentrate. 

But, again, he felt the corner of the note pricking the back of his arm.  Harry felt like screaming…or picking up his simmering cauldron and dumping the entire concoction on Malfoy’s head.  However, knowing that a stunt like that would only earn Harry a zero for the day and probably a sore behind later, the boy finally threw down his stirrer.

Swearing under his breath, Harry reached around and snatched up the note. 

Glancing briefly at Snape’s back, Harry quickly unfolded the note.   Immediately, Harry’s face began to burn; the words seemed to blur on the page as he read:

  I’ve seen house elves that look better than your filthy blood-traitor girlfriend.  Bet you’d love to know what’s going on there wouldn’t you Potter?  

Harry felt as if a spike had been driven through his chest.  His hands had become so instantly sweaty that they wilted the parchment as he held it. 

“Harry…” Hermione whispered, leaning over, “Harry, what is it?”

Weakly, Harry folded the note between his fingers and moved his hand underneath the desk.  Thankfully, Ron was sitting with Dean Thomas at the table in front of them.  However, Harry didn’t want Hermione to see either.  For the first time, Harry didn’t know how to react.  Aside from the almost stinging heat that radiated through his cheeks, Harry felt numb all over. 

Strangely, Harry sensed, rather than saw the looming presence next to his table.  A gentle tug, and the note slipped from between his fingers.  But Harry barely acknowledged it.  Stiffly, Harry pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead as he leaned on his elbow.  He could hear the crinkling of the paper as the note was unfolded. 

A whirlwind of emotions swirled through Harry.  He hated Malfoy.  And he ached for Ginny and whatever it was that was bothering her.  But mostly, Harry scorned himself for lacking the drive to turn around and knock the Slytherin’s teeth out. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said in his softest, silkiest voice, drawing Harry out of his thoughts, “Accompany me to the corridor, if you would.”

There was no anger in the man’s voice.  However, the quiet, dangerously familiar tone was exactly what caused Harry to turn his head slightly and glance back at the scene.  Hermione had turned as well.  Only a few surrounding students were engaged.  The rest were still bent over their cauldrons, working diligently as the remaining twenty minutes diminished rapidly.

But despite the placidness in Snape’s request, Malfoy had paled.  The boy slowly complied, following several steps behind the potions master as they made their way toward the classroom exit. 

Ron spun around and fixed Harry with a confused look but was immediately pulled back into a heated, yet whispered conversation with Dean involving the Chudley Cannons versus the Tutshill Tornadoes.

Briefly, Harry thought about putting the amplification spell to use.  But at that moment, the boy realized that he didn’t really care if Snape hexed Malfoy into the oblivion.  He didn’t even feel angry.  Rather, Harry was disgusted.  There was something...smug…and cruel in Malfoy’s words…as if he was reveling in the girl’s misery.  Did Malfoy know something?

“What was that all about?” Hermione whispered, nudging Harry in the arm, “Harry, you look funny.  Are you all right?  What did Malfoy give you?”

Harry stared meaningfully into her face, which was pinched into a frown.  However, before Harry could begin to explain, the door to the classroom swung open, emitting a subdued and pink-cheeked Malfoy.  Snape followed closely behind.  But the man’s face was unreadable.  However, the young Slytherin glared at Harry as he trudged back to his desk, discreetly giving him the finger as he passed. 

“You have precisely fifteen minutes,” Snape informed the class woodenly as he strolled over to his desk, sweeping his robes along briskly as he moved, “I will not hesitate to hand out zeros for incomplete assignments.  Weasley…”

Ron jumped.

“Get to work.”

Mumbling a quick yes, sir, Ron immediately hunched over his ingredients.

For a fleeting second, Snape’s eyes met Harry’s; however, before the boy could begin to analyze the intent behind the dark pupils, Snape looked away.  He strolled briskly over to the Slytherins.

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

The classroom was empty.  Harry sat slumped over on his stool, resting his chin on his folded arms as he waited for Snape to finish putting away two of the borrowed cauldrons. 

Harry wasn’t sure what to think.  He was almost positive that Snape had said something to Malfoy about the note.  But Harry couldn’t be sure.  Malfoy was a Slytherin, after all. 

However, the boy also felt slightly embarrassed by the fact that Snape had taken action before Harry.  For some reason, Harry hadn’t been expecting something so hurtful.  The last note had insulted the Weasleys as a whole, and Malfoy had probably known that a note like that would bother Harry more than anyone else.  But this was different—it cut Harry deep.  Still, he couldn’t help feeling like a pathetic baby. 

“All right, Potter, enough sulking,” Snape said suddenly from behind the boy. 

Sulking?!

Harry sat up quickly, staring hard at Snape as the man came closer and pulled up a nearby stool. 

“I’m not sulking.”

Snape merely raised an eyebrow, barely cracking the stone-like pretense, supporting himself lightly by the forearm that rested on Harry’s table. 

“To whom was the note referring?” Snape inquired softly, passing by the small-talk, as usual, and cutting directly to the point.  However, by the look on the man’s face, Harry had a feeling that perhaps Snape already knew what it was about.  Even if Malfoy hadn’t told him, the professor had Ginny in class.  

“You let Malfoy get away with everything,” Harry mumbled, ignoring the inquiry for a moment as he stared at a streak on the desktop.  He figured he might as well stick up for himself now to make up for his feeble lack of reaction. 

“I asked you a question, Potter.  You will do well to answer it.”

A moment of silence. 

Still focusing on the black top of the desk, Harry shrugged.

“Perhaps instead of a Defense lesson, you should simply go back to your dorm and nap for the afternoon,” Snape exclaimed, working hard to level the exasperation in his tone.  “I refuse to waste my time while you pout like a child…”

“I’m twelve,” Harry said irritably, “I don’t take naps.  And I’m not pouting.”

“Keep it up, Potter,” the man growled threateningly.

A bloody nap…he’s got to be joking.

But it was hard to hold even an ounce of defiance among Snape’s relentless glare.  Finally, Harry sighed in resignation.  “He was talking about Ginny Weasley.”

“I see,” Snape replied almost immediately.  The man lifted his hand up and placed a few weathered knuckles against his lips as he thought.

Harry waited.

“Tell me, Potter, what would incline Mr. Malfoy to mention the Weasley girl?”

Harry stared at his hands that now rested in his lap.  “She’s not having a very good year,” the boy nearly whispered. 

“Elaborate,” Snape prompted in a low voice. 

Harry staved off another shrug but continued to focus on his folded hands as he spoke.  “She’s just really sad all the time.  I mean, I know she’s probably just homesick, but…I dunno.”  Harry suddenly glanced up at Snape.  “Professor?”

“What is it, Potter?”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip.  “Do you know somebody named Tom Marvolo?”

A shadow passed over the man’s face.  Harry thought he saw the skin on Snape’s face whiten, but with the professor’s pale complexion, it was difficult to tell.  Snape tilted his head as he sat up.  His eyes darkened considerably. 

Harry swallowed roughly.

“Where did you hear of that name?” Snape questioned.  The edge in Snape’s voice was almost cutting. 

“He’s…I mean it was on,” Harry stammered, licking his dry lips, “The name was stamped on this diary that Ginny writes in.  Tom Marvolo…and then an ‘R’ was all I could make out before she ran—“

“A diary?” the man clarified.  His movements were rigid. 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, lowering his eyebrows in confusion.

What’s wrong with him?...

Without warning, Snape pushed back his stool and stood up, turning slightly away from Harry and running an awkward hand through his hair. 

“Mr. Potter, you need to go back to your dormitory,” Snape ordered gruffly.

“But our lesson—“

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Snape exclaimed with a nod, “As of now, I need to speak with the headmaster.”

“Are we going to tell him about Ginny?” Harry asked, scooting back his stool and sliding off slowly as he watched his professor.

Snape spun around suddenly.  “We, Potter, are going to do nothing of the sort,” he informed sternly, “Go start on your homework.”

“It’s Friday,” Harry retorted, “I don’t have any.”  The boy began packing his books into his shoulder bag as he spoke.  “Why can’t I go?  I need to talk to him anyway…about what I’ve been hearing.”

Actually, this was the first time Harry had considered actually going to Dumbledore about the whole problem, but at the moment, it sounded like a good argument. 

Snape moved forward quickly, grasping the boy’s shoulders.  Harry shrunk back in surprise.  However, the grip wasn’t painful.  Snape simply crouched down and looked at Harry severely.

“I do not intend to make a habit of repeating myself.”  The man gave Harry’s shoulders a firm, brief shake as he scolded.  “And I have just given you an order that I expect you to obey.”

Harry gazed at Snape pleadingly, squirming slightly in the man’s hold.

“No, Potter, “ Snape continued, disregarding the boy’s expression.  He shook his head resolutely.  “This is a matter that I need to discuss with Professor Dumbledore alone.  I need not explain myself.  Now do as I say.”

“But professor…”

“Harry,” Snape nearly barked, shaking his shoulders again. 

The boy froze, startled by the harsh way Snape had delivered his name…his name.

“Do as I say.” 

Snape released him.

Heart thudding from the stern rebuke, Harry simply nodded solemnly. 

Bowing his head curtly in satisfaction, Snape swept to the door, indicating for Harry to follow.  He held the door open and gestured toward the corridor. 

“Tomorrow, Mr. Potter,” the man said quietly.  “You may come after lunch.”

Again, at a loss for words, Harry simply shifted his shoulder bag and nodded.

“Go on.”

And without another word, the door closed solidly behind him.

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

As Harry made his way down the corridor in stunned, pensive silence, he suddenly felt a sharp pain erupt in the back of his head. 

A small stone clattered to the floor.

Whipping around angrily, Harry subconsciously tore his wand away from the pocket inside of his robes. 

“Going to cry, are you, Potter?” Malfoy drawled from the other side of the corridor that led to the Slytherin common room.

Gritting his teeth, Harry breathed feverishly as he clutched his wand. 

Suddenly, Harry stalked forward—every Defense mechanism he’d read about the past week floated to the surface.  And he didn’t care anymore. 

Now we’ll see who’s the coward, Harry thought.

Harry told himself that he wouldn’t really use any of the spells he read about.  He wouldn’t.  But there was no reason that Malfoy had to know that…

He’d addressed the boy by his given name. 

It hadn’t been deliberate; Severus rarely extended such courtesy even to his Slytherins.  However, Potter had obeyed.  And although Severus would like to convince himself that the boy had been startled into submission by his harsh, yet important tone, the staggered, almost vulnerable gleam in the wide, green eyes spoke of something different. 

To Severus’s amazement, Potter had simply nodded as if that one small gesture had allowed the child to finally understand after several tedious minutes of adult-explanation.  Perhaps Potter had understood the severity of the situation.  Perhaps not.  But the rawness in the boy’s expression flashed repeatedly in Severus’s mind. 

It took almost the entire trip through the small, hidden stone corridor that led from Severus’s classroom to Dumbledore’s office before the potions master could avert his thoughts to the upcoming banter with the headmaster—and the diary.  

Reaching the end of the passageway, Severus ran the tip of his wand along a rigid groove in the back of a large portrait.  Slowly, the entrance creaked open, emitting a small cloud of dust around the ancient hinges.  Stepping through, Severus strolled briskly forward towards the elaborate stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore’s chambers. 

“I wish to speak with the headmaster,” Severus determinedly informed the gargoyle. 

“Password?”

Severus inwardly growled in disgust.  There was nothing he despised more than reciting the old man’s ridiculous passwords. 

“It is urgent,” Severus said, still holding fast to his ebony wand.  One small flick and he could easily hex the stone menace into a pile of glittering dust. 

“No admittance without the password,” the ugly statue snarled, “Heightened security…”

Severus sighed heavily in frustration.  “Very well.  Pumpkin pasties,” the man enunciated sardonically, glaring at the gargoyle as he carefully pocketed his wand.  He simply was not in the mood to play games with a giant, hideous mass of rock. 

The statue grinned evilly.  “Pity…the headmaster has gone to the Ministry of Magic and will return at dinner.”

Closing his eyes and swearing under his breath, Severus reached inside of his robes and fingered the small, round pocket watch.  He glanced at the gold face.

It was almost four-fifteen in the afternoon. 

The headmaster often informed Severus of his whereabouts before a lengthy departure.  However, the old man sporadically, and sparingly, left the castle for only hours at a time, in which he solely notified the deputy headmistress and the guard to his chambers.   Inwardly steeling himself, the potions master refused to reveal his distress over the headmaster’s absence.  In situations such as these, aside from his usual duties, Potter was his priority.  Severus knew it, as did Dumbledore. 

And nothing more needed to be said. 

Returning his watch to its proper place, Severus wordlessly swept away from the intricate entrance to the headmaster’s chambers.  He was unquestionably grateful for his own refusal in allowing Potter to accompany him.  The last thing Severus needed was a fidgety, adolescent nuisance trailing along side him, regardless how much of an asset the child was in the current situation. 

And won’t the headmaster be pleased to find that, once again, the golden boy possesses the knowledge and skill to save the day.   Severus smirked in disgust.  However, not more than a second later, he nearly froze in shock when he realized that this time he wasn’t disgusted with the boy.  Rather, his mind had immediately directed the scornful thought towards the headmaster. 

The man who merely patted Potter on the head for nearly getting himself killed last year. 

Running a hand over his face, Severus forced himself to shake the unfamiliar sensation.  And pulling his robes more snuggly over his left shoulder, the potions master continued swiftly down the dim, narrow corridor. 

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

Edging closer to the sneering Slytherin, every ounce of Harry’s being was engulfed in a frightening, unfamiliar rage.  His arms felt disconnected as he unsteadily raised his wand.  The wood seemed to tremble in Harry’s hand and was almost uncomfortably hot against his cold palm.

However, as Harry watched the egotism literally drain from Malfoy’s pale, narrow face as he approached, he felt an odd strength surge through his limbs.  Clenching his teeth almost painfully, Harry stilled only a few feet from Malfoy’s face.  The blonde boy was panicking as he grabbed blindly for the wand tucked inside his robes. 

“Don’t move,” Harry seethed, “I swear to god, Malfoy, I’ll pummel your arse.” 

Malfoy froze.  Harry could tell he hadn’t yet taken hold of his wand. 

“You would be the one to duel like a coward, wouldn’t you, Potter?” Malfoy squeaked, his voice cracking on every word.  “If you want to do this properly…”

“What…are you out of stones to throw?” Harry growled.  He could feel lips twitching from the adrenaline pumping wildly through his veins, but he held tight to his wand.  “Don’t have any parchment handy?  Who’s the coward, you sodding bastard…”

Just one Petrificus Totalus, Harry thought.  A simple spell.  He’d seen Hermione do it.  It would only take a flick of his wrist and the Slytherin would be petrified.

“Sticking up for your girlfriend, are you?” Malfoy said weakly, his eyes locked on Harry’s wand.  He licked his dry lips.

“Yeah, I am.”

Stupefy…  It had been in the back of the book.  Would knock Malfoy flat on his arse. 

Harry breathed harshly. 

“You’ll be expelled, Potter,” Malfoy spat, contorting his face hatefully.  “What would Dumbledore think of his precious Half-Blood then?” 

Blood pounded in Harry’s ears.  He knew Malfoy was trying to make him back down the only way he knew how—by taunting him.  However, every word that escaped the Slytherin fueled the fire that was burning hatefully in Harry’s stomach. 

But what could he do?  There was no way he could use a spell against Malfoy.  It was daylight; they were in the dungeons.  And in a way, Malfoy was right: only one of them was armed.  It wasn’t a fair fight. 

“Go ahead, Potter.  Do it,” Malfoy taunted. 

Swallowing thickly, Harry stared venomously at the blonde boy.  Hexing Malfoy wouldn’t make him any better than the pathetic rat.   Deep down, he knew he couldn’t do it.  As much as he hated Malfoy, hurting him wouldn’t solve anything.

Stiffly, Harry lowered his wand. 

Malfoy sniffed in amusement, straightening up with his usual air of superiority.  “Coward,” he scoffed.   

But before Harry could retort, the sharp ring of the afternoon bell resounded throughout the corridor, causing the boy to start slightly and glance over his shoulder unconsciously.  In that brief moment, Malfoy snatched his wand from the inside of his robes and pointed it straight at Harry.  Muttering an unfamiliar incantation, a jet of red sparks shot out of the end of the Slytherin’s wand. 

Heart jumping in his throat, Harry narrowly dodged the sparks.  He had jerked out of the way just in time, nearly tripping over his robes. 

Smirking in satisfaction, yet poised for retaliation, Malfoy backed up a few steps.

Furious heat boiled inside Harry as he gripped his wand so tightly it hurt.  Without thinking—his vision nearly blurred—Harry suddenly shot forward, emitting an indistinguishable, throaty cry. 

Eyes wide, Malfoy hastily edged back at the animal-like noise.

Of all the spells he’d read about, nothing—not a single one—came to Harry’s mind.  But it didn’t matter; Malfoy was going to get a taste of the schoolyard, muggle tradition.  

However, as Malfoy turned to flee, Harry began to run down the corridor, his wand-arm flailing, when suddenly, a burst of powerful, blinding light flew out of Harry’s wand.  Stunned, the boy slowed down as his eyes followed the stream of sparks.  They were heading directly for the back of Malfoy’s head. 

“Watch out!” Harry screamed.  

Whipping around, Malfoy ducked out of the way just in time. 

Instantly, the jet of light collided with a corner of the stone scrollwork near the ceiling.  Both Harry and Malfoy crouched and covered their heads as the stone exploded, showering a small section of the corridor with sharp bits of dust and rock.

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

Severus halted.  At merely thirty or forty feet away, he’d seen the jet of light smash into the top of a stone column before he’d heard the sickening explosion. 

And he knew immediately that someone had just cast Confringo—the blasting curse.  A frantic voice echoed from around the corner:

“Son of a bitch, Potter!” 

Immediately recognizing the voice, Severus reached for his wand with a practiced hand and bolted forward.

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

Shaking uncontrollably, Harry tried to stand.  He had no idea what had just happened or how he’d cast a spell he didn’t know.  He hadn’t even spoken an incantation. 

Malfoy lay huddled on the ground.  He looked terrified. 

“I don’t know what I just did…” Harry croaked, as he gazed at the dust-covered Slytherin.  “I mean, I didn’t—I couldn’t…”

And then Harry’s world began to spin as Snape came into view around the corner. 

 How? Harry thought, his hands icy, his heart thudding.   He’s supposed to be with Dumbledore!  

Wand in hand, the professor’s eyes wildly scanned the scene.  Feeling the bile rise in his throat, Harry began to back up.  Snape glared wrathfully at both boys, but to Harry, it seemed as if the dark eyes were impaling only him. 

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?!”

“Professor, I swear I didn’t mean to…” Harry began, holding his hands up as if to prove his innocence.  But the wand was clearly visible between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Don’t move, Potter!” Snape growled. 

Draco glanced up at Snape from the floor.  “He tried to curse me, Professor!”

“That’s a lie!” Harry gasped.  “He cursed me first…he threw a bloody rock at my head!”

“Potter’s the liar!”

“Enough!” Snape shouted, causing both boys to flinch.  His tone commanded absolute obedience.   Snape turned to Harry and glared at him sternly.  “Put your wand away, Potter—immediately.” 

“But I don’t even know how it—“

“Now, Potter!  Do not make me repeat myself,” the man said harshly.  Keeping his finger extended in Harry’s direction, Snape spun around briefly toward Draco.  “To your dormitory, Malfoy,” he ordered, “Do not even think of disobeying.” 

Pale and somber, Malfoy pushed himself off of the ground and walked swiftly toward the dormitory. 

Snape turned back toward Harry and stalked forward.  “Come with me, Potter.”

Oh no no no no…  Harry gave the man a pleading look as he backed up even further. 

“I didn’t cast that on purpose!  Please just listen to me!” Harry cried. 

But Snape was quick in his advancement and instantly caught the boy around his waist, pulling him close and holding the child tightly in the crook of his arm.  He spoke over Harry’s shoulder in a gruff whisper.

“I am not hallucinating, Potter,” Snape said through gritted teeth, “I saw you.  Are you to tell me that your wand was not aimed at Malfoy?”

Harry pushed desperately against the arm that encircled him.  “Well…kind of…But not when I was chasing him!” the boy explained breathlessly, “I don’t know any spells like that.  I don’t know how that happened!”

“Then explain to me, Potter, what precisely was your intention in running after Mr. Malfoy?

Harry stopped struggling.  What had he meant to do?  “I…erm…”

Snape spun him around and glared sternly.  “Obviously, Mr. Potter, you cannot be left alone for more than five minutes without getting into trouble.”

“Yes, I can!” Harry insisted.  “And it wasn’t my fault…”

“I do not care who started it,” Snape replied firmly.  Grasping the boy by the arm, Snape marched him down the dusty, dim corridor.  “Perhaps you should have simply ended it.”

“I didn’t use any of those spells in the book!  Not one!” Harry cried out, twisting his arm around to loosen Snape’s fingers.

“Stop.”

“No…this is ridiculous!” Harry said angrily.  “What was I supposed to do?  Just let Malfoy get away with acting like a git?!”

“Indeed,” Snape said woodenly, gazing straight ahead as they neared the man’s chambers.  You know better, Potter.”

“I don’t know anything,” Harry argued weakly.  But it was clear that Snape was finished listening to him. Pushing open the door to his chambers, the man took hold of both of the boy’s shoulders this time as he steered him forward. 

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

Harry burrowed his face into the corner of the sofa, keeping his eyes screwed shut against the warm leather, now wet with his tears. 

The punishment had been swift and immediate. 

From the first sting of Snape’s palm smacking against his bottom to the moment when Harry felt his clothing slipped back up, the whole ordeal had barely lasted thirty seconds.   But to the mortified twelve-year-old, it was catastrophic. 

No matter how long he held his breath, Harry couldn’t stem the flow of his hot tears.  Miserable as ever, the boy stiffened his shoulders in order to keep them from jumping in time with his hitched breathing.  But it wasn’t working.

He was so ashamed.  He’d given in to Malfoy’s taunting—exactly what the stupid Slytherin wanted.  But it was more than that.  Harry was furious with himself for crying again…for acting like such a baby…for lacking self-control. 

You know better, Potter.   Snape’s words echoed repeatedly in the boy’s head.  But why did Harry have to be the one to end it?   

Tucking his hands further between the cushions, Harry tried hard to breathe normally.  He wasn’t sure what he was waiting on, but unless he was bodily removed, Harry wasn’t lifting his face from the darkness of the cushions for anything.  Snape had already seen him cry several weeks ago.  And once was more than enough.   

“Mr. Potter…”

“Leave me alone,” Harry mumbled, a sharp sniffle breaking in the middle of his insistency.  His voice was muffled among the sofa-cocoon and a bit raspy from the tears. 

Snape exhaled in frustration.  “Then get off of me.  Twice now, I have given you permission to rise, Potter.” 

However, as soon as the words left his lips, Severus regretted them.  He watched as Potter buried his head even further, his shoes squeaking against the leather cushion as he did so.  His small back jerked with another silent sob.  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Severus reached over with his right hand and pulled the child’s school shoes away from his heels without untying them.  He let the black lace-ups fall to the floor with a dual thud.  No need to ruin the upholstery…

Leaning back, Snape glanced over at the boy.  “This was well-deserved, Potter, and you know it.”

Snape received no response. 

Attempting a different approach, the man tapped the child once on the shoulder with the back of his hand, vaguely demanding the boy’s attention.

“If you believe yourself old enough to brandish your wand in such a manner, then you should be prepared to accept your punishment,” Snape admonished, yet he’d lowered his voice considerably. 

But still, the child remained silent. 

Closing his eyes against the absurdity of it all, Snape growled under his breath before bundling up Harry’s legs in one arm and lifting them slightly to free himself from under the Boy Who Would Not Budge. 

Harry let his legs flop absently back down on the sofa as Snape stood up.

Severus realized the child was embarrassed.  But he refused to allow Potter to curl up in silence.  Crouching down, he leaned in close and spoke calmly.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Potter.  We’ve spoken countless times about the importance of self-discipline, yet you continue to ignore the subject.”

Snape heard a messy sniffle.

“I didn’t even touch him,” Harry muttered. 

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Snape placed a hand on the arm of the sofa.  “You allowed your emotions to supersede your rationality.  And although it was not intentional, you cast a wordless spell that could have ricocheted off a number of surfaces, injuring either one of you.  In Defense, you do not—“

“I know…” Harry interrupted, shifting a bit on his stomach as he reached around and rubbed at his dripping nose with his knuckles. 

“Is that so, Mr. Potter?” Snape challenged, his tone sharpening, “I believe…”

But suddenly, Snape paused, gazing at the pitiful mass of distraught adolescent.  The child had squeezed his hands into fists, wiggling around every so often to try to relieve the discomfort instead of just reaching back for a good rub.  Obviously, Potter wasn’t listening to the lecture. 

This was not working. 

“Your glasses will be ruined if you keep this up,” Snape informed the boy.  Oddly, it was the first thing that had come to his mind. 

“They’re rubbish anyway,” Harry replied in a small voice, but he had pulled his face away from the back of the sofa an inch or two.  Still, he wouldn’t turn his head. 

For the severity of the situation, Snape simply couldn’t allow the boy to ignore him.  However, he also realized that Potter had just been punished.  He was, after all, twelve years old and therefore earned the right to sulk after such chastisement.  Several of his Slytherins certainly had in the past.  But none of them had retreated into the crevice of his sofa like this. 

Inwardly groaning, Severus knew what needed to happen.  Pausing only a few seconds longer, he slowly reached over and rested his palm in the middle of the boy’s back.   The effect was almost immediate.  Harry stopped squirming, drew in a shaky breath, and exhaled through his nose in a defeated manner. 

Snape kept his hand still, feeling the gentle pressure of the boy’s breathing against his palm.  He would not rub Potter’s back.  Severus wasn’t accustomed to it, and the child didn’t deserve it. 

But Snape simply continued to watch him, almost mesmerized by the silent, steady hiccoughs that jostled Potter’s shoulders.  After a while, the man instinctively began patting in between the small hitched breaths—his fingers rising and falling in an awkward, spaced-out rhythm.  The light, hollow thunk of Severus’s fingers against the small back visibly relaxed the boy.  He stopped sniffling. 

“By all means, you have a right to be angry with Mr. Malfoy,” Severus suddenly spoke up, sustaining the rhythm.  The longer he kept it up, the more natural it felt.  “However, you should know very well by now that no amount of wand-waving and ridiculous revenge tactics are going to bring either of you to justice.”

Giving his nose one last swipe with his hand, Harry gingerly turned his face away from the cushions. 

Severus stilled his hand as he gazed at the splotchy red cheeks and untidy hair—the boy’s fringe damp with the salt-water that now plastered the corner of Severus’s sofa, no doubt. 

“It’s not fair,” Harry said weakly, his nose now considerably stuffy.   “How can you let him say all those things about Ron and Ginny and Mr. Weasley?  Why am I the one who always gets in trouble?  He starts everything.”

“I have told you not to concern yourself with Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said firmly, “As always, he will be dealt with accordingly.  It is none of your business.”

Gritting his teeth and choking back a retort, Harry stared into the flames licking the stone walls of the fireplace.  Harry didn’t have the strength to argue anymore.  His lids were swollen and his eyes were glassy.  And as he watched, his eyes became gritty and heavy. 

Severus resisted the urge to snort.  In his opinion, Potter had been the lucky one.  He didn’t have to wait for his punishment.  And usually, he didn’t make his Slytherins wait either.  However, for Malfoy, a little apprehension and dread would work wonders on the child’s arrogant disposition.   

“You and I have much to discuss, Mr. Potter,” Severus announced as he stood up.  “However, it will have to wait.”  As he spoke, he moved behind the sofa and retrieved the knobby, dark green afghan that he’d folded and stored after the last time Potter had wrapped it around his shoulders.  Shaking it out briskly, Severus draped it over the motionless boy, leaving it up to Potter’s discretion of whether or not he wanted it any higher than his waist.  However, Severus made sure to cover the child’s sock-clad feet before moving back to stand in front of the arm of the sofa. 

Harry blinked lazily. 

“I will return shortly,” Severus said, “You are to remain in my chambers until then.  Is that understood?”

The boy nodded listlessly against the cushion. 

Severus shook his head as he surveyed Potter’s abrupt shift in demeanor.  He wasn’t about to dissect the cause of it.  However, the child had finally uncoiled.  Glancing once more at the droopy lids, Severus levitated a small log from the pile next to the fireplace and settled it within the flames.  The fire blazed brightly as the crackling grew louder. 

Silently accio’ing a sturdy, wooden ruler from a nearby drawer, Severus exited quietly, making his way toward the Slytherin common room.

Severus’s nerves were shot even before he landed the final smack of a thorough twenty against the punished skin. When released, the Slytherin immediately scrambled to return his clothing to its original place; his usually sallow face was flushed and wet with angry tears.

Snape had known the Malfoy family for years, and although he considered Lucius’s son to possess several redeeming qualities, the boy was gradually slipping from Severus’s hold. He was young; he was pliable. And with Lucius for a father, Draco was inevitably damned.

Standing and grasping the child’s shoulders firmly, Severus forced him to make eye-contact. As expected, Draco attempted to pull away, but Snape held him solidly.

“Tormenting others does not make you a Slytherin; it makes you weak,” Severus growled sternly, giving the thin shoulders a shake. “Potter is nearly half your size and not your concern.”

The words rolled over Severus’s tongue carefully. The direction of the lecture was unfamiliar and a bit awkward. For the both of them. However, Severus had informed Draco of his growing lack of tolerance over the ridiculous rivalry that existed between the two mule-headed boys. And still, he’d refused to listen.

Draco twisted his shoulders against the strong hands that held him. “I don’t want anything to do with Potter,” the boy huffed, his voice damp with tears and frustration. “My father—“

But as if something was suddenly lodged in the boy’s throat, he stopped speaking. He knew better than to bring up his father’s status at a time like this.

Fixing the youngest Malfoy with a severe look, Severus exhaled determinedly.

He had hoped that the punishment would speak for itself, but judging from the recalcitrant attitude, the man knew that was a far cry from reality. However, Severus had nothing more to say. Nothing that would remain imbedded in the child’s mind. And anything near the truth of the matter would make little sense to anyone but the headmaster—the only man alive that was aware of Severus’s duty to protect The Boy Who Lived. Pulling Draco along with him, Severus sat the blond down heavily on his own dormitory bed. The man attempted his customary, logical approach.

“If one day you face the threat of expulsion for one of your childish, indiscreet stunts involving Dumbledore’s ‘golden boy’, do not expect me to repair the damage,” Severus spat, leaning in close. “I have explained to you numerous times of the danger—“

Severus paused; the child had finally wrenched himself free of the man’s grip and had thrown himself away from his professor. Furiously scrubbing at the remaining tears on his pinched face, Draco refused to listen.

Gazing only a moment at the sour boy, Severus spun around and stalked toward the dormitory exit.

“So be it,” the professor said quietly, throwing open the heavy door. Although vastly differing in motive and delivery, Severus wasn’t in the mood to deal with two temper-tantrums in one day. He heard the crunch of bedsprings as the door swung closed.

As Severus descended the stairs, he twisted around briskly as a heavy clunk resounded against wood. The hinges of the door jerked once from the impact of whatever was thrown against it. Gritting his teeth, Severus briefly considered walking right back into the dormitory and doling out a second dose to the spoiled boy. However, he never gave a child more than twenty with the dense strip of polished wood that he’d currently tucked into his robes. And impossible as Draco could be, he was no exception. Perhaps Malfoy would eventually see reason, as he often did after a good day’s worth of sulking. Perhaps not. But at this very moment, another child resided in his chambers, waiting patiently for the promised discussion…at least Severus hoped that was the case.

Sighing in frustration, the professor continued his trek down the dim, stone staircase. He’d given Potter strict instructions to remain on the sofa. Usually, he wouldn’t put it past the impish Gryffindor to slip out the moment Severus reached the other side of the corridor. But as each day passed, Potter seemed to be proving him wrong on a number of his previous preconceptions of the child…regardless whether or not Severus admitted it…

Two students remained in the common room, and Severus threw them one of his iciest glares as they gawked at their head of house.

Immediately, both Slytherins ducked their heads into their open books. He’d used an elaborate silencing charm on the dormitory, but it was clear that the two fifth-years had most likely pieced the puzzle together by now. Severus smirked in satisfaction at the sight of their hunched shoulders—eyes feverishly scanning their school books—as he swept silently out of the black and silver haven.

As Severus approached his office entrance and turned the handle with a simple click, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t locked the door. However, Severus was hardly surprised as he stared at the small boy, sprawled out and still as he lay, stomach down, on the black leather sofa. The blanket had pooled in an accordion-like heap on the floor.

Allowing the door to swing quietly closed, Severus moved like a cat among the ancient, worn carpet. The drawer squeaked as he opened it slowly. Ruler replaced, Severus glanced briefly at Potter; the boy was breathing deeply, his glasses askew. One of his arms hung limply off of the sofa.

This was the second time Potter had fallen asleep in his presence. Severus closed his eyes as he wearily pinched the bridge of his nose. But after a moment, the man began to welcome the silence. Clearly, Potter wasn’t going to wake anytime soon. And after the chaos of this afternoon, Severus desperately needed a moment’s peace. Moving forward, the professor stooped down and eased the blanket out from underneath the boy’s hand.

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

Harry squirmed weakly underneath the warmth. Blurred blackness encompassed his vision as he slowly opened his eyes. Still a bit sleepy, Harry inhaled sharply through his nose as he allowed his eyes to wander.

“Go back to sleep,” a deep voice muttered from above him. But Harry knew that would be impossible. When he was up, he was up. Using his palms, he lifted his chest slightly, his warm cheek peeling away from the leather cushion. Harry’s neck felt stiff and rusty as he turned his head.

Blinking several times to relieve the stickiness around his lids, Harry eyed Snape in a nearby armchair, a book turned over his knee to mark his place.

Wait a minute…Harry thought. And then reality blasted him like a cold shower. He’d fallen asleep in Snape’s chambers.

Harry sat up abruptly, throwing the covers off and looking around wildly for his glasses, unconsciously emitting some sort of strange, sleepy noise.

“No, lie back down—“ Snape began. But Harry paid him no mind. Growling and tossing his book on a nearby table, the professor stood.

“My glasses…” Harry mumbled, a scowl forming on his face as he leaned over and felt along the rough carpet.

Suddenly, Harry felt a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back against the cushions. “Here,” Snape said, holding Harry’s glasses close to his face, “And calm down, Potter. You’re working yourself up for no good reason.”

Harry snatched his glasses out of Snape’s hand and placed them on his nose carelessly. He propped himself up on his knees, nearly ripping his robes as he yanked them out from under his own weight.

“Sit still!” Snape barked.

Immediately, Harry released his robes and sat back on his heels, staring up at the man with wide eyes and a blank expression. His heart began to thrum loudly from the combination of his recent wake and the harsh command.

“I’m sitting,” Harry insisted, bewildered, “Why are you yelling at me?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed darkly. Although he was a bit startled by the forwardness of the boy’s question, he ignored it. “You merely fell asleep. There is no need to flail about like a mindless idiot, Potter.”

Eyebrows bunched in thought, Harry scratched absently at the hot skin of his cheek. As his fingernails trailed over the indented wrinkles along his jaw-line, Harry wondered how long he’d been lying on Snape’s sofa. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The last thing he remembered was watching the tiny sparks float up the chimney as they separated from the dancing flames.

“How long was I out?” Harry asked, trying not to sound as embarrassed as he felt.

Snape edged backwards until he reached the armchair he’d just vacated. Taking a seat, he gazed in mild annoyance at the rumpled, messy-haired child. “Half an hour,” Snape replied, lacing his fingers together.

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, eyes traveling around the room briefly before focusing on his professor once more. “So do you still wanna talk to me, or can I go?”

Snape snorted. “Wouldn’t the latter option be blissful…” he commented dryly.

“Huh?”

The man rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I suppose it would be foolish of me to assume that you now see the error of your brash actions, wouldn’t it, Mr. Potter?”

Harry made a face. He could already feel the irritation itching at his stomach. He was never in a good mood when he woke up. Besides, if Snape wasn’t up to a lengthy conversation, then why did Harry have to sit here and deal with the man’s lack of patience?

“I dunno,” he replied quietly. He shrugged, feeling abnormally brave for someone who had just received quite the tanning. “You didn’t exactly give me a chance to explain what happened.”

Snape lowered his hand and raised an eyebrow simultaneously, but Harry continued.

“And I don’t really get why I had to be the one to walk away.” He slipped his feet out from under his seat while he spoke, accustomed to the fact that his toes barely touched the carpet. “I mean, what would you do if someone was having a go at one of your friends just because he could…and then when you ignore him, he throws a bloody stone at your head…”

“Mind your tongue, Potter,” Snape scolded automatically.

Glaring, Harry bounced the back of his head against the vertical cushion. Why did he waste his time explaining things to Snape? But even if the man was ignoring the real issue, Harry refused to back down; he dragged his big toe back and forth across the knobby rug as he waited for his professor to respond.

Leaning into the armchair and tilting his head, Snape appeared to be studying the boy.

“Before I left you alone, what did I say was the basis of learning Defense?”

Harry frowned. “This isn’t about Defense…”

“I did not ask for a flippant answer, Potter,” Snape retorted in a steely voice, “And as I rarely blather on about trivial matters, I expect a decent response from you.”

Stemming the urge to roll his eyes, Harry exhaled noisily. “Self-control…” he muttered.

“Precisely,” Snape replied with a curt nod, “Discipline, Mr. Potter. In other words, knowing when it is appropriate to defend yourself and when it is necessary to simply walk away…to keep your guard up, yet control your temper.”

“I did…”

Snape glared.

“…at first…” Harry admitted, fingers entwined in the edge of his robes, “I really did almost walk away from him. But then he tried to hex me. And it just…I sort of snapped, I guess.”

“A simple shield charm would have sufficed, Mr. Potter,” Snape commented, his tone still rather accusatory and unforgiving.

“How am I supposed to know how to do that?” Harry inquired crossly.

“It is in your book…”

“You told me not to practice any of those spells without you!” Harry was getting angry now. “Besides, that was in the ‘Complex Spells’ section.”

Snape shifted his position in a somewhat haughty way. “I believe a child who managed to produce a wordless blasting charm would be quite knowledgeable in producing a passable Protego.”

“I’m not a child,” Harry said softly, his eyebrows knitted in frustration, “And I already told you: I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a blasting curse. It just happened…”

Snape sniffed lightly but retained eye-contact with the boy. “What exactly are you then, Potter?”

Harry looked away. He began picking at the leather upholstery on the edge of the cushion but stopped after a few seconds. Harry inclined one shoulder into a brief shrug.

Eventually, Snape stood and moved over to his desk slowly. He leaned upon the edge, supporting himself with the heels of his hands as he looked determinedly at the small pre-teen still slumped on his sofa.

“I do not expect you to have known how to produce a shield charm,” Snape said softly. “Perhaps we can look into that for our lesson tomorrow…”

At this, Harry snapped his head in Snape’s direction. He was still having a Defense lesson? Snape was so confusing…

“However, Mr. Potter,” Snape continued, “It is clear that you must learn to restrain your magical power when it is most vital.”

Harry allowed his head to sink into the back of the sofa. He’d had enough of Snape’s lectures to last him a lifetime.

“You produced wordless magic. And although you were not punished for that, specifically, without proper control and intent, wordless magic is dangerous and chaotic. That is mainly why it isn’t taught until your sixth year of study—do you hear me, Potter?”

Yes, Harry had heard. However, he continued to stare at Snape with tired eyes that were full of audacity.

“You pulled my trousers down,” Harry mumbled after a silent moment.

Taken aback by the abrupt change of subject and the child’s challenging glare, Snape pulled his face into an exasperated frown. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter…” he began, rubbing his eyes again.

“What? You did…”

Snape removed his hand, fixing the child with a stern look. “I can always count on you to stray from the important matter to focus on the insignificant. But yes, I did. And you deserved it. I have warned you time and again to control that blasted temper of yours…”

“You never told me that would happen,” Harry insisted.

“I didn’t have to,” Snape retorted calmly. “You know generally what to expect for misbehavior, Potter. Perhaps you will think twice next time you decide to dart down the corridor like a raging lunatic…”

Harry squeezed the material of his robes in his hand until he felt his fist shake. He had planned on detailing to his professor just how embarrassing and absurd it was to have been punished like that. But he didn’t know what else to say. As much as he hated it, a tiny part of him knew that Snape was making a logical argument. Eventually, Harry softened his glare. His defiance was no match for his professor’s sternness. However, the thought that had been troubling him since Snape had left the office suddenly floated to the surface and was clawing at his brain.

“Why me?”

Snape stared. “What do you mean, Potter?”

Harry didn’t know exactly where he was going with his statement and the uncertainty of it made his stomach squirm. “I mean, why does it matter? I’m not trying to be smart or anything, but what’s it to you if I learn self-control or not?”

The dark eyes held an unfamiliar expression as they grazed over Harry’s inquisitive face. The boy watched as the muscles in Snape’s throat constricted and released as if he were trying to speak.

But before the man could respond, a soft knock echoed dully throughout the office.

Sparing one more narrowed glance at Harry, Snape strode immediately to the door and wrenched it open.

Harry leaned over on his hip to try and see who it was, raising his eyebrows when he heard Dumbledore’s mild voice.

“Good afternoon, Severus.”

“Headmaster…” Snape returned casually.

“The guard to my chambers notified me of your visit. I believe the gargoyle said it was quite urgent.”

Harry leaned over even further. Dumbledore’s voice sounded muffled behind the heavy door.

“Yes,” Snape replied in a hushed voice as if he were relating important information, “However, having just returned from the Ministry, I suspect you have other duties you must attend to. I will return to your chambers later this evening.”

The door opened a bit more. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Severus,” Dumbledore assured the dark-haired professor. “Your urgencies are always top priority, my boy. I hope I’m not being too forward to request the present meeting in your chambers?”

Harry nearly panicked. After all, there he sat—half-covered up by an old afghan in his stockings on Professor Snape’s sofa. He might as well be drinking a sodding cup of hot chocolate…

A brief pause.

“Of course not, headmaster,” Snape said. Nodding once he threw open the door and held it open for the headmaster.

Dumbledore’s eyes glazed over in twinkling astonishment at the sight of Harry.

“What a pleasant surprise, Harry,” the headmaster remarked as he stepped into Snape’s office. He immediately began fishing his hand inside the deep, teal pocket of his robes. “I do believe I may have a Sherbet Ball or two left over from my trip to the ministry. I made sure to carry a small handful with me…”

“Er…that’s okay,” Harry said quickly. He unconsciously began pushing away the blanket that still rested partly on his lap.

He must have been giving Dumbledore an odd look, because when Harry braved a glimpse at Snape, the man was piercing him with one of his frigid, warning glares.

Instantly, Harry straightened his expression.

“Alas,” Dumbledore commented amusedly as he stared into his open palm, “A button.”

“Potter, you may leave,” Snape commanded, gesturing toward the open door with a sharp tilt of his head.

He’s got to be joking…

“Why? You’re just telling him about Ginny, aren’t you? I can help.”

Stiffening his upper body, Snape tightened his lips.

Harry pressed his shoulders into the cushion.

“Obey me,” Snape exclaimed humorlessly.

Instantly, Harry felt his cheeks prickle with warmth at the dour order. It was bad enough being scolded and ordered about by Snape when no one was around, but with Dumbledore here…

“Now, now, Severus,” Dumbledore said soothingly, “It sounds as if Harry is only trying to help. Perhaps provide a bit of insight, my boy?” He directed this final statement toward Harry, whose eyes were flickering back and forth between the headmaster and the grim-looking potions master.

Snape smirked in annoyance. “I assure you, Albus, Potter’s presence is rather unnecessary.”

Harry opened his mouth indignantly.

“That’s not true,” he insisted, “I can tell him about the voice in the walls…”

“He knows, Potter.”

Harry froze. Why had Snape kept this from him? He should have been the one to tell Dumbledore.

“You do?” Harry croaked.

Dumbledore glanced briefly at Snape before nodding. “Yes, Harry. Professor Snape notified me of what you’ve been hearing.”

Harry barely acknowledged the headmaster’s affirmation, for in a flash, he’d turned towards Snape with a mingled expression of incredulity and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you do that?” Harry demanded. He felt that the small amount of trust he’d built up for Professor Snape was being slowly deflated by the sickening stab of a needle.

“The headmaster needed to know,” Snape replied, his voice poised for the upcoming confrontation. “Besides, Mr. Potter, I am not required to inform you of anything that Professor Dumbledore and I discuss. You are twelve years—“

“I know how old I am!” Harry nearly yelled. He felt the blood rush to his face as the two men stared at him. Harry’s temples pounded hotly. Blindly, he reached for his shoes, grabbing them by the laces and yanking them over to where he sat. Harry wasn’t sure why he felt so angry, but at the moment, he didn’t care.

“Now, Harry…” Dumbledore began, his voice deliberately cool and gentle. But the boy disregarded it. He focused on straightening the tongue of his right shoe and jerking the laces into a hasty knot.

“I’m leaving, all right?” Harry growled, not looking up.

“You will wait outside in the corridor for me, Potter,” Snape instructed. His voice was not gentle.

Harry paused for a second before shoving his heel into his other shoe. “I said I’d leave,” Harry said more quietly and a bit more timidly.

“And you shall. However, you will wait outside of my office. Is that clear?”

Harry sat up, pulling the last corner of the blanket out from underneath his seat. Avoiding Snape’s menacing glare, he nodded slowly.

“Good. Now go.”

Standing stiffly, Harry moved quickly as he walked toward the door, reaching behind him for the handle. He could feel the eyes of both professors penetrating the back of his head, but there was no way Harry would turn around.

He felt like slamming the door, but he didn’t. Instead, Harry tugged at it gently and allowed the door to simply swing closed. Crossing the corridor, Harry leaned heavily against the damp, stone, slamming his heel against the wall as he did so.

Harry winced. He hadn’t paid attention to how tightly he’d laced his shoes. The vicious kick made his whole foot throb. Sliding down the wall on his bum, Harry plopped down on the floor and drew his knees up slightly. The rage that had consumed his chest was ebbing quickly. However, his heart ached with a strange sense of hurt instead. And it was swelling rapidly. Resting his arms against his knees, Harry laid his cheek against his elbow as he waited for the secret conversation to end.

Dumbledore serenely sipped his tea from the cup he had conjured only minutes before as he waited for Severus to continue. The potions master’s tea remained cold and untouched.

“What do you wish to be done?” Severus inquired gravely. He stood rigidly in front of his desk, towering over the old man.

The dishes clinked as the headmaster replaced his cup upon the saucer and set it aside.

“Nothing rash, Severus,” Dumbledore replied simply. “If it is what we suspect, we must not frighten the child. The retrieval of the diary must be handled delicately—“

“Yet not a moment too soon, Albus,” Snape interrupted.

“Indeed, my boy,” the headmaster agreed with a subtle nod. “Perhaps this is where Harry could come in good use…”

“Good use, headmaster?” Snape exclaimed, his voice darkening, “This is not a situation in which Potter needs to concern himself. He is far too impetuous and ill-tempered.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened around the edges.

“Oh, perhaps, Severus…perhaps,” the old man said thoughtfully, “However, I believe Harry to be quite perceptive.”

Severus shifted in a slightly impatient manner.

“He is strong-willed,” Dumbledore continued, glancing at the heavy, closed door, “Yet I find that underneath, the boy possesses a sensitive soul that is easily injured.”

And waving his wand in a gentle pattern, the center of the door became invisible. Quietly, the two men stared at the small child. He remained hunched and tranquil against the stone wall, his head still resting on his arms. Harry could not see them. Unfolding one of his arms, Harry brushed the back of his hand against his nose before quickly snaking the same hand beneath him to scratch at his bottom. A second later, he leaned his head against the serrated rock, stretching his legs out in front of him. Harry’s face was drawn and his eyes were glossy as he idly unhooked and refastened the clasp on his robe while he waited.

Dumbledore smiled sadly at the sight of him.

“Potter’s soul is not injured,” Severus said quietly. “He has just been disciplined. The boy is merely sulking.”

But the words did not hold their usual resolve. They crackled in the man’s throat like dry bits of kindling.

Dumbledore raised his gray brow as he glanced over at the professor. But Severus continued to gaze at the door.

“Oh, I don’t know, Severus,” Dumbledore mused, “Harry has never been one to brood too long over his own misfortune. I believe he simply wanted to help. And currently, he is the only one in all of Hogwarts who is able to hear this mysterious voice. Harry is aware of that. He was also the first one to report the peculiar affair with the diary.”

Severus smirked in somewhat of a skeptic way but remained uncharacteristically silent.

“A child’s trust is delicate, Severus. And in Harry’s case, he most likely will not choose many to confide in during his adolescence—“

“Foolishly stubborn…” Severus broke in.

“However,” Dumbledore continued as if Severus hadn’t spoken, “In this situation, Harry has placed his trust in someone other than me, and I find that quite remarkable…” The headmaster lifted his teacup to his lips. “Perhaps that dependence has grown stronger than either of you realize…”

His cobalt eyes glistened over the porcelain rim.

Averting his gaze to the old professor sitting quite calmly with his afternoon refreshment, Severus stared at Dumbledore curiously.

“Well,” Dumbledore exclaimed, lowering his cup and placing it on the nearby table, “I must pay a visit to Minerva before the evening meal. She will want to be aware of the situation involving Miss Weasley.”

Severus nodded tersely as Dumbledore stood. With a quiet flick of the old man’s wand, the door slowly materialized. The image of the sullen boy faded like smoke.

“If it is not too much trouble, Severus, I should like to use your floo,” Dumbledore suggested lightly, smoothing down his long beard.

“Of course,” Severus replied.

“Splendid.”

Severus watched as Dumbledore sauntered over to the fireplace, tenderly handling the dark, clay pot. He clutched a small handful of floo powder and tossed it in carelessly.

“And in the meantime, headmaster?” Snape asked woodenly, visibly attempting to regain his composure.

Dumbledore tilted his head as if the man had just inquired about the weather. “Oh, I believe we must still attend to our everyday affairs, my boy…especially those that may threaten to…slip from our fingertips,” he said with a faint smile, nodding toward the door.

As if magnetically drawn, Severus followed the headmaster’s eyes. He stared at the solid oak.

A great whoosh of air suddenly resounded in Severus’s ears. He turned. The fireplace was empty.

In that brief moment, Dumbledore had stepped into the roaring flames and disappeared, leaving the potions master, puzzled and stationary, in the middle of his chambers.

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

It felt as if Harry had been waiting in the corridor for an hour.

He wasn’t exactly nervous. Harry could handle a second scolding. But the longer he sat, the more fervently he wished that he hadn’t lost his temper. He didn’t know why he became angry so easily. Although Harry felt he had better control over his behavior than he had at the beginning of the year, he had no idea what Snape wanted him to do to fix it. He’d tried shutting off emotions, but he just couldn’t do it. Harry was at a loss.

He shifted and sighed impatiently. The rock was starting to press uncomfortably into the back of his head. And he was beginning to wish he hadn’t bumped his bottom so carelessly on the ground. But Harry supposed he could deal with that too…

Suddenly the door to Snape’s office creaked open. Harry stiffened. He bit his lip as Snape appeared, holding it open with his forearm.

Was he still angry?

Harry couldn’t tell.

“Come, Potter,” the man instructed quietly, crooking his finger toward Harry.

Slowly, Harry pushed himself up from the cold ground, eyeing Snape intently. He couldn’t see Dumbledore from where he stood. Harry cringed. That couldn’t be good.

He hesitated.

But Snape only pushed the door open further and gestured with his head for Harry to step inside.

The boy complied. However, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clenching the edges of his sleeves in his fists while he waited for instruction.

“Have a seat, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, nodding toward the sofa that Harry had so recently vacated. He gently pulled the door closed.

Harry backed up a few steps and eased down onto the edge of the sofa. Why was Snape acting so calm? After all, he’d just shouted in the man’s face…

Straightening the shoulders of his robes with a tug at the lapels, Snape moved briskly. Surprisingly, he took a seat next to Harry, gazing quite humorlessly at the boy who had scooted over slightly and rested his back against the arm of the sofa.

Harry knew that look. He was definitely in for it.

“There are several things you must understand, Potter,” Snape began.

Harry glanced up at the docile tone. He’d half-expected to be blown across the room by Snape’s roaring right about now. Part of him longed to look away, refusing to give the man his attention. But another part of Harry simply couldn’t.

“What sort of things?” Harry asked softly, tucking his right hand into the crack between the cushion and the back of the sofa.

“Important things,” Snape replied, “Firstly my reason for informing the headmaster of your condition…”

“What condition?” Harry retorted, frowning.

“Potter, please,” Snape exclaimed tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face, “I am willing to carry on this discussion calmly; however, I refuse to accept your disrespect.”

He glanced at Harry expectantly. “Adjust your attitude, and we shall continue,”

As usual, Harry eyes instantly focused on his lap, all traces of bravado were vanishing rapidly.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Snape nodded.

“Very well. Eyes up.”

Harry obeyed.

“When you informed me of the voice several weeks ago, I notified Professor Dumbledore immediately. Although no one else can hear this voice, Potter, I believed it to be a serious matter, nonetheless…one that involved the well-being of Hogwarts.”

Listening, quietly, Harry tried to push down the embarrassment that was rising in his stomach.

“At the time, I did not consider the issue to be a confidential one,” Snape continued in the same, even tone.

Yeah, no kidding, Harry thought

“However…”

However?

Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry’s expression.

“Perhaps I should have,” Snape said slowly.

Harry froze. There was no way in the nine circles of hell that Snape was admitting he was wrong. It was another trick.

“You don’t mean that,” Harry mumbled, his tone still laced with the hurt he wished would just dissolve.

“Really, Potter?” Snape retorted shortly, straightening his shoulders. “Do I come across as someone who wastes his breath on falsity?

“No…”

“No, sir,” Snape corrected mildly.

“No, sir,” Harry repeated, feeling very much like a parrot.

“I may not always provide you with every last bit of information, but I do not lie, Potter,” Snape insisted, his habitual sternness returning with impressive ease.

Harry’s embarrassment had succeeded in creeping upwards, visibly spreading about his cheeks and neck. “I erm…wasn’t calling you a liar,” the boy stammered awkwardly.

“Mmmm,” Snape commented absently, continuing to glare at Harry.

“It’s just…people tell me things all the time, but they don’t mean it…”

“Elaborate,” Snape replied automatically.

Harry shrugged.

“That does not work with me, Potter,” Snape admonished, “Either explain what you mean or don’t mention it.”

“It’s just…adults,” Harry said finally, feeling stupid, “They usually tell you things just to get you to do something or believe something, but they don’t really mean it.”

A brief pause.

Harry waited for Snape to begin defending the realm of the grownups, but the man said nothing. His face didn’t even twitch.

“I see,” the professor answered quietly.

Harry wished he hadn’t said anything. Why did he always do that? He lifted his hand to his face and began chewing on his nails lustily.

“Stop,” Snape ordered softly, tapping on Harry’s wrist with the back of his index finger.

Immediately, Harry’s hand fell into his lap. He sighed, waiting for the questions. But for once, they didn’t come.

Snape merely cleared his throat and continued.

“As for the second matter that requires further discussion: your punishment.”

Oh, no, Harry thought, just let it bloody die!

“No, it’s okay,” Harry muttered, his brain spinning as it tried desperately to cling to another topic. “I get it…”

“No, you do not, Potter,” Snape argued, reaching over to nudge Harry’s shoe off of the sofa cushion. “If you carry nothing away from the punishment, then it is virtually worthless…and I am not speaking of the physical effect,” he said hurriedly before Harry could open his mouth to insist just how much he ‘carried away’.

“I know…” Harry exclaimed, “I mean, I get that I’m supposed to quit letting my emotions control what I do…or something…but I’ve tried, and I can’t. Harry shrugged again without thinking. “I can’t just stop feeling things…”

“Feeling things…” Snape repeated, confused. He trailed off. “Potter, what on earth are you blabbering about?”

“My feelings,” Harry said again, looking at Snape as if he were the dumb one. “You told me I had to stop.”

“That is not what I said,” Snape retorted, frowning deeply, yet it was not an irritated frown. The man seemed almost concerned. “At your age, it is impossible to separate the physical from the emotional, silly child…”

Harry stared.

“I merely emphasized the importance of balancing your emotions in order to keep them under control, Potter,” Snape continued.

Another pause.

“No, you didn’t…”

“I did,” Snape said firmly, “You did not listen.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Snape held up a hand before he could speak. Inwardly huffing, the boy slumped back against the arm of the chair.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, Mr. Potter…”

Maybe you didn’t explain yourself… Harry thought, using all the strength he had to smother the scowl that threatened to plaster itself on his face. But Snape had already admitted to one fault already. Harry wasn’t going to push it.

“The smacking I gave you was to remind you to think before you act,” Snape proceeded with the lecture, “not to prevent you from feeling emotion in general. There is a difference.”

Harry thought about this for a few seconds.

“Oh…” he mumbled, as he began fingering the clasp on his robes again. “It stung…”

“Obviously, Potter…” Snape replied, his voice adopting the mildly sharp, tired edge as it so often did. His hand moved to rub at his face again. Harry noticed Snape was doing that a lot lately. “Quit fidgeting.”

“Sorry…”

“The next time you feel out of control—even if provoked—I expect you to remember the consequences of your actions.”

“I will,” Harry promised, just wanting this over.

“You had better.”

As they sat quietly, Harry tucked his hands underneath his thighs to keep from biting his nails. They weren’t looking very good.

When Snape spoke after a moment, his voice was calm again.

“During our lesson tomorrow, you need to come prepared to listen and to learn.”

Harry glanced up, feeling a thrill run through his belly at the thought of learning some more Defense. “Yes, sir, I will,” Harry said solemnly, proving to Snape that he could be as serious as he needed to be.

“And Potter…”

Harry raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“You may as well know that Professor Dumbledore has been informed of the situation involving Miss Weasley,” Snape exclaimed. “You were right to be concerned…”

Harry chewed on his lip.

“…as well as to notify me,” the man continued, gazing at Harry meaningfully.

Harry gave his professor the smallest of smiles. Had he actually done something right? But if Harry been right to be concerned, that meant Ginny really was in trouble. He felt his smile fade almost immediately.

“I’m worried about her,” Harry whispered.

Snape barely nodded. “I know. It will be taken care of, Potter.”

“It will?” Harry croaked.

Studying the almost wounded expression on the child’s face, Snape nodded resolutely. “Yes, it will.”

Harry wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have to worry about Ginny and the danger of the diary. Harry wanted to believe that Snape wouldn’t just ignore the problem like McGonagall did last year…

Suddenly, Harry felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Harry’s head snapped towards it. But an instant later, Snape reached over and tugged his chin gently back to the middle. He was still looking at Harry.

“You have my word.”

For a long moment, Harry could only blink at Snape behind his flimsy glasses. But finally, against his better judgment, he nodded.

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

“It’s not working,” Harry said, his voice soaked with disappointment.

“You mustn’t give up so easily, Potter,” Snape commented. He stood several feet away from Harry, his own wand poised carelessly in demonstration.

Harry gazed at Snape pitifully. They’d been at this for over an hour. And still, he wasn’t getting any better.

“My arm sort of hurts,” Harry admitted, reaching across his chest and rubbing his underarm gently.

“You need to concentrate, Potter.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Instead, he grimaced as he wiggled his shoulder in an awkward motion.

Snape rolled his eyes. He pocketed his wand swiftly and moved forward. “Set your wand aside,” he commanded softly.

Looking at Snape curiously, Harry glanced around before backing up a few steps and setting his wand on a nearby tabletop. He walked towards Snape again, feeling oddly vulnerable without it.

“Listen carefully,” Snape began, his dark eyes fixed on Harry, “You are allowing your frustration to overtake your ability.”

“I’m trying…”

“Do not interrupt. Do not whine. Listen,” Snape ground out emphatically.

Harry clamped his lips together. He wanted to protest that he never whined, but he also really, really wanted to learn how to do Protego.

“You need to learn how to stifle your frustration,” Snape continued, grasping Harry’s shoulders and moving him a few steps into an open space in the classroom. Harry stumbled along. “Close your eyes.”

No way…

Harry didn’t like the feeling of concealing his vision without being armed. He glanced up at his professor in doubt.

“Close them,” the man repeated. Harry could sense Snape’s patience thinning.

Tentatively, Harry allowed his lids to slip closed.

“All right,” Snape said quietly, “Relax your wand arm, Potter.”

Harry tried to slump his shoulder. He could feel the blood draining into his fingertips.

“Listen to your own breathing.” Snape’s voice was strangely soothing. “When done correctly, Protego will produce a soft, blue light, virtually shielding you from impending curses, will it not?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered. He felt like he was almost floating among the blackness.

“Imagine it.”

“Do what?” Harry asked, frowning and opening one eye. He shut it quickly when he caught site of Snape glowering down at him.

“Imagine yourself producing the shield. You know the movement. You know the incantation,” Snape continued, speaking in the same hushed murmur.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what it was supposed to look like, but he imagined himself surrounded by a blue bubble-like light. He imagined it bursting, splattering Snape’s black hair with blue bits and almost cracked up.

Suddenly, he felt his right arm lifted and rotated gently. Opening his eyes a bit, Harry squinted down to see what Snape was doing.

“Eyes closed, Potter,” he instructed firmly.

But then Harry felt a pressure very close to his underarm, and he nearly shrieked with laughter, jerking away madly from the tickling sensation.

“Potter!” Snape chided, holding fast to the boy’s arm. “Enough, or it will pull from the socket…”

“What are you doing?” Harry cried, still laughing, “I’m ticklish there!”

Snape exhaled in exasperation. “Your muscles have tightened from holding your wand arm so stiffly. You need to relax.”

“I can’t when you do that…”

“I am dangerously close to giving you a small dose of a calming draught, Potter,” Snape threatened. “Concentrate and stop acting like such a child…”

Harry supposed he should be annoyed with Snape for calling him a child again, but he was still having a difficult time smothering the laughter that was bubbling in his throat.

“Again,” Snape commanded.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes once more. He knew this was important, and he could tell Snape was about five seconds away from kicking him out of his classroom.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered quickly, screwing his eyes up in meditation.

“Relax, Potter,” Snape repeated, his tone soothing again.

And for another minute or two, Harry concentrated on imagining his wand bursting with blue light from the shield charm. Curses were flying at him from every direction. Every single one of Malfoy’s hexes he’d thrown at Harry during the Dueling Club last month was bouncing right back into the Slytherin’s face…

Snape continued rotating Harry’s arm slowly, pressing his thumb against the tight muscles in the boy’s shoulder, steering clear from Harry’s underarm.

“Open your eyes.”

Harry obeyed, blinking as the dim light from the candles and cloudy, glass lanterns gleamed in his vision.

Snape gestured with a nod of his head to the wand that still lay on the table behind Harry. Quickly, Harry retrieved it. He felt the nervousness of producing such a spell threaten to overtake him again as he reclaimed his place in front of Snape, but Harry had to admit that he really did feel more relaxed. And his arm felt better.

“It only takes a subtle movement of the wand, Potter,” Snape informed, “Speak clearly.”

Breathing evenly, Harry slashed his wand through the air.

“Protego!”

A soft blue light shot out from the end of his wand, spanning his height and blocking Snape from view.

Astonished, Harry stumbled back a step but clenched his wand tightly in his fist. However, before he could register what happened, the light faded. His wand trembled once and then stilled.

Harry gaped at his professor with wide eyes. He’d actually done it. It wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but Harry had produced a shield charm. A fourth-year spell.

Extremely pleased, Harry watched as the corners of Snape’s mouth softened. He continued to stare at Harry with curious bewilderment.

Harry bit his lip to hide the smile that was creasing his face.

However, before either of them could speak, a strange, chilling wail reverberated softly around them.

Harry jumped while Snape snapped his head toward the ceiling.

“You heard that too?” Harry asked breathlessly. That particular shrill moan was definitely not the same one he’d been hearing.

Snape frowned, yet nodded stiffly. “I did.”

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

They took the stairs swiftly. Harry trailed behind Snape but not by much. He had resorted to leaping over the steps two at a time to keep up, but Snape didn’t seem to be paying much notice to how far Harry was behind. And Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t believe that Snape had actually allowed him to come along. He didn’t want to blow it.

Occasionally, Snape would glance over his shoulder to make sure that Harry was still trailing, but that was all.

At first, Harry had no idea where they were going, but when Snape began to stroll down the dark, second-floor corridor, Harry knew. At least he thought he did.

He jogged up behind his professor.

Glancing over his shoulder, Snape slowed down. “Stay close, Potter.”

Harry nodded.

Together, they rounded the corner, past the old, sealed classroom doors, past the place where Harry had first produced a sound amplification charm. Snape halted, nearly ten feet away from the terribly flooded girls’ bathroom.

“Sick…” Harry commented, wrinkling his nose.

Snape said nothing. He simply lifted his robes and waded near the lavatory entrance. Doing the same, Harry followed.

The wailing had grown louder as they progressed, as if the noise had slithered alongside them. But now, it was deafening and strangely human-like. Harry hunched his shoulders at a particularly obnoxious howl.

“What is that?” Harry asked weakly.

“This is not what you’ve been hearing, I take it?” Snape commented absently, pressing a hand in the middle of Harry’s back as he carefully pushed open the bathroom door.

“No…”

Once they had stepped inside, Harry glanced around the slick, moldy-scented bathroom.

“I don’t—Oh!” Harry whispered in surprise, nearly jumping out of his skin when he caught site of Ginny Weasley curled up in a dark corner near the row of toilets.

She was sopping wet and shaking. Her hair fell in matted strings over her drawn-up knees. Her eyes were blank. She rocked back and forth in tiny movements.

Immediately, Harry lunged forward, but Snape grabbed him around the waist, lifting him up. He held Harry tightly against his chest. Breathing harshly, Harry listened to trickle of the water dripping off the edges of his robes.

“Stop, Potter,” Snape whispered into his ear, “Think. Before. You Act.”

“Ginny…” Harry croaked.

“And if you run flailing towards her, what might happen, Mr. Potter?” Snape continued quickly, setting Harry down slowly, but holding his arm firmly across the child’s belly.

“Erm…she might freak out…” Harry offered desperately, trying to wiggle out of Snape’s grasp.

"Precisely."

“Something’s wrong with her, professor!”

“Calm down, Harry,” Snape said softly, “Approach her cautiously. Do not act rashly.”

Harry glanced up at Snape from his position underneath the man’s chin. “You’re letting me talk to her?”

Snape ignored the question. “Be careful,” he ordered, staring pointedly at Ginny. He loosened his hold, slipping the boy’s robes off of his shoulders as he did so.

Shrugging his arms out of his damp robes, Harry glanced back once more at his professor. With a single nod of affirmation, Harry tiptoed forward toward the trembling girl.

Harry crouched down carefully, steadying himself with one hand against the floor. The wet stone was sharp and cold against his palm.

He glanced back at Snape, who stood poised and intense, but the man’s expression didn’t flicker. Turning back around, Harry stared at the small girl. Her rigidness was almost frightening. The palm that rested on Harry’s trousers itched to reach out and touch Ginny’s shoulder to make her stop twitching.

Be careful… Snape’s words echoed in Harry’s head like the dull chime of a clock.

Mustering up all of his control, Harry dug his fingertips into his kneecap to keep his hand from making an instinctual mistake.

“Ginny?” Harry squeaked, shocked at how high and hollow his voice sounded in the vaulted lavatory.

No response.

“It’s Harry...” the boy whispered. He felt stupid and awkward, as if he were talking to a newborn baby amongst a group on onlookers.

His throat convulsed in a clumsy swallow.

“You’re all right, Ginny,” Harry said, his voice cracking, remembering the words that Snape had once spoken to him when the fear of the voice in the walls threatened to consume him.

Ginny continued to shiver; however, Harry caught the flash of her eyes as they barely shifted to meet his own.

Stunned, he licked his dry lips. He didn’t know what else to say, so he settled for the clichéd, comforting question.

“What’s the matter, Ginny?”

Again, the girl was silent. She lifted her face just far enough for Harry to see the several strands of vivid, red hair plastered to her damp and shiny cheeks.

Harry listened to the steady slosh of approaching footsteps. He knew Snape was gingerly edging towards the two of them, but the boy locked his eyes with Ginny’s, determined to ease her out of this coiled, terrified state.

Snape remained close enough to reside in the girls’ peripheral vision.

And the looming nearness of another person provided Harry with the strength to scoot forward the tiniest bit. His shoes squeaked noisily against the sopping floor, but Ginny hardly stirred.

“Professor Snape is here too, Ginny,” Harry softly informed the girl. She seemed to blink every time he repeated her name, so Harry kept it up. He glanced quickly over in Snape’s direction. The man hadn’t moved. “He wants to help you…we both do.”

As soon as the words left Harry’s throat, an agonized wail rebounded off of the walls again.

“If you’ve come to throw something else at me you can just go away!”

Harry cringed at the vocalization, shivers running up and down his arms as he looked around wildly for the source. He glanced back at Ginny. She had pressed her face firmly into her knees, her hair spilled over her ears onto her tights once more.

“Professor…what—“ Harry began weakly, his heart thudding. But Snape wasn’t listening.

“Myrtle, you will leave at once,” the man commanded firmly.

A miserable shriek. And the wailing slowly trailed away.

Moaning Myrtle…Harry thought.

It was slowly coming back to him. He’d met her briefly at the Death Day party nearly two months ago. And Hermione had mentioned something about a haunted girl’s bathroom when they’d begun planning the Polyjuice potion. But seeing as they’d never actually made it that far, and with everything else that had happened, Harry had nearly forgotten about the despondent ghost. The sounds she had been producing over the past fifteen minutes were blood-curdling. Harry had no idea what could have happened to cause her such unnerving melancholy…

Suddenly, Harry felt Snape move in closer and crouch down. Harry looked over at him, but now, the man was focusing on Ginny.

Oh, god, please don’t scare her…Harry silently pleaded.

“Miss Weasley,” Snape said quietly.

She shifted.

Harry mentally scrutinized the professor’s every move. As he did so, the boy relaxed back on his heel, ignoring the cold water that was seeping uncomfortably into the fabric of his trousers.

“Miss Weasley,” Snape tried again, “If you can hear my voice, I need you to look at me.”

Blood still hammering against his ear drums, Harry studied Ginny’s face, intently watching the movement of her eyes. After a while, she glanced over at Snape. However, Harry could tell she was hesitant.

His stomach clenched.

“Very good,” the professor commented softly. Abruptly frowning, he tilted his head to the side as if he’d discovered something behind her.

Harry sat up a bit, leaning over to try and see what Snape was scowling at, but the man held his arm across Harry’s shoulders, barricading him from the site. Reaching out slowly, allowing his open palm to hover only a couple inches from the ground, Snape plucked a dripping wet object from the dark corner of lavatory.

It was the diary. Harry squirmed on his foot, lifting up a bit to get a better look. The yellowed pages were soaked and swollen between the leather coverings. But the gold stamp on the front was clearly visible. TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

So that’s what it was… Riddle, Harry mused, feeling his palms tingle from the sudden innovation. What a weird last name…

Snape was staring at the ruined volume, turning it over in his hands, fingering the binding.

Without knowing what he was doing, Harry reached out toward the diary, bowing his head slightly to try and get a good look at the back for more lettering.

But in a flash, Snape swatted at Harry’s outstretched fingers, scowling sternly at the boy.

Ginny averted her puffy eyes over to Harry who had quickly pulled back, tucking his fingers into a fist and biting his lip in surprise and shame. In normal circumstances, Harry would have thrown forth a hefty complaint over his stinging fingers, but at the moment, it wasn’t worth it. Besides, he had a feeling Snape wouldn’t stand for it. Harry noticed Ginny looking at him and was torn between relief and embarrassment—relieved that her eyes had lost the glassy, blank look…embarrassed of what she had just witnessed.

The diary made a strange squishing noise as Snape tucked it inside of his robes.

Turning his attention back to Ginny, Snape wordlessly handed Harry his sloppily folded robes.

“Come along, Miss Weasley, we need to get you to the infirmary.”

Ginny hugged her knees tightly, clutching at the stretchy material of her dirt-stained tights.

“It’s okay, Ginny,” Harry added, glancing back and forth between the small girl and the potions master. He twisted his fingers into the wrinkled folds of his moderately soggy robes that still lay in a large wad on his lap. “Madame Pomfrey will help you feel better.”

She sniffled lightly, but remained cemented.

Suddenly, Snape stretched his hands out in front of him and slowly slid them underneath the girl’s armpits.

Harry’s mouth hung open as he gawked at the strange display, waiting to see what Snape planned on doing. Was he helping her stand? What if she was frozen in place? Harry had heard about people becoming so frightened that they stiffened up completely.

But after stilling his hands for a brief moment, Snape delicately lifted the slender girl, pulling her up to his shoulder as he stood. Astounded at what he was seeing, Harry pushed himself off of the ground and stood awkwardly next to the man.

Snape waited a few more seconds before settling Ginny on his hip and securing his arms around her as if she were an infant. Still quaking, the girl simply buried face against the professor’s robes.

“Come,” Snape said to Harry, and without further comment, he swept out of the chilled, dim room.

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

They moved down the corridor at a swift pace. Harry knew that this wasn’t the way to the infirmary, but judging by the grave, determined look on Snape’s face, Harry had decided that this would not be the best time to ask questions. Jogging along, he glanced over every few paces to check on Ginny, but she kept her face hidden.

He couldn’t believe that Snape of all people had lifted Ginny and was carrying her along the second floor corridor as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Ginny had clung to him without a fight.

Clearly, she was still out of it.

A moment later, Snape came to an abrupt halt outside of Professor Lockhart’s office.

“I thought we were going to the infirmary…” Harry spoke up, peering up at Snape with a confused look that the man couldn’t see. He frowned, scratching at his forehead.

“Quiet, Potter,” Snape said simply. Without even knocking, the professor withdrew his wand from the inside of his robes and tapped it against the iron doorknob.

It opened instantly with a subtle click. Pocketing his wand in a swift motion, Snape pushed the door open with his foot.

Still clutching Ginny with his left arm, Snape reached back and placed his free hand on the back of Harry’s neck, guiding the mildly scowling boy inside.

The office was empty, but the potions master did not seem alarmed at the vacancy.

Harry, on the other hand, was thrilled. He hated Lockhart’s office, even more when the man was actually in it. And if it weren’t for all of the sickening, grinning portraits of the tosspot, Harry might have been able to rid his face of its sour expression. What were they doing in here anyway?

“Potter,” Snape began, spinning around and speaking very seriously, “You will use—wipe that expression off of your face this instant—“

Shoulders jerking from the severe, unexpected rebuke, Harry widened his eyes considerably and did as he was told.

“You will go directly to Professor Dumbledore’s office through the floo,” Snape continued.

“Why? Where are you going?” Harry asked, trailing his forefinger along the edge of the stone mantle above the fireplace.

“You know exactly where I am going, Mr. Potter. Do not waste my time on petty concerns.”

Snape shifted the eleven-year-old bundle in his arms.

“Inform the headmaster that I have taken Miss Weasley to Madame Pomfrey and that the diary is in my possession,” Snape spouted importantly. “Go now. Take your handful of floo powder.” The man nodded brusquely at the lavender clay pot a few inches above Harry’s head.

The boy hesitated. “Can’t we wait until we get Ginny to the hospital? I want to make sure she’s all right…”

“You are testing my patience, young man,” Snape replied automatically. He shifted Ginny higher up on his shoulder again.

The glare Snape was pinning Harry with made the boy’s insides squirm in apprehension.

Inching his fingers toward the ceramic jar, Harry paused for only a second longer.

“I promise I’ll only stay a minute—“

Snape growled in frustration. Cutting the child off, he moved forward and reached for the mantle.

However, the moment Harry caught sight of Snape’s hand moving briskly through the air, he tensed up. Gripping the edge of the stone ridge, Harry arched up on his toes as he swung his bottom out of harm’s way.

But the smack didn’t come. Slowly, Harry opened his eyes.

Snape was giving him an odd look.

It only took a second for the boy to realize that the broad hand had been heading a different direction. And when Harry did, the heat spread quickly throughout his face, turning his cheeks and ears a rosy shade of pink.

Unspeakably mortified, Harry didn’t know where to look.

“Potter…” Snape began quietly. He paused, exhaling deeply, biting back a grimace as he hoisted up the child in his arms for the third time. “I know you are concerned about Miss Weasley. But you need to trust me when I say she will be fine. As of now—if you truly want to be of help—I need you to go to the headmaster for me and inform him of everything that has just taken place. I would do it myself, except at the moment, I cannot.”

Harry, you great sodding, selfish baby, the boy scorned himself. Hugging his bundled robes tightly in the crook of his arm, Harry barely nodded, his chin nearly touching his chest.

As quickly as possible, Harry grabbed a handful of gritty floo powder, apathetic of the grains of sand that had lodged into his fingernails. Sparing one last glance at Ginny, Harry threw the powder in the fireplace before he could do anything else to embarrass himself…

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

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter if you’re a prefect or not?” Ron exclaimed angrily.

Although at the moment he was sitting two seats away from Harry and Hermione, the two could plainly hear the conversation taking place between Ron and his brother Percy. Grimacing from the squeal in their friend’s voice Harry and Hermione glanced at each other with a knowing look. Yes, Ron was at it again.

“The curfew applies to everyone, Ron, even prefects,” Percy explained more quietly, yet much more firmly. “I know you want to see Ginny—we all do—but…”

“You all got to see her and I didn’t!” Ron complained, gripping the edge of the thick tabletop. “She’s my sister too.” The hurt was evident in the boy’s voice.

“Fred and George haven’t seen her, and you know it!” Percy hissed, glancing around in embarrassment. “Now, Penelope is on her way over and you’re causing a scene. Go back to your friends.”

“No…”

“Ron, come on,” Hermione suddenly spoke up, reaching a hand across several plates of pudding, “Your brother’s right. And Ginny is with Madame Pomfrey. So we know she’ll be fine.” The girl had pursed her lips in desperation. She wiggled her fingers toward Ron.

“Yes, go,” Percy added, scowling for all he was worth as he shoved over and made room for his Ravenclaw girlfriend.

“Git…” Ron mumbled under his breath, but immediately threw his leg over the bench, pushing himself up angrily. Moving only a few steps to the left, the boy plopped down in a huff. His face was red and mutinous—daring just one person to mess with him.

“This is the biggest load of shite I’ve ever heard,” Ron growled.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione scolded in a gruff whisper, swiveling around in a manner much like Percy. The dining hall was abnormally quiet due to the recent news.

“Well, it is! A bloody curfew just when my sister is penned up in the hospital wing. We shouldn’t have even gone down there this afternoon…I knew Madame Pomfrey would be just as much of a pain as she always is…the old—“

“Just calm down, Ron!” Hermione interrupted. “There’s no need to get worked up over this…”

Harry didn’t know what to think. He agreed with both of them. They all desperately wanted to see Ginny, but of course, Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t let them. Snape had been nowhere in sight. And the minute they arrived back at the common room, McGonagall ordered them to find a seat among the crowded carpet. It always seemed that in moments like these, Harry and his friends were the stragglers and ended up having to wriggle about awkwardly as they found a free spot, trying not to step on fingers or knee anyone in the back. All of the teachers were somber and strict. And in McGonagall’s case, even more than usual.

The headmaster had sworn Harry to secrecy over the diary, assuring him that he didn’t want false information to be related to anyone, especially Ginny’s siblings. Harry knew he would eventually tell his friends about Tom Marvolo Riddle and Ginny’s trembling and Moaning Myrtle…but not tonight.

“No need to cause unnecessary havoc, my boy,” Dumbledore had said gently.

And Harry figured that maybe he was right. Besides, Harry hadn’t even gotten a chance to ask Snape or Dumbledore or anybody about what was going on. From the moment he’d informed the headmaster, all of the adults seemed to have stepped into some sort of fast-moving, oblivious demension. Even Dumbledore.

But even without the knowledge of the diary, unnecessary havoc seemed to be happening right now…

Smashing his treacle tart with a fork, Harry tried to focus on the sugar melting into the custard, just so he wouldn’t have to listen to his friends’ endless bickering.

“Hey, Harry!” Ron exclaimed, addressing him suddenly. Harry snapped his head up. “What about your cloak? We could use it couldn’t we?”

“No, we can’t…” Hermione insisted.

“Sure, we could!”

“It’s against the rules—“

“Sod the rules!”

Harry clenched his fork so hard it cut into his palm. “I don’t have it,” he said quickly.

“What do you mean, Harry?” Ron asked, worry creasing his face. “Where is it?”

“Snape’s got it.”

Ron scoffed in incredulity, “Who does he think he is? Get it back from him!”

“I can’t,” Harry said, clenching his teeth against the frustration that was boiling in his stomach.

“We could go look for it if he’s hidden it. Snape’s at dinner isn’t he?” Ron continued, his breath quickening in anticipation of a plan, “You’ve been in his chambers enough to know where he keeps things…I’ll help you, mate!”

Hermione was hiding her face in her hands.

Glancing down at his fist, Harry eased up the pressure on the fork. It was starting to ache. “I can’t, Ron…” the boy repeated quietly, staring hard at his ruined pudding.

A tense moment of silence passed.

“Yeah, right, mate,” Ron commented under his breath. The mocking in the redhead’s tone made Harry’s stomach hurt. Ron stabbed at his carrots. “Wouldn’t want to get your botty smacked…”

Hermione snapped her head up.

Harry’s stomach churned as if he’d drunk acid. His face flamed quickly. It hurt to lift his head and look at Ron, who was now cutting a small round carrot into bits with his fork. But Harry did it anyway.

“Go to hell.”

Harry swallowed roughly, waiting for the inevitable retort. But it didn’t come.

Hermione was glaring at Ron, her chest rising and falling at impressive speed.

“I didn’t mean that,” Ron mumbled after awhile. He stared at his plate, continuing to slice up his impossibly small carrot. “I just really want to see my sister.” His voice was growing thick and messy. The fork clinked forlornly against the boy’s plate.

Hermione glanced over at Harry with a painful, pleading look in her watery eyes.

Forcing himself to ignore the hot shame and anger that still pulsed through his cheeks, Harry set down his own fork. “I know,” he muttered.

Ron stopped fussing with his carrot. But none of them spoke for a long moment.

Harry knew Ron hadn’t meant to make fun of him. But it still hurt. Not to mention, it made him feel weak and babyish to realize that in a sense, Ron was right. Harry didn’t want to go looking for his invisibility cloak, because he knew exactly what would result from that escapade. But it was more…Snape expected him to think about the consequences. And this time, Harry had. The boy couldn’t explain it, but currently, that meant more to him than the prospect of feeling the supple, smooth material of his cloak again. Harry was torn.

But Ron also had a right to be worried about Ginny…he had a right to see her, too.

“Maybe I could talk Snape into taking us to see Ginny tonight,” Harry croaked. He knew it wasn’t daring or thrilling, but it was the best offer he could make.

“It’s twenty minutes until curfew,” Hermione reminded him. “Professor Snape left about five minutes ago…did you notice?”

“No…”

Harry glanced over at the clean, empty space at the head table.

“But it’s all right. He’s probably just in his office. I can hurry,” Harry assured her. And by hurry he meant sprint.

“You’re sure it’s all right?” Hermione prodded. Ron simply stared at Harry with wide eyes and a hopeful expression.

Smiling lightly, Harry shrugged. “He’s not really that bad…I’ve got twenty minutes to get there.”

“Nineteen,” Ron spoke up in a crackly voice. He grinned mirthfully at Harry.

“You wanna come?” Harry asked his friend.

Ron’s face fell instantly.

“Er…no…thanks, mate.”

Harry sniffed in amusement and rolled his eyes. Ron was all talk.

“All right, then,” Harry exclaimed, sliding out from his spot at the table. “I’ll be back soon.”

The corridors were eerily quiet. And the silence exploded in Harry’s ears as he hastened toward the dungeons.

Walking as quickly as he could, Harry mentally kept track of the remaining minutes until curfew. He figured there had to be at least eleven or twelve to spare. Harry supposed he could jog to save time but immediately realized that doing so would cause him to look like some sort of sod, eager to make it back to his common room for fear of severe penalty. Besides, there were already enough first years making complete fools of themselves, flushed and determined as they sprinted down the corridors…

Unconsciously lost in the steady rhythm of his soles pounding against stone, Harry was surprised to find that he’d nearly reached his destination. Hurrying over to Snape’s office door, Harry hesitated. Would Snape be angry at him for cutting it so close to curfew? Slowly, Harry leaned over and pushed his ear up against the door.

Nothing.

Teeth clamped around his bottom lip, Harry raised his fist, allowing it to hover for a second before knocking. Twice.

Harry waited.

But again, nothing stirred beyond the thick, wooden door.

“What a bloody waste,” Harry whispered, plunging his fist into the pocket of his robes as he took a step back and gazed pitifully at the sealed entrance.

He’d lost track of the minutes.

Suddenly, Harry heard the faraway pattering of uneven, muffled footsteps. Glancing around Harry instantly remembered where he was. And he knew who was following close behind.

Slytherins.

Harry swore under his breath as he ducked around the nearest corner, feeling completely idiotic.

He could handle running into Malfoy again. Harry was almost sure he could keep his temper under control if the git tried to have a go at him. However, a group of Slytherins hurling towards him was a different story. Harry wasn’t frightened…he was alone. And he wanted to stay out of trouble…especially after yesterday.

As Harry stood with his back pressed against the cool stone for the next minute, reality splashed him like ice water. What was he doing? And what would the Slytherins think if they knew that Harry was in the dungeons for something other than detention? It was odd to think that the man Harry had once loathed was now the adult he was scampering off to for permission. Only ten minutes ago, asking Snape to escort them to the hospital wing had seemed like such an instant, natural solution. But now, as he held his breath, smashing his sweaty palms against the wall, Harry was shocked by his own abruptness. Unlike last year, the image of Snape had floated to the front of his mind among the distress. Not McGonagall. Not even the headmaster.

It was bizarre.

Harry would never classify Severus Snape as nice. Sure, he had his microscopic moments of mercy. But Snape didn’t smile or laugh. And he never let Harry get away with anything. The man was strict, and his spankings hurt.

But the way he’d lifted Ginny was mind-boggling to Harry—as if she weighed no more than a feather. How could someone so sharp and stony on the outside manage to handle Ron’s baby sister like glass?

Ginny had looked awful. Thinking about it made Harry’s stomach twist painfully. Her hair was matted, and even her freckles were paler than usual. Although Ginny barely spoke to him, Harry had never seen her look as small and frail as she did this afternoon. But despite Ginny’s dismal, current condition, Snape had promised that she’d be all right. And more than anything, Harry wanted to believe him.

The footsteps were louder now.

As subtly as possible, Harry peeked around the corner. Huddled in sporadic clumps, none of the Slytherins seemed to be paying much attention to each other. There was little talking, and their shoes hit the floor in quick, resolute steps toward their common room. The sight was almost as strange as the flailing first-years. But not as comical…

Harry waited until the noise faded. His skin was beginning to prickle with warmth when he realized that the curfew was closing in on him. Was there even five minutes left?

Don’t panic, Harry, he told himself as he took deep breaths, waiting for the smothering waves of heat to subside.

And then something else occurred to Harry: maybe Snape was in the hospital wing. That was only two floors up and the staircase was nearby. If Harry hurried, he might be able to make it before his time was up. And if the potions master was elsewhere, at least Harry could tell Ron that he tried. He might even be able to see Ginny from the infirmary entrance.

Taking one more second to peer carefully around the corner, Harry made up his mind. And slapping the wall lightly with his palm, Harry pushed himself forward. He jogged the entire way.

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

The meeting had been swift, and Severus was glad. He was anxious to get back to the dungeons; however, after the exceptionally stern lecture he’d given to his House over the new curfew, he doubted that even Malfoy would try to weasel his way around this one.

It was three minutes to six o’clock. And Severus expected each and every one of his Slytherins to be in the common room.

The tight-lipped chatter still lingered behind him as Severus strolled out of Pomona’s office. He gazed at the vaulted windows. The sunlight was already beginning to dissolve gradually, as it was the first week in December and bitterly cold among the grounds.

Although the holiday vacation was a little more than a week away, Severus was certain that the castle would lack its usual air of lighthearted, rambunctious vigor now that the students were unable to flit about the corridors at all hours. In normal circumstances, the man would have been positively thrilled to spend a week’s worth of quiet evenings alone in his chambers without the nuisance of straggling, wayward adolescents.

But not now.

The Weasley girl still lay weak and barely responsive in the hospital wing. And although the diary bearing the former name of the Dark Lord was in the headmaster’s possession, Severus was clueless of its connection to Ginny.

Albus’s explanation had been frustratingly sparse. But Severus knew that the diary was dangerous.

The few minutes he had held the sodden book in his hands, its leather binding felt clammy and cold—corpse-like against his own skin.

Scanning the hospital beds, Severus stared at the stiff form of Colin Creevy. He allowed his eyes to linger on the frozen, pinched face a moment longer before checking on Ginny Weasley. The thin bedding clung loosely around her tiny frame, and her head was nearly ensconced in the large pillow. She appeared much smaller wrapped up in her bedclothes.

Suddenly Severus caught sight of an equally undersized form hidden back among the shadows.

He squinted.

A glint of lantern light reflected off of a pair of glasses.

And then Severus nearly choked on his own tongue as a tangled mop of short, raven hair began to materialize against the darkness.

It was Potter.

Gritting his teeth against the exasperation that threatened to engulf his temper, Severus brushed back his own longer, black locks. He rested his hand at the top of his head, clenching his hair into his fist as he willed his temper under control, struggling to understand how Potter could even think of breaking curfew on the very first night it was set. How many times was he going to have to warm this child’s behind before he learned to follow the rules?

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Severus realized that Potter hadn’t even seen him. Instead, the boy was standing over ten feet away from the sleeping figure of Ginny Weasley, gazing at the girl with confused eyes and an empty expression.

Severus cocked his head as he watched the boy chew his thumbnail in a way that he’d noticed him doing quite often. Did Harry truly care this much about the Weasley girl or was he simply embarking on another game of Detective Potter?

The first chime of the infirmary clock resounded throughout the room indicating the new hour.

Potter continued to nibble on his thumb but he began to glance around nervously. As he did so, he caught sight of his professor and visibly cringed.

Severus locked eyes with the boy and willed himself to relax his face, suddenly startled by the tightness of his own jaw line. A small part of Severus felt encouraged by the child’s reaction. Potter should be apprehensive over his disobedience. Perhaps he was learning something after all... However, Severus wanted Harry to learn the importance of discipline and respect, not develop a constant fear of a swinging hand. There was a difference.

The man began to take a step forward and saw Potter’s torso stiffen as if he’d sucked in his stomach. Pausing, yet raising an inquisitive eyebrow, Severus changed his tactic. He gestured toward Harry with a single beckoning finger.

Stalling only a second, the boy obeyed.

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

Harry’s throat felt as if it had been clamped shut by invisible teeth. Suddenly, every reason he’d had for waiting around for Snape seemed incredibly pathetic.

He glanced up hesitantly into his professor’s firm, yet surprisingly neutral countenance.

“It is now several minutes after six o’clock, Mr. Potter,” Snape exclaimed, tucking his hands away in the folds of his robes. “I believe you realize by now that you are not exempt from the rules, regardless of your status. Therefore, an explanation is in order…”

“No, sir, I know…” Harry replied quickly, trying not to fidget. Standing in front of Snape like this was making him nervous. “I wasn’t…erm…disobeying or anything…” The words rolled off of Harry’s tongue in an unfamiliar fashion. He felt like a hapless five-year-old caught with his hand in the jar of biscuits.

“That is not an explanation, Potter.”

“I was looking for you,” Harry spoke up before Snape could begin lecturing him over his inarticulate mumbling. “There was still twenty minutes until curfew, and I needed to ask you a question, but you weren’t in your office…and then I thought that maybe you would be here in the infirmary ‘cause of Ginny, and Ron’s really worried, professor, so I had to do something—“

Snape held up a hand and closed his eyes briefly as if blocking out the sound. “Take a breath.”

“You said you wanted me to explain…”

“I know what I said, Potter,” Snape retorted, “And unless you’d also like to be admitted to the hospital wing tonight for hyperventilation, I suggest you calm down and attempt to make sense.”

Harry stared. “I’m not hyperventilating.”

“Just continue,” Snape instructed tiredly. “It is now five minutes past curfew.”

The slight irritation in the man’s tone seemed to speak of Harry’s ill-fate. And the boy picked up on it immediately. He shifted his eyes over towards Ginny for a small moment before staring at the floor. Lately, for some reason, Harry began to lose his nerve just when he depended on it the most.

“Ron was upset about Ginny,” Harry explained softly. “We tried to see her this afternoon, but Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t let us…did she tell you?” He peered up at Snape carefully.

“No, she didn’t,” the man replied. He’d lowered his voice. “But her decision was made with good reason, Mr. Potter. Miss Weasley is not in any condition for company.”

Harry swiveled around to gape at the occupied bed as if to silently agree. “She looks really bad, professor,” the boy whispered as he kept watch over his mate’s sister.

Snape remained silent for a moment.

“She is in Madame Pomfrey’s care, Harry,” he reflected after a short while. “She’ll be all right.”

Without turning around, the boy barely nodded. There it was again. The promise.

“You sought me out, Mr. Potter, why?”

At the man’s words, Harry finally averted his eyes back to Snape. The man was supporting himself carelessly against the iron bed frame with one hand.

“Ron couldn’t see Ginny because of the new curfew, and I thought that maybe if I asked you to take us, you would…” the boy replied with a shrug. “I heard your voice and Professor Dumbledore’s…and a load of other teachers somewhere in the back room, so I figured I’d wait for you instead of walking back and getting caught by Mr. Filch.”

“Ingenious,” Snape quipped, smirking slightly. But there was no malice in the man’s expression.

Harry tried his best to smile a little but couldn’t. His cheeks felt as if they were molded over with concrete. Harry knew he wasn’t explaining himself very well. Merely twenty minutes ago, everything seemed perfectly logical. However, the longer he stared at Ginny, the more he focused on the trivial things—like the number of times her chest inflated with oxygen. It seemed as if her breathing had become one the most important things in the world.

All of a sudden, Harry felt a warm hand rest lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t need to turn around to identify the towering presence behind him.

It’s all my fault… Harry thought immediately, seeking comfort in the self-conviction.

Even with the warmth seeping through the shoulder of his robes, his chest ached, and Harry couldn’t help but exhale heavily, puffing out his cheeks as he did so.

“Why do you worry about her so?” Snape’s deep voice rumbled from above.

Chewing on the tip of his thumb again, Harry shrugged weakly. He didn’t know why he felt like he’d just taken a hundred bee stings right in the stomach. He didn’t know why he felt so miserable and responsible. Ginny was the only girl besides Hermione who didn’t giggle at him…or point… She was very quiet. But Harry felt he should have paid more attention to her. Someone should have…

“She’s little,” he replied lamely.

Snape sniffed lightly in response and reached around, removing the edge of Harry’s thumb from his teeth.

Tucking his damp thumbnail into a fist, Harry stuffed his hand into the pocket of his robes.

“Come along, Mr. Potter,” Snape instructed.

A rush of air ruffled the back of Harry’s hair as the man swept his robes around briskly and began strolling toward the door to Madame Pomfrey’s office.

“Where are we going?” Harry wondered outloud, hurrying to keep up with the potions master.

No response.

“Erm…am I in trouble?” the boy asked, his stomach threatening to plummet to his shoes.

“Miraculously, no.”

“Then what—“

“I am escorting you through the floo, silly child,” Snape interrupted. He stilled abruptly, jerking his head impatiently to get Harry moving.

“To where?”

“Enough questions, Potter,” Snape chided as he steered Harry forward with determined fingers pressed between the boy’s shoulder blades.

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

Harry felt that Snape’s secretive tactics were becoming far too annoying.

Once again, he sat in the man’s chambers, tapping his fingers against the arm of the sofa he was perched on.

“What about Ron?” Harry remembered suddenly, leaning back and stretching his neck to try and discover what Snape was rifling through on the shelves behind him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Weasley will be arriving tomorrow to visit their daughter. The rest of their children will be able to accompany them.” His voice was muffled among the scraping and shuffling of items that Harry couldn’t identify.

“Oh…” Harry answered, resting back on his elbow. “What about Hermione?”

What the hell is he looking for?

“If the Weasleys allow it.” He continued his search.

Harry nodded, even though Snape couldn’t see it. Sitting up, he resumed his light drumming of the upholstery.

After another fruitless moment of investigation, the professor straightened up, emitting a frustrated growl.

“What?” Harry questioned, spinning around.

But again, Snape stifled a response. He reached over and slid open the nearest desk drawer, scavenging through a pile of small items that scraped the wood heavily. Finding nothing, the man slammed the drawer loud enough to cause Harry’s eyes to flutter in surprise.

Harry frowned at Snape in perplexity as the potions master gave one final flick of his wand…without any results.

Harry pressed his lips together to keep from laughing as he wobbled back and forth slightly—trying to balance on the arm. Snape’s hair was beginning to look a bit more frazzled than normal.

However, the man’s glare immediately frosted over any hint amusement on Harry’s part. Pulling a somber face, Harry pressed his toes against the rug and slithered off the arm onto the cushion, landing in an unhappy heap.

Considering the boy for a short moment, Snape strode forward and crouched down in front of him. Keeping his eyes on Harry, the man reached into the high neck of his robes and pulled out a thin, weathered chain. A small, oval-shaped locket dangled at the end. Wordlessly, Snape removed the chain with a gentle tug. He leaned over and slipped the warm necklace over Harry’s head, allowing the brushed silver disk slide down his chest as he fastened the clasp.

“Erm…” Harry stammered, glancing down at his chest, “I’m not really—“

“Hush,” Snape commanded quietly. “What I have just placed around your neck acts as wand-activated portkey.”

“A what?”

“Only certain portkeys can be activated by the touch of a wand, and I have two of them; one seems to have been misplaced.”

“What’s a portkey?” Harry asked, nudging his glasses with the knuckle of his forefinger.

“A charmed item that transports you to a different location,” Snape explained quickly. “This one will take you directly to Professor Dumbledore’s chambers. A password is not required.”

Harry watched as Snape fingered the small locket for a second before pulling Harry’s collar away from his neck and slipping it down to rest against the bare skin of his chest. Waving his wand in a circular motion over Harry’s collar bones, Snape muttered a strange incantation.

A soft violet light glowed warmly around the chain still visible at the boy’s neck. And then the chain vanished. Eyes widening, Harry pressed his palm against his robes where the locket once lay. He could still feel it against his skin. It was the most peculiar sensation.

The twelve-year-old lifted his brows at his professor who seemed to be waiting for a reaction.

“Brilliant.” Harry smiled.

“Indeed, Potter,” Snape replied in a clipped tone, “And undoubtedly life-saving.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of that.

“You will hold fast to this portkey and keep it around your neck at all times,” Snape began in a serious tone that had Harry perched and attentive. “It only takes two rapid taps of your wand to activate. I shall teach you the incantation soon, as the portkey requires a specific location.”

“Like a password?”

“Very much so,” Snape continued with a nod. “I am giving this to you, Potter, because the situation involving Miss Weasley and the diary—“

“And the Chamber?”

“And perhaps the Chamber…” Snape repeated. “The situation has become dire, and the headmaster is calling for extreme caution. And seeing as you possess an exceptional…skill in hearing something no one else can, we need your help.”

“You do?” Harry piped up, genuinely taken aback.

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Snape affirmed, shifting in his crouched position. “However,” he continued, tipping the boy’s chin up with his fingers, “You will only aid me…or the headmaster…or any other professor under strict supervision. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry exclaimed.

He pressed his fingertips against the tiny bump under his school shirt. “What are you going to wear, then?” Harry inquired. Snape was resting an arm on top of his knee as he gazed thoughtfully at the boy.

He ignored the question. “Do not remove it from your neck. Not even in the shower. If you lose it…”

Harry held his breath, waiting for the part where Snape threatened to whip his bottom until he was unable to sit for a week.

But the man only swallowed tensely. “You won’t, will you Potter…” he asserted, his tone firm. It was not a question.

“No, I won’t,” Harry promised directly, shaking his head.

And this time, he meant it.

Hermione was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, completely encaged in a circular stack of books.

Almost all of her hair had worked its way out of the knotted ribbon and her face was flushed and creased in serious concentration.

Standing in his rumpled t-shirt and pajama bottoms in the middle of the common room, Harry rubbed his forehead as he stared at her.

“Hermione…” Harry began in a dry and sleepy voice, “It’s not even six o’clock in the morning. What’re you doing?”

The pages of her book rustled as she flipped through them at a furious pace.

Harry waited a long moment, but Hermione didn’t respond.

“Hermione…”

She thumbed another thin page.

Another pause. Harry shifted his weight impatiently.

“Oh, come on, Hermione—“

“That’s it!” the girl exclaimed loudly, sitting up straight and holding the book only a couple inches away from her face.

Harry jolted madly, nearly skidding back a foot at Hermione’s enthusiastic cry.

The expression on the girl’s face was frozen somewhere between elation and horror. She turned the thick volume over her knee to mark her place as she glanced over at Harry. Her peculiar expression quickly melted into a befuddled frown.

“Why are you up, Harry?” Hermione asked softly. Her loose hair floated about her puffy face.

Harry breathed deeply, willing the rhythm of his heart to slow. He moved forward tentatively and lowered himself onto the warm carpet, sitting next to the mountainous pile of literature.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied groggily, shoving aside a stack. “And Neville’s snoring was really starting to get to me… Why are you up, Hermione? What’ve you found?”

She grimaced oddly, staring down at her overturned book for a few seconds before she shifted her eyes back to Harry. “You’re not going to believe it.”

“I might…” Harry said with a shrug. He tucked his chilly toes further into the creases of his folded legs, searching for warmth. “Just tell me.”

Sucking in her breath and stiffening, Hermione delicately lifted the heavy volume and passed it over to Harry, the pages flopping noisily against each other as she thrust it forward.

Blinking to relieve his eyes of the grit and fuzziness, Harry stared down at the faded ink and curly text.

A basil-what? He couldn’t pronounce it but skimmed through the definition anyway.

“What about it?” Harry wondered. He wiggled a fingertip beneath the wire of his glasses that rested across the bridge of his nose. Scratching lightly at the itchy spot, Harry squinted at the text again to get a better look.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed as she rose up on her knees. She leaned over and thumped her forefinger down over the allotted paragraph. “A basilisk…it’s like a giant snake…but look at this…” she continued, pounding the tip of her finger so forcefully that it paled against the page, “…its eyes have the power to kill a person!”

Harry snapped his head up. “A giant snake? But what…” He trailed off, darting his eyes over the Hermione’s impatient stance. And suddenly, for some reason, Harry understood. At least he thought he did…

“But Colin was only petrified…” Harry continued.

“Well, yes, but he was holding a camera, Harry. You saw him yourself that night in the hospital,” she pressed on hastily, shifting excitedly on her knees. “Direct eye-contact with a basilisk is fatal—I realized that, and I’ve been thinking about this for hours—but then it finally came to me, only just a minute ago…”

Trampled you over is more like it, Harry thought.

“—maybe Colin only saw the basilisk through his lens!” Hermione breathed. “Maybe that’s why he was petrified and not killed…”

“But...I mean,” Harry stammered, his cloudy brain trying to decipher it all, “How would he have seen it? That doesn’t make sense.” His whole skin was beginning to prick with clammy, cold sweat at the idea of a creature like that existing.

Hermione entwined a frizzy clump of hair in between her fingers as she considered the question. “Well, I don’t know exactly,” she replied thoughtfully. “But it’s a giant snake, and you’re a Parselmouth, Harry! Wouldn’t that explain why you’ve been able to hear it and no one else?”

“Erm…maybe?”

She rolled her eyes at Harry’s hesitancy and gently removed the book from his grasp. “It’s quite likely, actually. That’s what made me begin researching different types of magical serpents in the first place. How could I have been so stupid not to realize that you were only hearing Parseltongue?”

Harry glanced out the window. The sky was still as black as ink. He felt jittery—unsure whether it stemmed from nerves of excitement or apprehension. The concept was completely outlandish. But with everything Harry had experienced in the wizarding world over the past year and a half, it wasn’t impossible.

And that thought alone was terrifying.

A violent shiver slid down Harry’s spine and spread over his shoulder blades as he continued to stare at the darkness beyond the cloudy pane. “If that thing really does exist,” Harry murmured, “I guess it at least makes sense that Slytherin’s monster would be a giant snake. Maybe you’re right, Hermione…”

“I know I’m right,” Hermione replied with her usual air of confidence. “It the only thing that makes sense.” She stood slowly, wincing as she stretched the tight muscles in her legs. “Do you think we should tell Professor McGonagall?”

“She won’t believe us…”

Harry felt like his voice was floating above him—echoing from the ceiling. He scraped his fingernails against the burly rug.

“She might, Harry,” Hermione exclaimed, gazing down at the boy. “The teachers obviously know something dangerous is going on…why else would they have given us a curfew?”

Harry finally stood as well. It was awkward having someone as assertive and unpredictable as Hermione glowering down at him, even if she was one of his best friends.

“But wouldn’t they have figured out it was a basilisk by now? They’re not daft…”

“Yes, I realize that, Harry,” Hermione said, now averting her concentration to her poised wand as she began levitating her books one by one up the stairs. “But not everyone knows that you’ve been hearing the basilisk….well, apart from Ron and me…and Professor Snape.”

“Dumbledore knows too.”

A floating book crashed into the stone wall with a papery splat.

“He does?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide. Genuinely stunned, she lowered her arm as she gawked at Harry.

“Yeah, he does,” Harry answered, tugging at his baggy pajamas as he surveyed Hermione’s face—her expression nearly as wild as her hair. He wasn’t in the mood to delve into the small tantrum he’d thrown in front of Snape and the headmaster over that. But if Hermione was in a prodding mood…

“I don’t understand…” she whispered as if speaking to herself. “How can Dumbledore not know about the basilisk?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe he does.” He secretly thanked Merlin and everything else sacred that Hermione hadn’t pressed for details.

And then an idea washed over him. “Come with me to talk to Snape after breakfast. You can tell him what you’ve found, and we can ask him. Ron won’t care…he’s not even eating breakfast this morning, so he won’t know where we’ve gone.”

The thought of speaking to Snape about the whole thing loosened some of the knots in Harry’s stomach. And Hermione would undoubtedly find that odd. However, for once, Harry didn’t feel like analyzing it.

The girl tangled her hair around her finger at a furious pace. “What if he’s angry at us for meddling? McGonagall nearly ripped our heads off last year—“

“Yeah, that’s exactly why we shouldn’t tell her,” Harry interrupted, leaning against a stuffed arm of one of the nearby chairs. “I don’t think Snape’ll get angry.”

He said he needed my help.

“What about Ginny?” Hermione inquired in a small voice. “Don’t you want to visit her?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry replied immediately. “She’ll be fine, though…her mum and dad are coming early. We can go after lunch or something…”

It was the first time Harry found himself spewing forth and maybe even believing Snape’s words.

Hermione hesitated for a while longer.

“Oh, all right,” she finally sighed. “If you’re wrong about this, Harry…”

“I’m not.”

“You might be…” she insisted.

Harry rolled his eyes, not even dignifying the girl’s customary skepticism with a response. After a moment of watching Hermione crouch and gather books, only to be shooed away when he offered to help, Harry finally padded sleepily back up the steps to his dormitory.

The plan was set.

They would meet in the common room at eight-thirty. And they would follow Snape after he got up from the table so they didn’t have to go searching for him. After all, there was no way in hell that Harry was going to sidle up to the head table and have a chat with the professor.

Completely ridiculous. And embarrassing.

Besides, everyone would think he’d gone nutters if he suddenly leaned over his most hated professor’s morning omelet to inquire about a rare magical creature.

Harry shivered under his covers. The sheet felt cold and wet against his skin.

Even though his eyes were swollen with fatigue, Harry knew he wouldn’t get anymore sleep this morning.

Neville snorted loudly again, and Harry ended up smashing the pillow over his face, swearing quietly into the plush.

Listening to his own breathing, the boy clutched at his blankets, feeling uneasy.

Did Snape really know about the basilisk?

And if he did, a single though continued to jab at Harry’s brain like a dull needle:

Why didn’t he tell me?

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

Harry hardly heard Hermione’s explanation as they stood awkwardly next to Snape somewhere between an unfamiliar first floor corridor and a set of stairs that most likely led to the dungeons.

Instead, he had been watching Snape’s face for the slightest sign of emotional betrayal.

But there was none.

A subtle tilt of the man’s head was the only indication that he’d even heard what Hermione had said.

“Potter aside, who else have you shared this information with, Miss Granger,” Snape inquired stiffly, shifting his steely glare between the two.

Harry’s insides crumpled in disbelief. He felt Hermione inch towards him.

“I haven’t told anyone but Harry, sir,” Hermione said quietly. “Everybody knows that Harry’s a parselmouth, but he hasn’t told anyone besides Ron and me that he can hear the basilisk.”

Harry felt a scowl pulling at his face. What did it matter if anyone else knew about the basilisk?

But at least Snape hadn’t banished them from his sight… Yet.

“She hasn’t told anyone,” the boy followed up, with much less care and respect than his friend. “Just because Hermione’s the one who found out doesn’t mean she would go and blab important stuff like this to just anybody…”

Snape shot Harry a look with his penetrating pupils.

However, the boy summoned up every ounce of bravado he possessed, forcing himself to stand his ground. His stomach protested, but he ignored it.

“First of all, Mr. Potter,” Snape began in a deceptively soft voice, “this important ‘stuff’ that you speak of is a mere possibility. It is probable, yet we cannot be sure.”

“So does that—“

“Secondly,” Snape continued, raising his voice, “a majority of the professors in this school are aware of this possibility and others. However, until we can be certain, nothing will be disclosed to anyone, most especially the students.”

Hermione nodded.

But Harry could only stare, his eyebrows knitted.

Once again, Snape opened his mouth to speak.

“Then you’ve known—“

“If you interrupt me again, Mr. Potter, I will dock points,” Snape scolded, pointing his finger in Harry’s face.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered, looking away. Part of him was grateful that Snape hadn’t threatened to blister his rear end or something equally embarrassing. But the gesture alone seemed to promise more than docked points if Harry kept up with his disrespect.

He knew it, and so did Snape.

Harry just hoped Hermione didn’t.

He scratched at one of his warmed, prickly cheeks as he clamped his lips together and waited for Snape to start talking again. Harry stared at Snape’s chin in order to avoid eye contact with him. He didn’t dare look at Hermione either, even though the boy could sense that she was aptly surveying the tense, yet restrained situation.

It was odd to think that Hermione didn’t realize how typical an exchange such as this had become.

“Your suspicions are valid, Miss Granger,” Snape continued, his tone milder than before.

Harry snapped his attention away from the man’s chin immediately.

Did Snape just say something nice to Hermione? Harry glanced over at his friend.

Hermione ignored him, silently bobbing her head a second time.

“But you must know,” the professor continued, directing his statement towards the two of them, “the Hogwarts staff is more than capable of handling this. You need not concern yourself over something that you cannot control. That you will not attempt to control. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione answered instantly in her grown-up, polite voice that Harry remembered her using while interrogating Professor Binns over the Chamber of Secrets.

“Both of you.”

Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs.

“Yes, sir,” Harry finally said.

Snape nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Miss Granger, you may go. Potter, you will stay.”

It was obvious from the reluctant grimace on Hermione’s face that she would rather hang around and ask a dozen more questions. But miraculously, the girl turned, offering Harry a weak, sympathetic nod over her shoulder.

Bloody hell, Harry thought. Did Hermione think he was in for it?

He watched the girl’s hair bouncing in a steady rhythm as she rounded the corner. Harry was truly shocked. He’d expected Hermione to have hounded Snape over the issue until they both received a month’s worth of detentions. But she’d surrendered so easily. It was astounding. He’d definitely have to ask her about it later.

An instant later, Snape’s unwavering voice yanked Harry’s mind out of the cloud of thought it was currently drifting through.

“…wish to discuss the matter further…” It was the only snippet of the silky assertion that Harry had grasped onto as he emerged from the fog.

He shook his head quickly in confusion, virtually sidestepping whatever Snape was talking about. “You didn’t tell me about the basilisk… You knew, but you didn’t tell me,” the boy accused. The entwined sensation of hurt and annoyance was slowly squirming its way into his chest.

“Suspicion is vastly different than knowledge, Potter. The basilisk has only been a possibility—one that has only recently surfaced,” Snape replied, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers to get the child moving. “And I’ve just said that we’ll continue this discussion in the classroom if you feel you can act maturely enough to follow without throwing a fit. Now, come.”

Harry’s sour expression was unyielding. When he didn’t move, Snape calmly reached out for him.

But Harry jerked his arm back.

“No, just forget it,” Harry snapped quietly. “If you all think I’m too much of a baby to know—“

“Do not go any further,” Snape admonished, reaching for Harry again, catching him about the upper arm this time. He pulled the boy forward firmly.

“Stop,” Harry whispered emphatically, glancing around wildly to make sure that no one was around to witness Snape tugging him forward like a disobedient toddler. However, before Harry could take inventory of any witnesses, Snape turned and grasped his other arm.

He lifted the protesting child bodily and deposited him like a sack of potatoes on a nearby window ledge.

Outraged, Harry wrenched one of his arms back as hard as he could to free it of Snape’s fingers.

However, as his arm slipped free with a quick jerk, Harry’s elbow cracked against the sharp corner of the edging around the window pane. The pain exploded, and Harry lost his breath. He could have cursed, but every small noise snagged in his throat. Harry nearly doubled over from the intense burn that erupted. The tips of his fingers tingled in misery. And the image of Snape’s creased face swam hazily before him.

God, that hurt.

Harry closed his eyes against the concentrated sting, waiting for the unavoidable I told you so, Potter—or something equally snarky.

But a second later, the boy felt a hand around his wrist, stretching his arm out. Strong, but gentle fingertips tapped his own away and began massaging the knobby joint in a circular motion. Harry moved away the hand that had been cradling his elbow, allowing anything that would help relieve the ache.

“You do not defy me,” the man’s voice cut through the ebbing pain. But even as he scolded, Snape continued rubbing his fingers over Harry’s elbow, bending and straightening the child’s arm as he did so.

Harry opened his eyes slowly. The smarting in his elbow was less acute, but he still felt like an idiot. The momentary bravado had seeped out of Harry and dissolved like steam. Undeniably twelve-years-old again, Harry hung his head as Snape finally released his arm. He placed his smaller fingers over the buzzing warmth and sniffled lightly, realizing that his eyes must have watered a bit from the pain.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled.

Snape emitted a low, rumbling noise of acceptance.

“We will remain here for as long as it takes you to get your temper under control. Take deep breaths. Do not speak.”

Harry glanced up, shifting his eyes back and forth, almost certain he could hear the sporadic pattering of footsteps all around him. “It’s under control,” he said quickly.

“Most of the Slytherins take another corridor to the dungeons. No one is watching,” Snape replied firmly.

“But…”

“Do it now, Harry.”

Sighing, the boy leaned back against the frigid window pane. He breathed evenly and quietly, concentrating mostly on the thick, frosty scent of the winter air that seemed to waft through the glass. Harry found a tiny, smooth white stone lodged among the plaster and ran his thumb over it as he waited.

The potions master said nothing, leaning his shoulder against the edge of the stone wall as he gazed at the slouched, silent child.

Harry wiggled around on the ledge. The coldness of the stone was becoming uncomfortable, even through his jeans. But the small trace of defiance had crept out as Harry relaxed against the window, listening to the wind and occasional crackle of ice on the branches.

The smarting of his elbow was nearly non-existent now. How long had he been sitting here?

He looked over at Snape again. But instead of speaking, the man only raised an eyebrow as if that minuscule motion asked the wordless question.

“I swear I’m okay now,” Harry said. “I’m not angry or anything. But can I stand up? My bum is freezing.”

Snape smirked wryly. “As that is its only ailment, consider yourself lucky, young man.” He gestured with a small wave of his hand. And instantly, Harry slid down, his slightly pinked-cheeks the only indication that he’d heard the dry remark…at least Harry hoped Snape was being sarcastic.

The idea of walking down to the damp, cool dungeons for the countless time this weekend was less than appealing, so Harry simply leaned his head against the corner of the wall—carefully this time—and tried to think of something that would convince Snape that he could speak to Harry where they stood.

“If there really is a basilisk somewhere in the school,” Harry began softly, “What are you and Professor Dumbledore gonna do about it?”

It was a weak commencement, but it was the best Harry could come up with.

Snape sighed deeply, resting his palm against the ledge the boy had just vacated. “The headmaster has instated the curfew before holiday break to give the staff some time to collaborate…”

“I get to come too, right?” Harry spoke up without thinking. Not only had he interrupted…again…but Harry knew he’d also just proposed something of which Snape would never approve. His teeth immediately sucked in his bottom lip.

But phenomenally, Snape appeared to be considering the matter. The man stared thoughtfully at Harry for a long moment.

“We shall see.”

Crestfallen, Harry began picking at a protruding stone with his fingernail. He should have known that was coming.

“But you were going to tell me about the basilisk, weren’t you?” Harry asked, rolling his head back and forth against the bumps on the wall in tiny movements. His voice sounded small and brittle in the empty corridor, and Harry hated it.

“Perhaps,” Snape said with a nod.

Perhaps?

“You said you needed my help, though,” Harry continued, fighting against the accusatory tone that was trying to punch its way out of Harry’s throat again. “If you want my help, I need to know things, Professor.”

“No, you do not,” Snape retorted simply. “It is not your job to save the school when it is in jeopardy.”

“I’m not trying to…”

Snape held up a hand, and the boy instantaneously fell silent.

“As professors of this school, our first priority in a time of peril is to keep the students safe. You, Harry, are a student of Hogwarts. Therefore, you also will be protected. Your scar—your status—even last year’s event with Quirrell and the Stone does not exempt you from that.”

Harry tried to swallow to relieve the dryness in his throat. It was odd, but for some reason, he had a hard time including himself among the other students. Aside from Ron and Hermione, Harry always felt as if he were staring at everyone through a bubble.

He focused on the dulled tips of his professor’s black shoes, unsure of what to say.

“You are not to worry,” Snape said simply. “Though we require your assistance in this situation, the headmaster and I are not depending on you to fix it. It is not your duty.”

Harry peeked up at the man through his fringe.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Potter?” Snape asked in a grave tone.

Harry nodded.

“Good,” Snape replied. “Now the headmaster and I have arranged a meeting tonight after curfew in which you are welcome to attend a portion of it.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise and pushed himself away from the wall. Brilliant, he thought.

“However,” Snape continued, “there will be no plotting with your little friends over anything we have discussed or I will confine you to your dormitory for the rest of the week. Believe me, Potter, I will know…”

No, you won’t, Harry thought amusedly. But he wasn’t planning on plotting anything. If Snape was telling the truth about the adults having everything under control then, for once, he wouldn’t have to.

“I’m not going to say anything,” the boy said earnestly. He brushed back his fringe and glanced over his shoulder as an older student he didn’t know cross the end of the corridor without averting his attention to either of them. “When should I come down?”

“I will come collect you,” Snape informed the boy.

Harry froze.

“Seriously?”

“Very much so, Mr. Potter,” the professor replied, smirking yet again.

“Erm….all right…” Harry stammered, shrugging. But then a vision of Snape marching into his dormitory smothered his senses, and Harry nearly collapsed at the thought. His insides coiled in dread. “Could I meet you in front of the Fat Lady instead?”

Snape narrowed his ever-darkening eyes.

“Please?”

A small pause.

“You may,” the man finally answered. “Six-thirty sharp, Potter. If I find you wandering the corridors…”

Harry leaned back against the wall, stemming the urge to pound his head and plug his ears as his professor prattled on.

Snape never seemed to tire of the sternness and scolding. But at least the man was consistent… And Harry had to admit that it was decent of Snape to meet him outside of the Gryffindor common room instead of barging in and embarrassing him.

He couldn’t begin to imagine the look on Ron’s face if Snape would have decided to do that…

Harry leaned over the railing that extended from the stairs in front of the Fat Lady, ignoring the pressure of the wood against his belly.

He kept glancing back every few seconds towards the sealed portrait, almost positive that he could hear Ron’s irritated squall and Hermione’s breathy admonishments.

Only two more minutes until six-thirty.

Balancing on his toes as he bent over a bit further, Harry gazed down at the stacks of shifting staircases. He listened to the muffled grinding of stone against stone for a while, attempting to distinguish a timely pattern among the swinging steps.

There was none.

Harry suddenly heard the distinct creak of the portrait opening. Swiveling around, he watched the door swing back and forth in tiny, jerking movements, as if someone was trying to push himself out and another was yanking the door closed.

“…just need to ask him a question, Hermione!” Ron’s brash whisper slithered through the open crack.

Leaning his elbows against the railing, Harry pressed his lips together as he observed the almost comical display of the twitching door and the Fat Lady’s outraged expressions as her portrait was wrenched back and forth.

“Absolutely not, Ronald,” Hermione scolded in a muffled, tight voice. The rest of her sentence was spewed out brokenly as the door opened and shut. “…special permission…just leave him alone!”

Finally, the door slammed shut and stilled.

The Fat Lady scowled, yet breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry simply turned back around and resumed balancing on the nearby railing. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel grateful to Hermione or guilty for leaving Ron behind. His stomach was currently dueling it out. But neither emotion was prevailing. Lately, it never could make up its mind.

I guess that’s the trouble with me, Harry thought.

However, the boy’s musing was interrupted as he caught sight of the dark, unmistakable form of his professor strolling through an archway entrance and immediately ascending the stairs. His features were grave and calm as usual, yet by the way the man bustled forward, Harry could tell he was in a hurry.

Straightening himself up, Harry gripped the railing with one hand as he waited for Snape to climb the last half of the steps.

“You’re on time, Potter,” Snape commented as he reached the top.

“Well, yeah,” Harry replied with a squint, “You said six-thirty, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

The man clutched two handfuls of either side of his open robes as he glowered determinedly at the small boy. He twisted his lips in thought.

“What?” Harry asked quietly, settling his side against the railing as he waited for Snape to say something. He was all-too familiar with his professor’s billowing stance to feel even a hint of intimidation.

“Have you completed all of your assignments for tomorrow, Mr. Potter?” Snape inquired, darkening his glare as his eyes raked over the child’s informal deportment.

“Er…”

“No?”

“No…I mean, yeah…” Harry shook his head to clear it. “I mean, yes, sir, I’ve got some of it done.” He hadn’t been expecting this question. “Why?”

“Some? What in Merlin’s name have you been doing all day, Potter?” Snape growled.

“Nothing!” Harry insisted.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Well that much is obvious…”

“No, I mean I haven’t been fooling around all day like you think I have,” Harry explained crossly, pushing his glasses up roughly on his nose to rest between the frown lines wrinkling his brow. “Besides, you’re the only teacher who assigned an essay the week before the Holidays. Not even Professor Binns did that to us…”

“And you, Potter, will be the only student completing two essays for me before class tomorrow if you proceed with this childish tone,” Snape continued, pointing a finger in Harry’s direction. “Now follow me.”

“Wait,” Harry cried.

Snape spun around impatiently.

Harry scratched his forehead with a fingertip. “How come you asked me about my assignments? How late is the meeting—“

But before Harry could finish speaking, the Fat Lady’s portrait was thrust open with such force that it banged against the wall and vibrated as it trailed back.

“…it’s important, Hermione!”

Ron turned, swaggering triumphantly forward.

However, he instantly jerked to a halt, his pinched face pinked, as he stared, wide-eyed, at a stiff, sneering Snape and an amused Harry.

“Erm…nevermind, mate, it can wait,” Ron stammered with a reassuring nod. Backing up a few steps, he scrambled for the handle and closed the portrait carefully.

“I told you, stupid…” Hermione’s voice faded as the door clicked firmly behind the subdued redhead.

The Fat Lady huffed and muttered a string of indignant complaints as she straightened her skirts.

Harry glanced tentatively up at Snape. He was shocked to see that the man was smirking in a soft way. Biting his lip to curb the laugh that threatened to pull at his lips, Harry caught Snape’s eye and shrugged.

“Interesting choice of friends, Potter,” Snape remarked dryly. He held out a beckoning hand. “Come along.”

“They’re brilliant, actually,” Harry said with a smile as he walked toward his professor’s side and began plodding down the steps.

“Exceptional…”

But the sarcasm only made Harry grin wider.

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

They’d been sitting in Dumbledore’s office for nearly fifteen minutes, and in Harry’s opinion, the meeting was turning out to be rather uneventful.

The discussion so far had revolved mostly around the status of the new House rules and recently employed curfew. Harry didn’t care. The common room had been noisy and hot last night. There had been nowhere to sit. So naturally, Hermione had sneaked up to the boys’ dormitory for a few minutes to discuss Ginny in private. And the three of them had ended up going to bed before eleven, because really, what else was there to do?

Harry allowed his mind to drift, perking up every once in a while when he heard something potentially interesting. Dumbledore and Snape would eventually have to get to the good stuff…

He focused on a shape-shifting flame that flickered from a wax-oozing candle propped on one of Dumbledore’s bookshelves. It reminded him very much of the hours he spent lying on his back at the park last summer, watching the clouds transform into various animals and people until the sun nearly burned a hole through the front of his t-shirt.

Suddenly, the word Weasley caught Harry’s attention and his mind drifted back into focus again.

“…is still rather unresponsive, even among her family,” Dumbledore informed quietly.

“Who? Ginny?” Harry piped up. Finally, something interesting. He lifted his head from his propped-up elbow and sat up straight in his chair. “How is she, Professor?”

“Do not interrupt, Potter,” Snape chided from beside him before the headmaster could respond.

Harry glanced over at the potions master in a defensive manner. “I’m not interrupting. I just want to know how Ginny is doing.”

Snape leaned forward menacingly. He spoke quietly. “I do believe you weaseled your inquisitive way into the headmaster’s explanation. That is known as an interruption. Perhaps you require a dictionary…”

Harry glared. “Perhaps I don’t…”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, causing the professor and student to abandon their miniature quarrel and return to the present. “Health-wise, Miss Weasley is quite well, Harry,” the man clarified serenely. “However, she has revealed little about the diary that was found in her possession. And I’m afraid the child becomes vastly upset when questioned.”

Harry gazed over the headmaster’s drooping wrinkles. And for the first time in a long while, Dumbledore looked old. Old and sad.

“She won’t even tell her mum about it?” Harry asked meekly. That didn’t seem like Ginny. Yes, the little girl was very shy, but Mrs. Weasley was kind and helpful. Why was Ginny being so secretive? What did she have to hide?

“Her parents have decided not to press the matter until she has regained her strength—“

“But I thought you said she was well…” Harry broke in.

“Potter!” Snape growled in disapproval. Harry snapped his attention toward the stern man.

“What?” the boy cried. He shifted around so his seat was nearly hanging off the edge of his cushion. His right hand clutching the top of the backrest to steady himself, Harry gaped at his professor in confusion. “What did I do now?”

“Mind your cheek,” Snape scolded in a frosty voice. “You do not interrupt the headmaster when he is speaking. You allow him to answer your question fully, and only then may you politely—“

“I know how to have a conversation, Professor,” Harry exclaimed. He was becoming irritated. “I’m not an idiot…”

Dumbledore cleared his throat once again. More forcefully this time.

Harry twisted around, leaning back into his previous position. “Sorry,” the boy apologized lamely, sensing the disapproval in Dumbledore’s eyes without even having to look at them. Bowing his head, Harry chanced a brief glance at Snape. The man was slumped over on his elbow, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers in the way Harry’d witnessed more times this year than ever before.

Am I the only one who makes Snape look like that? Harry wondered.

“As I was saying,” the headmaster continued tranquilly, “Madame Pomfrey has suggested that Miss Weasley be allowed to rest under her supervision in the hospital wing until the end of the first term arrives on Thursday. Her parents will visit frequently to ensure the child is comfortable.”

Harry waited this time until he was positive Dumbledore was finished. He shifted his eyes quickly towards Snape, but the man seemed to be drinking in the words, as he rested two fingers against his temple.

“So that’s it, then?” Harry asked, glancing between the two adults in the room. “That’s all you’ve got planned?”

Snape looked over at him, obviously plucked out of his thoughts.

“We are doing the best we can, Harry,” Dumbledore assured him.

“But what about the basilisk?” Harry continued, feeling his muscles tense. The desperation swirled in his chest and began to crawl out of his throat, unrestrained. “What are we supposed to do about it? Maybe Ginny saw it and it scared her.” Harry gasped. “Maybe she’s a Parselmouth too!”

Dumbledore raised his brow as he ogled the boy.

“Don’t be stupid, Potter,” Snape said quickly through clumsy lips.

“I’m not trying to be!” Harry breathed. The thoughts were flowing out of his mouth unconnected. “But wait—Ginny also wrote in the diary that she was losing her memory. Did you know that? Maybe that’s why she’s frightened. What could that be about?”

“There is nothing written in the diary, child,” Dumbledore exclaimed, staring curiously at Harry.

“There’s not?” Harry froze. “But I saw her write it… What if the ink was washed away by the toilet water?”

“That is quite enough of your incessant babbling, Potter!” Snape barked, grabbing hold of his upper arm.

But Harry wiggled free, pushing himself up out of his chair.

“You can’t just let everything fall apart,” Harry pleaded with Dumbledore, who reached over and placed a gentle hand around the child’s forearm. “I don’t want to go back to Surrey. We’ve got to do something—“

Harry felt Snape’s iron hands gripping him firmly about the shoulders, and he swallowed his words.

“Silence, Potter.”

Silence? Snape hadn’t said that in a while. Had he really gotten that carried away?

Harry stumbled backwards a bit as Snape began tugging him toward the door leading to the corridor. “Excuse us, Headmaster,” the man continued.

“No…” Harry groaned. But he knew better than to struggle.

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

The instant the door clicked shut, Severus rounded on the suddenly repentant child.

“I’m sorry…” Harry attempted quickly, tensing his shoulders up in the large hands that still held him solidly.

“Don’t you ever pull away from me like that again, do you understand?” Snape reprimanded.

“When? Just now? I didn’t…” Harry felt like he was speaking through a handful of cotton fluff. He hated getting yelled at. Hated it.

“No,” Snape clarified, holding him fast about the arms, “Before you pounced on the headmaster like a bumbling lunatic. What in the world has gotten into you?” He gave the thin shoulders a jostle.

“You said you had everything under control! But you haven’t even thought about anything that I said!” Harry accused. “What if—“

“Mr. Potter,” Snape began, crouching down, “Before we proceed any further with this discussion, you will listen carefully, because I do not fancy repeating myself, do I?”

Harry shook his head, cringing at his current lack of personal space.

“No, I do not,” the man agreed. “Now… I have been extremely patient with your disrespect and abominable attitude—especially this evening. But my patience is wearing thin. I have fourth and fifth year essays to grade after tonight’s meeting. I must brew a new batch of dreamless sleep potion for Madame Pomfrey. Do you hear me, Potter?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry swallowed, trying not to let his emotions bleed onto his face. Snape was raving like a bloke in a mental ward.

“Additionally, I am developing a migraine that has only increased in intensity thanks to this blasted encounter with you and the headmaster. However, mark my words, Mr. Potter, regardless of the endless night I have ahead of me, I will not hesitate to spare a few of those minutes to drag you by your ear to my chambers and tan your miserable hide if this behavior continues. Is that absolutely clear?”

Harry nearly choked. Snape may have gone mad. But he definitely wasn’t joking around.

“Well?”

Harry scrunched up his nose. “You’re not going to pass out, are you? You look funny.”

Not dignifying the concern with an answer, Snape reached around with an open hand and clipped the boy smartly at the base of his rear.

“Ow…” Harry ground out through gritted teeth, immediately craning his neck over his own shoulder.

But Snape caught the boy’s cheek with three fingers, accompanying his head back to its original position.

He stared at Harry with a determined gleam in his coal-black eyes, keeping his fingers pressed against the squashed cheek until he received an answer.

“Yes, sir,” Harry finally mumbled. “I seriously didn’t mean to yell—but can you just listen to me for a second… please?”

Snape removed his hand from the boy’s face, sighing exhaustedly.

Harry moved his jaw around to relieve the slight tingle. “Ginny’s really, really shy. And I know she isn’t telling her mum or dad much of anything yet, but maybe she’s afraid of something. Maybe she thinks her mum’ll be mad. Mrs. Weasley can really shout when she’s riled.”

“Go on,” Snape drawled, leaning a shoulder heavily against the wall.

“Erm…okay, well, anyway,” Harry continued, encouraged by the professor’s allowance. “I was thinking that maybe I could be the one to get her to talk.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, she looked at me in the bathroom—do you remember that day?”

“How could I forget, Potter?” he answered humorlessly. The man closed his eyes for longer than necessary.

“Well when she looked at me, I felt like she wanted to tell me something. And if you weren’t there, she might have.”

Snape opened his eyes, gazing at the restless, inarticulate child with interest.

Harry licked his parched lips. He felt the goosebumps rise on the skin of his belly. Glancing down, he noticed that his fingers were tangled in a good three inches-length of his t-shirt.

Rolling his eyes for the second time that evening, Snape reached over and pinched the hem of Harry’s shirt between a thumb and forefinger, tugging gently.

Relaxing his knuckles, Harry watched as the cotton slid easily over his hands and back down to hang by his waistband.

“The staff of Hogwarts, as well as the headmaster, is doing everything in its power to help Ginny Weasley and keep the rest of the students from harm. Currently, we do not have all the answers, but neither do you, Potter. And you must refrain from jumping to conclusions and working yourself up,” Snape exclaimed as he embarked on what Harry knew to be the beginning of one of his infamous lectures.

Harry barely nodded in response.

“Now, you claim Miss Weasley wrote that she was losing her memory,” Snape pressed on, “yet, you failed to mention this bit of information to an adult.”

“I forgot…” Harry admitted weakly. He felt his face grow hot. He’d mentioned it to Ron and Hermione, but Snape was right. What good would that do now?

“As we sometimes do,” the man supplied. Harry glanced up at him through the smudges on his glasses. God, those lenses were rubbish.

“So, erm…do you think the memory thing makes a difference? Will that help you figure out what’s wrong with her, I mean?…”

“Perhaps.”

“Want me to ask her about it?” Harry said quickly. He held his breath. Approaching Ginny on his own was the only useful thing he could think to do at the moment. He crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping with all of his might that Snape would agree.

The potions master studied him for a moment.

“Do you believe you can deliver your proposal to the headmaster in a collected manner?”

Wow, Harry thought, staring up at Snape in earnest, did he actually just listen to me?

“Yes, sir, I can,” the boy said solemnly, earning a strange smirk from his professor.

“Very well.”

Snape nodded towards the door handle, and Harry obediently reached for it.

Standing less than three hospital beds away from Ginny Weasley, Harry nearly lost his nerve.

He’d been piecing together the upcoming conversation in his head a thousand different ways for a good portion of the night. And now, Harry was exhausted and jittery and knew he would never be able to make it through breakfast without getting harassed by Ron for his silence. He decided that an early visit to Ginny before the morning meal seemed like a logical thing to do. Besides, Harry was certain that he wouldn’t be able to pay attention in class if he didn’t. And today was double Potions…

Dumbledore had seemed to think the idea was simple, yet clever and most definitely worth a try. Snape agreed; however, he hadn’t spared Harry a small, stern lecture on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, emphasizing that the boy should not overstay his welcome or badger Ginny over trivial concerns. Harry had nodded along every so often as if he was listening, but honestly, this was one task in which Harry knew he didn’t need assistance.

Adults just didn’t get it sometimes.

At least that’s what Harry had believed last night…before he was hovering only a few feet away from the slumbering girl. Now, he almost wished—almost—that Snape had positioned himself outside the hospital wing, just in case. What if Ginny didn’t want to talk to him? What if Harry had been wrong?

His hands clumsily found the pockets of his robes. And cramming his sweaty fingers into fists, Harry buried them between the thick pieces of material.

Moving forward carefully, Harry’s eyes grazed over the seemingly peaceful girl underneath the off-white blankets.

As if sensing the movement, Ginny suddenly shifted away from the wall onto her other side. Her eyes grew wide as she spotted Harry so near.

Harry paused when he reached the bed next to her. He could feel his muscles tightening in anticipation of a rejection, but Ginny only stared at him, clutching the edge of her pillow in one hand while the other pulled the blankets snuggly up underneath her chin. Even in the gray dimness that engulfed the infirmary, Harry could see her cheeks pinking rapidly. Just like they always did in his presence.

And for some reason, the familiarity of Ginny’s red face and awkward movements gave Harry the strength to walk over to one of the vacant chairs next to her bed and lower himself in it.

Harry watched as Ginny sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth. She was obviously embarrassed. Her ginger hair was tangled in the back, and she had bluish circles underneath her eyes. Dumbledore had described Ginny as rather unresponsive. But she was awake, and she knew that Harry was here. Maybe she wasn’t delusional after all.

“Hi,” Harry squeaked, feeling his own stomach prickle in embarrassment as his voice cracked in his throat. He clutched the armrests and tried to smile.

“Hi, Harry,” Ginny whispered weakly. She squirmed and twisted her blankets more tightly in her fist. “How come you’re here?”

Licking his lips, Harry clasped his damp hands together and shoved them between his thighs, resisting the urge to tap the soles of his shoes against the stone floor. “I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he replied. Harry, you sod…he scolded himself. That was stupid…

Though, Harry wasn’t exactly certain why he felt so foolish. This was only Ginny. He’d seen her in her nightgown. They’d eaten breakfast at the same table and smiled at each other when Mrs. Weasley had fussed at both of them for using their pajamas as napkins.

“I’m really sleepy all of the time,” Ginny began. Her face was sinking into the pillow, and Harry almost lifted his chair to move it in order to see her, but at the last second, Ginny, pressed down the lump of feathers and smoothed a few strands of hair off of her cheek. And crossing his ankles, Harry settled back into his chair.

“I thought you were sick,” he stated, feeling denser by the minute. “I mean, erm…when me and Snape found you in the bathroom, you looked kind of—“

“I was,” Ginny interrupted in a breathy voice.

Harry frowned. “You were?”

The girl gazed at him a minute before nodding into her pillow. “I was feeling really strange, Harry. I couldn’t take it anymore…” Ginny pressed her lips together, holding her breath.

Oh, no, Harry thought wildly. He’d seen Hermione’s face look like this before—right before the tears welled up. Don’t cry, Ginny. Please don’t cry.

“Couldn’t take what?” he asked. Harry dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from exposing his panic. He inched forward ever so slightly on his chair.

Ginny breathed small, shallow breaths through her nose.

She’d had almost the same desperate grimace on her face as she had in the lavatory before Snape had hoisted her off the wet floor. She looked like she was going to explode.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” Harry nearly pleaded. Ginny was trembling again. And Harry wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand until she stopped.

“I’m frightened, Harry,” the girl whispered; her tightened knuckles were white against the pink skin of her hands. She really did look terrified.

Harry’s own hands were shaky. “Of what?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Ginny shook her head. Her hair spilled over her cheeks again. “I don’t know,” she choked frantically. “I don’t know… I can’t remember.”

Harry watched Ginny’s stomach rise and fall with rapid, tiny gasps. She whimpered in a quiet, strangled way.

“Ginny…” Harry croaked. He scooted forward, unnerved by the peculiar, strained wails catching in her throat. “Ginny, I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t know what else to say. He’d been practicing, but he hadn’t expected Ginny to lose it this quickly. He hadn’t expected her to be so oblivious of her own condition.

His mind had gone blank. What do I do?

Harry wracked his brain trying to come up with the right thing to say. He glanced around his shoulder. Colin was still frozen. Madame Pomfrey was busy in her office. And Snape was not coming. Not this time. Harry turned back around, scraping up the bravery he knew still existed somewhere inside of him.

“It’s all right to be scared, Ginny,” he began, his tongue struggling around a dry swallow.

She didn’t move.

Dammit, Harry inwardly swore. What had Snape done for him on the few humiliating occasions when he couldn’t hold back the tears? Harry remembered that the man had patted his back one time. That had been strangely soothing…and weird. But Harry knew he couldn’t do that to Ginny. Cracking a knuckle, he reached out and gently touched his fingertips to Ginny’s wrist, fully expecting her to pull away from the iciness of his skin.

But she didn’t.

“I’ve been hearing voices,” Harry informed suddenly.

Oh God, what was he doing? Snape would kill him.

“I erm…I’ve heard something in the walls for a long time, but I didn’t tell anybody about it except Ron and Hermione. And…” He blushed, hot needles poking his neck and cheeks. “…and I was really scared, Ginny. I was. I didn’t know what to do...”

Ginny lifted her face away from the circle of dampness spreading along the pillowcase. Mussed hair covered most of her face. However, Harry could still see her eyes. They were a bit bloodshot, and her lashes were damp and clumped. But she was listening.

Harry pulled his hand away from hers, resting it lightly on the mattress.

Ginny sniffled wetly. “What did you do?”

“I...well,” Harry stammered, “I finally told Snape about it.”

A pause.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, running his hand along the starched sheets. “I didn’t want to, because I was sort of embarrassed about it…and I didn’t think anyone would believe me. But he did.”

Taking this in for a moment, Ginny wiped her nose and eyes with the heel of her hand. She brushed back her hair once more, revealing shiny, blotchy cheeks and reddened eyes.

“What sort of voice?”

Harry hesitated. “Erm—“

A basilisk’s…

“We’re not sure yet,” he partially lied, staring down at his black robes, tucking his fingers into the folds.

Ginny nodded absently after a moment. “Snape carried me,” she said in a small voice.

Harry stopped smoothing the bedclothes. He stared at Ginny, stunned. She remembered?

“Yeah, he took you to Madame Pomfrey. I thought you were a bit out of it. We both did.”

“He took the diary too,” Ginny whispered, her breath still hitching every so often. She gave her nose another swipe with the back of a small hand.

Harry’s stomach plummeted; the heat was swimming around his head.

“You saw him take the diary?” he asked breathlessly.

She nodded.

“But why haven’t you told anyone about it?” Harry continued, trying to steady the waver in his voice. “Hermione’s been here to visit, and so has Ron… And your parents…”

Her eyes clouded over again as she sank into her covers. “Mummy would be so cross if she knew…” she whimpered.

“Knew what?”

“Harry, you can’t tell on me,” Ginny insisted, her voice soaked with fear. “I’ll be in trouble.”

“I don’t even know what’s wrong…” Harry replied, shaking his head. She wasn’t making any sense.

Ginny’s breathing quickened again.

“Ginny—“ Harry attempted once more. But he halted as he watched the girl silently lift her hands to her neck, tucking her fingers inside of her nightgown as if she were searching for something.

She pressed her head into the pillow as she busied her fingers. After a few seconds, she dragged her hands around to her throat and crumpled what appeared to be a necklace in the palm of her hand.

Harry’s stomach twisted violently. Could it be? …

“It’s from Tom,” she whispered through wobbly lips. She pushed herself up on an elbow. “I don’t remember how I got it, though. He told me it was special…” She stared at the weathered chain and attached locket in her open hand.

“Tom…” Harry repeated, dazed. He pressed his hand against his own chest, fingering the invisible lump underneath his robes. “Tom Marvolo Riddle? The name on the diary, you mean? Wait…he’s an actual person?”

Ginny went on to explain as much as she could remember about her experience with the diary. The more Harry began to understand, the more violently his muscles quaked with nerves and dread. This was serious…and frightening…and Ginny hadn’t told anyone about it.

“But…” Harry muttered through parched lips, the blood thrumming in his chest, “If you haven’t actually seen Tom, then how did you get that locket, Ginny?” He couldn’t take his eyes off of the thin, metal chain poking through her folded fingers. It looked so similar to the one around his neck.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes searching the infirmary floor as if she were trying to remember.

A wand-activated portkey, Harry remembered Snape telling him, I seemed to have misplaced one…

Misplaced one.

The air was warm and sweet in Harry’s lungs, making him nauseous.

“I think you’ve got a portkey, Ginny,” Harry spoke up feebly. His hands were so cold, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine. “It takes you somewhere else when you tap your wand to it. Snape told me. Where have you been with that around your neck?”

The girl was pale, a befuddled expression still smeared on her face. “I don’t know…”

“But—“ Harry pressed his teeth into his bottom lip, leaning back slightly. He could tell he was scaring Ginny. Her eyes were wild with fright as she clutched her pillow again with her free hand. How could she not know?

Harry breathed deeply, trying to stay calm. He knew what it was like to feel helpless and under attack when interrogated. He wiggled his fingers around, feeling them slip around in the sweat that had formed in his clenched fists.

“Can I…er…have the locket?” Harry asked quietly, holding out his hand. “I’ve got one like it too—around my neck—only you can’t see mine. Snape made it invisible…”

Yeah, way to convince her, you prat… Harry thought scornfully.

Ginny squirmed underneath her covers. “You have to promise not to tell, Harry. You have to. Mum and Dad will be so angry with me.”

Harry dropped his hand, feeling like his common sense was being shredded. He knew that Snape would want to know about this. He’d be able to tell if the locket was actually his other portkey. But Ginny was his friend. And she was Ron’s little sister. The thought of betraying his friends made him want to sick up.

“Are you sure you don’t know where the locket takes you or how you got it?” Harry inquired again. “It’s really important, Ginny.” Wouldn’t Tom have given her that information? Bloody hell…Harry couldn’t believe he was actually referring to this bloke as if he were a real person.

Ginny swallowed, gritting her teeth, her jaw pulsing as she lay against her pillows. “I’m trying…” the girl breathed miserably, closing her eyes. “I think maybe—“ She paused, entwining her fingers in a portion of stringy hair that rested quietly on the linen.

The sky was beginning to transform from pitch-black to dull, milky blue. The breakfast hour had to be nearing.

Harry was digging his nails against the armrests again. Please try, Ginny, he silently pleaded, Remember…

“Maybe a cave,” Ginny piped up suddenly, but her voice was thick with skepticism. “I think I only dreamt it, though, Harry.”

The boy frowned, rubbing a cold knuckle against the wrinkles along his forehead. “A cave?”

“With water… And maybe…” She huffed in frustration, smashing her face against the pillow. “I just don’t know.” Her voice was stifled and despondent. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Harry mumbled, trying to hide his disappointment. He sat very still for a long moment, trying to connect everything. “Can I still have the locket?” He stretched out his palm once more. “I promise I won’t say anything about Tom if you don’t want me to.”

But you have to, Harry, he scolded himself. He knew he had to. A diary that actually writes back was just too bizarre. And dangerous. Even more dangerous than hearing voices.

Wordlessly, Ginny reached over and dangled the locket above Harry’s unsteady hand. Twisting the clasp in her finger for only a second, she let it fall, the chain links daintily clinking against each other as the necklace landed onto his sweaty skin.

Closing his fingers around the cold metal, Harry held it close to his stomach; his chest ached as if someone had just driven an icicle through it, but he wasn’t sure why.

However, Harry could already tell that Ginny was relieved to be rid of it. The circles under her eyes were broad and dark. Her lids drooped heavily as she rested her head in the dip of her pillow. She gazed at Harry, still shivering.

Without thinking, the boy reached over and pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, remembering how nice that felt. Harry hadn’t realized it when it happened, but Snape had been the one to recover him with a blanket when he’d fallen asleep on the man’s sofa. He was almost certain of it.

“Why am I the only one you’ve told?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. Ginny was part of a large family who would surely understand. Wouldn’t they? And besides, her mum couldn’t be too angry over something that wasn’t her fault…not really.

Ginny blinked drowsily, the tear streaks slowly fading as the final traces of wetness evaporated on her cheeks. “You’re the only one who listens…”

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

Harry’s head throbbed painfully.

He could feel his glasses tangling in his fringe as he sat huddled against the corridor wall outside of the infirmary, his face buried in his folded arms that rested against his knees.

His brain felt like it was buzzing with hornets, and he was having a difficult time making sense of anything.

How could he possibly be the only one that listens to Ginny? She had six brothers and parents that Harry admired. And besides, Ginny barely even spoke to him, aside from this morning…

A cave.

Had she really only seen one in her dreams? And how in the sodding hell did Ginny end up with Snape’s other portkey? She claimed that Tom had given it to her. But if he only existed in the diary, how could she have gotten it from him? And why did Tom have it?

Who was Tom?!

Harry groaned into his arms as the stinging pulse in the back of his head intensified.

Professor Binns’ hesitant lecture over the Chamber of Secrets rang repeatedly in Harry’s ears.

The Chamber has been opened before. A monster lies within. A girl was killed in the 1940’s. The Chamber…in the school. A basilisk. Only the Heir of Slytherin can control the monster. The Heir of Slytherin. The Chamber. Lies within.

A cave.

Harry’s heart began to pound. He lifted his head only far enough so that his nose peeked out. His glasses slipped from his forehead, landing inelegantly on the bridge of his nose. Ginny had mentioned a cave. Was that the same thing as a chamber? But…how?

And she thought the locket may have transported her there…

But it was Snape’s locket, wasn’t it?

Hermione had already established the fact that Snape couldn’t be Slytherin’s heir, because he attended Hogwarts after it was opened in the 1940’s. But—

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry snapped his head up; the corridor swirled in front of him.

So did the image of Professor McGonagall.

She was scrutinizing him with concern as she strolled forward.

Buggering hell, Harry thought, gaining the sudden urge to crumple into a ball and play dead.

“Potter, what on earth do you think you are doing?” the professor inquired in a clipped tone. “I believe your first period class begins—“ But she ceased speaking, frowning deeply as she came closer.

Harry moved his hands behind him to push himself up, but McGonagall pressed her own palms firmly onto his shoulders. “Oh no, Mr. Potter,” she exclaimed, “I should think not. You’re white as a ghost.” Harry fell back onto his seat with a thud—too dizzy and nauseous to argue.

Crouching down, she felt his forehead, neck, and cheeks, rotating her hands continuously about his head. “Cold and clammy…” the old woman commented disapprovingly. “Child you must— Oh, goodness gracious… Severus!” her voice echoed around the corner of the corridor as she leaned to the side a bit, one hand wrapped firmly around Harry’s neck.

“I’m okay, Professor… really,” Harry attempted weakly.

“Hush, child,” McGonagall chided breathily, her eyes still searching the corridor. “Oh, thank goodness. You decided to follow after all.” She sounded relieved. “Severus, come here if you would.”

Bloody buggering hell…

Harry pressed his knuckles up against his forehead, hating this.

Snape swept hurriedly around the corner, his face stony, yet inquisitive. He paused in surprise when he spotted Harry slumped on the ground.

“The boy is soaking wet, Severus, and cold as ice…” McGonagall reported as she gazed up worriedly at the potions master.

Lips pursed, Snape kneeled down as well. “Are you ill, Potter?”

“No, I’m not,” Harry groaned, refusing to look at either of them. “I’m fine…”

“You are lying,” Snape said simply.

Harry didn’t say anything; he only smashed his knuckles more firmly against his brow.

Minerva glanced at her colleague curtly.

“Proceed to the hospital wing, if you will, Minerva,” Snape continued determinedly. “I need to speak with Potter.”

“Severus, I hardly think—“

“Only a discussion, Minerva…” the man cut in.

Harry glanced up, his stomach tumbling sickeningly. Did McGonagall think he was going to be punished? Merlin’s pants, he wasn’t in trouble all of the time. Harry didn’t think he was, anyway…

McGonagall paused a moment, brushing the back of her hand along both of Harry’s damp cheeks once more before sighing heavily. “Very well. I will be with Miss Weasley should you need me.” She stood up, still surveying Harry critically before patting her tight, gray-streaked bun and scurrying forward with quick steps.

Gazing pitifully at a silent Snape, Harry was startled when the man only placed his own hands at the base of the boy’s neck and across his forehead.

“What has happened, Potter?” the professor questioned immediately. “You are trembling.”

“I am?” Harry followed up stupidly. He hugged his knees tighter. His muscles indeed felt like gelatin.

“You are.”

Harry sniffed, resting his heavy head on his arms again. “I talked to Ginny.”

Snape stiffened. “At this hour?”

“You said I could talk to her whenever as long as it was before curfew,” Harry disputed. “So did Professor Dumbledore…”

Snape lowered an eyebrow menacingly.

Peeling his eyes away from the subtle threat, Harry adjusted his tone and continued before Snape could comment.

“Well, I visited her, and she…I mean, she’s not really sure…Well, she’s sort of—“

“Spit it out, Potter.”

“I’m trying to,” Harry growled, taking deep breaths. “Ginny…” And then Harry stopped; the shivers running along his torso were making his stomach want to heave. Good thing he hadn’t eaten breakfast… “Hold on a second.” Harry needed space.

“What do you have in your hand?” Snape asked, ignoring him. Hovering forward, he took hold of the boy’s tightly clamped fist. “Potter, open your fingers.”

Harry clutched the locket so hard it dug into his palm. He needed a minute to think. Hadn’t he made that known less than ten seconds ago? “Just…hold on, Professor…”

Snape began prying at the tightness with the tip of his thumb. “No, I will not. Now, do as I say.”

Harry tried to yank his arm away. “Would you just give me a second!”

Disregarding the child’s request, Snape encircled the thin wrist with one hand while he tapped Harry’s clenched fingers firmly with the other before renewing his efforts to slacken the frozen fist. “Quit being so damn dramatic, Potter…”

“I’m not! It’s just…” Harry pulled away as hard as he could nearly toppling over on his side.

He half-expected to be jerked back up by his arm, but as Harry slowly straightened, he was surprised to find Snape merely leaning back against the wall, his dark head resting against the stone in a defeated manner, his eyes closed.

Harry gaped for a long moment at his professor’s drab, black hair, studying the small lines that rutted the man’s features. He briefly wondered if Snape had been losing sleep too. Feeling hollow inside, Harry finally loosened his grip a bit on the locket, staring down at his palm, red and indented with tiny chain links. He was tired. And his head hurt. However, he was alert enough to realize that he’d just acted like a giant baby. Harry didn’t know why he did such things. But unfortunately the self-assessment of his idiocy always came as an afterthought.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized quietly, holding out the sweaty, tangled necklace. “I’ve got a headache.”

“What an uncanny coincidence…” Snape replied dryly.

Yet, the instant that the professor caught sight of the crumpled locket, his eyes darkened, and he stiffened, instantly plucking the locket from the boy’s hand. The dangling chain tickled Harry’s fingers as it dragged across his skin. “Potter, where—“

“Ginny,” Harry interrupted, knowing what Snape was going to ask. “She had it around her neck. She said Tom gave it to her.” The ice was back—jabbing him painfully in the chest.

“Tom…”

“The bloke from the diary,” Harry supplied gloomily, cradling the side of his cloudy, aching head with an open palm. He had decided on a whim that it was better for Snape to know now than to find it out some other way. Harry supposed he could deal with being friendless. He did it every single summer. But he couldn’t handle anymore secrets. Harry had learned from his own experience that keeping everything inside wasn’t necessarily the better option.

“Is that your other portkey?” the boy mumbled, limbs heavy and numb from his recent treachery.

“Yes,” Snape answered without hesitation. He was turning the locket over and over in his fingers, inspecting it, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the engraved pattern.

Harry watched the potions master for a moment. The man’s face was eerily blank.

“She doesn’t remember actually getting it, though,” Harry told him. “It doesn’t make any sense.” Harry was now supporting his head with both hands.

“Miss Weasley claims to have interacted with the owner of the diary?” Snape inquired for clarification.

Harry nodded against his hands. His eyes hurt too much to keep them open.

“And she is uncertain of how she acquired the second portkey?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Harry sneaked his fingers underneath his glasses and began kneading his lids. “I don’t know.”

“You do not know?” Snape repeated, emotionlessly. “What is it you mean to say, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m not—“ Harry paused, exhaling shakily. “I can’t…”

“Look at me,” the potions master commanded.

Slowly, Harry complied, even though he didn’t really feel like it.

Looking the boy straight in the eye, Snape kept his tone flat and objective.

“You have not slept.”

Harry’s defenses immediately steeled as his brain fished around for a proper retort. However, Harry had none. He felt awful. And although he could sense some sort of hidden correlation among everything Ginny had revealed, his body and mind wouldn’t allow him to discover it. Harry couldn’t even get his face to contort in a cynical manner.

Sighing, the boy threaded his fingers through his fringe, still propping up his forehead in his hand. “I know,” he stated simply. “I’ve just been thinking a lot. But nothing’s coming together. And I just… I don’t know.”

In all honesty, Harry truly didn’t know. He wanted desperately to understand things as quickly as Hermione. And he wanted Ginny to remember so he didn’t feel so useless and dull. Harry wanted to help her. But he didn’t know how.

“Come along, Potter,” Snape prompted as he hoisted himself up from the ground. Securing his fingers around Harry’s arm, Snape pulled the boy up as well. Baffled but submissive, Harry obeyed the gesture and followed his swift-moving professor into the hospital wing.

Harry caught a distant glimpse of McGonagall huddling over Ginny’s blanket-clad form, as well as Madame Pomfrey bustling about with a silver tray full of potion bottles, as he and Snape progressed into the infirmary office. Without speaking, Snape opened an aged, wood-grain cabinet and expertly selected and pocketed a small bottle before steering a sluggish Harry toward the floo. Again.

“Are we going to your office?” Harry asked as Snape threw in a hefty handful. Snape’s chambers had been their previous destination, so the boy simply used deductive logic in this case.

“No.” Snape pushed Harry into the flames, following closely behind.

“Then where?” Harry wondered, steadying himself woozily against the stone surroundings.

“As I cannot seem to extract a single coherent sentence from you, Potter, you are going to bed for the rest of the day. This time, I will see to it,” the man informed, opening his mouth again to deliver the desired location.

“Wait!” Harry cut him short, tugging urgently at Snape’s robes.

Curling his upper lip slightly, the man peered down at Harry, clearly annoyed.

“What?”

The warm flames licked at Harry’s cheeks as he blinked rapidly at Snape through the green haze. “I can’t just… I’ve got class, Professor…”

Snape quirked an eyebrow as he averted his gaze, staring straight ahead. “Not anymore.”

“But—“

What was Snape playing at?

However, the man’s voice permeated easily through Harry’s thin one, sending both of them swirling into the darkness before Harry even could protest. This time, the floo would spit them out directly onto the dusty crimson rug of the Gryffindor common room.

And the bell for first period hadn’t yet rung.

Harry felt his jumper pull tight against his torso as he was caught from the back, preventing him from stumbling face-first onto the carpet as he fell out of the fireplace.

It had been nearly four months since his first experience with the floo, and Harry was still complete rubbish when it came to landing properly. The room spun at a nauseating speed for several seconds before the common room came into focus.

Empty.

Harry’s stomach tingled pleasantly with relief. His stomach…

Glancing down, the boy frowned at the snug wool. Snape was still clutching a handful of his uniform. Harry looked over his shoulder as he plucked at his jumper.

“You can let go now…” he advised, examining his professor’s face in his peripheral vision.

“And if I had my way, you would refrain from opening your mouth during the next quarter of an hour, Potter,” Snape retorted quietly with knitted brows. “Now, move.” He gave Harry a light shove forward, eventually releasing him as they neared the steps.

As Harry pressed his palm against the cool stone that encased the staircase to steady himself while he climbed, he suddenly glanced up in horror as he heard the distinct snap of a closing trunk followed by hasty shuffling of feet.

He tried to lower his heel down onto flat ground but immediately felt the pressure of a broad hand against his back, preventing him from doing so.

“No way,” Harry whispered, shaking his head emphatically as he reached around behind him, trying to pry away the rigid fingers, only to have his wrist encircled and tossed down to his side.

Harry began to sweat underneath his collar. There was absolutely no sodding way anyone was going to witness him being put to bed!

Dean would probably be understanding enough to pretend like he hadn’t seen them. But Ron would never let him live it down. And Seamus… Harry shuddered.

“Get your scrawny backside up these stairs, Mr. Potter,” Snape rasped, increasing the pressure against the child’s arched back. “Go!”

“I’m not scrawny!” Harry protested as he twisted around, indignant. However, the dangerous gleam in Snape’s narrowed eyes caused Harry’s stomach to flutter. And instantly, he widened his own pinched stare as his right hand grappled blindly for the banister. “All right… I’m going…” Harry began taking the steps two at a time, clenching his teeth against the rhythmic throbbing in his temples.

He halted just in time before smacking right into a winded, wild-eyed Neville. The boy’s pudgy cheeks were splotchy with exertion. He was clutching a wilted, wrinkled piece of parchment in his fist. The smears and splotches of ink among the paragraphs indicated a hurried and presumable disaster of an essay.

The tight heat crested and receded in Harry’s chest as he experienced a strange, simultaneous feeling of panic and relief.

Neville Longbottom.

The only one of his mates that would never tease him. Standing there, petrified and grimacing as if he were either going to start weeping or have an accident, the husky boy ogled at Snape, his lips twitching.

At any other occasion, Harry might have laughed at the sight of him. But not now…

“Get to class, Longbottom,” Snape said stiffly, absently, as he continued to close the gap between Harry and him.

Pausing only a second before snapping to comply, Neville’s eyes flickered over Harry as he pulled in his tummy and wiggled carefully around the potions master, clambering flat-footed through the common room.

Harry gazed after his friend almost pitifully as he listened to Neville’s floppy soles slap the thin rug.

“All right, Potter,” Snape prompted softly with a nod, his voice deep and scratchy, “Bed.”

“How come you’re so mean to Neville?” Harry inquired crossly, allowing the muttered question to hang in the air as he finished climbing the stairs to his dormitory.

“Worry about yourself…”

Biting back a remark, Harry let the issue drop as he stepped into his empty dormitory. The remaining traces of anxiety melted away as the boy spotted his unmade bed—the thick comforter folded back and inviting. His tense stomach began to warm over at the thought of an extra day without classes. Harry just hoped that he’d be able to fall asleep.

Lately his churning thoughts had been clashing with his desire to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

Moving toward the edge of his bed, Harry watched for a moment as Snape smoothed a hand over his forehead and through his black hair. The man sighed almost inaudibly as his eyes raked over the crumpled sheets and crooked pillows. Harry waited for Snape to comment on the despicable state of his dormitory. But he didn’t.

The apathy of weariness sat heavily in the near-silence of the dormitory.

“Change into your pajamas, Potter,” Snape instructed quietly without shifting his eyes from the linens.

Nodding to himself, Harry began searching the floor for his dark-blue pajama bottoms. Spotting a rumpled, flannel cuff peeking out from underneath the bed, Harry snatched up his wadded pajamas and held them in the crook of his arm while he kicked off his shoes.

While Snape shook out the comforter, Harry undressed quickly, immensely grateful that Mrs. Weasley has taken a handful of his galleons this summer to buy him some new underwear and socks in Diagon Alley. He and Hagrid had forgotten such trivialities during his first year…

Slipping up the soft bottoms and shrugging out of his jumper, shirt, and tie, Harry climbed up onto the edge his bed and began floundering towards his pillow.

Snape turned from the window. His expression immediately sagged into mild vexation.

“Potter…”

Harry looked up, sinking back onto his heels. “What?”

“Put your pajama top on,” Snape directed, abruptly springing out of his stupor. He snapped his fingers towards Harry. “This instant.” Snape circled the bed, ducking his head and scavenging around the floor for the matching top.

Scowling, Harry released a foot from underneath his bottom and dangled it off the edge of his bed, staring at his belly-button. Why did it matter?

“It chokes me.”

Snape straightened up, flipping his dark hair out of his face. “It does nothing of the sort. Now, enough of this foolishness, Potter.” Throwing open the heavy lid of Harry’s trunk, Snape began rummaging through its contents, grumbling.

Rolling his eyes, Harry ignored him and crawled under his covers instead. The sheets felt cool and comforting against his warm skin now that the sweating and shivers had stopped.

Too bad I left all my pajama tops at the Dursleys… Harry smiled impishly into his pillow as he listened to the muffled sounds of searching.

But as his body began to settle into the mattress, Harry’s smile faded slowly. His head began to eddy with fatigue. Maybe he would fall asleep after all.

Harry barely even flinched when something soft and white sailed across the bed and landed in a heap over his face. Breathing in the sweet smell of clean cotton, Harry reached up and dragged the wrinkled t-shirt to his chest as he sat up, contorting his back into a stretch.

“Put it on,” Snape said simply, nudging the lid closed as he stood.

“Yes, sir,” Harry slurred sleepily. He peeled the hems apart and maneuvered his hands into the armholes, too tired to even ponder over how easily the compliant words had slipped from his lips.

During the brief moment Harry’s head had hit the pillow, it was as if he’d gone into a trance.

Disregarding the perpendicular creases down the front of his shirt, Harry scooted backwards towards his pillows, poking his fingers underneath his glasses to rub at the dryness and grit that had gathered at the corners of his eyes.

“What, Potter, no argument?” Snape commented as he sauntered forward and stood next to the drowsy child.

Harry shrugged. “I guess not,” he replied in a throaty and non-committal voice.

Snape inspected the boy for a short while before speaking. “Professor McGonagall and I found you in a cold sweat. Therefore climbing into bed without pajamas is a foolish way to encourage a second break-out. You realize that, don’t you Mr. Potter?”

Leaning backwards and clunking his head lightly against the headboard, Harry shook his head, absolutely uninterested.

His eyes were beginning to fix tiredly on random objects, and Harry was having a difficult time jerking them away.

“Any idiot would understand this…”

Who cares? Harry thought, closing his eyes. I guess that makes me an idiot.

Harry heard a huffed sigh and felt the pressure of knuckles against his left knee, sliding both of his legs over a good foot, the blankets tightening around Harry’s thighs as he felt the mattress dip with the weight of another body.

Prying open his lids, Harry stared in hazy astonishment at the potions master now perched awkwardly in the middle of the bed. Both palms rested flat on his knees as Snape’s face retained its neutral glare.

Harry tucked one of his hands underneath the snug blanket, sensing it was his turn to speak. He watched as Snape busied his hands in the pocket of his robes, retrieving and fingering a small vial filled with a milky turquoise potion.

“What is that, Professor?”

It was the only thing Harry could think to say in such a situation, not that he was uncomfortable with Snape sitting on the edge of his bed. Honestly, Harry had been in much more undignified positions—namely sprawled across Snape’s lap with his bum in the air and his face smashed in between the sofa cushions.

But this was different. He’d never had an adult this close to his bed before. The Dursleys never even came within ten feet of his bedroom if they could avoid it. And this summer, Mrs. Weasley had kissed them all goodnight before they had gone upstairs.

However, sitting like this with the mattress slanted and his legs trapped wasn’t embarrassing, just…unfamiliar.

Snape glanced over at the boy, still holding the tiny glass container between his thumb and forefinger. He recited with clinical accuracy: “This vial contains a small dose of the Draught of Peace. It will curb your anxiety and help you sleep…”

Anxiety?

“I’m not anxious,” Harry said, knowing very well that his argument was weak. “I mean,” he tugged at his pajama bottoms that were partially trapped underneath his professor, “I think I can go to sleep now that I’m in here by myself.”

“Mmmm,” Snape grunted, clearly skeptical. The man puckered an amused eyebrow, the gesture lost on Harry.

“It’s just…Neville snores…”

“And yet this morning at breakfast, all of your dormitory mates were bright-eyed and annoying as ever,” Snape countered automatically.

“Hey, so am I!” Harry insisted, grimacing and giving his pajamas a mighty tug, finally freeing them. “Well, not annoying, I mean…”

“Perhaps not,” Snape replied smoothly, giving the corked vial a shake. “However, I believe your insolent cheek as of late—not to mention your brash behavior—have accounted for the unspoken. And I believe your distress has not stemmed from Mr. Longbottom’s breathing problems…”

Accounted for…what? Harry wrinkled his nose confusion. “You think I’m acting this way because I’m tired?”

Passing the small potion-filled bottle to his other hand, Snape ignored the question for a moment; instead he nodded toward Harry’s pillow.

Wordlessly, Harry wiggled down, keeping his eyes on the man as he flattened on his back. As Harry did so, Snape stood up to slacken the stretched blankets. He shook them out with one hand, the brisk movement inviting the cool air to seep in, pricking Harry’s arms and legs with gooseflesh.

Holding up his elbows slightly, Harry allowed Snape to lay the straightened blankets over his chest before Harry flapped his arms down, trapping the folded sheets firmly underneath his armpits. This time, Harry moved his legs over on his own accord, but Snape simply moved forward, set the vial on Harry’s bedside table and crouched down.

He studied the boy solemnly.

Harry stared back, wondering where Snape was going with all of this. He didn’t want a lecture on disrespect. He didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart conversation about his emotions and anxiety. Harry just wanted answers. He wanted everything to go away. He wanted Ginny to smile again. He wanted to play Quidditch and think about his second Christmas at Hogwarts…and pudding. He hated being confused, and he hated keeping things from Ron and Hermione.

Harry’s whole head was now pulsing with pain. It felt as if his pillow were vibrating.

“What’s happening, Professor? Why can’t you just tell me?” Harry asked weakly, defeated. His fingers found a short thread on his comforter and began twisting it in earnest.

Snape swallowed so slowly that Harry swore he could hear it. “I don’t know everything, Potter,” Snape answered resolutely, shaking his head slightly.

“I feel like I don’t know anything,” Harry mumbled through feeble lips. “I hate feeling like that…” Harry’s fingertip had become purple from the twisted thread. As he slowly freed the smothered appendage, Harry had a new thought: “Do you think Dumbledore knows stuff but isn’t telling us?”

A short pause.

“Remove your glasses,” Snape instructed. His was voice quiet and commanding.

Inwardly huffing, Harry plucked the frames off of his face and handed them to his professor without folding them. The stiff wires stuck up crookedly like broken bones.

A yawn was working its way out of the boy’s lungs, and he tried to fight it. But inevitably, it sneaked up, causing Harry to inhale suddenly and briskly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Placing the small glasses on the nearby table, Snape watched, saying nothing.

“Who do you think Tom is?” Harry asked blearily once he’d recovered from his yawn. He turned onto his side, arranging his ankles comfortably. His body felt light, as if it were floating. Snape’s black hair and pale features were uniformly smeared without the clarity of his glasses.

“Enough questions. Close your eyes.”

The warmth and coziness of Harry’s blankets was overwhelming. And after a moment, his lids slipped closed without his consent. His cheeks felt heavy, sagging with invisible weight. He could ask his questions later.

Harry breathed in time to the pulse in his temple. The pain had marginally receded.

Several moments of quiet passed before Harry felt a thumb dragging along his eyebrows, fisted knuckles resting against his fringe. The soothing monotony of the movement glued his eyes closed permanently.

But even through the mist of his weariness, Harry was aware of the source of the comfort.

He didn’t understand it. He would never understand it. But he knew.

Snape’s droning voice mingled with the sound of even breathing and meshed among the whirlwind of broken, dream-like thoughts swimming around in the child’s mind:

“You’ve done well, Harry.”

Breathing deeply, he felt the warm pad of skin brush across the thin, knobby scar near his hairline before the last traces of his consciousness extinguished.

The Draught of Peace remained on the night table, corked and untouched.

“Regardless if the attacks have ceased, Albus, it is imperative that we take action immediately,” Severus stated gravely after several silent moments slouched in pensive silence.

Pressing his potion-weathered fingers against his lips once more, Severus remained stabilized only by the points of his elbows pressed into the leather-covered arms of his usual chair in the headmaster’s office.

No one but Albus Dumbledore viewed Severus in such raw form so frequently. The potions master was well aware of this, realizing early on in his career that his exceptional skill for Occlumency was no match for the elderly man. Not even the Dark Lord could penetrate Severus’s façade as acutely and instantaneously.

Exhaling meaningfully, Dumbledore offered Severus a brief, slack smile, indicating his consideration of the matter as he tapped his thumbs against his folded hands with the gentlest of movements. At last, inclining his head, the headmaster drew in a preparatory breath.

“The Christmas holidays are almost upon us, my boy,” Dumbledore began, ignoring the twitch of outrage around the professor’s eyes at the mention of such a casualty. “And therefore, the students will have all dispersed by late Thursday morning.”

“And until then?” Severus pressed, lowering a curved knuckle to his chin.

“We carry on as usual, Severus,” Dumbledore replied.

Snape stared, unblinking.

“As usual…” he repeated, his countenance and words equally drained of emotion. “There are precisely eight students who are planning to remain at Hogwarts for the entire holiday, Headmaster…Potter included. We cannot possibly carry on with any measure of thorough investigation—“

“I am well aware of this,” the old man interrupted quietly, lowering his chin as he inclined his thin, gray brow. “Minerva is presently making arrangements with a majority of the parents. I believe Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were simply remaining on the grounds for Harry’s sake.”

“How unexpected…”

The headmaster’s eyes shone with amusement at the blatant cynicism, yet he allowed the words to hang in the air, unhampered.

“Everyone will be accounted for, Severus,” Dumbledore assured him after a moment of basking in the silence.

“And Miss Weasley?” the potions master inquired, shifting his eyes briefly towards the partially fogged window

Dumbledore hesitated. The harsh winter wind rasped across the bare tops of the nearby trees.

“She will return to her parents with the rest of her siblings.”

Likewise, Severus shifted in his chair, employing his own bout of reluctant stillness. He knows what I am going to say, the man thought, sensing the unspoken words in the headmaster’s unfocused blue eyes.

“We are missing vital information, Albus…” Snape began carefully, “…information that can only be given to us by Miss Weasley, granted she regains her memory.” He lingered silkily over the last few words, raising a dubious eyebrow.

“You do not believe the child, Severus?”

Despite the headmaster’s inquisitive inflection, Snape deduced a solid statement within the delivery.

“The Weasley girl is frightened,” he said wryly. “However, she has recently delivered important information to Potter—information that she has obviously kept secret from her family. I believe she is at least mildly aware of what happened…”

“I agree with you, Severus.”

Snape immediately shifted his eyes towards the headmaster, cocking his head slightly. “In what regard, may I ask?”

Dumbledore’s eyes warmed over with an unseen smile. “In regard to many of your concerns, my boy,” the aged man assured him. “However, I believe that the issue of the diary, most importantly of Ginny Weasley’s peculiar experience with it, must be carefully explored before we do anything rash.”

The wind whistled thinly among the sharp crackles of the flames.

“You’ve just informed me of her potential release, Albus.”

Dumbledore nodded once, slowly, in concurrence. “I have.”

And then it was as if his brain and the headmaster’s had intertwined, for Severus suddenly understood the intent of such a simple statement. Perhaps the vital information they sought was encased and waiting in the mind of another sleeping child…

He tilted his head, his face taut with obvious exasperation as he laced his finger tips together. “How very odd that you allow an impetuous twelve-year-old boy to be the first to proceed with such delicate exploration…” he quipped around a disdainful smirk, the words heavily coated with sarcasm. “Need I remind you that Potter is currently lying in bed, nearly as disoriented as the girl?”

“He has retrieved your portkey, Severus,” Dumbledore calmly reminded the man. “And it appears as if the child most willingly relinquished possession of the locket.”

“The girl claims to have been given the locket by the Dark Lord,” Snape ground out, his tone of voice climbing in volume and intensity.

“Tom Riddle…” Dumbledore corrected patiently.

“The same bloody person, Albus!”

“Not necessarily, Severus,” the headmaster considered, tapping together his fingertips together in a thoughtful, mysterious way that never failed to infuriate the potions master.

Avoiding eye-contact and reclining in his chair slightly, Snape pressed his teeth together, willing his heated temper to recede.

“When Potter wakes, he may be able to clarify a few unanswered questions,” he began, studying the slanted books lined along the glossed wood. Severus swallowed thickly before resting his eyes on the headmaster once more. “But his work is finished. If the Dark Lord is at large in some unknown form, we are taking too great of a risk allowing the boy to get involved. He’s a child, Albus. And he is meagerly trained in Defense.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes had dulled but still remained soft as they skated over the small tin of lemon drops resting at the corner of his desk. He gazed fondly over the indented lid, but this time, his fingers made no move to select one of the tart sweets. “Harry possesses great potential…” the headmaster vocally mused. “You are well-aware of this, Severus.”

“I am only aware of Potter’s current state of mind, Headmaster,” Snape countered, quiet and unwavering. “And at the moment, he proves to be nothing more than a confused boy who would have undoubtedly done more harm than good had he meddled further in the situation than I have allowed. Potter must first learn the importance of discipline…”

“Who is to say he hasn’t, Severus?” Dumbledore interrupted casually. Smiling softly, the man’s eyes regained their customary sparkle as he finally reached for his tin of sweets.

Snape frowned uncouthly as he watched the headmaster pry away the tin’s lid with a distinct pop, revealing the clinking bulbs of sugar and smiling contentedly at the simplicity of such bliss.

“The child tests his limits…”

Lowering his spectacles onto the tip of his nose with a pinch of his finger, Dumbledore set aside his untouched sweets and fixed the potions master with an appraising look. “From what I have seen, Harry seems to obey you.”

Severus nearly chortled in disdain. The child didn’t obey him. He had to fight Potter every step of the way. Although… Potter had relinquished the locket on his own accord…eventually. Severus was almost certain he would have had to resort to a harsh threat. But he hadn’t. Potter had even followed him willingly into Pomfrey’s office. However, the most surprising phenomenon of the day remained corked and buried deep in the pocket of his robes.

Clearing his throat, Severus erected his posture and changed the subject. “You believe that the diary is connected to the Chamber, do you not?”

“Perhaps.”

“The Dark Lord is a Parselmouth, Albus,” Severus began, choking back his irritation towards the headmaster’s ambiguity. “A basilisk can only be controlled by one who speaks Parseltongue—its master.”

“In other words,” Dumbledore supplied, choosing and fingering a lemon drop. “The Heir of Slytherin.”

Snape nodded curtly. “Precisely. However, there is no indication that the Dark Lord has materialized. And as Miss Weasley shows no signs of a physical intrusion…”

“I do believe that perhaps…” Dumbledore paused an instant, turning the lemon drop over and over in his fingertips.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps…a mental invasion would be nearly as damaging,” the headmaster said softly.

For a long moment, the silence of possibilities throbbed throughout the vast chambers.

How could this be?

“The Dark Lord is in a weakened state, Albus,” Snape reminded him. Long fingers rested across his lips once more. “It would be nearly impossible for an individual’s mind to be penetrated...” he trailed off.

“It would,” Dumbledore affirmed.

Deftly, he replaced his lemon drop among the others in the lightweight tin.

Severus stared at the man, the familiar sensation of acid sheathing his stomach. There was something else. Something Dumbledore was dissecting in his impenetrable mind. And he wasn’t speaking of Legilimency. The Dark Lord was impeccably skilled at both. Albus was considering something…different. Something far more dangerous.

Severus was certain.

“There is something you wish to keep hidden from me concerning the diary, Headmaster,” Snape accused, feeling young and manipulated. “Perhaps you simply do not trust me…”

Instantly, Dumbledore’s eyes shifted sharply upward, impaling Severus without reproach. “I have entrusted Harry in your care, my boy,” he plainly stated. “That alone should speak volumes.”

The headmaster’s gaze was relentless. Severus felt as if he’d been backhanded.

The wind shrieked across the grounds again as both headmaster and professor waited for the tension to subside. “What about Potter?” Severus inquired, his eyes resting on the edge of Albus’s desk. His jaw set. “I have a difficult time believing that you would send the boy back to his relatives for such a short time, regardless of the impending investigation.” He glanced up—eyes weighted as if there were stones in the sockets.

Sealing his half-empty tin of sweets, Dumbledore caressed blunt edge with his thumb. “Keep him close, Severus.” The headmaster looked at his aged student starkly. “Keep him close.”

Breathing in the stale scent of candle wax and winter that seemed to linger in the headmaster’s chambers, Severus surveyed the subtle movement of the withered thumb.

And after a while, perhaps only to himself, he nodded.

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

“…arry?”

The voice cut in and out of his dreams.

Ginny was trying to climb up the slimy cave rocks in her nightgown and bare feet. Her soles were spotted with red from the sharp points of stone. Harry tried to climb too, but he couldn’t lift his legs. He felt as if he were moving through water. Ginny glanced over her shoulder. The circles underneath her eyes were black—like she’d smeared Aunt Petunia eye make-up underneath… She called out to him, but her lips were as frozen as his legs. ‘I’m trying’…he wanted to call. But what was it he was trying to do? She kept climbing. Ginny was using her knees this time. He could hear her voice…but now there were two. Two…

“…not in a coma, Ron, he’s only sleeping!” A harsh whisper floated from somewhere around his head.

The pillow felt hot pressed against Harry’s face. Limbs weighted and clumsy, he rolled over on his back—slowly, his right foot tingling with sleep.

He heard a throaty gasp. And then the light flooded his vision as his eyes opened into slits. The mattress was dipped down from both sides, tightening the blankets unbearably around Harry’s stomach. He was smothering.

“Professor?” Harry blinked, slapping his palm lazily his night table to search for his glasses.

“Professor? Who in the sodding hell—Ow! You’ve already hit me there once!”

Harry’s senses came back to him in a rush.

Oh dear God…

Pressing his glasses onto his nose, Harry tried to sit up, but he was trapped. Trapped underneath his best friends who were currently perched on either side of him on the mattress.

“Hermione…” Harry groaned, his cheeks pasted over with heat from sleep and shock. He could feel the hair plastered to the back of his head and sprouting a dozen different directions. “Why are you— How are you in here?” Even breathing was a chore. Harry could feel his heartbeat in his forehead; although, the pain was nearly gone…

She disregarded the question. “Harry, you missed class today,” Hermione critically observed as she sat back on her heels. Her face was pinched with worry, the ends of her braids frizzy as ever. “Are you sick?”

Ron was still staring at Harry with flared nostrils and a wrinkled forehead as he sat with one foot resting on the floor, the other folded up on the bed.

“Erm…no…I’m not sick,” Harry muttered, using all his strength to push himself up. Taking the hint, Ron and Hermione stood for a few seconds allowing him some slack before plopping back down and hanging on his explanation. “I barely slept last night, so I was told to spend the day in bed…I guess.” Harry rubbed his eyes thoroughly, his glasses bobbing on his forehead.

Hermione fidgeted with the edge of the folded sheet. Harry didn’t have to go any further. It was obvious that Hermione understood. “Why haven’t you slept, Harry?”

“Oi! I’m tired too! I nearly fell asleep three times in Binns’ class this morning,” Ron complained. “You don’t see McGonagall letting me sleep the day away… That’s lovely of her.” The boy scrunched up his nose in a scoffing manner.

“Oh, shut it, Ron. You’re always thinking about yourself…” Hermione breathed in disgust before quickly turning her attention back to Harry.

His head was beginning to throb again. Why couldn’t the blankets just jump up and bury him alive?

“What did I miss?” Harry asked hastily to avoid further confrontation. He reached underneath him and yanked out a warm, flattened pillow. He rested it on his lap, burrowing a fist in either side of the lump of feathers.

Ron was still brooding, his mouth as curved as his furrowed brow.

“Not much,” Hermione informed him. “Professor Binns didn’t give any homework. But we still have Potions this afternoon, and you know how Snape is…”

Potions?

“What time is it?”

“Almost twelve-thirty,” Hermione replied, absently straightening out the bed sheets with little tugs. “We ate lunch as fast as we could. It was odd sitting in class without you.”

“Yeah…” Harry mumbled, staring at his still-creased shirt. “Sorry.”

“Oh, and guess what McGonagall told us…” Ron suddenly spoke up, causing Harry to snap his attention towards his sporadic friend.

“What?”

“Let me tell him, Ron,” Hermione insisted in a proficient manner. “You’ll get it wrong.”

“I won’t either! You always tell everybody everything,” the redhead argued, gesturing emphatically.

“Just tell me…either one of you. I don’t care,” Harry said in an increasingly clipped tone. Their bickering was becoming too much to handle.

“We’ve got to go home over Christmas, Harry,” Ron blathered speedily, leaving Hermione open-mouthed and exasperated.

The girl huffed through her nose and rolled her eyes. “Yes, they’re contacting parents and having them make other arrangements. Professor McGonagall’s already sent a letter to my mum and dad.”

“And I guess my parents decided just to stay home instead of visiting Bill in Egypt…” Ron added.

Home? Harry felt his entire body flush hotly.

“Wait…” Harry shook his head briskly, confused. “What for?”

Ron shrugged. “A load of the teachers’ll be restrained over the holidays…”

“Detained, Ronald!” Hermione corrected.

Harry’s ears began to buzz. He couldn’t go home—not to the Dursleys. Harry hated Christmas at Privet Drive. They didn’t want him there.

“Detained doing what?” Harry asked. His voice was high and frail.

“Dunno,” Ron replied. “But Ginny gets to come home to, so it obviously doesn’t have anything to do with her.”

“Ginny?” Harry echoed. “Does she know?”

He began kicking at his blankets. Ron and Hermione stood once again to allow Harry to free his feet. Once he was uncovered and panting as the cool, delicious air rushed over his limbs, they promptly sat back down.

“Yeah, I think so,” Ron answered. “But you can come home with me if you’d like, Harry. Christmas at our house isn’t half bad. I mean, Mum listens to Celestina Warbeck all day long, but other than that, it’s pretty wicked. Fred and George put firecrackers in the snow piles and explode them when Mum isn’t watching.”

“Idiots…” Hermione muttered to herself, rolling her eyes a second time.

But I’m supposed to stay and help, Harry thought. He really did want to go home with Ron if he was truly invited. However, he knew there was a reason why the professors were clearing the school. What was going to detain the teachers? What if they were going to look for the basilisk? And in that case, didn’t they need Harry?

He knew one thing was for certain: he wasn’t going back to the Dursleys for Christmas. The mere thought of sitting against the wall while Dudley opened up his mountain of presents made Harry’s feet sweaty and his stomach churn.

“Lunch is almost over, Harry,” Hermione cut in, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you feeling well? Do you want to go Herbology with us?”

Harry thought about this for a moment. He was supposed to be resting. But there was no way he could lie in bed all day and let this issue slide. He had to find Snape.

“No,” Harry said quickly, crawling between Ron and Hermione and sliding off the edge of his bed. He reached for his trousers that were draped over his trunk with the rest of his uniform. “I’ve gotta do something.”

“What’s that?” Ron asked suspiciously.

Hermione, who had been fluffing his released pillow, turned and studied him, waiting for a response while she propped up the inflated rectangle against his headboard.

“Well…” Harry began, folding his trousers over his arm. “I just have to…” He stopped, biting down hard on his bottom lip. Ron was his best mate. But Harry just couldn’t deal with his scorn at the moment. He would tell Hermione later. Ron always seemed to deal with information about Snape much more easily if it was delivered second-hand. “I have to find out where I’m supposed to go for Christmas.”

“My house,” Ron stated easily as if spending the Holidays at the Burrow had been Harry’s plan all along.

“I have to ask,” Harry said again, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “Hey, Hermione, I need to change…”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she stood with the heels of her hands against her hips. “Oh!” she exclaimed, slight embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Well, for goodness’ sake, Harry, at least wait until I’m out of the room!” Hermione scampered toward the exit with quick steps, cupping her hand at the side of her face to shield her eyes from potential exposure.

“Obviously…” Ron muttered, shaking his head.

Smiling in accordance, Harry slipped his pajamas down, only to scrape them back up as Hermione bellowed from the middle of the stairway:

“You really ought to come to Herbology, Harry!”

“He’s in his pants, Hermione. Go away…” Ron called back, grinning wickedly as he listened to her annoyed, diminishing mutter and pattering footsteps. He glanced back around at Harry, shaking his head. “I told her she wasn’t supposed to be up here… Have you ever known anyone so mental?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Harry shrugged as he stepped into his trousers.

At least I don’t have to keep much from her, he thought. But deep down, Harry knew that he’d be lost without either one of his friends. They certainly balanced each other out…

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

Harry barged into the Potions classroom, out of breath and itching with sweat underneath his robes and uniform. He felt like he could have slept for another three hours. But in his opinion, this was urgent.

The room was empty. Didn’t Snape have a class in ten minutes? Wait, no, Harry thought. It’s a single period. He’s got doubles only…

Would he be in his Chambers?

Harry let the door click shut, paying little attention to how carelessly he’d released it. However, the loud bang that resounded behind him barely registered in his determined mind.

Nearly jogging ahead, Harry halted, jerking back in surprise as the door to Snape’s office was thrown open so forcefully, it smacked against the stone wall.

Malfoy strolled out, swiping an arm across his face, followed by Snape, who was moving twice as swiftly. Stealing a glimpse at his approaching head of house, Malfoy tried to break away.

Harry pressed his palms against the wall, leaning forward slightly. He watched, stunned, as Snape caught and pulled Draco back by the collar of his robes, catching him by the arm and muttering sternly in his ear.

The Slytherin hunched up his right shoulder and tried to tear his arm out of Snape’s grasp. But the man yanked him back easily, encircled his waist with one arm while the other grasped and threw aside his loose robes, walloping Malfoy’s backside three times in rapid succession.

Harry winced and smashed his back against the wall, caring little that the material of his robes was snagging on the sharp edges of the rock.

No bloody way, Harry thought as he listened to Malfoy cry out angrily and blubber something about his father. Naturally.

Harry pinched his thigh as hard as he could to keep from laughing. How lucky was he to witness the slimeball getting it? Surely, Harry didn’t act like such a pathetic baby during his punishments. At least he hoped he didn’t…

Harry heard the distinct swoop of robes and pounding of heels against stone before he actually saw Snape barreling forward. Tentatively, Harry peeled himself away from the wall. However, the look on Snape’s face when he noticed the boy standing next to his office sobered Harry right up.

“Mr. Potter!”

The sharp tone caused Harry’s bottom to prickle in fear. Tensing up, he scooted back again until his heels hit the wall.

Okay, definitely not funny anymore…

But suddenly, Snape halted, standing several feet away from Harry. Taking a deep breath, the man closed his eyes for an instant as he swept a few dangling strands of hair back into place.

Breathing harshly, Harry could only stare at him.

“You’re out of bed, Potter,” Snape stated, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before using the same forefinger to beckon the child forward.

Harry gripped the wall, ignoring the sting of the stones scraping against his palms. “No, you’re going to smack me.”

“Not unless you continue to cling to the wall like a slug,” Snape replied without humor. “To me.” He gestured with the stiffest of nods.

“I feel loads better,” Harry began carefully, moving forward with tiny steps. He felt his face warming and couldn’t look at Snape. He stared at the man’s black-clad middle until his professor tipped his face up with two fingers underneath his chin.

Harry’d expected that.

He quickly placed his knuckles against the boy’s forehead before releasing Harry’s chin with his other hand. “Explain yourself,” Snape ordered, his features betraying nothing.

Gripping a handful of his robes in one fist while tucking a thumb within the other to keep from chewing on it, Harry decided to simply bypass the expounding preface. Snape wasn’t much for small talk anyway.

Harry inhaled in preparation, resting his eyes on the curve of Snape’s nose. It was the best he could do. “I don’t want to go back to the Dursleys over Christmas...” Harry mumbled, his face flaming with disgrace.

Snape said nothing for a moment. And the quiet was beginning to wear away at Harry’s nerves. Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, Harry nudged at his glasses with a finger, sparing a glance at Snape in the process.

Finally, his professor bobbed his head in a single, significant nod. “I know, Potter.”

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.

Hermione skimmed the four wilted pages of Ginny’s letters for the fifth time, her duffle bag flung open and forgotten next to her bed.

Harry’d had to call her name three times up the stairs leading to the girls’ dormitory before she finally abandoned her task of refolding and organizing. He said a small prayer of thanks that her school trunk had already been packed and stacked with the rest of the Gryffindors’ luggage last night.

She had plodded down the stairs distracted and a bit irritated at the disruption, but the instant she’d snatched the parchment out of his hand and feverishly scanned the looped scrawl, Hermione had slowly sunk to her knees in front of the fireplace, stunned.

The edges had crumpled and curled from her intense grip.

“See, she does remember—“

“Shhh!” the girl interrupted, hushing Harry with the harsh whisper and a commanding hand in his face.

“What? You’ve read it ten times already…” Harry cried, his voice insistent and breathy. But waving her hand a second time, Hermione quickly perused the final page with her eyes. She clamped her lips around the tip of her tongue and ignored him.

Palming the ground in front of him, Harry scooted closer to her, rising up on his knees a bit before stretching his neck over the top of the parchment to get a better look.

He frowned, his eyes flickering up toward Hermione’s every so often as he read the last few hastily-jotted notes upside down.

“Oh, Harry,” she finally breathed, clearly distressed. “Why hasn’t she said anything about this?”

“She did,” Harry clarified, digging his toes into the carpet, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure of heavy rubber soles against his haunches. “She just wrote it down like she’s done with everything else that’s been bothering her this year. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“In a way it does…” Hermione said quietly, yet the firmness in her voice threatened a tirade. “But I can’t believe that Ginny would keep all of this information to herself!”

Harry flinched. A tirade indeed.

“Don’t you understand what this means, Harry?”

The reflection of orange flames flashing along the surface of the parchment made it appear as if it were trembling, fluttering with an uneven heartbeat.

A heartbeat that seemed to mimic Harry’s own at the moment.

“Erm…”

“Don’t be dense, Harry, it’s obvious that she was somehow involved with the Heir of Slytherin…and the basilisk. Don’t you see?!” She thrust the papers onto Harry’s lap and hoisted herself off the ground, nearly stumbling as she untangled her legs. “Wait here a second. And don’t move!” Hermione bolted up the stairs, her jacket completely off of her shoulders, her hair disheveled.

Harry opened his mouth to call out to her, to tell her that he really did understand. Some of it anyway… But he could already hear the heavy rasping of several items scraping against the floorboards in the girls’ dormitory. Settling back in front of the fire, Harry sifted through the small sheets of parchment Ginny had given him.

The notes were choppy and rushed. A handful of puzzle pieces whose edges didn’t seem to fit. He glanced over them briefly, forcing his brain to focus.

Rooster feathers. Red paint. A cold, dark place. The sensation of wandering without a destination. Waking up near the second floor corridor, shivering…damp clothing. Tom becoming more frightening.

But not a word about the locket…

The iron clock hanging over the fireplace gonged once, announcing that it was half past ten. The dull clang sent shivers up and down Harry’s arms, despite the comfortable heat that washed over his face and torso between crackles of the low flames.

A second later, he heard someone on the stairs again, but this time, the footsteps were quieter and more even. Harry watched as Hermione slowly appeared in the doorway, anchoring herself with cautious, toe-heel steps. She swaggered in with an armload of thick books with dark, stained covers, her face barely peeking over the top.

I should’ve known, Harry thought as he began to stand in order to help her.

But before he was even off of his knees, Hermione dumped the pile of books in front of him. They slapped against each other noisily as they descended, landing in a tumbling heap.

As Harry pulled back, wide-eyed, he barely paid attention to Lavender and Pavarti as they entered the common room from the dormitory, pulling faces of muted annoyance as they tugged wool gloves out of the pockets of their overcoats and stepped through the portrait hole, still staring.

It was obvious they’d witnessed Hermione scavenging like a mole.

But as always, she ignored them.

“What’re all these for?” Harry asked her as she plopped down and began stacking them with muffled thuds. Nearing the end of the pile, Hermione chose a thin, tatty volume, rested it on her knee and furiously thumbed through the weathered pages. She held up her index finger as she frowned down at her book.

Shrugging, Harry leaned over as he sank back onto his heels again, eyes traveling over the bindings. He was only able to grasp a few words before Hermione shoved her open volume underneath his nose, catching him off-guard once again.

“There. Roosters,” she stated simply, her thumb pressed against the page as she held out the bound information.

Harry peered down at the paragraph.

“A rooster’s crow is fatal to a basilisk,” Hermione clarified.

“I know,” Harry stated, shifting a bit. “I read it.”

She clapped the book closed, the musty breeze tousling his fringe. Adding the book to the motley stack, Hermione sat back and sighed.

“So you think—“

“All of Hagrid’s roosters were destroyed, Harry,” Hermione interrupted, without giving him a chance to form his own hypothesis. “And Ginny can’t remember anything but having rooster feathers all over her when she woke up.”

“I know, Hermione,” Harry countered, shoving aside the vertical pile a bit. “But are you telling me that something as massive as a basilisk can be killed by a rooster’s crow? That’s bloody insane… I mean, people die from just looking at its eyes—“

“It sounds ridiculous, but it’s obviously true, or else, why would she kill all of the roosters?” the girl argued, the volume of her voice rising as she shoved the lofty stack of books closer to Harry. They wavered dangerously. “But there’s no way that Ginny would have done it on purpose, right? Do you think maybe that her memory was Obliviated each time? That could be possible. Maybe that’s why she can’t remember—“

“No,” Harry said quickly, causing Hermione to tilt her head inquisitively.

“What do you mean, no?”

His insides twinged with uncertainty. Snape wouldn’t want him blabbing anything. He hadn’t warned Harry about it specifically, but the mere thought of revealing the true identity of Tom Riddle scratched at his conscience. And Harry wished more than anything that it wouldn’t. However, it wasn’t as if he had to tell Hermione everything. One day he would. He’d tell Ron too. But at the moment, there was no need for Hermione to worry over something she couldn’t help.

“The diary was dangerous, Hermione,” Harry explained, pressing his folded fingers in between his knees. He clamped his knuckles together so forcefully that they smarted. “Tom Riddle was the one controlling everything she did. That’s what we think anyway…”

“We?” Hermione asked, scrunching up her nose in confusion.

Instantly, Harry felt his own eyes narrow. “It’s not like I’ve known forever,” he replied, unimpeded defensiveness squeezing his chest. “I only just found out… from Snape…” The muttered words hung uncomfortably in the air. At least for Harry, they did…

Damn, Harry thought as he gnawed on the edge of his bottom lip, hating himself for presuming….for getting angry without reason. It was one of his most treacherous flaws.

“No, I know,” Harry said quietly, apologetically. He scratched at a non-existent itch on his forehead before pressing on in haste. “She was spending too much time writing in her diary, and I guess it just sort of…took her over.”

“Well, I figured that much,” Hermione began. She clipped the small pile of notes between two fingers and dragged them from the floor onto her lap. “She wrote about most of that, remember?”

“Oh, yeah…”

For the next few minutes, Harry released some of the information he’d learned from Snape, carefully treading around the issue of Voldemort materializing in the form of the written word. Like a ghost. The idea was chilling.

Afterwards, they sat silently for a moment as Harry pleaded with his wounded conscience. Inwardly begging it to leave him alone—to quit prodding him… Maybe it wouldn’t really matter if Hermione knew that Voldemort was once Tom Riddle. Was it truly a secret? Harry felt like pinching himself for forgetting to ask.

He used to tell Ron and Hermione everything. With his friends, everything seemed less scary—more audacious. But watching over Ginny as she lay in her hospital bed with broad, blue circles under her eyes had vacuumed the adventure right out of him. Strangely, a part of him was beginning to sympathize with the adults….beginning to understand how easily their faces could crumple with worry at times like these. And that same part of Harry briefly wondered how Snape had felt as he carried Harry’s limp body away from the Mirror of Erised last spring. Did his stomach ache the way Harry’s did every time he thought about Ginny huddled and weeping?

Just thinking about it made Harry numb with guilt.

But Snape hated you last year, didn’t he? a small, internal voice reminded him.

Harry’s stomach flopped in a somersault.

Did he?

The light titter of voices drifted in hazily from behind the sealed portrait. Probably only a few of the countless oblivious students clad in coats and hats, making their way towards the carriages…

Swallowing the frozen, formless words in his throat, Harry glanced over at Hermione. She deserved to be a part of them.

“I’ve got to leave soon,” the girl informed him, though she didn’t move. Even the fingers resting on the stack of books were motionless. “But we still have a few minutes. I can try to help…”

“It’s all right,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine. I think Dumbledore has a plan. He’ll know what to do.”

So will Snape, the boy admitted only to himself.

“Plus, Ginny’s at home now,” Harry continued, more weakly than he would have preferred. “And she’s not losing her memory anymore. I think she’ll be okay…”

Hermione’s lips were slightly twisted with anxiety, but she nodded. Lifting her hand from her books, she carefully scooted them even closer to Harry, taking a second to press her palms against the diagonal bindings in order to straighten them.

She glanced at him over the stack. “Take my books over the holidays. They might help.”

Sliding the thinnest one away from the top of the pile and resting it in his lap, Harry picked lightly at the corner of the cover. “Thanks,” he croaked, gazing down at Hermione’s copy of Magical Monsters.

“You need to show those letters to Professor Snape,” the girl told him in a serious voice, snatching at his attention like a loudspeaker. “He’ll be able to help, Harry. He has so far, you know.”

I know he has.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry declared, shrugging. He glanced back down at his book, feeling like an ungrateful coward. Why couldn’t he just whole-heartedly agree?

“Anyway, you shouldn’t feel like you have to fix everything, Harry. I don’t think he’s keeping you around just to help him and Dumbledore find the basilisk…” Hermione continued, pushing herself up from the floor and brushing her hands together to rid them of bits of thread and dust from the carpet. She strolled over to the staircase.

It was Harry’s turn to squint up at her in bafflement. “How do you figure?”

Halting, the girl twisted and held on to the stone wall with one hand. “Since Snape gave Dumbledore the diary, you haven’t heard the voice in the walls, have you…”

Harry stared at her, the nerves in his palms suddenly tingling with an indistinguishable motive.

Sodding hell, he thought. He’d nearly forgotten.

Hermione was right.

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

The gray-smeared sky had just begun spitting crystal-like flurries of snow onto Harry’s shoulders and hair as Hermione’s carriage pulled away, followed by several others filled with chattering Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

Harry had been distracted as he and Hermione trekked through the chilly corridors leading to the front of the castle. He’d listened as intensely as he could, but not even one icy whisper cut through the white noise of students’ voices.

Standing with his feet freezing in the leftover snow, Harry’s deep thoughts shifted when he noticed Malfoy queuing up to climb into a carriage toward the bottom of the small hill. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets, his pale face drawn and bitter. As always, Crabbe and Goyle were attached to either side of him, but every time either one of them attempted to get his attention, Malfoy only elbowed him sharply, flashing a sour face but saying nothing.

Harry watched as the carriages pulled away in single file until they disappeared into the thickening snow and dry, dark-green pine needles. He doubted that Malfoy was still sulking over Snape’s reprimand. It had to be something else…

The sound of crunching snow yanked Harry out of his thoughts once again. Swiveling around, he was less than surprised to see Snape trudging up behind him. The man was becoming more predictable by the day.

“No hat, Potter?” Snape inquired dryly as he observed the accumulating snowflakes at the top of the boy’s head. “How sensible…”

Swiping at a bead of melted snow on his forehead with a gloved knuckle, Harry frowned as he perused his professor’s everyday robes. “You’re not wearing one either,” the boy mildly argued. He brushed the snow away from his hair, shivering as the cold wetness seeped into his scalp. “You don’t even have a coat on.”

“Completely irrelevant.”

“It…” Harry began but resignedly shook his head, smoothing his hair down again in an attempt to warm it. He sighed, a palm stationed at his forehead. “Nevermind.”

Smirking in triumph, Snape crooked an ungloved finger. “Inside.” He swept forward without waiting for confirmation of obedience.

Wordlessly, the boy followed.

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

The warm air that radiated throughout the Entrance Hall was scorching hot on Harry’s ears, nose and cheeks as he watched Snape tap his wand against the hefty bolt to lock it. The thud of wood against wood echoed solidly in the empty castle.

“Hey, Professor?” Harry asked, pulling off his gloves and trailing at Snape’s heels when the man headed toward the nearest staircase.

“Do not ‘hey’ me, Potter,” Snape chided without turning around. He descended the steps as swiftly as usual.

Rolling his eyes, Harry slogged down the stairs with heavy feet, rather fatigued from the cold as he mindlessly tagged along behind his professor. “Yeah, okay,” the boy muttered quickly. “I won’t, but hold on a second…” He reached for a handful of Snape’s sleeve and tugged before the man could embark toward another set of stairs.

Pausing at the landing, Snape promptly spun around, plucking the child’s hand from his robes as he scowled down at him. “Do not pull on my robes—“

“Okay, okay…” Harry held his palms out in front of him, backing up a step. “Sorry. But can I ask you a question?”

Snape exhaled in slight impatience, but his face had relaxed. “One,” he said curtly, raising a single, expectant eyebrow.

“Erm… All right,” Harry stuttered, unsure whether or not Snape was joking.

“Go on.”

Crumpling his gloves into his hands, Harry tried to burrow the thick wads into his pockets as he concocted his question. He licked his lips, nearly wincing at the sting of his tongue moistening the soft, chapped skin.

“Did you and Dumbledore keep me here to help find the Chamber? Because I don’t know how much good it’ll do…” the boy confessed, staring at the specks of snow remaining on his shoes.

“We expect nothing of the sort. You are a mere student,” Snape stated, tucking his hands into the folds of his robes. “This isn’t a treasure hunt, Potter—“

Harry’s head snapped up immediately, his stomach plunging with hurt. “I didn’t say that it was,” he insisted quietly, his eyes flashing with offended astonishment rather than defiance. “It’s just…I haven’t heard the basilisk for over a week.” Harry looked away, feeling like a failure without reason.

A short, tense silence passed, and he knew Snape was staring at him. But Harry didn’t know what to say—how to feel—until he heard the crisp rustle of the parchment that he’d folded and stored in the front pocket of his trousers. He glanced down. “Oh—“

“Potter…” Snape began softly.

Handing off one of his gloves and clasping them both in one of his fists, Harry pulled out the letters. But at the sound of his name, he froze, eyes shifting up in question. “Yes, sir?”

Swallowing and inclining his chin slightly, Snape shook his head almost gently. “You were interrupted. Continue…”

“Er…It’s all right,” Harry replied slowly, taken aback slightly by the indirect acknowledgement of fault. “Here.” He leaned forward and handed Snape the now wrinkled parchment. “Ginny gave these to me.”

Brows furrowed with interest, Snape took the letters from the boy and began reading.

Harry held onto the edge of the banister, watching his professor’s face as his eyes traveled deftly over the adolescent script.

As expected, Snape remained impassive. For a moment, Harry thought he saw the skin of the man’s throat pulse with a quickening heartbeat, but after a moment, he figured it was only his imagination. Perhaps Harry’s own heart was beating so thickly that it was vibrating his eyeballs…

“What’re you thinking about, Professor?” Harry ventured, figuring he might as well ask, for he’d never be able to deduce anything from the man’s features alone.

“I believe, Potter,” Snape said, his gaze lingering over the final few lines on the last page, “…that my suspicions concerning this matter have now been confirmed, though they were always probable.” He lowered the parchment, folding it in half with a flick of his index finger. Snape’s eyes rested on Harry for an instant before traveling away in thought.

“She’s all right now, though…isn’t she?” Harry questioned, pressing his palm into the smoothed edge of the railing.

“She is.”

Harry nodded, still analyzing Snape’s solemnity. “So, do you think this’ll help when you look for the Chamber?”

The black eyes glimmered, sparking back to reality. “What do you mean?”

“Well that’s why you cleared everybody out, isn’t it?” Harry prompted, curling his fingers around the banister. “You’re going to try to open the Chamber to get rid of the basilisk. Did you know the sound of a rooster’s crow can kill it? Kind of stupid, really…”

“Yes, I am aware, Potter.” Snape stated. “However, I have no intention of gallivanting around the school for days in search of something that will not be found—“

“But it exists, Professor,” Harry cried, his emotions beginning to spiral. What was Snape saying? “You can’t give up. Dumbledore said he had a plan…”

“His main priority was protecting his students and nothing else.”

“Well, what about you?” the boy probed, his knuckles paling as he clutched the railing. “You’ve got me here, and I can help you find it. I won’t run away from you—“

Snape erected his posture, as if in preparation of advancement on the boy, but apart from flinching slightly, Harry stood firmly in place.

“No, Harry,” Snape said resolutely. He shook his head. “If I proceed with my plan, you certainly will not be accompanying me.”

“But I’m—wait…” Harry’s face crumpled in confusion. “What sort of plan? You said you weren’t gonna search for anything…”

“I did.”

One of Harry’s chilly hands strayed to his forehead to swipe at a tiny, remaining trickle. And then, for some unknown reason, Harry understood.

Maybe it was because Snape wasn’t as skilled at hiding his emotions as he thought he was. Or maybe it was simply one of those moments where everything made sense, like in the muggle cartoons where the light bulb suddenly illuminates over the rabbit’s head.

Perhaps Harry had known all along. From the second he dropped the small, chain-linked bomb into Snape’s open palm.

The roof of Harry’s mouth shriveled and dried like a dead leaf. And the swirling emotions in his chest exploded.

He glared at Snape, his own heartbeat pulsing in his throat now.

“You can’t,” Harry croaked. This time, he gripped the banister for stability. “She didn’t say anything about the locket in those letters, Professor. She didn’t know where it led. It probably wasn’t the Chamber at all…”

“Calm down, Potter.”

“No! Who’s the idiot now?” Harry nearly screeched, his eyes wild. “The basilisk could still be alive in the Chamber. Just because I haven’t heard it doesn’t mean anything. And if you go, who knows if you’ll be able to get back!” The boy clutched at his neck, shaking his head in incredulity as he goggled at his professor with wild eyes.

“I believe I know more about escaping a dire situation than you do, foolish child,” Snape spat. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll close your mouth this instant before you say anything else you’ll regret, Potter.” Snape stretched a hand toward him. But Harry backed up quickly, his heel banging into the bottom step.

He immediately began fumbling with the invisible clasp at the back of his neck.

“Don’t you dare!”

But before Snape could stop him, Harry had ripped his own locket away from his neck. The invisible chain glowed a vein-like purple for a brief second before transforming back to its original tarnished state, draped and dangling across Harry’s knuckles.

“Here, take it,” the boy rasped, thrusting the locket toward the potions master. His whole face was hot now. Harry knew he was out of control, but there was no turning back to rationality. They were way past that.

“Put it back on. Do it now,” Snape growled, his jaw fluttering in livid frustration. “You’re asking for a spanking, Potter.”

“No, I’m not,” Harry argued quietly, the timidity slowly creeping back up on him. “You need this more than I do.”

He knew there was no way he was going to escape this whole debacle without punishment. But for once, Harry didn’t care. At least not presently, as his adrenalin was still pumping with vigor.

“How many times have I told you to worry about yourself, boy?” Snape’s voice rumbled hoarsely in his throat. He snatched the locket from Harry’s fingers, refastening the clasp. “Just when I thought that I would be able to inform you of something without exposure to one of your tantrums…” The locket bobbed unhappily as Snape fixed the clasp with jerky movements. He pulled the chains apart with his fingers. “Come here.”

But Harry only lifted the hem of his coat and jumper, extracting his wand in a smooth movement. “Just tell me what the incantation is. I’ll fix it so it’ll take you to Dumbledore’s office.”

The final straw.

Snape grabbed for him, catching a startled Harry about the shoulders and pulling him forward with ease. “Give me that,” he ordered, prying the wand from his fist.

“Don’t—“ Harry pleaded, hand instantly shooting out toward the one that tucked his holly inside of black robes.

Clutching Harry’s shoulders again, Snape shook him sternly, as if the defiance would topple out of his trousers and onto the floor like stolen paraphernalia. “Enough!”

Harry struggled against the firm hold, tensing up his bottom just in case. But he could feel his resolve dissipating into dust. It was all too much.

“What in the world has gotten into you, young man?!” Snape demanded, his coal eyes hard and insistent.

Harry’s head felt like it was weighted with lead, and the words clotted on his tongue as he collapsed, without thinking, against his professor’s chest, unbalancing them both for a second.

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled into the scratchy wool, his common sense completely shattered. “I don’t know…”

Snape loosened his hold. “What on earth, Potter?” he breathed over the top of the boy’s head.

But Harry only shook his head against Snape’s torso, his glasses pressing painfully against the bridge of his nose. Lifting his hands, he clutched handfuls of the man’s robes in his fists so tightly that the material burned his palms.

Embarrassed and confused, Harry pressed his teeth into his tongue in order to control his emotions.

He barely succeeded.

However, Harry knew that if he let go of Snape’s robes, he’d collapse into a fit of screaming and raindrop tears. He silently begged himself to keep it together, as he didn’t understand what he was feeling. And the thought of such uncertainty was enough to shred his last ounce of constancy.

Suddenly, Harry felt warm pressure against his back and hair. Still gripping the chain in his fist, Snape had rested his knuckles between the boy’s shoulder blades while the other palmed the especially messy part of the child’s hair that never flattened no matter how many times it was tamed with a wet comb.

“You are far too old to be acting like this, Potter,” Snape scolded mildly.

Harry swallowed, keeping his eyes closed tightly. “I know,” he burbled weakly. “But please just let me search with you for one day. If we don’t find it, then you can use the portkey.”

“As if I need your permission…”

The muscles in Harry’s arms were rubbery as he tried to pulled away. This was a mistake. He never should have let his guard down…never should have thrown himself on the man like the big sod of a baby he always knew he was.

Harry continued internally scorning himself until the solid arms tightened around him, corking his scattered thoughts. Glancing up gingerly, Harry glimpsed nothing but the short stubble on the man’s chin.

“Very well, Potter.”

Startled, Harry pushed his fists against Snape’s chest. “What?” he asked, hardly believing what he’d just heard.

The hooked nose dipped and broadened as the potions master glanced down at the ruddy-cheeked boy. “You get one day.”

“You’re seriously letting me come with you?” Harry asked quietly, his dark brows sneaking beneath the matching fringe.

Snape relaxed the fingers that he’d clamped around Harry’s elbows and rolled his eyes briefly before nodding to the stone staircase to his right. “Sit,” he commanded tersely.

Immediately, Harry took a few steps backwards, throwing an arm behind him to guide himself into a sitting position on the low, cold stone. He gazed up at his professor inquisitively, but Snape’s stare was raw and intense. And Harry found that he couldn’t look at him. So many unnatural things had happened in the past three minutes that the boy was uncertain of the man’s imminent reaction. Harry didn’t think he was in for it, but knowing Snape, anything was possible.

Threading his fingers together, Harry crossed one thumb over the other and squeezed his hands into a flushed knot, resting them lightly against his lap.

Maybe I shouldn’t have called him an idiot, the boy piteously ruminated. At least he wasn’t being dragged off for the dreaded soap…yet.

After a moment of staring awkwardly at his knees, Harry sensed Snape billowing toward him. Shifting his eyes to his left, Harry watched as the man crouched down on the step directly above his.

Snape had established the height discrepancy on purpose, and Harry knew it.

But if he was quick enough, he would be able to determine the general proximity. Using the heels of his shoes, Harry scraped his seat along the stone, squirming until his shoulder blades rested against the vertical encasement. The tips of his wildest pieces of hair were still centimeters from brushing against the aged, wooden banister, solidifying his lack of stature. But at least he wouldn’t be forced to strain his neck, goggling up at Snape like some doe-eyed toddler.

When he did chance a glance at his professor, however, the lines around the black eyes had gathered and fanned out at the corners. Snape appeared almost…curious. And for a small instant, a wave of self-consciousness flowed over Harry. Drawing up his knees slightly, Harry crossed his arms over his belly and settled the back of his head against the wall, eyes flickering over Snape’s drawn and pale features. If it weren’t for the man’s eyes, the immobility of the rest of his face could have almost merged with the stone behind it, unnoticed.

“Have you any memories of your mother, Potter?” Snape asked quietly, pinning Harry with the same odd, solid expression.

Harry’s feet tingled in his shoes and became clammy at the unexpected mentioning of his mother. He and his mum had the same eye color, and she looked really pretty in her pictures, with long, ginger hair, parted directly in the middle and the smallest of gaps between her teeth, barely noticeable. Harry had memorized image after grinning image of his mum. However, a sea of boiling shame flared up and squirmed through his insides when Harry suddenly realized that he remembered nothing. The photo album that Hagrid had given him was filled with blissful, preserved moments in time, and Harry had made up stories about each and every one. But those stories had been developed from his imagination. They didn’t exist.

The realization that gripped him as he huddled on the steps was sickening. He peered over at Snape. Last year it would have been so easy to glare into those frosty, sneering eyes and tell their owner to bugger off. But now, the thought of such a thing provided not even a sliver of comfort.

Tightening his arms across his stomach, Harry shook his weighted and buzzing head against the stone.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Snape agreed, his features stationary but not cruel. “We retain little to nothing of our memories from the first year of our lives. You are no different than the majority.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He had no idea why in the hell Snape had brought up his mum. What did she have to do with anything? She was dead. And Harry couldn’t even remember what her voice sounded like. He felt pathetic.

Pressing his teeth together, the boy stared at his professor, waiting.

“Your mother…” Snape hesitated, blinking slowly and said, “Your mother and father died to protect you. I suppose you know this.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together instantly. “Yeah,” he muttered, lazily clacking his head against the stone. “Hagrid told me last year.”

Why are we even talking about my parents? Harry wanted to scream at him.

“Indeed you are aware,” Snape affirmed. “However, I doubt that you truly understand the sacrifice…” He had spoken in a soft, careful voice. But Harry’s face stung as if he had been slapped.

He stilled his head, his breath quickening. “What are you talking about?” Harry all but spat, livid with himself for clinging to this man only five minutes ago in his clouded desperation. “You don’t even—“

“This is not an attack, Potter,” Snape interrupted firmly, though his tone remained rather flat, as though he’d been preparing for a rebuttal. “And my intention is not to insult your intelligence.”

Harry opened his mouth, but the man only shook his head once, erecting a single, silencing finger. Exhaling and pursing his lips, Harry settled back against the wall, ignoring the tiny, sharp pain that zinged through his scalp as his head banged against a protruding stone. His negligence to the sore spot sent tingles down his neck.

“It is difficult for you, or any other child for that matter, to appreciate or comprehend the vast measures taken by those in authority to keep you safe,” Snape began, studying the boy’s wrinkled brow and tensed jaw with interest. “All you know of your parents is that they left you alone to survive a less-than-satisfactory life with your relatives. Am I correct?”

Parting his lips but saying nothing, Harry gazed meticulously at Snape, his cheeks prickling in revelation. That couldn’t be all he knew about his parents…could it?

Without waiting for a response, Snape barely nodded before continuing, “You know of your parents’ fate, and in that aspect you feel connected with them. You are alive, and they are not. Yet it is still impossible for you to cherish that sacrifice as you feel you should. You are but a child, Mr. Potter. And for nearly ten years, you knew nothing of your parents, except that they no longer existed.”

Harry’s throat tightened. He didn’t have to listen to this; he didn’t need Snape’s help in making him feel wretched. Harry knew he could spring off of the staircase and back to the Great Hall in a flash. But his body felt numb and heavy. And nothing but morbid fascination was keeping him cemented to that step. If there was anything or anyone that Harry didn’t understand, it was Snape. One minute they were speaking of the locket and the Chamber, and the next, Snape was going on about his parents’ sacrifice.

“My parents loved me,” the boy whispered in a peculiar, cracked voice.

“Yes,” Snape agreed. His Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed. “More than life itself, obviously…”

Drawing his knees close to his body and stemming the urge to kick the Potions Master in the shin, Harry glared. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Professor…”

“Precisely my point, Potter,” Snape countered, leaning forward. Several strands of thin, twisted ebony drifted along the man’s pallid cheekbones. “As a child of twelve, you do not always understand the actions of adults. Aside from your parents, I would wager that you have deemed your professors pitiless at times. Perhaps you consider your punishments unjust and unreasonable…or believe those in authority to be apathetic…indifferent of your concerns-”

Vigorously shaking his head, Harry pushed his back against the wall in order to sit up straighter. “That’s not true!” he claimed. “I know that sometimes I’ve deserved my punishments, and I don’t think that way about every adult…”

“Only the ones who attempt to set strict boundaries in regard to your safety-”

“I’ve come to you for nearly everything this year!” the boy argued, gesticulating with splayed palms before slapping them down into a frustrated heap on his lap. “I even showed you all of Ginny’s letters, and now she’s probably gonna hate me for it. And I’ve been trying to help with other things, but you won’t let me… I don’t know what else you want from me.”

Clenching his teeth, his jaws swelling from the pressure, Snape reached out and grasped a handful of the child’s lapels, dragging him forward. Eyes widening in surprise, Harry encircled both hands around the man’s wrist as he was pulled forward, his denim trousers chafing along the stone as he slid.

“What I want, Mr. Potter, is for you to cease playing the martyr and use your common sense,” Snape rasped through gritted teeth. “The portkey I gave you wasn’t for decoration…”

“Well, no, you made it invisible,” Harry pointed out, his voice breathy and rigid as he continued to clutch Snape’s wrist.

The man’s eyes constricted to black gashes, and Harry stiffened his neck to keep from wincing. “I am well aware of what was done to it,” Snape asserted as he released the bunched material. “But you haven’t a single notion of its importance.” Resting an elbow on his knee, Snape sighed deeply, cradling his forehead against his fingers. The man’s lank hair swept forward, nearly concealing his face. “You’ve no idea,” Snape repeated gruffly, quietly. He gaze penetrated the landing below.

Harry stared at him, the pulse in his chest and temples dense and quick. “No idea of what, Professor?” Harry asked gingerly. He inched forward slightly, caught off-guard by the man’s sudden receding temper. Harry could handle Snape’s sporadic severity. But the following deflation made him uneasy. And this was the second time he’d witnessed such a thing.

Clearing his throat softly, Harry twisted one of the buttons of his coat between his thumb and forefinger while he fished for words. “I really do understand,” the boy admitted, glancing up at the empty staircase and back to his fingertips, anywhere but toward the wilted picture of humanity that was his dour Potions Master. “I know you gave me the portkey to keep me safe. And I shouldn’t have ripped it off just because I was angry. That was stupid…”

Snape glanced over, brushing back the fallen strands. His forehead had creased once again, though the deep black of his eyes had mellowed considerably. Two fingers remained pressed against his temple.

Peeking up from his button, Harry caught Snape’s eye and nearly smiled at the familiarity of the single, raised brow but didn’t. “It’s just…” he continued, stretching his leg across several edges of steps. “You haven’t even given it a chance…the searching, I mean. And I know you probably want to just fix everything so we don’t all have to stay at home for the rest of the year, but…” Harry paused, palming back his fringe, his hairline dotted with perspiration. He looked away again. “I dunno.”

“Look at me, Potter,” Snape instructed, straightening his back and cocking his head when the boy glanced his way. “First of all, remove your overcoat before you smother.”

Harry’s chin almost tapped his chest as he quickly looked down at his snugly-buttoned jacket. “Oh,” the boy commented, worrying the buttons and shrugging the thick material off of his shoulders. Draping his coat across his lap, Harry tucked a hand into an opened cuff as he reveled in the refreshing, lukewarm air that drifted across his back.

“Now that I have you are coherent and attentive,” Snape pressed on. “I expect you to remain as such for the duration of what I am about to say.” Hands fisted at either side of his robes, Snape leveled the wool about his torso with a brisk tug, lifting his chin with renewed stamina.

“I’m listening,” Harry assured him, wondering what had caused his professor’s resurgence.

Puckering his brows, Snape leaned forward a bit. But this time, Harry didn’t shy away. “You must know,” he said evenly, “that I do not base my decisions on hastily discovered facts or assumptions. As much as you loathe accepting it, I am an adult, and I have obviously been alive longer than you. I have made several mistakes and have learned from them…attempted to improve from them. My actions have motive. That said, I do not restrict you from certain things to simply make you miserable—“

“I know.”

“No, Mr. Potter,” Snape insisted in a brusque voice, extending a forefinger toward the child’s chest. “You do not know, for if you did, you would obey without question.”

Harry frowned. “But why am I not allowed to question things?” he argued. “Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I have to keep my mouth shut. I can have an opinion, can’t I?”

“Even if I said otherwise, you would anyway,” Snape followed up with the hint of a weary smirk.

“Not necessarily…” Harry mumbled. “You just never explain anything to me.”

“On the contrary, you do not listen.”

“I-’

The boy stopped, fingers tangled and stilled within the jacket’s lining. “Yeah I do. I mean…don’t I?” Harry asked, rather uncertainly. The lines in his forehead stitched together in thought.

Snape’s smirk pronounced itself in victory. “Rarely…”

“Well,” Harry began, scratching at his wrinkled brow. “I’m listening to you now, aren’t I? It’s not like you’ve ever told me that I-”

“Potter…“ Snape broke in through clenched teeth, closing his eyes for a second.

“All right, all right,” Harry sighed, squirming on his step and staring at his jacket. “I get it.”

Damn, he thought. Snape had a point.

The fragile lids ascended like curtains over the coffee-brown orbs. “You…get it,” the man repeated.

“Yeah…” Harry muttered, his eyes flicking up for an instant. “I mean, yes, sir,” Harry corrected himself, “I understand.”

Silence wracked the air for a lingering moment until Harry finally lifted his chin, gazing into Snape’s face. The muscles around Snape’s lips relaxed slightly before his professor tipped his head once, retaining eye-contact.

“You would have proved a weak thread in the stature of Slytherin House, child,” Snape informed him, a strange, dull gleam around his pupils.

“What do you mean?” Harry wondered, folding up his outstretched leg once again and nesting his chin in the crook of his elbow that he’d rested across his knee. If he’d had his guard up, Harry would have taken Snape’s comment as an insult. But his professor had never addressed him as child, before. And that alone seemed to tenderize the sinewy intent.

“Acceptance of one’s faults is a Slytherin’s scarcest trait,” Snape explained briefly, tugging at the cuffs of his starched sleeves in a bored manner.

“What faults?”

But Snape only rolled his eyes, smirking softly as he rotated his wrist in the black cuff, giving it a final pinch and pull.

“Shall we discuss tomorrow,” Snape began, inclining his head. “Or did you wish to insert another brilliant exclamation before we proceed?”

Still analyzing Snape’s diluted praise, Harry sat up suddenly, passively ignoring the insult as his brain clouded with a new thought. “Professor?”

“Potter.”

“What’s wrong with Malfoy?” Harry asked with as much concern as he could muster. To be honest, he was more curious that fretful over the Slytherin’s condition. But he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Malfoy had owned up to something after all. Or maybe he’d tried to tell Snape something but was brushed aside… That always made Harry the angriest.

“Why do you ask?” Snape opposed the inquiry with one of his own, lowering his chin slightly in preparation of the sudden examination. “Has he said something to you?”

Harry watched as Snape’s eyes narrowed again, but he only shook his head quickly and shrugged. “Well, no,” the boy admitted. “He just seemed really angry when he left your office that day, and before he got on the carriage—“

“We have established Mr. Malfoy’s lack of knowledge concerning current events, Potter,” Snape promptly interrupted, his tone dim and edged with warning. “You are well aware of this.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” Harry agreed, anchoring his palms behind him and shifting eagerly on his step until Snape allayed his squirming by offhandedly pressing a flattened palm against the knobby shoulder. “I was just wondering…”

Snape took his time ogling the boy with an evaluative eye before speaking. “Mr. Malfoy is spending the holidays with an elderly uncle, as his mother and father are detained.”

“Did he not want to go or something?” Harry probed, rolling up the edge of his coat sleeve in a deliberately casual manner.

“Unfortunately, the rules set for this holiday season extend even to Mr. Malfoy,” the man replied quietly, running a thumb across the knuckles of his balled fist. He surveyed his own movement with unnecessary care, exhaling briskly.

Even though Snape wasn’t looking elsewhere, Harry was mesmerized by the faraway expression. Draco had wanted to stay for the holidays, and he’d been denied. His own Head of House had sent him away for Christmas. But Snape had kept Harry. And if the man had planned on using the portkey to enter the Chamber, then he hadn’t originally wagered on Harry’s aid in seeking out the basilisk.

His holiday at Hogwarts was intended to be just that. And now Harry knew that Snape had seen to it.

He at least understood that much.

Guiltily clamping his lips together, Harry clutched handfuls of his coat, drawing it close to his stomach. “Thanks, Professor,” Harry mumbled lamely.

Better late than never, he supposed.

Snape glanced up, arching his eyebrows as if he’d just taken notice of the bespecled, and rather subdued boy beside him. “Whatever for?”

Lifting his eyes warily, Harry focused on his professor’s chin. “…for keeping me here.” He shrugged, suddenly feeling rather shy and ungrateful. “And for letting me help you find the entrance to the Chamber… I really didn’t mean to freak out on you before.”

Snape’s throat muscles rippled as he cleared his throat lightly. “Eyes up, Potter.”

Suppressing a flinch, Harry gave him a heavy-lidded flicker of acknowledgment. He waited for Snape to say something, but the man only studied the freckled, emerald eyes for a time before bowing his head once in an idle nod. Wordlessly, Snape delved into the cavernous pocket of his robes and extracted the clasped locket that Harry had discarded. Separating the chains with his fingertips, the man simply leaned forward and slipped it over the boy’s head for the second time.

Harry glanced down at his chest, watching as the charm bobbed against his heavy-knitted jumper.

“I will not be receiving this back. Do you understand, young man?”

Delicately thumbing the engraved metal disk, Harry curled up one side of his mouth into a half-smile. “Mmmhmm,” he slurred in agreement, flicking his fingernail against the tiny clasp of the sealed locket once more before raising his eyes. “I do.”

Face glazed over in warm solemnity, Snape placed his hand over the smaller, adjacent shoulder and squeezed. And this time, Harry made no move to pull away.

“Good boy, Harry,” the man approved, nodding once again.

“See…” Harry began with a one-armed shrug, stretching the other half of his lips into a true, impish smile this time. “I can listen after all, can’t I…”

Removing his hand, Snape contorted his mouth into his own malicious smirk. “How good of you to remind me of tomorrow’s rules.”

Harry’s face fell instantly. “Say what?” he muttered a bit sourly.

“The rules,” Snape repeated, pursing his lips and sobering his expression.

“Oh…”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter,” the man continued, rising from his step in a single, swift movement. He peered down at the boy. “I trust you are familiar with the concept?”

Craning his neck upwards, Harry wriggled his glasses in place with a scrunch of his nose. Surprisingly, Snape extended a palm to the squinting boy. Harry hesitated only a second before placing his hand in Snape’s and allowing himself to be hoisted up.

“How could I not be…” he nearly snorted, as he dusted off the seat of his trousers with his released hand. Adjusting his coat over his right arm, Harry continued following his professor down the final flight of stairs as if the small hiatus had never occurred.

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.

Myrtle’s bathroom smelled as if it were sheathed in mold.

The stones under Harry’s feet had taken on a greenish hue and were sweating from the heavy moisture that hung in the air. Amazingly, the second floor lavatory was no longer flooded, but Harry almost wished it were.

Its current slippery state was revolting.

The damp, cold air squirmed its way into the cuffs of Harry’s jumper as he scanned the rusty toilets and peaked ceiling for any sign of the sour ghost. Wrinkling his nose, Harry twisted around; he lifted his chin and threw a mild scowl toward Snape, who was trailing more closely than Harry would have preferred.

“It smells horrible in here,” the boy complained to his rather indifferent professor. “How does Myrtle stand it?”

Snape mirrored the child’s disgusted frown. “She’s dead, Potter. Surely you have learned of the attributes of ghosts and similar beings by now…”

“I figured they can’t smell anything,” Harry huffed in growing annoyance. “I just meant that it’s really depressing. I’d go mad if I spent all of my time in this bathroom.” He gestured toward the clouded windows and somewhat slimy sills with a nod of his head.

“Not everyone revels in sunshine and rainbows, foolish boy,” Snape grumbled as his eyes leisurely dragged over the scene. “Now enough gawking. We’re here for a reason.”

Harry felt his collar tighten a bit around his throat as Snape clutched a handful of his jumper and pulled him a few steps to the left. Hunching his shoulder close to his cheek, Harry easily freed himself from Snape’s rather lax grip and began backing up toward the wall behind the cement sinks.

“No fooling about,” Snape warned, briefly extending a stiff forefinger in the boy’s direction as he sidestepped his way over to the toilets. He held his wand securely in his other hand, the small orb of preserved sound wavering like heat off of the tip.

“Why would I?”

“Because it’s you, Potter.”

But Harry saved his reply as he was already feeling his way along the chilly stone, his splayed palms moist with mildew and grit. The gray bricks were as solid and stagnant as ever. Craning his neck back, Harry peered carefully at the bricks that lined the area just under the bathroom ceiling.

“Maybe it’s like the entrance to Diagon Alley,” Harry spoke to the stone, thinking outloud. He ran his thumb along the crack between two bricks above his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Snape’s deep voice echoed from behind, sounding as if his head were close to the toilet bowl.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “Why is that ridiculous?” he challenged. “I’m just saying what if…”

“Well, it is rather ridiculous, don’t you think?”

Both Harry and Snape snapped their heads around in search of the whining, nasal drawl.

As Snape backed out of the middle toilet, the door creaked on its tarnished hinges before banging closed. “Show yourself, Myrtle,” the professor commanded, moving swiftly to his right and wrenching open the stall door.

“I shan’t,” the ghost squeaked with a hiccough that echoed throughout the bathroom. “Not if you’re going to shout at me!”

“Quit yelling at her,” Harry whispered harshly as he strolled up behind Snape, whipping his head around as he tried to spot Myrtle’s location. “She’s gets her feelings hurt.”

“Do not tell me how to speak, Potter,” Snape growled down at the swiveling, spiky head of hair.

“I’m not trying-“

But before Harry could finish his sentence, another high-pitched, quivery hiccough bounced off of the surrounding walls.

Oh no, Harry dismally mused. She was revving up for a full-blown wail.

“Please don’t get upset, Myrtle,” Harry quickly attempted in the most apologetic voice he could muster. He tried to move away from Snape, but the man had suddenly clapped a hand across the base of Harry’s neck and held him still.

Harry rolled his eyes but took a step back anyway. He could have easily wiggled his shoulders and ripped free of Snape’s hold. But the large palm was warm and soothing against the gooseflesh that had sprung up and rippled along his neck.

And Myrtle had quieted.

Perhaps she was listening after all…

“Could you come out for a minute?” Harry called, flicking his eyes around the room. “Professor Snape won’t shout.”

The hand tightened around his neck, and Harry could help but smirk up at its owner. “Tell her,” the boy mouthed.

“Do show yourself,” Snape said dryly. “You’ve nothing to fear.” His thin lips fumbled humorlessly over the forced kindness.

Dipping his chin, Snape raised a cynical eyebrow at the boy. Harry gave him a half-grin of approval.

For a long moment, Myrtle said nothing. Harry turned sideways, fervently watching the toilets for the girl’s arrival. Convinced that he wouldn’t dart anywhere without consent, Snape let his hand drop from Harry’s neck.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Harry waited.

Suddenly, a squeaking noise sounded from behind them. Flipping around, Harry gasped as Myrtle squeezed out of one of the heavily encrusted sink faucets. Her white, translucent form slinked out of the tiny opening as smoothly and quietly as smoke.

Still moping, Myrtle floated up to a niche in the ceiling and settled into it. She flashed both occupants a daring glare.

Harry swallowed around his dry tongue as he stared at her. “Hey, Myrtle,” he croaked, feeling like an idiot. He could sense Snape standing directly behind him now, but he was too preoccupied to care.

Myrtle played with the folds of her skirt. “No one ever wants to see me,” the ghost pouted. “They’re only interested in poking fun or invading my privacy. You’ve got glasses too, Harry.” Myrtle nodded down at the boy. “Do your classmates tease you…or throw books in your face?”

“I…they…well,” Harry sputtered, inspecting the wild look in Myrtle’s bespecled gaze. He thought fast. “In primary school, they sometimes did…”

“Did they?” the girl crooned with a tilt of her sallow, puckered face.

“Yeah, sometimes-“

“That is quite enough of this absurdity,” Snape growled under his breath. Placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder, Snape tugged him back and stepped around him. “Myrtle,” the man’s volume increased as he addressed the still-sulking ghost. “Mr. Potter and I have no intention of staying longer than necessary.”

Myrtle’s lower lip began to wobble dramatically.

“Now you’ve done it...”

Without looking back, Snape reached behind him and nipped the side of the boy’s thigh with a quick, stinging flick of his fingers.

Harry immediately flailed away from his professor and his swift reflexes. Making a face, he rubbed his leg with the heel of his hand a few times before turning away and leaving Snape to deal with Myrtle and her impending temper.

Fine, Harry thought as he focused his attention on the rusty faucets. If she starts howling it’ll be your fault.

Rather affronted, Harry gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the conversation going on behind him. He picked at a loose sheet of brown rust that threatened to peel off of the side of the spigot, apathetic of the grime that was working its way underneath his thumbnail.

What did it feel like to be dead and float through taps and skinny pipes? And why was the idea of entering the Chamber through the bricks ridiculous? It could be a bloody invisible entrance for all Harry knew.

He flicked his thumbnail against another stiff piece of rust watching as it fluttered down to the basin while Myrtle burbled on about Ginny Weasley being horrid amid Snape’s exasperated sighs and strained patience.

Harry smiled to himself. And then he froze, a short wave of apprehension spiraling between his ribs. The smile on his face instantly disappeared as he crouched down and peered hard at the encrusted emblem near the base of the faucet.

Leaning in closer, he smoothed the pad of his gunk-covered thumb over the twisted blemish, deafened by the thick pulse in his ears.

Could it really be so simple?

Harry gripped the spout in his cold and pulled hard. He twisted it both ways.

Nothing.

Pressing his thumb against the tiny, metal snake, Harry pushed against the sink with all of his strength.

Still nothing.

“Come on,” he whispered as his thumbnail grazed over the serpent’s grooves. “This has to be it. Please open.”

Suddenly, the sink groaned, a heavy, metal-on-metal grinding sound that caused the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck to prick up again.

The faucet in his hand vibrated for several seconds, and then it slipped from his fingers as the row of basins began to sink into the bathroom floor.

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

Severus nearly choked on the air that had frozen in his lungs the second he’d spun around toward the descending sinks.

And there Potter stood, his belly rounding and deflating with rapid, heaving breaths as he gawked into the gaping hole in the floor, his hair blown askew by the cool air that gushed up from the entrance.

The entrance. Potter had found it. He had discovered it and he’d somehow opened it.

The toes of the boy’s trainers scaled the edge of the open circle. He was too close.

“Potter, away from there!” Severus exclaimed loudly, his temporarily petrified impulses kicking into full gear as he swept forward.

Myrtle shrieked and dove for her toilet.

The boy whipped around in sudden shock, his face gray-white and impossibly adolescent. But he had reacted much too frantically, and he wavered, unsteady, his heel slipping over the edge of the abyss.

The loud squeak of a rubber sole scraping against a wet wall resounded about the vertical tunnel. For the smallest of instants, Potter caught himself by his knee cap. His face contorted in pain as the joint made contact with the stone.

Severus lunged for him; his echo-ignited wand flung itself out his hand and clattered against the tunnel wall, landing somewhere below. But the bathroom floor was wet—coated in mold—and the boy’s palm slapped the stone once before he disappeared below the surface.

“Dammit! Potter!”

Abandoning all common sense, Severus hoisted himself up and plunged over the edge of the entrance without a second thought.

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

The wand next to Harry’s face was glowing with a strange, dim white light at the end, but he let it lie.

He hadn’t fallen far, and he’d landed on a pile of rubbish that crunched and poked into his trousers. It was too dark to identify anything. His knee ached terribly, and he’d scraped his hand on the floor when he’d slid down the tunnel on his stomach. His palm burned, and the skin of his belly was wet from the freezing cold metal.

But at least he wasn’t dead.

Pushing himself up with his hands, carefully cupping his stinging one against the ground, Harry slowly sat back on his heels, testing out his knee.

It was still sore, but he didn’t think he’d dislocated anything. He hoped not, anyway.

Before Harry could organize his thoughts any further, however, he heard a swishing sound from the tunnel in front of him. And a second later, a sharp crunch as a body landed beside him, sending a tickling breeze across his face.

“Harry?” Snape breathed heavily in the darkness. The floor crackled and popped beneath him as he moved around. “Are you here?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” The parched, high pitch of his voice startled him as it echoed throughout the tunnel. “I’m all right.”

He could feel Snape’s damp fingers on his nose and hair as the man felt his way through the darkness.

“Do you have your wand?”

“Erm…” Harry scrambled for his waistband with shaking fingers. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Cast Lumos, please.”

Harry sniffled through his runny nose as he wiped the sweat from his hand on his trousers and took a deep, composing breath. “Okay.”

They both squinted against the bright blue glow that engulfed the suffocating space. Harry jerked back a bit. Snape was closer than he’d figured. The man’s face was deeply creased and his mouth was thin and tight as he immediately tucked his hands underneath Harry’s armpits and hauled him off of the ground as he stood.

Gripping his wand in his fist, Harry glanced down at his trainers that dangled several centimeters off of the ground.

“Look at me,” Snape said tersely.

Harry snapped his eyes up toward the sealed features. Snape was still breathing heavily through his nostrils.

“You’re not hurt?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, sir.”

“You hit your knee on the way down. It doesn’t hurt?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Bend it.”

“Do what?”

Snape set him down gently, still gripping him about the underarms. He nodded toward Harry’s knee. “Bend it—back and forth. Do it now.”

Harry complied. His kneecap tingled, almost itched, but the pain was fading. “I think it’s all right,” he ventured.

Snape stared at him for a long moment, swallowing several times as if wetting his tongue to speak, but he didn’t.

Balling up his fist, Harry wiggled his fingertips over his warm and mildly scraped palm. “I found it,” he stated, his mouth relaxing into a small smile.

“You did. And you spoke Parseltongue,” Snape said hoarsely, still unsmiling. He cleared his throat gently. “What did you say?”

Harry scrunched up his eyebrows in a questioning manner. “No I didn’t…”

“Yes, Potter, you did,” Snape countered, releasing Harry as he moved over a few steps and reached down for his own wand, turning it over in his hand to inspect before holding it next to his thigh. “You whispered something.”

Still frowning in confusion, Harry shrugged the cuff of his jumper over his wrist and twisted it until the damp patch of wool lined up with his scrapes. Suppressing a wince, he pressed the cool material against his palm.

“I think I just asked it to open or something,” the boy mumbled, holding his wand out further form his torso and glancing around the glistening cave walls as they illuminated. “I wasn’t being serious. I can’t believe it was that easy…”

“Indeed,” Snape replied in a non-committal way. He sighed heavily and brushed his frazzled locks away from his face with one hand while fingering his wand in the other. “You are still wearing the portkey, I take it?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was staring at the ground in disgust, his wand dangling lifelessly by his side. “Sodding hell…” he whispered. “Are those bones?”

“Potter!”

“What?” Harry glanced up and then grimaced. “How come there’re bones in here?”

Snape ignored him. “The portkey,” he repeated, gesturing toward the boy with a jerk of his wand. “Take it out.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Harry hesitated, fragile bones sporadically snapping under his trainers the longer he stood. “You can’t be serious,” he said quietly. “I’m the one who found the Chamber and you’re still-“

“No arguments, Potter,” Snape coolly reminded him.

“This isn’t fair!” The blue light at the end of Harry’s wand skittered about the walls from his gesticulations.

“You could have been killed.”

“But I found it!” Harry argued, though his voice took on more of a pleading tone.

“You did,” Snape agreed. “And you nearly hurled yourself into that blasted hole instead of calling for me-“

“I won’t go.”

Snape drew in a significant, steadying breath, effectively standing his ground. “You will if I say you will.”

Harry’s throat felt like it was closing; he stared hard at Snape, his head spinning. “But I think heard it…” he said weakly.

Silence dominated the space. The hazy blue and white lights springing from both wands throbbed in alternation.

Snape’s whole face clouded dangerously. “If you’re lying to me, young man, I will blister you…“

The boy’s stomach lurched at the threat, but he forced his brain to do some fast thinking. “I could try the sound amplification spell,” Harry offered. He swallowed quickly, his throat dry and rough. “Then I could be really sure. And if I don’t hear anything, then I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m here with you or not. I’ll take the portkey to Dumbledore’s office. I swear won’t argue.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Snape warned quietly, his stance rigid.

Harry clutched the damp cuff of his jumper against his shallow cuts firmly enough to sting. “I won’t.” As much as he felt like gluing his eyes to the floor, Harry didn’t, even though it hurt his insides to look into Snape’s face.

The man’s words were as stern and scare-inducing as they always were. His face, though…his face was a different story. Snape didn’t appear as mean as he probably thought he did. His eyes were drawn at the corners like a scolded dog. He looked almost betrayed. Betrayed by a short, skinny kid with crooked glasses and soiled trainers.

And as Harry extinguished his light with a breathless Nox, he implored with every ounce of his heart that he would at least hear something that sounded like a basilisk.

It had been a long time since he’d told a lie to Snape, and just the mere thought of it was too much to bear. He couldn’t. The truth may get him in trouble, but he simply couldn’t fib. He wouldn’t.

Clearing his throat, Harry waved his wand in the air and recited, “Sonitus Amplificarum!”

Heavy static instantly coursed through Harry’s ears.

With the soft light from Snape’s wand and the meager illumination from above, his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. But the hand on his shoulder made him feel stronger anyway.

Harry waited. He allowed his lids slip closed and stood as still as possible.

Please, he thought. His hand itched with sweat as he gripped his wand.

And then he heard it.

Harry figured he must have stiffened, because Snape’s hand tightened on his shoulder. The voice wasn’t loud…or even frightening. Instead, it sounded far away and raspy.

Harry’s pulse quickened as he listened.

Master… Master… The voice repeated it over and over. A quiet, mournful requiem.

“Do you hear anything?” Snape’s whisper exploded in Harry’s head.

He nodded slowly.

“Very well. End the charm and cast another Lumos, Potter.”

Harry obeyed; glad to rid his ears of the harsh buzzing and strange, crooning whisper. Glad that it would still be another minute before Snape’s face would appear in the muddled atmosphere.

He couldn’t tell if the man believed him or not.

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

They walked on in silence with Potter’s ignited wand leading the way as they stumbled over the ruts along the floor in the dim tunnel.

The boy had been telling the truth, though by the way he’d tensed up about fifteen seconds into casting the Charm, Severus could sense that Potter was surprised by his own discovery.

And now here they were, venturing down a dark tunnel like bloody explorers. He’d half-expected the boy to be flitting arrogantly about, wand at the ready like a miniature Marauder. But Potter was quiet, concentrated. It was disconcerting and…odd.

“Are you all right?” Severus asked awkwardly, glancing down at the boy every so often.

Potter took his time before answering. He flashed his professor a sideways glimpse after a moment and nodded jerkily. “Yeah,” he said, hunching up the sleeve of his wand arm with a quick swipe of his hand. He stared forward again. “I’m fine.”

It would have been easy to contradict the child’s obvious feigning, but Severus simply held his own wand tighter and proceeded forward.

But all of a sudden, they came to a thick, flat stone wall. Potter halted, blinking rapidly as the blue light shone over the engraved snakes. He glanced up with a questioning look.

"What now?"

Peering at the elaborate serpents petrified mid-slither, Severus shook his hair out of his face and raised his brow as he gazed down at the boy. "You spoke in Parseltongue before, Potter," he began, jerking his head to the side. "Do it again."

Harry frowned. "I don't know how."

"Try."

"I can't..."

"Just tell it to open," Snape insisted, swallowing his annoyance at the prolonged banter.

Huffing under his breath, Harry held his wand eye-level as he narrowed his gaze, his pupils burning into the stone. He spoke slowly, softly. And then he waited.

"Told you..." Harry complained, smirking humorlessly up at his professor.

But before Severus could respond, the slab creaked. The boy immediately flicked his eyes back toward the concealment. Stone scraped against stone as the snakes weaved through their stone grooves, expelling clouds of dust into the wand-light.

Ever so slowly, the large Chamber came into view; they both halted. From beside him, Potter suddenly began expelling deep, abrasive gusts of air. Without peering down, Severus scooted the child closer to him with a firm hand on the side of his neck. He could feel Potter’s heartbeat pulse through the delicate skin behind his earlobe.

Some distance away, an enormous stone serpent spanned the height of the cave, its lance-like fangs poised and glimmering with dampness.

It was like stepping into a nightmare. Or the Dark Lord’s mind…

Severus crouched down, pulling the boy close. He could smell the saltiness of the sweat that dotted the thin, dark brow. “You can still hear it, can’t you…” he stated soberly, keeping his voice deliberately calm, yet firm enough to stabilize order.

Harry nodded, now drawing in short, warm breaths through his nose.

“Same words?”

Another nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Same volume?”

A tiny bead of sweat trickled down the boy’s temple. Severus reached up and wiped it away with his thumb. Harry’s forehead was cold.

“No.”

“No?”

Harry shook his head, his eyes darting toward the obscene statue to his left. “It’s louder,” he said, his voice scratchy and thick.

Severus gripped the boy’s chin, pressing his fingers and thumb against the sweaty cheeks. The wide, green eyes immediately snapped back to attention.

“Stay here against the wall,” Severus ordered. “Do not move.”

“How close do you have to be to echo the rooster’s crow?”

“Close.”

“But how-“

“Do you hear me, boy? You will not move!”

Harry flinched slightly. “I hear you.”

Releasing the child’s face, Severus steered him back over the threshold and pushed the narrow shoulders up against the cave wall. “I will return,” he promised, squeezing Potter’s shoulders briefly before turning on his heel.

“But what if you don’t…”

Severus froze, flipping his head around. He gazed at the small, stiff boy plastered to the wall, gazed into the worried eyes that unknowingly held so much weight. Their green was intense; impaled his chest. Stripped him raw. But somehow…somehow seemed to also comfort him in the aftermath of the pain.

He lifted his chin importantly and softened his own eyes as much as he knew how.

You will not fail her twice.

Severus held the child’s stare for another meaningful second. “I will return,” he repeated.

And then he was gone.

Harry’s right hand was so sticky with sweat that it felt suctioned to the stone behind him. The air in his lungs was warm, making his breathing erratic.

But he stayed on the wall.

He didn’t want to, but he did it. For practical reasons. The vacuumed echo was swirling around the tip of Snape’s wand, not his. Snape had read through every Defense volume he owned. Harry had only devoured the first book. And it was skinny. Flimsy in Harry’s opinion…

He knew nothing but simple, stupid spells and a sound enhancing charm that would be worthless in facing down a basilisk. Not to mention, his Protego was bloody wretched.

Curling his fingertips against the moist wall, Harry leaned forward as much as he dared. Snape was nowhere in sight. Large puddles of green water pooled on either side of the snake’s head like venom. The fangs were reflected in the water; their image contorted as the smooth water seemed to quiver in time to the basilisk’s whispered moans.

And Harry was alone. He felt naked and ignorant. He wasn’t a great wizard—he didn’t care what others thought. His heartbeat banged against the soft walls of his throat like a mallet while he waited; Harry was frightened.

Taking in gusty breaths through his nose, Harry slowly counted back from one-hundred…again. The basilisk’s rasping floated in between the descending numbers ticking off in his brain.

Master… Master… Harry held his breath, putting pressure on his eardrums to cause as much noise as he could. Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six—

Master… Master… Master…

The sound was getting closer. Harry clutched the walls, painfully gouging the granite with his fingernails.

It wasn’t right.

Suddenly, something thick and heavy scraped along the wall, like leaves blowing around the playground. The basilisk had to be moving. It was a sickening sound.

Why is it moving? Harry’s head pulsed with the thought as his lungs fought against the muggy oxygen seeping into them. How is it even alive?

Snape was supposed to have killed it by now. Unless the basilisk had gotten to him first… Harry resisted any notion to hyperventilate. There was no way Snape could be dead already. Harry would have heard it, wouldn’t he?

He slid the sole of his trainer against the ground a single pace to the right, slowly dragging the rest of his body over in line with his foot. The sweat on his palm sluiced between the cracks, stinging the cuts on his injured hand. But Harry ignored the pain as he dislodged himself from the wall, taking tiny, water-logged steps toward the hideous stone serpent. His eyes skittered along the cave walls, searching for any sign of Snape or the basilisk.

Scales crackled as they grazed along stone. Harry jerked his head to the right, and froze.

“Stay,” he whispered into the darkness. “Don’t move anymore…please…” Harry swiped his tongue over his crinkled lips.

Master… The strange lament melted into an inquiry.

The voice was loud, now—all around him. Static-like hissing strung its way through Harry’s ears and caused the skin on his back and stomach to tingle. His shins felt like lead.

Faintly, Harry heard splashing in the distance, but the voice had mesmerized him. He stared hard at the deep patches of shadow spaced about the heaps of wet rock.

“Where are you?” Harry asked softly. Somehow, the tightness had eased in his stomach. He heard the dense scratching sound again.

Switching his wand into his dominant hand, Harry held the glowing holly further away from his torso and raised it up slowly. His arm went stiff as the sharp blue light wavered over large, blood-shot orbs. The red, spidery streaks glittered against the black slits.

Pounding footsteps clacked against the stone with watery splats. “Stay still!” Snape’s breathy exclamation wafted toward Harry as though it were filtered through a fog—muffled and thin.

Without moving his head, Harry dragged his eyes along the slimy, copper-coin scales and back to the peculiar, calm head of the basilisk. He could hear Snape moving behind him, but Harry couldn’t unlock his gaze from the large beads, glassy as if clouded with confusion.

His heart thudded lustily and the air was now scorching in his mouth, but Harry wasn’t afraid. An electric bolt of confidence zinged along his spine, and his scalp prickled.

Master… the basilisk hissed with a flicker of its tongue between rows of yellowed, dagger teeth.

“Don’t move,” Harry told it. His own commanding voice seemed unfamiliar and far away. It swirled above his head, just as it seemed to have done during the Dueling Club.

Yes, Master… Wait to kill… Wait... Its triangular head swayed drunkenly on a body obscured in the inky gloom of the cavern.

Harry couldn’t rip his eyes away from the disoriented monster; the slippery wand in his fist was long forgotten.

A short instant later, a cold and coarse palm reached around from behind and spanned Harry’s forehead, yanking him a step back from the basilisk.

The snake’s eyes flashed as it tilted its head.

Harry opened his mouth to speak once more, but sank his teeth into the tip of his tongue instead as the hand entangled in his fringe pulled him back further and pushed him away; black robes smeared in his vision as Snape’s wand arm reared back, and swished forward as if handling a bullwhip.

Harry barely heard the hoarse incantation tearing from Snape’s throat before the sound of a rooster’s crow ricocheted around them.

The screeching bark chilled Harry’s insides. He tried to side-step around Snape as the basilisk began to shudder. But the man instantly flipped around, grabbed a fistful of Harry’s jumper, and stumbled quickly into the darkness with him.

Harry’s wand flew out of his hand as he was jerked away. It rattled against the floor as it rolled, but he didn’t dare reach for it. Squatting down, Harry could feel Snape’s heaving chest against his shoulder.

The pulsating disk of light shone on the flailing serpent like a morbid spotlight; the basilisk hissed incoherently, and Harry was wracked with shivers as he watched its head thrash back and forth, cracking once against the wall of the Chamber before falling forward, and thudding against the jagged stone like a lifeless fish.

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

They crouched in silence for a while. But the seconds didn’t drag this time, and Harry didn’t bother counting backwards from one-hundred.

A good portion of Snape’s face was eclipsed. Harry could only make out the tip of his crooked nose and a few strands of dull, twisted hair in the paltry wandlight. He knew that Snape was probably studying the milky, dead eyes of the basilisk. Harry, however, could have vomited at the sight.

He wasn’t mesmerized anymore; he didn’t even want to look. The basilisk’s skin was paling too quickly—the color of earwax. And it made him queasy.

Harry’s tongue was clinging to the roof of his mouth. He figured Snape must have been bothered by the gloppy, smacking sounds his tongue made as it peeled itself away, because Harry swore he could feel pressure in his temples from a glare off to his right.

Turning his head a bit, Harry blinked against the gloom. “I’m thirsty,” he explained. His voice cracked on each word.

Snape didn’t say anything. He tilted his face away and began fumbling with something in his pocket. Extracting a small, shadowed object, Snape pointed his wand toward it as if threading a piece of string through the eye of a needle.

Harry watched quietly as he sat on the sole of his shoe and hugged his other knee to his chest. An instant later, he heard a wet, tinkling sound as a jet of liquid trickled into the item that Snape must have transfigured—a goblet, maybe.

Wordlessly, he thrust the cup toward Harry. The liquid sloshed against the rim and dribbled over the side.

Harry didn’t even bother to sniff the concoction as he reached for it and pressed his lips against the slick wood and greedily sucked in a mouthful.

It was water. Cold, sweet, metallic water that tickled all the way down to his stomach. Harry took three enormous gulps before he felt Snape tugging at the base of the goblet.

“Slowly, Potter.”

Harry didn’t bother answering him. He swallowed what he’d been storing in his cheeks and pulled the cup away from his mouth, gasping for air.

“Thank you,” Harry spouted breathily, lifting the back of his wrist to swipe at a droplet of water that had seeped from his lips.

Pushing himself up from the ground, Snape ignored the gratitude and walked over to the weakly illuminated wand lying in the middle of the cave floor. He stooped and plucked it from the ground. The soft blue light sailed across the stiff head of the basilisk and extinguished as Snape wrapped his fingers around it, abandoning the serpent in total darkness.

Immediately, Snape tapped his wand against the air, replacing the doused Lumos with one of his own. Harry screwed his lids up tightly as the strong light beamed in his eyes. Snape lowered his wand to the floor and quickly passed Harry his own.

“Finish your water,” the man instructed, nodding toward the goblet that Harry held loosely at a dangerous slant.

Harry straightened his spine and slipped his wand through his belt loop before swirling the remaining liquid around in the bottom of his cup, tipping it back and polishing it off. He stood and handed his goblet to his professor when it was empty.

Snape clipped the neck of the chalice between two fingers and banished it away.

Running a sweaty hand over his fringe and all the way back to his neck, Harry blew out a slightly wobbly breath and jiggled one of his trainers against the stone floor. His suddenly realized his kneecaps were swimming around beneath his skin. They had to be.

He sighed again and peeked up at Snape. “That’s it, then?”

Snape eyed him sardonically. “Were you expecting fireworks and a parade, Potter?”

“No…” Harry scratched at the chilled specks of sweat on his forehead and exhaled through his nose this time. A witty comeback held no appeal for him.

“You’re white,” Snape pointed out.

Harry stared. “So what?”

Twisting his lips in to a frown, Snape wiggled his forefinger. Harry understood the gesture; he dragged his feet forward, hating the squirmy feeling in his knees. When he came close enough, Snape raised Harry’s chin with a single fingertip and snaked a thumb up to his cheekbone, pulling down the skin underneath one eye. Snape did the same to the other.

Harry wiggled his hands into his pockets, glancing over toward the exit; he said nothing as Snape clamped his hand around the knob at the top of his spine and squeezed his thumb and middle finger against the spots on his neck that made his scalp tingle when pressed.

“Were you coming to search for me?”

Harry snapped his gaze to the left at the question. He didn’t want to be interrogated. Not now. He wanted to get the hell out of here; he despised this cave. And for some reason, his stomach clenched as if he’d done something wrong.

He focused on Snape’s chest. “No,” he muttered. It was the truth. But Harry waited for the rebuke anyway.

After a few seconds, when it still didn’t come, Harry glanced up. Snape merely arched his eyebrows. He tightened his fingers again and smoothed the pad of his thumb back and forth at the side of Harry’s neck…once, twice.

And then he nodded. Just barely. But it was a different sort of nod—something Harry’d never seen from Snape before.

He didn’t know how to respond.

All of a sudden, Snape dropped his hand to his side and cleared his throat quietly. “Take out your portkey,” he said gruffly.

“It listened to me,” Harry nearly whispered. He felt tainted, and he didn’t understand why. He hadn’t done anything horrible, yet he still had the desire to soak off the sensation in the bathtub.

Snape pointed to Harry’s chest where the locket was concealed; his lips thinned. “Take it out.”

Lowering his chin to his chest, Harry slipped his thumb underneath the warm chain and pulled the portkey out of his shirt. The locket slipped along the links with a zip.

“You can speak to snakes, child,” Snape finally replied, fingering the heavy locket. “You are aware of this.”

“I know that, but—“

“Cast Lumos,” Snape broke in.

“Again?” Harry scrunched his face up into a crooked squint.

“Again.”

Harry shrugged, appeasing the man’s request. The glow in the cave fluttered as Snape put out his own light. He reached over with his free hand and pinched the thin chain between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it away from Harry’s collar bones.

Holding his wand-arm in front of him, Harry watched as Snape tapped the drooping metal with the very tip of the ebony. The necklace instantly grew several sizes, and the locket slid even further down the links, dangling near Snape’s hipbone. He tucked his wand into his waistband for a moment and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s upper arm, yanking him close.

Snape gripped Harry’s other shoulder and tensed, setting his mouth tightly as if preparing to hoist the boy up.

Sensing what was happening, Harry instinctively clamped his armpits together. “Oh, no…” he cried, shaking his head as he resisted. “No way I’m going to be carried like some baby. I’m not hurt at all!”

“We both need to be wearing the portkey, Potter, in order to be relocated,” Snape growled. “Swallow your foolish pride—“

“We could just go back the way we came, couldn’t we?”

“Completely idiotic,” the man snapped, contracting his grip. “And a waste of time. This will take us straight to the Headmaster. Use your brain, boy—“

Harry clenched his teeth, his head sagging backwards in a silent plea. But he bit his tongue.

Snape angled his brow at the boy for a brief instant and then rolled his eyes. “Fine. Put your light out. Wand away.”

He released one of Harry’s arms and squatted down to his level, retracting his own wand from his trousers before flipping the hair away from his nose and throwing the elongated chain around his neck.

Taken aback but obeying quickly, Harry listened as Snape whispered a strange incantation into the stuffy blackness and tapped the locket twice with his wand.

A fuzzy, turquoise ring of light instantly burst around the silver pendent. Harry felt Snape jerk him even closer and sling an arm around his waist.

“Three…two… one…”

Snape pressed his fingers firmly into Harry’s side as an invisible, smothering force sucked them away.

Harry’s chest expanded—tried to claw its way out of his ribs as he and Snape spiraled through the void. But the palm against his waist held him steady. He kept his eyes squeezed shut until he landed on solid ground. His soles hit the floor so hard that his toes stung.

“Breathe in,” he heard Snape say.

Saliva threaded through Harry’s lungs as he wheezed in a great mouthful of air. He coughed deeply for a moment before the blurred mass of an orange flame swam into his vision.

A shape-shifting flame. One of Dumbledore’s candles.

Harry gulped oxygen and glanced around.

“Better?” Snape’s voice floated down from above.

His fingertips were digging into Harry’s arm now, and they hurt, but Harry paid no mind to the new pain. His eyes were frozen on the Headmaster.

Seated behind his desk as placidly as always, Dumbledore clutched the mutilated diary of Tom Riddle, gaping inquisitively at the ink-encrusted hole like a child studying a twelve-legged insect.

The sword of Gryffindor rested against the nearest bookshelf, its handle glowing as if it had been engulfed in hot coals; its point dripped with black ink.

“What is it, Albus?” Snape asked quietly, loosening his grip on Harry’s arm when the boy began to wriggle.

Wrenching his head up, Dumbledore’s eyes unclouded as if noticing his occupants for the first time. “Ah, Severus,” the old man uttered thoughtfully, his face drawn and pale. “You and Harry have returned. “

Snape gave Harry’s sore arm a gentle, apologetic wring as they stared.

“I believe, my boy, that we have much to discuss,” Dumbledore continued, setting the diary down gently. He laid a wrinkled hand against the cover.

Harry glanced up at Snape, searching the steady features. The man’s throat rippled with a swallow. “For once, Headmaster,” he said, “we are in absolute agreement.”

Severus wiped the perspiration from his hairline as he rested in one of the creased leather armchairs in the Headmaster’s office. The fatigue was slowly draining from his muscles as he stared at the shredded and scorched covering of the diary in solemn consternation.

“You have known about this for some time, then?” he stated, running his thumb along his lower lip in his classic, interrogative manner.

Caressing the portion of silver beard that lay in a tousled curl on the desktop, Albus’ gaze drifted upwards as casually as a balloon. “I had my suspicions, Severus. And I can only go by what I have discovered thus far. “

“Thus far…” Severus repeated, frowning deeply. He shot a fleeting glance toward the now vacant armchair to his left where he’d hauled a pasty and cranky Potter through the Floo upon Dumbledore’s request.

He would have to owe Madame Pomfrey a crateful of freshly brewed potions in the morning after tending to the boy under such circumstances.

“The spirit of Tom Riddle that was implanted in the diary has been destroyed,” Albus maintained. He widened his eyes behind the fragile spectacles that rested on the tip of his nose. “Of that much, I am certain .”

“You expelled it…”

Albus paused meaningfully. “I did. And you, my boy, thwarted Slytherin’s monster if I am not mistaken.”

Reclining impatiently in his chair, Severus swallowed the familiar, intolerant tingle in his throat. He disregarded the acknowledgement. “For a short time, Potter possessed control over the basilisk—“

“Control, Severus?”

“It came to him, Albus,” Snape bit out with a terse tilt of his head, “sought the boy out with absolutely no intention of harming him.”

Thin fingers froze within the colorless curtain of hair before joining the opposite hand atop of the parchment strewn tabletop. Albus cocked his head slightly; the blue of his eyes was dull and deep—like the sky after a particularly lovely sunset. He gazed beyond the reproachful black pupils, saying nothing.

Severus’ chest ached with disgust, though his ire had no direction. He had been certain that after a single second of pupil-to-pupil contact with the serpent, Harry Potter would have dropped dead. Dropped dead under his watch…

But he didn’t. The child had merely been entranced. And he’d somehow kept the basilisk in mutual distraction. Kept it from striking.

Regardless, at that moment, Severus loathed himself. He massaged his rutted brow in order to barricade himself from the pensive haze that lingered about the office.

The headmaster cleared his throat gently in a poorly hidden attempt to grasp his colleague’s attention. When it failed, he proceeded: “Harry has a gift—“

“I know this, Albus.” The interruption was blunt. Severus pressed his fingers into the arms of his chair as he pegged the Headmaster with a raw glare. “The boy’s been recognized as a bloody Parselmouth for months now.”

“You misunderstand me, child,” Albus countered smoothly. He waited until the tight lids slackened around Severus’ eyes before continuing. “What I meant to say is that Harry is uniquely valiant for a boy of twelve. He has not been given much of a choice, I’m afraid.”

The shadow of a storm passed over Severus’ face. As usual, the old man was missing the point.

“However,” Dumbledore continued, speaking wistfully to his laced thumbs. “He will still struggle to find a balance between doing what is simply brave…and doing what is necessary. “ He inclined his chin carefully. “You, Severus, have succeeded in instilling this conflicted notion in Harry’s heart.”

Severus gawked at him, making no effort to clear the tempest. “The boy met its gaze and lived to tell it,” he said brusquely. “Does this not concern you at all?”

The headmaster clutched his fingers together as he turned his head toward the diary for a brief instant and then looked back down at his hands.

“Indeed it does,” Albus replied in a soft, stiff voice. “And I am sorry that I cannot provide you with an adequate explanation, my boy.”

Setting his teeth, Severus dropped his chin slightly and finally loosened his grip on the arms of his chair. His knuckles felt thick and brittle as sticks.

“But Harry is safe now. You brought him back.”

Severus snapped his head up at the simple statement. “Potter could have easily died, Albus,” he snarled, his stomach shrinking in self-contempt. “I have no one to blame but myself—“

“Severus...” Dumbledore interrupted mildly. Snape looked away, shaking his head in tiny movements, as if to ward off any attempt at condolence on the Headmaster’s part.

“I said nothing to him,” Severus mumbled between weak lips. “He faced down a basilisk and I barely said a damn thing…” He tapered off.

Dumbledore leaned forward a bit on his elbows. “What should you have said, child?”

For a long moment, Severus did not speak, only sighing as he fisted his knuckles underneath his nose. Albus never judged him. And sometimes Severus wished that he would. Perhaps it would assuage the guilt that constantly crawled through his resilience, threatening to choke him.

But he knew Albus wouldn’t hear of such nonsense. The headmaster knew that Severus paid for his treason every second of the day. Such internal suffering was more than enough.

“You have done an exceptional job, Severus,” Dumbledore murmured in tender mollification.

Severus exhaled against his fist again as if dismissing the praise. “I will be astounded if Potter manages to make it through his academic career unscathed.” He turned his face toward the desk with the slightest of pivots. “He’ll be the death of me. “

A trace of a forlorn smile crinkled the old man’s eyes as he glanced down at his desk, blanketing his features in his own sort of ambiguity that Severus could never interpret.

The fire sizzled and popped in the hearth as Severus silently scrutinized him. Finally, Dumbledore emerged; a more natural smile pronounced itself at the corners of his pale lips as he glanced up serenely. “Continue to cultivate him, Severus. And he will be fine. Both of my boys,” he elaborated significantly, “will be fine. “

Severus instantly felt the walls of his throat inflate and quickly hacked away the sensation as he shifted in his chair, straightening his shoulders presentably. He lifted his chin, his hair drifting away from his cheekbones.

“The diary,” he asserted gruffly, changing the subject. “You say you found need to destroy it, though I cannot help but assume the action was not done on a whim, am I correct?” He nodded toward the gaping hole in the blemished leather.

The soft glimmer in the blue eyes became mute and sober as they followed the professor’s indication. “I shall enlighten you to the best of my ability, Severus,” Albus declared as he drew in his folded hands closer to his chest.

Severus nodded once, inspecting the laggard movements of the Headmaster.

“However-“

“Yes?”

Dumbledore cocked his head in peculiar meditation. “I fear that instinct may have been a greater motivation than I had originally wagered…”

Intrigued, yet concerned, Severus furrowed his brow as he assessed the candid wonder that flashed beyond the spectacles once again.

Even with age, the Headmaster still had difficulty concealing his distress in the face of the sinister.

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

“Under your tongue,” the Mediwitch ordered with no-nonsense finality.

“Et tasse fuddy.”

A stern finger shot out and plinked Harry under the chin and remained there, effectively clamping his lips shut.

“Not another word,” Madame Pomfrey admonished with a pointed glare. “That thermometer is going to stay in your mouth for two minutes, and I’ll not hear another word against it. Is that understood?”

Harry bobbed his head in affirmation. The minute she turned her back and began fussing with the blankets at his feet, he made a face and crossed his eyes at her. The thermometer tasted like rubbing alcohol. Or maybe that was just the smell of the infirmary seeping through to his taste buds… Harry opened his mouth wide and rolled the glass stick against his bottom row of teeth, only to mash his lips together again when the woman turned around briskly.

Pomfrey narrowed her eyes warningly. “Two minutes,” she repeated.

Sinking back into his propped-up pillow, Harry twisted his mouth against the thermometer and looked down at his blanket, feeling contrite. Snape wouldn’t have liked that. He didn’t mean to be a brat; it just happened sometimes…

Breathing evenly through his nose, Harry closed his eyes and did some thinking.

It was so irritating to be dropped off in the infirmary like a wounded infant. He felt perfectly fine—a bit sleepy—but well enough to have been able to sit through a conversation in the headmaster’s office.

Oddly, this time, it hadn’t been Snape who had asked him to step out of the room—it was Dumbledore.

And that was completely unfair, Harry thought with a sigh.

His mouth was beginning to water and his lips were growing tired of pinching the thermometer. He wiggled his legs around under the covers and shifted the tip of the bulb under his tongue.

Madame Pomfrey was doubled over across the room; her behind wavered back and forth as she reached under underneath a mattress for a bedpan.

Harry wound the corner of his sheet around his thumb over and over again as he waited. Why hadn’t he been allowed to listen to their discussion? Dumbledore was the one who usually let him sit in on things like that. It couldn’t have been that blasted top-secret, could it?

Scowling around the glass in his mouth, Harry nursed his hurt feelings by contenting himself with the fact that Snape had promised to fill him in on anything pivotal. And he didn’t think Snape would lie to him or skip over the juicy facts like grown-ups loved to do.

After all, Harry hadn’t lied to Snape.

Four beds down, Madame Pomfrey reached into her starched white robes to check the dainty pocket watch stored within a pocket. After a brief nod, she slipped the small, silver circle back into its holding place and finished aligning the pillows.

Harry clunked the back of his head against the wall behind him. These two minutes were moseying by even slower than the time he’d had to keep a piece of soap on his tongue.

He thought some more about the ink-shellacked diary and got the shivers again. The sword had been dripping too, which meant that it was somehow used to puncture the diary. Dumbledore had been fingering the damage so strangely, almost like he was fascinated…or confused. Or maybe—

“All right, Mr. Potter,” the Mediwitch sighed as she bustled over to his bedside. She plucked the thermometer out of his mouth and held it up to take a reading. She glowered disapprovingly at the red stripe.

“I’m not sick,” Harry grumbled. “I was just dropped off here—“

“That bit of pink on your cheeks says otherwise,” she interrupted, shuffling over to a nearby tray and plunking the thermometer into a thin vial full of rubbing alcohol.

Harry watched it sink to the bottom before he felt invisible binds at his ankles tugging him flat on his back.

“Hey!”

Madame Pomfrey stuffed her wand into the sleeve of her robes with a satisfied smirk. “To bed.”

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

Dumbledore ran his thumb gently along the now clean and shining blade of the sword that he had laid across his desk after revealing as much as he dared.

“You mean to tell me, Headmaster,” Severus began, “that you suddenly had the urge to extract the sword and plunge it into Riddle’s diary like a fish on a spear?” His tone was customarily dry but not cruel.

Albus caressed the knob-like ruby sealed within the hilt as he eyed Severus in stark seriousness. “Have you never experienced such inkling, my boy?”

Frowning in perplexity, Severus shook his head. “No.”

“Ah.” The stark reply was laden with connotation.

Severus erected even further in his chair, appearing as if he were trying to organize his thoughts. But Dumbledore took a preparatory breath, and Severus waited for him to speak.

“You are aware, Severus, that the truest form of magic comes from within oneself,” Albus reflected importantly.

“Of course, but—“

“Lord Voldemort and I are ancient enemies,” the Headmaster continued as if Severus had never interjected. “And such a spell can only be produced with absolute intention, even if those intentions are subconscious…”

“Yes, but fiendfyre, Albus?” Severus proclaimed, skeptical still. “The idea is absurd! Surely you would have burned to ashes in the midst of it. The curse is inexorable—“

“Unless it was transferred through the body of the sword only,” Albus mused as he continued to gaze at the gleaming instrument.

Severus shook his head again as his eyes strayed over to the dried ink smeared along the crisp cover and pages of the diary. “You understand what this means, then.” He felt ill at the realization but his shoulders remained squared.

Dumbledore expelled a melancholy breath. “Knowing Tom Riddle, I am hardly surprised. Ever since you retrieved the diary from Miss Weasley, I had my suspicions, Severus,” he admitted for a second time. “And I cannot imagine the terror the child must have felt, having been entwined in his soul.”

“I can.”

Startled from his reverie, Albus’ pained eyes grazed over the pallid, weary face in front of him. “You, too, possess inconceivable bravery, Severus,” the Headmaster said affectionately. “I want you to know this.”

Severus didn’t respond; he instantly regretted his insensible ploy for sympathy. “What do you need me to do?” The inquiry was automatic.

The dreariness melted a bit from Albus’ face. He nearly smiled. “I want you to go to Harry,” he directed.

Severus swallowed. “Go to him…”

“He is a powerful wizard for one so young. But he is still just a child, Severus,” Dumbledore replied. He wove his bony fingers together and peered over his spectacles. “You were right.”

Lifting the majestic sword and cradling it against his arms, Dumbledore sidled over to its open case, leaving a stunned Severus congealed to his chair.

“You want nothing more to be done about this?” the Potions Master confirmed after a while; the words were arid and cracked in his choked throat. “Simply collect the boy and go about my business as always…”

Albus ran his wand over the case as it snapped shut. The handle of the sword seemed to quiver with a soft, red light—dull in contrast to the sparkling rubies.

“It is, after all, the Christmas holidays, “ the old man said a bit more jovially as he dawdled over. “And nothing more can be done.”

The Christmas holidays indeed, Severus inwardly sneered, though he physically bridled his disgust.

“Except—“

“Except what?” Severus slowly hoisted himself upright. He despised being half of anyone’s height.

The headmaster raised his chin artfully. “I would be obliged, Severus, if you would inform Professor Lockhart that he is to dispose of the basilisk as soon as possible.”

Simpering with unmatched glee, Severus tipped his head. “As you wish.”

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

Harry rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands repeatedly before they finally slit open. He jerked up when he realized where he was and scraped the rickety table top beside him in search of his glasses.

On cue, Snape palmed the boy’s chest and applied pressure. But he allowed him to slip his frames over his ears before he pushed Potter all the way down to his pillows.

“Where’d you come from?” Harry asked groggily. Then suddenly, he was awake. “And how come you left me here?” The volume of the child’s voice rose in concurrence with the urgency of his questioning.

“I knew the complaints would begin sooner or later,” Snape remarked as Harry wiggled underneath his restriction. “Politeness from you, Potter, can only last so long…”

Harry stilled. “I’m polite most of the time,” he argued vaguely, as if trying to convince himself. “You have to be in class, you know.”

Biting his tongue, Severus pulled a somber expression and straightened the folded blankets with a fierce flap. “I see.”

“So what’d you and Dumbledore talk about that was so important that you had to go and chuck me in the infirmary?” Harry asked, rolling over to his side and propping up on his elbow. His jumper was as rumpled as his hair. “I dunno why you think I can’t handle anything…”

“That decision, young man, was made by the Headmaster,” Snape scolded. “And if he felt your presence was unnecessary, then you should be mature and respect that decision.”

Harry frowned. “I do respect him—“

“The decision, Potter.”

The boy paused for a short moment, pondering. “Well…I would, but it was a stupid one.”

Snape closed his eyes and sighed. “Just as I suspected…”

“I mean, it didn’t make any sense…” Harry continued, shifting on his elbow to emphasize his point. “He had no problem with me going down into the Chamber with you, and then he—“

“Who claimed the headmaster had no preambles about you accompanying me?” Snape cut in. He knew very well that Albus had encouraged the joint venture, but Potter didn’t need to know that.

“He—“ Harry trailed off, cocking his head. “I didn’t think he minded very much, did he?”

“Your welfare is Professor Dumbledore’s most precious priority, Potter,” Snape disputed. “And his decision to utilize your aid in the search was not made lightly.” Perhaps if he repeated the insistency to himself, Severus would also be convinced.

Fingering the fold of his bedsheet, Harry thought about this for a moment. He scrunched his nose up, shifting his glasses a bit—the way he always did when he was deciding something.

“You said you’d tell me what you talked about,” Harry mumbled to the mattress.

“If I thought your knowledge of the matter was necessary…”

Harry glanced up sharply. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Potter—“ Snape began, and then stopped. He could tell just by looking at the tiny wrinkles around the boy’s eyes that his feelings were injured. Severus would have liked to tell him how frustrating it was to sit in front of the Headmaster and know nothing—to learn the bare minimum but understand that a secret was deliberately penned behind the fogged blue of Dumbledore’s eyes.

A secret that Dumbledore would only reveal in his own time—when he was ready. Severus had known Albus for years. And he knew all too well that even he could not persuade the Headmaster to adjust his methods.

“He was able to expel Tom Riddle’s spirit from the diary,” Snape finally explained.

“Well, yeah, that much was obvious—“

“Do not interrupt me, boy, or you’ll get nothing,” he snapped. He knew Potter would spout something along those lines.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly, bowing his head back to his fidgeting.

Nodding in acceptance, Snape cleared his throat and continued. “The Dark Lord preserved his spirit in the diary long ago, and the Headmaster believes he was able to destroy that portion of his soul—“

“By the sword?” Harry’s eyes widened in concern.

Snape made a small noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. Taking a hint, the boy bit the inside of his cheek and grew quiet again.

“The sword was the medium for the magic produced, yes,” Snape clarified.

Harry waited until he was sure the man was finished talking. “What sort of magic?”

Hesitating only a second, Snape swallowed. “Fiendfyre.”

“What’s—“

“A means for destroying the diary,” Snape answered too quickly.

Harry frowned again. “Is it like some sort of wizard exorcism, then?”

“What?” Snape matched the boy’s grimace of confusion.

“You know,” Harry shrugged, swishing his feet back and forth beneath his covers, “Like a way to get rid of a spirit trapped in something. Like they do in India.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Snape muttered tiredly, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “I suppose so.” He exhaled heavily. “India,” he repeated under his breath in a soft, dry tone. This was going to take all day.

“Professor?”

A short pause.

“What is it, child…”

He could hear Potter’s head squashing the pillow as he lay back down. “Why couldn’t I have stayed? That’s not really much of a massive secret…”

Snape looked up from behind his fingers. Potter was gazing up at him with round eyes. He fought desire to roll his own at such an expression. An innocent, clueless expression.

He sighed. “I do not know. “ And he didn’t. Not completely. Severus knew that once a horcrux was destroyed by a curse as powerful as fiendfyre, the damage was irrevocable. Perhaps Albus had finally understood that Potter’s knowledge of such things would make no difference.

At least for now.

Potter continued to stare at him. “Can I get out of here?” the boy suddenly asked. “Madame Pomfrey said I had to stay overnight just in case, but tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and if I have to lay here and smell that foul—“

“Careful, Potter.”

“What?” Harry demanded. “I wasn’t talking about Madame Pomfrey... I was talking about the smell in here.”

“Really?”

He gave Snape a naughty, lop-sided grin.

Without warning, Severus felt his throat compress. And he gritted his teeth furiously against the sensation. He detested when such emotions leaped up and snatched his good sense. To distract himself, he reached inside his robes with cold fingertips.

He extracted a medium-sized volume from his deepest pocket. Severus had taken it along in case the boy began asking too many questions he couldn’t answer. Passing it over, Severus waited until Harry had scanned the title:

Functional Uses of Defensive Magic, Volume II

Shooting up immediately, Harry’s face brightened as he began flipping through the book. “You’re giving me the second one already?”

“You have chewed your way through the first one as impatiently as I knew you would…”

Harry looked up; his eyes were wide and smiling. “Does that mean I still get lessons?”

Raising an eyebrow at the peacock’s tail of black hair poking haughtily in his direction, Severus nodded once. “Gilderoy Lockhart is still a Hogwarts employee, is he not?”

Really grinning now, Harry thumbed his way back to the Table of Contents. He stopped when he reached the inside cover. The paper lining was slightly yellowed but still intact. In the bottom left-hand corner, written in small, spiky script were Harry’s initials: HJP.

He ran his thumb over the shallow ridges made by the point of the quill. It wasn’t a Weasley jumper with an ‘H’ knitted into the front, but suddenly felt like crossing his arms around the book and hugging it to his chest. The volume was meant to be kept. Even if it wasn’t wrapped or labeled as such, Harry knew it was a present.

And after he finished studying it each night, the book was going to go in his special shoebox, right next to the flute Hagrid had carved for him last Christmas.

“What on earth are you gawking at, Potter?” Snape grumbled.

Harry glanced up at him. “Thanks for the book,” he said with a soft, timid smile. He had never been good at thanking anyone for anything. Clenching his fingers around the binding, Harry laid it gently in his lap.

“You’ve got another one just like it…” Snape reasoned in a quiet, gritty voice.

Shrugging, Harry dragged his thumbnail along the golden lettering of the title. “I know.”

They refrained from speaking for a moment until Snape finally cleared his throat. “Study it well,” the man said gently.

Harry nodded. “I will.”

“In fact,” Snape began wryly, reaching over to pluck a ball of fuzz from Harry’s jumper, “you may begin by reading the first two chapters as soon as you have returned to your dormitory. “

“I…wait,” Harry stammered, squinting. “Now?”

“Now.”

Harry widened his eyes eagerly. “You’re getting me out of here?”

Flipping back the stiff, white blankets draped across Harry’s knees as he stood, Snape gestured to the boy’s stocking-clad feet with his nod of his head. “Put your shoes on.”

“Brilliant!”

As Snape watched the boy kick away the remaining covers and scramble to the edge of the bed, he couldn’t help but relax his face completely.

He knew the final two days before Christmas were going to be pure hell with a finicky Potter in stride.

Perhaps they would discuss the first chapter tomorrow. After the storeroom was cleansed from top to bottom, of course…

The job would go quickly with two.

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

Five months later…

Harry jumped on his stool as he felt a stinging snap across his backside. He immediately sank back onto his heels and turned around.

“What was that for?” he complained,

“You know better than to kneel on your stool like some sort of hooligan,” Snape chastised, glaring in disapproval as he rounded the lab table. “Sit properly.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry shimmied his legs out from under his seat and plopped down, letting his legs swing.

“You almost made me fall right into my cauldron,” Harry accused, scraping his stirrer along the sides of the pewter pot to make sure his Sleeping Draught didn’t burn. “You’d’ve had to scoop pieces of my face out of it.”

“How entertaining…” Snape moved closer to the moping boy and leaned his elbow against the table top.

Harry continued stirring.

“Do explain the attitude,” Snape demanded in a hushed voice. “It has been quite a while since you’ve received a zero for a Potions assignment.”

“I messed up,” Harry said with a simple shrug. “Neville did too…”

“There has hardly been a potion that Longbottom hasn’t blundered,” Snape stated, snarling at the thought. “Try again.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You know very well that doesn’t work with me, young man.” Snape had inched closer, and Harry suddenly stopped mixing his solution.

Staring into his cauldron, the rasping sound of metal on metal began again as Harry stirred counterclockwise.

In a flash, Snape pulled his wand from his robes and flicked it toward the boy’s cauldron.

The entire concoction disappeared.

Harry wrenched his head up in horror.

“Tell me,” Snape said solemnly, his eyes burning right past the smudged spectacles.

“My potion—“

“Forget it. I’ll excuse your horrendous work if you are honest with me.”

The offer was tempting. Harry twisted his hands together underneath the table. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Perhaps…” Snape admitted.

Harry made a face. Snape never had a problem with honesty.

Taking a deep breath, he spewed it out before he could think on it. “It’s just…everyone’s all excited about going home for the summer, and I’ve nothing to look forward to. I hate going back to Surrey. It’s boring.” Harry focused on his empty cauldron. “I’m sick of hearing about everyone’s plans…” he mumbled; he could feel his cheeks turning pink.

“You could get ahead in your studies,” Snape suggested, nudging aside Harry’s cauldron with his forearm.

“They won’t let me.”

“You could read for pleasure…”

“I hate reading.”

“Oh, Potter,” Snape exclaimed, exasperated. “You devoured your Defense book in less than three weeks.”

Harry lifted his head. “Well that’s ‘cause it was interesting.”

“You—“ Snape began, but then he paused, drawing in a deep breath. His face clouded with question. “Is that all that worries you about returning to your relatives?”

“What do you mean?”

Snape shifted a bit and bowed his head, clamping his lips together before trying again. “You’re not afraid to go back?

Harry sucked a portion of his lip against his teeth. So that’s what Snape meant. He shook his head.

There was a short stretch of silence before Snape spoke. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered right away. “I’m not frightened of them at all. They’re just sort of annoying. We’re barely around each other except for breakfast and dinner. The park just gets boring after a while, and I can’t stand being around Dudley for longer than five minutes. That’s why I mostly go exploring.”

Studying the boy for a moment longer, Snape nodded toward Harry’s chest. “You remember the incantation?”

“For what?” Harry glanced down. “The portkey?”

“Yes, the portkey.”

Harry pressed the hidden nub with his fingertips. “Sure.”

“You are welcome to use it during the summer if you feel you need my assistance,” Snape told him, adding as a second thought, “or any of the staff’s.”

“I can?”

“Why else would I have allowed you to keep it, Potter?” Snape rapped out.

“Oh,” Harry commented with a shrug. “I dunno…” Handling the locket for a bit longer, Harry dropped his hand onto his lap. “I can come to Hogwarts whenever I want to?”

“No, you may come whenever you need to,” Snape corrected. “And by need, I mean—“

“Yeah, I get it.” Harry hopped off of his stool and bent over to retrieve his duffle that was lying in a heap on the floor.

Snape straightened up and tugged at the wide lapels of his robes. “Put your supplies away.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged as he emerged from his hunched position. But he quickly piled everything into his pot and hurried towards the back of the room anyway. As he turned back around, he stuffed his scales and cauldron into the open flap of his shoulder bag, wishing he knew a shrinking spell like Hermione so he wouldn’t have to walk around with an odd bulge on his hip.

“You’re really giving me full marks for today?” Harry questioned as he untwisted his strap and arranged it comfortably over his shoulder.

“I am excusing you,” Snape said, pivoting slowly as he walked toward him. “There’s a difference. And keep in mind, Mr. Potter, this is the one and only time my clemency will be in your favor…”

Harry rested his back against a lab table as he gazed up at his professor. “You should give Neville a break like that once in a while too—“

Snape’s hands were on his shoulder, turning him and steering him forward before he could say anything else.

“Go,” Snape commanded, giving him a light shove toward the door.

“I’m going…” Harry droned as he wrapped both hands around the iron handle and pulled. “I’ll probably see you later,” he called over his shoulder with a fleeting half-smile before he slipped out between the Potter-sized crack in the door.

Snape circled two fingers against his temple and closed his eyes. “You always do, child.”