He surveyed the clearing through slitted eyes as dark-robed figures appeared around him. His servants convened in a wide circle, kissing the hem of his robes before silently taking their places.

“My brethren!” he called. His voice, cold and cruel, was pitched from years of practice to instill fear. “It seems we have a traitor.” Suspicious eyes flicked left and right in the ring of masks. He laughed, and his minions flinched.

“He is not here. No… tonight, we hunt! The traitor will be punished. We will see how well his school protects him then!” He turned, and said softly, but with no less malice, “Peter, come here. I have need of your arm.”

Harry Potter jolted awake, one hand clamped over his forehead. His heart was racing, cold sweat dotted his neck, and his scar was throbbing. He recalled his vision, and it took him just seconds to make the connection. Traitor… school… Snape.

He bolted out of bed, plucking his wand from under the pillow. “Mmf,” said a lump in the next bed. He ignored it. He shrugged on his robes, and considered grabbing his invisibility cloak, but he had no time. He was sure that this vision was real.

He dashed out of the portrait hole, bare feet pounding down the hall. “Lumos,” he whispered as he ran. He was running out of time. He cursed vehemently, making his wand sputter, as he rounded a wrong turn. If he was even a second too late…

He skidded to a halt in front of the door of his most despised professor’s office. He flung it open, light flooding into the hallway. “Professor!” he called breathlessly, “Professor, don’t go, not tonight! They’ve got –”

“Potter!” Professor Snape snarled. “Ten points from Gryffindor for wandering –”

“No! Don’t you see, they’ll kill you!”

“Potter, have you gone mad?” He paused as the boy’s hand rubbed his scar. “Who, or what, are you going on about?’ he demanded.

“The Death Eaters! Voldemort!” Harry hurried on before Snape could stop him. “I saw it all; they say they found a traitor, something about the school… Don’t go! They’ll kill you!”

For once, Snape’s eyes lost that glare he saved just for Harry. “Where I go is my own prerogative,” he said with quiet menace, “Leave, now.”

Harry was not a Gryffindor for nothing. He stood his ground. “No, sir. Not tonight. I –”

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” hissed the professor, “and –”

“It’s not about bloody house points!” roared Harry, “Voldemort will kill you! I- I don’t… Oh, never mind then! Go on, get yourself killed!” He turned and stalked out the door. Frustration was clouding his vision. He reached back to slam the door behind him, only to walk straight into someone. He expected to see Snape scowling down at him.

“Harry, my boy, what brings you here?” Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, eyes unusually grave behind his half-moon spectacles.

“Professor!” Harry gasped “Oh, I saw… I had a dream, and they’re going to kill him, Snape, I mean, and he won’t listen, and –”

Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and steered him back into Snape’s office. “What exactly did you see, Harry?” he asked. Harry knew for certain that whatever Snape might think, the Headmaster would believe him.

“It was Voldemort, talking to the Death Eaters,” he said, not looking at Snape. “He said he found a traitor, that they would hunt him down, and the school couldn’t protect him from his summons, and he would be… punished.” Harry almost choked on the last word.

Dumbledore, however, gave him a small smile, with a twinkle in his eyes. This only made Harry more desperate. “Professor, I’m serious, they’ll kill him! Don’t let him go!” The Headmaster only smiled some more.

“I don’t doubt this dream is real, my boy,” he stated. “In fact, it makes much sense in light of recent developments. I have news for you, then, Severus, Harry.” He eyed each of them in turn. “I was just notified; Igor Karkaroff has gone missing.”

Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief before managing to look mortified. Dumbledore’s hand returned to his shoulder. “It is quite all right, Harry. A completely reasonable misassumption.”

“If I had actually been summoned, Potter, I would have already left, rather than listen to your prattle,” Snape added snidely.

“Gee, sorry for trying to help,” snapped Harry, Dumbledore’s presence giving him license to vent his frustration.

“Perhaps you mistake me for one of your delinquent friends, Potter. My affairs are my own. You need not… concern yourself.”

“Severus,” warned the Headmaster. Snape grudgingly subsided. “It is late, but seeing as we are convened here, I will take care of one more item of business before I send Harry back to Gryffindor Tower. That is, Occlumency lessons.”

“No,” said Harry and Snape in unison. Dumbledore turned his gaze on Harry, and for a few painful moments, the shadow of a man, a great black dog, hovered between them. Harry looked away and nodded, willing away the lump in his throat. He could not see what passed between Dumbledore and Snape, could not read into Snape’s inscrutable gaze. “Fine,” he heard Snape say moments later. The professor pushed abruptly away from his desk and stalked away.

“Come, Harry,” the Headmaster said kindly, “You had best be off to bed.” Harry nodded again and headed back out the door. “Tomorrow, at eight,” Dumbledore called softly as the door clicked shut.

At breakfast, Harry was recounting the events of the previous night. “And now I’ve got Occlumency lessons again, tonight at eight.”

Ron rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Sorry, mate. Stuck with that greasy git again, eh?”

Hermione elbowed him. “It’s great that he’s teaching you again; Occlumency is really important, you know,” she said, glaring at Ron, “especially since… what happened… that time…” she trailed off lamely. “Sorry, Harry.”

Harry nodded and forced down some pumpkin juice. Sirius’s shadow still hung over him, and he felt like it would never go away.

“Come on, mate, we’ll be late to Divination,” Ron said sometime later, recalling him to the present.

“Ready for some dream diary readings?” Harry managed a lopsided smile at his friend.

“She’ll probably just tell you that you’re going to die again,” said Ron.

“As if that’s news,” snorted Harry and they sat across the room from the giggling Lavender and Parvati. Trelawney did indeed foretell gloom and woe, just for Harry, no less than three times that day. He and Ron could not help laughing even as they headed to double Defense... with Snape.

He swept into the classroom looking every inch the overgrown bat. He gave Harry the usual venomous glare before beginning class. Within the first ten minutes, Harry had lost five points for failing to correctly answer a question that most certainly hadn’t been covered in last night’s reading. Snape spent another portion of the class terrorizing an already-petrified Neville over his “abysmal wand technique.” Ron muttered something about “that greasy bastard” and earned a glare from Hermione and ten points from Gryffindor. Harry was really not looking forward to Occlumency that night.

Indeed, as he walked into Snape’s office and deposited his bag in the corner, he noticed that Snape was watching him with an unpleasant sneer. “Let’s see if you’ve been practicing, Potter,” he said without preamble. Harry had only a moment to steel himself and regret his lack of practice as he was hit with a Legilimens.

The memories gushed forth like a flood. He was standing with Ron and Hermione on McGonagall’s giant chessboard… he was fighting the basilisk, getting bitten, nearly passing out from the poison and pain… he was writhing in the grass, clutching at his scar, the resurrected Voldemort only a few feet away…

And then he was on the dungeon floor, a hand over his tingling scar, the room a dizzying blur. “Accio glasses,” Harry said as he stood up. He shoved them back on, and was greeted by Snape’s malicious sneer.

“That was pathetic, Potter. You are no better than you were last year. Again. Legilimens!”

This time, Harry resisted for a few more seconds before being overwhelmed. He was circling above the Quidditch pitch, when a homing Bludger smashed into his arm… a horde of Dementors was bearing down on him as he dropped to his knees…

“Expecto Patronum!” A silver stag erupted from the end of Harry’s wand. As Snape dispersed it, Harry picked himself up off his knees.

“Potter!” he hissed, “You must learn to shield your mind without a wand! Have you forgotten that the Dark Lord attacks you in your sleep?” As if to accentuate his point, Snape pocketed his own wand. “Legilimens!”

He was nowhere close to being able to resist Snape, but it was taking Snape marginally longer to break through his defenses. It was a full minute before Snape was once again watching the replay of Harry’s memories. Nevertheless, he was relieved to discover that the hour had passed more quickly than expected. Snape dismissed him, admonishing, “You must clear your mind before bed; I will be able to tell if you are not practicing.” Harry glowered at him through an increasing headache as he left.

The Occlumency lessons of the next few weeks did not improve. Snape had watched an inordinate amount of Harry’s Quidditch successes, including several Gryffindor victories over Slytherin, probably due to Harry’s subconscious compensation for his ban the previous year. An errant Patronus, a knee-jerk reaction to a vivid Dementor intrusion at a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, yielded several unflattering memories of Snape’s childhood. This only served to make him even more short-tempered, and there was only one person in the room to take it out on.

“Legilimens!” he snarled, with malice glittering in his eyes. He punched through Harry’s mental defenses like a battering ram.

“Kill the spare.” Cedric flopped onto the ground, his lifeless eyes staring… Harry screamed, his head burning as Voldemort laid an icy finger on his scar… Remus’s arms encircled him, dragging him away from the veil, where Sirius had disappeared just moments ago, and he was yelling “No! No!” as he fought off Remus and his impending tears…

He was crying. He was curled into a shaking ball on the floor, and he was crying. The image of his godfather falling backwards through the veil, a look of surprise adorning his carelessly elegant features, seared itself into his mind’s eye. He turned his face to the flagstones, away from the light, not caring about the bloody scratches on his cheeks, as he tried to muffle his sobs.

“Potter, get up,” said a cold voice from somewhere above him. Damn it, thought Harry as he was hauled back into reality. He was breaking down in front of Snape, of all people. He stood up slowly, wiping his glasses with shaking hands.

“Hurry up, Potter, I don’t have all night.” Harry did not notice the trace of uncertainty in the professor’s voice. He slammed his glasses back on and pulled his arms to his sides, trying and failing to put on a mask of Gryffindor defiance.

“You are bleeding,” Snape observed, as though he were inspecting a Potions assignment. Harry swiped a sleeve across his face. “I don’t think that will help,” Snape remarked.

“I don’t care,” Harry said through gritted teeth. He glared at the man, hating him for seeing this, seeing his weakness.

“You do not address me in that manner,” Snape said icily. “Five points from Gryffindor for your insolence.”

Harry was seething with rage. He knew that if he stayed any longer, he might do something he would later regret. So he ran. But the door would not open.

“Let me out,” he growled, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Our hour is not yet over, Potter. As unproductive as this time may be, the Headmaster wishes it.” Snape smirked.

“I don’t care, let me out!” Harry clenched his hand, white-knuckled, around his wand. On sudden impulse, he aimed it at the door and said, “Alohamora!”

“That is not going to work,” said Snape. He sounded vaguely amused, which only incensed Harry further.

“Let go of your emotions, Potter. Clear your mind.”

“I can’t! You don’t understand, do you? You have no idea what it’s like! I’ll bet you’ve never cared about anyone in your life! So don’t… don’t you dare underestimate it, don’t you dare…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed a sob. “I’m… I’m supposed to defeat Voldemort with this,” he said. He attempted to sound spiteful, but only managed something between lost and desperate.

“You know nothing about me, Potter. Do not presume you do.” There was a pause, and Snape sneered coldly at Harry. When no response was forthcoming, he flicked his wand at the door, which clicked open. “It does not appear that you will make much progress tonight, and I have better ways to spend my time.” Harry took the hint and bolted out the door. It then occurred to Snape that he had neglected to remove points from Gryffindor for the earlier tirade, but he figured that the ordeal had been humiliating enough. He let it go. He was growing soft, he decided, distinctly unhappy at the thought.

Harry threw himself onto his bed and pulled a pillow over his head. He knew that Ron and Hermione had seen him tearing through the common room, and would be coming up after him any minute. He didn’t think he could face them.

He felt them sit down on the bed. Hermione put a hand on his shoulder. “What happened, mate?” asked Ron. “Was it Snape?”

He tried to surreptitiously wipe his face on the pillowcase. “C’mon, Harry, what’s wrong?” He shook his head. Finally, Ron snatched the pillow away.

“Your face!” gasped Hermione. “What happened to you?”

“Snape did that?” Ron demanded indignantly. “The bastard! You should go to Dumbledore –”

“No!” said Harry, a little too forcefully. “He didn’t have anything to do with it.” He only invaded my mind, but that was on Dumbledore’s orders. He glanced at his friends, who watched him expectantly, a mixture of concern and righteous anger on their faces. With a sigh, he motioned them further onto the bed, drew the curtains, and cast a Silencio.

“it was the Occlumency, you know, the memories and stuff. I was watching everyone die… and the l-last one, it w-was – it was at the Ministry.” He couldn’t bear to say his name. “I fell, that’s where the scratches came from… and…” He put his face in his hands and shook his head.

“Oh, Harry…” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his hands away. “Don’t,” she chided. “It might get infected.” She spelled the blood and tears from his face, murmuring in what she hoped was a comforting voice, “It couldn’t have been that bad, it’s all right…”

“Of course it was bad!” snorted Ron. “It was Snape!” Hermione shot him a withering glare.

“I broke down in front of Snape,” Harry said hollowly. “Snape, of all people… over Sirius. Can you imagine?”

“Hell, we have Defense tomorrow morning,” said Ron.

“Harry, it’s all right, he can’t say anything!” She ignored Ron’s incredulous look. “It’s Order business; no one knows about Sirius. He can’t do anything in public.”

Harry nodded, clearly unconsoled, but he managed a weak smile nonetheless. “I know,” he said, voice low. “Hopefully Defense won’t be any worse than normal.” Occlumency lessons, however, were an entirely different matter.

Ever the pragmatist, Hermione said, “Here, Harry, let me fix those scratches. I don’t think you’d want to explain them to Madame Pomfrey.”

Thankfully, they left him alone after that. Harry extracted the cracked, dark two-way mirror from his trunk and flipped it open. “Sirius,” he whispered. No answer. He snapped it shut and tossed it back into his trunk.

He flipped himself onto his stomach and buried his face in the sheets, no longer able to hold back his grief. He wept until he had no tears left, ragged sobs tearing through his lungs. It was the first time he had really let himself grieve, he realized later, the first time he really cried for Sirius’s death. Over the summer, he had survived the Dursleys by regressing to denial. There was no body, he reasoned with himself. Bellatrix’s spell didn’t kill him either. They don’t know what they’re on about. There’s a way back, there has to be. Sirius would never leave me like that. He promised to be here for me. He promised.

Snape had brought back the memory he’d buried, the one that he’d tried his hardest to forget. Somehow, seeing it happen again brought the weight of his godfather’s death crashing down on him. There was no denying it anymore. He was dead, and he wasn’t coming back.

Defense classes over the next week were not as bad as Harry would have anticipated. In fact, they seemed no different from before. He had expected rumors of his meltdown to spread like wildfire through the Slytherin common room, had braced himself for the snide references Snape would surely make – but none of that had happened.

Indeed, Snape’s demeanor towards Harry had not perceptibly changed. His trademark just-for-Harry sneer did not waver, though it seemed laced with something that Harry could not readily identify. Hermione insisted that he was just being paranoid, while Ron thought that Snape was inwardly amused at Harry’s expense. This did nothing to lessen Harry’s apprehension as he headed down to Snape’s office at five to eight.

“Come in, Potter.” Snape stood and came around the desk, wand out. “Try to clear your mind of all emotion… I do hope you have been practicing.” Harry nodded curtly, refusing to be baited, and drew his own wand. “Very well. We shall see. Legilimens!”

Harry resisted, but not for long. He was in Flourish and Blotts with Ron and Hermione, buying schoolbooks… Professor Lupin released the Dementor-boggart as he was incanting his first Patronus … the wisp of silver dispersed… Stand aside, foolish girl, stand aside… No, not Harry! I’ll do anything, anything! And then she screamed.

No! He hated that Snape was hearing his mother’s last words. It was even more private than Sirius. He desperately redirected his memories. There was a glimpse of Dudley and his gang before he stopped in pitch-black silence. Snape probed it a bit before withdrawing.

Harry was on his knees again. He stood quickly, trying to bring his breathing back under control. Snape studied him a moment, eyes hooded, looking pensive rather than malicious, if it were possible. It was a long time before either of them spoke.

“Interesting… not a conventional or particularly effective barrier…” Snape glanced at him again, the sneer returning. “Not really a barrier at all. But if it is the best you can come up with, do it again. Legilimens!”

Rather than blocking Snape, as he had been attempting to do for the past half-hour, Harry focused on that particular image, bringing it sharply to the front of his mind. Snape lingered a while, neither attacking or withdrawing. There was a creak, and Harry instinctively tilted his head towards the office door, breaking the connection.

Snape was again regarding him with a thoughtful demeanor. “You had dinner as usual, Potter?” he demanded.

Harry wrinkled his brow in confusion. “Yes, sir.”

“You are not ill or injured?”

“No, sir.”

“Or…” the sneer returned, “otherwise in pain?”

Harry glanced up sharply. Since when did Snape care about his wellbeing? “Er… no, sir.”

Snape was silent for a moment. His gaze slid from Harry to the door on his left. Snape considered it with narrowed eyes, then flicked his wand at it. Harry assumed he was casting some unspoken spell. He waited.

Finally, Snape turned to him and said softly, “I can only conclude that it was a memory, and not a barrier?” Harry froze, but nodded reluctantly.

“Where were you?”

Harry looked away. I might as well; he would Legilimize it from me in an instant. “A cupboard.”

Snape smirked. “A cupboard, indeed. What were you doing in there?”

“Er… sitting… and thinking.”

“And I suppose a chair would not have been sufficient? You saw the need to sneak about in some broom cupboard after dark? Rules are made for a reason, Potter, though –”

“It wasn’t at school! I didn’t have a choice!” Harry protested hotly, and immediately regretted it.

“Surely you are not implying that you were made to sit in a cupboard… were you?”

Harry flushed despite himself, but did not respond. He had not told anyone about his cupboard, and certainly did not intend to start with Snape. He resolutely did not meet the professor’s eyes.

“You are clearly as rule-abiding at home as you are at school. What did you do to antagonize your relatives?” He smirked. “I can only imagine what it might be like, living with you.”

Harry winced. “They’re muggles,” he responded, his voice barely above a whisper. “They don’t know I’m… well, Harry Potter, you know.”

“You’ve never told them?”

“They wouldn’t understand.” He had no idea where Snape was going with this. “I don’t think they’d care, really,” he couldn’t help adding.

“Commendable, these relatives of yours. Fame isn’t everything; even these muggles know that.”

Had it been anyone else speaking, Harry would have laughed. It was not often that he heard the Dursleys described as “commendable.” Then again, he thought bitterly, they and Snape would probably get along wonderfully well.

“You find me amusing, Potter?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose you think yourself invincible in the adulation of the masses? Is the notion of setting aside your fame so unimaginable?”

Harry hesitated. All he wanted was to be out of that dungeon; what did these questions have anything to do with Occlumency? Feeling drained, he resigned himself to playing along. “It’s just… ‘commendable’ isn’t the word most people would use to describe the Dursleys.”

“Because they do not kiss your boots as the rest of the world does, is it? You are too arrogant for your own good. Like father, like son.”

Harry glared at him, and almost – almost – defended his father. But the scene from Snape’s Pensieve flashed through his mind, and he bit back his retort. Instead, he ground out, “I’m not my father.”

Snape met his eyes, and Harry knew that the professor had seen his thought. He was too roiled and incensed to care. Something in Snape’s expression seemed to change, though.

Harry felt his anger leave him abruptly. “I never told anyone,” he whispered, “not even Ron and Hermione.”

Snape did not bother to hide the first reply to cross his mind (something along the lines of “Ashamed of your father, are you?”), cruel as it may have been, but he did not voice it, either. Instead, he responded, “Neither did I.”

Harry just blinked in confusion, before realizing that Snape was no longer talking about the Pensieve. Snape prompted him with a thought flickering across his eyes. Sirius Black.

Harry swallowed. He could feel his eyes grow warmer, so he turned away. “Thank you, sir,” he managed to say, completely sincerely. He noticed for the first time that the Slytherins had not increased in nastiness the entire week.

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I believe our hour is over, Potter,” he said. Harry glanced at the clock, and saw that in fact, it was not. Snape never let students out early, but who was he to complain? He slipped out the door with a hasty “Good night, sir,” and walked away confused.

The school year being well under way, they piled their usual corner table in the Gryffindor common room higher and higher with reference materials. Ron dumped another stack of Hermione’s Arithmancy texts on the nearest chair. “Thanks, Ron,” she said, sinking into an armchair. She pulled out her research paper, its margins replete with her tidy script. “Oh, I had meant to ask,” she said, lowering her voice, “How are your Occlumency lessons coming along?”

“They’re all right.” Harry made a noncommittal noise as he, too, began his homework.

“Harry, really. Something’s bothering you, and Occlumency seems to be the most logical cause. Have you learned to close off your mind yet?”

“Err… sort of. It’s… a lot harder than I thought.” He sighed. “This time, I’m really trying, you know? I know what’s at stake, I know I just have to be able to Occlude, or else more people will die…” Hermione put a hand on his arm, turning soft, sympathetic eyes on him. He shook his head. “It’s all right, Hermione. It’s just… I know he’s trying, too. I mean, sure, he’s a spiteful git, like he usually is, but I think he’s actually frustrated that I’m not getting anywhere.”

“Then whatever he’s doing clearly isn’t working. I’ll find you some books, Harry. We’ll figure this out,” she promised.

Ron clapped Harry on the back. “It’ll be all right, mate. If anyone can find an answer, it’s Hermione.” She blushed a bit at that, but did not dissuade him of the notion.

True to her word, Hermione sat them down at their table that Saturday, with what looked like a bundle of Arithmancy texts. “I charmed the covers,” she said softly, depositing the small stack in front of Harry. “Some of these came out of the Restricted Section.”

“I thought the pass Vector wrote you was – oh. Charmed covers. Right.” Ron flushed, but if Hermione noticed, she pretended not to.

“Exactly. It’s supposedly for my NEWT research. Thank Merlin Madam Pince trusts me as much as she does. I’m hesitant to do that much spellwork on Restricted books. Never know what might happen.”

“So… have you found anything?” Harry cracked open a thin hardcover. The title page, instead of reading Arithmancy for Astrologers like the cover, had Defending the Mind inscribed in illuminated letters.

“Well… yes, I have.” She seemed strangely reluctant to continue.

“And?” Harry pressed her.

“I… I’m sorry, Harry, but I frankly fail to see why Dumbledore decided to have Snape, of all people, teach you.”

“Hear, hear,” Ron began to say, but Harry cut across him.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just… the way Occlumency is usually taught isn’t the way Snape is trying to teach you now. I don’t think he can teach you the normal way. I’d say, it’s no wonder you’re not improving.”

“Hermione… what do you mean?”

She pulled back her stray curls and leaned forward in her chair. “The normal way… you’re not going to like this, but the normal way involves some sort of trust.”

“Trust?” Ron spluttered, “Dumbledore wants us to trust Snape? He’s gone mental, he has!”

Hermione laid a hand on Ron’s shoulder to forestall further outbursts. “People are staring, Ronald.” He subsided almost immediately, and she glanced at Harry to gauge his reaction.

Harry appeared to be doing some very quick thinking. “I trust Dumbledore,” he said. “He said that Voldemort should be staying out of my head, ever since the Ministry. I don’t know why he can’t teach me.”

“It pays to be cautious, I suppose. If we were completely certain that he would stay out of your head, then there would be no need for you to learn Occlumency in the first place.”

“But it’s not like Voldemort’s constantly watching anymore!”

“What I don’t get is why Dumbledore can’t just block Harry from his own head,” Ron interjected. “After all, he’s Dumbledore! He’s probably the best Occlumens in the world!”

“It doesn’t work like that, Ron…”

“Well, what else do the books say about learning Occlumency?” asked Harry.

Hermione hesitated. “You’re really not going to like this…”

“I handled the trust bit all right, didn’t I?”

“It gets… worse. The way it’s supposed to work… you have to willingly let your teacher help you with your barriers… in your mind.”

“No! No way! There’s no way Dumbledore can expect Harry to let Snape nose around in his mind! That’s… that’s just sick!” Ron’s face was a picture of outrage. “I bet the slimy git just loved prying into all of Harry’s secrets like that, didn’t he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron. I doubt Snape is all that interested in Harry, given all the other things he has to think about.”

“No, he’s just out for his blood, Hermione,” Ron retorted. “He hates Harry more than anyone else. You think he wouldn’t jump at the chance to make Harry absolutely miserable?”

Harry looked faintly nauseated himself. “Are you sure there isn’t another way?”

“It’s the way most Occlumens learn it. The books do talk about some people who just… have a sort of natural affinity for Occlumency, but it doesn’t look like you’re one of them.”

“No kidding. So… what do I do now? I’m not about to let him waltz through my mind, you know.”

Hermione sighed. “I do know. I don’t expect you to. I don’t understand why Dumbledore would expect you to, either. He couldn’t possibly have mistaken you for a natural Occlumens.”

“Maybe… maybe he just couldn’t do it himself,” Harry said, sounding weary. “Maybe you’re just over-thinking.”

“That’s probably it, then. Snape’s the only other Occlumens at Hogwarts, right?”

“Or maybe…” Harry continued, recalling that one moment of uneasy truce, “Dumbledore wants me to trust Snape.”

“He’s been doing that for five years! He’s tried this already, and it didn’t work! Why’s he trying the same stupid trick again?” Ron demanded.

“Because…” A Sirius-sized lump arose in Harry’s throat. “Because this time, we know what’s at stake.”

The majority of novice students of Occlumency do not have an instinct for barriers and shields. The average human mind is unaccustomed to such stringent organization. There is, however, a small percentage of people who are mentally inclined towards Occlumency. The characteristics of a natural Occlumens may include: intelligence, self-control, mental discipline, reticence, diminished emotion or emotional response, perceptiveness, and secretiveness.

 “Not me, then,” Harry sighed. The drapes were drawn around his bed, where he was reading a thick Occlumency text by wandlight. He yawned widely as he turned the page.

A teacher of Occlumency must familiarize his student with the structure of mental barriers before the student can hope to construct his own. The student typically learns by exploring the teacher’s barriers. A deep and lasting trust is therefore essential between teacher and student.

 Harry closed the book. The day he and Snape developed a “deep and lasting trust” was the day his parents rose from the dead. Shutting his eyes, he slipped the leather-bound volume under his pillow, and tried to clear his mind. It was impossible; his next Occlumency lesson was less than a day away.

Nothing has changed, he told himself. I will be just as incompetent as I was last week. But that was hardly the problem. Everything had changed, now that he knew there was another way. He could not stop thinking about it – if only he’d had a teacher he could trust, Sirius would have lived! – and Snape would see right through him. That was one can of worms he had no desire to open. Sleep was long in coming.

It was five to eight. Harry loitered at Snape’s door, pressed against the wall, praying that Snape wasn’t in his office – called off on some urgent and hopefully time-consuming business, perhaps – and he would be allowed a week’s reprieve. At a minute to eight, he put his ear against the door; he could make out the scratching of quill on parchment. You’re a Gryffindor, he thought. It’s high time you act like one. He knocked, and entered.

“Potter.”

“Sir.”

“I trust you have been practicing?” Snape asked, capping his inkwell.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. We shall see.” He strode to the front of his desk, his robes swishing menacingly. “Legilimens!”

Harry was playing and losing a game of chess against Ron… he was doing his Transfiguration homework at their table in the corner… Hermione was showing him a stack of Arithmancy texts… No! No! his mind screamed, as it flooded with a crawling, icy dread. The flow of memories stopped; Snape had left his head. He opened his eyes.

He was on his knees again, but otherwise upright. Snape gazed down at him; the scrutiny was unbearable. He stood up and looked away.

“I fail to see why you might find Arithmancy so horrifying. You are not even enrolled in the class, as I recall.”

Harry wished it were merely an observation, but Snape’s tone was laden with expectancy. “I’m not,” Harry replied, at length.

“And yet Ms. Granger feels the need to tutor you in the subject?”

Harry, still staring at his feet, scrambled to find an answer. “She thinks it… uh… might be useful in this Charms assignment we have.”

“I see. What sort of an association is this?”

“I… I don’t really know. Hermione probably does, though.”

“Undoubtedly. And you are unduly frightened of a Charms assignment.” He sneered, skepticism dripping from his every word. “Why is that?”

“I… err… Well, I…” And suddenly, inspiration struck. “Well, you know, sir, half those Arithmancy books have stuff about astronomy, and Hermione thought it would help with the Charms work… and there’s bits about stars…” he forced himself to hyperventilate “and there’s always… always… Sirius, but they think I need to get over him, and I’m not!” By the end, his breath really did catch in his throat, and when he glanced up at Snape, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, he looked – and felt – every inch the part.

Snape held his gaze. Harry told himself that the standing water pooling in the corners of his eyes was simply from staring, that he had not pushed himself too far. There was something deeply unsettling about the way Snape’s eyes bored into Harry’s. Legilimency, he realized, shite. He immediately began staring at a jar of pickled newts on the back shelf with some fascination, blinking away the warm wetness, ignoring the sudden hollowness in his chest.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Snape demanded. Gone was any trace of the previous week’s strange good will, as surely as if Harry had only dreamt it.

“No, sir,” he said, very quietly.

“Then would you care to explain how astronomy is in any way relevant to Muggle-Repelling Charms?”

“I told you, I really don’t know… I didn’t really get what Hermione was trying to explain…”

“Shall I invite Ms. Granger here, then, and have her explain it?”

Oh, crap, thought Harry. There was probably no relation at all, and Hermione would be in such trouble. “No, err… I think she returned the books already… she said she had a hunch, but it turned out she was wrong or something –”

“Potter, do you know that Hogwarts students can be expelled for lying to their professors? Or do you think that your celebrity renders you immune to punishment?”

“No, sir.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry. Harry squirmed, waiting desperately for the horrible silence to end. “Very well,” Snape said softly. “Let us try again, shall we?” He managed to convey a threat with every syllable. Harry had very little choice in the matter. He braced himself for the impending spell.

This time, Snape did not even say the word. He merely flooded past Harry’s defenses, like an inexorable tide. It was not like the Legilimency of before; rather than viewing whatever thoughts and memories he happened upon, Harry felt Snape sifting through his memories, deliberately picking and choosing, searching for something. This was true Legilimency; what Harry normally faced during lessons was merely the tip of the iceberg.

It felt like hours, though Harry knew it to be only seconds, before Snape found what he was looking for. A scene from the previous night replayed in Harry’s mind, in what seemed like slow motion.

Harry reached through the curtains enclosing his bed, and grabbed a book from his bedside table. “Lumos,” he whispered, bringing the tip of his wand to the cover. The faded gold lettering on leather read Arithmancy: Advanced Techniques. He cracked it open, and written on the first page was The Teaching of Occlumency.

Snape retreated. Harry blinked a few times, surprised to find himself still standing. He glanced at Snape and looked away; the professor’s sneer was nothing short of malevolent.

“So, Mr. Potter. These are not actually Arithmancy texts, are they?”

Harry swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

Snape summoned a book from the far shelf. He held it inches from Harry’s nose. “Can you reproduce the glamour we just saw?” His voice was low and even, but it was as though he had shouted.

Harry hesitated a long moment, and then mutely shook his head. Please don’t mention Hermione, he silently pleaded.

“All library books on the subject of Occlumency are shelved in the Restricted Section, where, as it happens, you are not permitted to enter. I am… curious… as to how you obtained them.”

Harry’s relief was quickly replaced with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was not a mere statement; Snape watched him for a response. He did some very quick thinking, staring at the book in Snape’s hands.

“I, uh, snuck in,” he said. His fingers tightened around the wand in his pocket; his other hand fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “At night.” The words stuck in his throat, but he added, “I know, sir, I shouldn’t have.”

“This is hardly the first time you have blatantly disregarded school rules, Potter, and in your case, it is usually done without so much as a hint of shame. The question remains… why do you react so adversely to this particular incident? Or perhaps… my discovery of such?”

Harry kept his eyes on the hem of Snape’s robes, which seemed menacing in their very stillness. He couldn’t possibly confess, and yet it seemed he had run dry of plausible excuses. He said nothing, hoping that the few moments of silence might bring him some clever lie. It did not.

“Answer me this,” Snape said, after a while, “if you felt you needed Occlumency texts, why did you not ask for them? You need not have come to me – Merlin knows you are much too arrogant for that – but you could have gone to the Headmaster, or even your Head of House, whom you are aware is a member of the Order and knows the true purpose of ‘Remedial Potions.’” He fixed Harry with an unblinking gaze, like an owl staring down a mouse.

Whatever Harry had expected, this wasn’t it. The thought of asking a teacher had not even crossed his mind. He never even spoke to McGonagall about these lessons, save for an oblique mention sometimes, if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. As for Dumbledore, he wasn’t sure himself why he hadn’t thought to ask. Perhaps it was that Harry hated to disappoint him, or perhaps there was never any occasion during their lessons, or perhaps it was something else entirely, some reason he himself could not identify.

Snape was still watching him through narrowed eyes, waiting for his answer. “I don’t know, sir,” he mumbled, feeling more than a little inadequate. “Didn’t think of it, I guess.”

“I am inclined to think that you are, once again, too arrogant to ask for help where you are so clearly lacking. Finally noticed that you have been making absolutely no progress, at all, have you?” Snape curled his lip in a singularly superior manner, and as much as Harry tried to suppress it, he could feel the frustration and anger mounting in his chest. Snape went on.

“Somebody finally got it through your impossibly thick skull that these lessons are for your own benefit, and you decide after a year of dithering and wasting my time to crack a book! You probably haven’t realized, Potter, that it’s not that simple. Do you really think a few hours of reading can replace a year’s lack of effort?”

“No! I know that! But I’m trying, all right? I –”

“You know that ‘trying’ is not good enough.” Snape’s voice was perfectly controlled, every syllable hitting Harry like a slap in the face. Harry blinked, fighting the impulse to shut his eyes and turn away, nursing a dull ache in his chest. He knew all too well that “not good enough” was deadly.

“I hope you know, Potter, that should the Dark Lord prevail, the fact that the supposed savior of the Wizarding world ‘tried his best’ will hardly mitigate the situation. Do you understand the gravity of the predicament now, or is it still too complex for your feeble intellect?”

“You don’t think I know that? Sure, I didn’t try last year, and I got people killed!” His voice cracked, but he ignored it. “What do you think I’m doing with the textbooks, then? It probably isn’t good enough, but you haven’t been teaching me anything either!”

Harry checked his temper, his brain catching up to his mouth. There was a long silence.

“So this is your little secret,” Snape hissed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that your enormous ego has prevented you from whinging to the Headmaster. You believe that I am to blame? How typical. You never find yourself wanting, do you? When things go awry, it is never famous Harry Potter’s fault, because famous Harry Potter is –”

“I never said it wasn’t my fault!” Harry shouted, cutting Snape off. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not your fault too! I know I didn’t try last year, and Sirius paid for it! But you’re the one who made him miserable in that house – you’re the one who taunted him every chance you got! If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have been so desperate – he never would have come to the Ministry in the first place!” He broke off, chest heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Black would have gone regardless, as he knew you were in danger,” Snape said calmly. It seemed to Harry as though he were deliberately schooling his expression. He put the book he’d been holding on the desk behind him, and crossed his arms. “You are grasping at straws here, Potter. I fail to see how your apportioning of blame relates to your assessment of my methods of instruction.”

“You haven’t been teaching me a thing,” Harry declared, all bravado. “All you’ve been doing is casting Legilimens at me, without ever teaching me how to block it.”

“Is ‘clear your mind’ too difficult for poor Potter’s brain to comprehend?”

“It doesn’t tell me anything! Sure, clear my mind, but how?”

“I have only been telling you for the past year to let go of your emotions.”

“I’ve already told you I can’t! I’ve practiced, but I can’t! Don’t you think you should be teaching me how, instead of just telling me to do it?”

Snape’s sneer seemed distinctly unpleasant as he said, “Ah. I see that your research renders you an authority on such matters. What do your texts say about the teaching of Occlumency?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short. Their entire confrontation, he abruptly realized, was nothing more than subtle, skillful, and very Slytherin maneuvering on Snape’s part. This was the very question he had been attempting to avoid all night.

“They… er… they say stuff about barriers and shields and things.” The technical details, he hoped, were safe.

“Indeed. Obviously, you have not progressed even that far.”

Harry was silent.

“Did the texts also tell you that the average student masters the basic shield within the first few months of study? Of course, ‘student’ is taken to mean those studying Occlumency with the intent of achieving some level of proficiency.“

Harry grit his teeth and balled his hands into fists, fighting the impulse to shout at Snape. It was his temper, he knew, that Snape was using against him. Yet why did the man have to bring up Sirius – always by way of cruel, needling hints – again and again? Harry glared at Snape, and hoped that his expression was as venomous as Snape’s own.

The professor’s look was decidedly smug. “Naturally, given the small sample base, an exception is not terribly unusual – especially if said exception is Harry Potter.”

Harry fumed. “I’m not bloody asking for it!” he muttered.

“Language, Potter,” said Snape, raising a forefinger in admonishment. He added, “It is rather unfortunate, for all of the Wizarding world, that there are such glaring deficiencies in your repertoire –”

“Yeah?” Harry shouted. “Well all of the Wizarding world might be better off if you’d actually help me, like the books say!”

“Am I not helping you by giving up an hour, and quite a fruitless hour at that, every week?”

“You know what I mean! Helping me with barriers, you know, instead of just attacking me!”

He had gone too far. The ensuing silence was deafening; he waited for the proverbial axe to fall.

He could discern an almost predatory gleam in Snape’s eyes when he spoke. “You want me to help you with barriers,” he said, very softly. “Perhaps you have read about the prerequisites?”

It was a while before Harry could formulate a response. “Yeah. The part about… trust.”

“Potter.” Harry looked up, and reluctantly met Snape’s eyes. “Potter,” he said again, “do you trust me?”

Harry gulped, feeling like a deer caught in bright light. Try as he might, he could not avert his gaze. Strangely enough, he was certain that Snape was not using Legilimency, and yet he could not bring himself to lie. He opened his mouth, and it took him a few tries to arrive at the truth.

“No.”

Snape abruptly straightened. His manner shifted; it seemed detached now, like that of a professor during a lecture. “Indeed. In that case, I will be of little help to you. These lessons will continue, of course, under the Headmaster’s orders, but they will continue to be unproductive, as you have so astutely brought to my attention. Perhaps you will find your pilfered texts more useful.” There was a pause, and then, imperiously, “You are dismissed for the night.” Snape glanced briefly down his nose at Harry, and swept past him. He seated himself behind his desk.

Vaguely unsettled, Harry picked up his bag and opened the door. As he crossed the threshold, Snape spoke again, presumably to him. He looked over his shoulder into the office.

“One last thing. For raising your voice to a professor, and general disrespect, ten points from Gryffindor. You may go.”

Harry closed the door, and heard it lock behind him. He was surprised to discover that he felt no anger, only the barest twinge of indignity, over the lost points. In its place, he felt hollow, drained. Perhaps he was merely glad that it had not been more.

Harry sat across from Dumbledore in one of the very soft armchairs in his office. The glowing Pensieve, its surface still swirling from their latest excursion, was on the Headmaster’s desk. They had just finished discussing Tom Riddle, the twelve-year-old eventual Dark Lord, whom they had met at his orphanage, in Dumbledore’s memories. Harry expected to be dismissed, but the Headmaster, sitting back in his chair clasping his hands in his lap, said, “Harry, you look troubled. Is something wrong?”

Harry sighed. Plenty of things had gone wrong between this lesson and the first. Just two days ago, Katie Bell had been sent to St. Mungo’s, having fallen victim to a premeditated attack. But they had spoken of that already, of Malfoy and Mundungus, all of it.

He knew that if he said “no,” if he so much as shook his head, Dumbledore would not press him; he would wait for Harry to come to him. And yet, he also knew, as Snape had so pointedly reminded him, that delaying might cost lives; he needed a solution, and quickly.

“Yes. It’s just… Occlumency isn’t working out, sir.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore regarded him gravely over his spectacles. “How so?”

“I haven’t made any progress, and it’s been weeks.”

“It has not been two months since your first lesson this year, Harry. That seems a little early to judge.”

“I know, but…” Harry hesitated, wondering, not for the first time, how much Dumbledore really knew. Regardless, he glanced at the somewhat depleted shelves of the office, and remembered that the Headmaster had forgiven him his transgressions in the past. With faint spots of color on his cheeks, he continued, “I’ve been… er… reading some books on Occlumency, sir. I probably should have started earlier, like last year, even, but I didn’t know any better.” I’m sure the library at Grimmauld Place would have that sort of book, he thought, and tried not to. “You know, I thought it was just because I wasn’t trying hard enough, but it turns out, Snape’s not really teaching me. What he’s doing isn’t going to work, the books are pretty clear about that. But… he can’t teach me the real way, either, so I’m never going to learn.”

“Professor Snape, Harry. And I see that you are putting either your father’s cloak or your friend’s library pass to good use,” said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eyes. “But why is it that he cannot teach you Occlumency the, ah, ‘real way’, as you put it?”

“You know how it works, right?” Harry began. He flushed as he heard the words leave his mouth; the man was Dumbledore – of course he did.

“I believe I do, yes,” he said, not unkindly.

“Well, yeah… so you know that we’re supposed to form a… uh… ‘a deep and lasting trust’, I think it was, and… it’s just that… I just don’t trust him! You keep telling me I should, but I just… don’t. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I appreciate your honesty, Harry. It is very difficult to change one’s beliefs, especially those that have been so ingrained. Nevertheless, you must try. I’m sure you understand how important it is.”

“I do. I really do, especially since Sirius, well… you know. I wish I could trust him; it would make things a lot easier. Why can’t you just tell me why you trust him? It’s not like I would tell anyone – I promise!”

“Harry, I have told you already that this is a matter between Professor Snape and myself,” Dumbledore said, in a tone that brooked no argument. More mildly, he added, “Did you not, the night you had your vision, think that Snape was spy for us, rather than Voldemort?”

“Er… I wasn’t really thinking, you know, since I just sort of jumped out of bed – I mean, I thought it was the logical answer! I’d completely forgotten Karkaroff even existed at the time! It’s not like that means anything.”

Dumbledore smiled slightly, but at Harry’s frustrated expression, he said, “You have heard this from me before, my boy, but I will repeat it as many times as you need to hear it. That is, do you trust me?” He peered over his half-moon spectacles into Harry’s face.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You know that I vouched for him before the Wizengamot; my opinion has not changed. Harry, I have good reason trust Professor Snape, even if I am not at liberty to disclose precisely why. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Harry replied grudgingly.

“Then there should be no problem, should there, my boy?”

“I guess not… well, okay, let’s say he’s not really a Death Eater, and he’s loyal to the Order, and all that. Even so, it doesn’t mean I want him to know all my secrets! It’s like saying… oh, Professor Moody, for example. Or someone else in the Order, who I don’t really know. Sure, they’re absolutely on our side, and that’s what you mean by trust. Loyalty, stuff like that. But just because we’re all against Voldemort doesn’t mean I want them knowing all my secrets either!”

“I understand. You are absolutely entitled to your privacy. However, before you insist upon that right, I would ask you to think of the nature of our situation. Do you, for instance, have any secrets that might endanger someone’s life, should they become known?”

Harry was did not speak for a long time. When he did, he could not keep his voice from shaking. “He’s dead already,” he said, every word a fresh torment.

Dumbledore regarded him sadly. “I am very sorry to have brought this up, Harry. Forgive me, but I must.” He closed his eyes, and opened them again, but the sadness remained. “So there are no such secrets now, my boy?” he asked, very gently.

Perhaps it was only the thought of Sirius that filled his mind, but Harry could not think of any. He found his throat curiously tight, so he just shook his head.

A faint breeze ruffled his hair as Fawkes landed on the back of his chair and trilled softly in his ear. The song seemed to pull the ragged edges of the hole in his heart together, if only for a moment. After a few gulps of air, the lump in his throat had gone.

“Thanks, Fawkes,” Harry whispered. The bird flew back to his perch, letting a wingtip brush against Harry’s cheek, as if in acknowledgement.

Dumbledore reached up to Fawkes and ran his fingers over the bright feathers. “Harry, my boy,” the Headmaster said softly, “we were speaking of secrets.”

“Yeah… I guess… other than being really humiliated, nothing that terrible would happen.”

“Now, can you imagine the sorts of secrets Professor Snape might keep?”

“Pretty awful ones, sir, I know. He’s a spy and all that, so a lot of it’s stuff that’s important for the war.”

“Quite right, my boy. I would like you to consider, Harry, your secrets and his.”

“Well,” said Harry after a while, “I get that his secrets are probably much more dangerous than mine. But he’s the great Occlumens here – he can hide them all from me!”

“Do you recall, Harry, why I chose to have Professor Snape teach you Occlumency, rather than myself?”

“Because you couldn’t have Voldemort knowing what was in your mind, sir, through me. I know that. But even if Professor Snape couldn’t Occlude against me, I’m sure he’s Slytherin enough to come up with something else, like the Pensieve, or a potion, or something.”

“Perhaps I should have asked a different question. What, as specifically as you can recall, did your texts say about the teaching of Occlumency?”

Harry frowned, slightly confused by the question. “That’s quite a bit, you know, sir. I mean, that’s most of the book.”

Dumbledore smiled, with his eyes if not his mouth. “My apologies. I meant the part we have been discussing – that is, the part about trust.”

“Oh. Well, one of the books said something like…” Harry furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “Uh… something about ‘a deep and lasting trust’, I think it was, between the student and the teacher.”

“Precisely. I would point out to you, my boy, that the most important word here is ‘between’.”

“Er… what?”

Dumbledore chuckled at Harry’s perplexed expression, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “Why do you think the author wrote of ‘trust between student and teacher’, as opposed to ‘the student trusting the teacher’?”

“Wait… doesn’t that mean… that Snape ha- I mean, Professor Snape, has to trust me too?”

“Exactly right.” Dumbledore leaned forward, so that his clasped hands rested on the desk. The glow of the Pensieve glinted off the rim of his spectacles, framing the piercing blue of his eyes. They peered intently into Harry’s face as he said, “And, Harry, he knew this, from the very beginning.”

Harry was mutely gape-mouthed as the fact sunk in. “He… wanted to, er… have… ‘a deep and lasting trust’ with me?”

“I highly doubt it. He is a very private person, very reluctant to trust. And you… given your, ah, rather complex histories, I cannot imagine that he would want to trust you, Harry.”

“Then why…” Harry flushed, again, and looked away. “You mean, he doesn’t have a choice,” he said, very softly.

“One always has a choice. Do you remember what I once said about choices, Harry? About making the choice between what is right and what is easy?”

“I guess… it isn’t easy for Professor Snape to trust me, is it?” Harry said slowly.

“No, it is not.”

Harry glanced at the Pensieve, and looked away. “Probably even harder for him.”

“It is not my place to judge,” replied the Headmaster. Harry could not see his eyes, obscured as they were by the reflection of silvery memories in his spectacles.

Harry had slipped his wand from his sleeve, and ran his fingers along the length of wood. It seemed a little warmer, when Fawkes was so close by. He looked up at the bird, who fixed him with a jet black eye and chirped, once, the note lingering afterwards in the air.

He sheathed his wand. “I’ll do it,” said Harry. He seemed to have grown an inch or two, sitting suddenly straighter, his shoulders and the tilt of his chin bespeaking his renewed conviction. “I owe him that much,” he added, unsure himself which man he spoke of.

The angle of Dumbledore’s head was such that his eyes again met Harry’s. “You owe nothing, my boy, to anyone.”

“But I…” Harry blinked a few times. “I understand, sir. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yes it is.” The old man smiled then, from his beard to his eyes. “I must say, Harry, I should think there are many people who would be proud of you, if they were here to see it.”

Harry merely nodded, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“I hope there is less trouble in your mind, now. Sleep well tonight, my boy.”

Harry understood it as a dismissal; he nodded, again, and stood to leave. But he lingered a bit at the top of the revolving staircase, and when he found his voice again, he asked, “I was wondering, sir, who taught him Occlumency?”

“Professor Snape, you mean?” The maddening twinkle had returned to Dumbledore’s eyes. “He is a natural Occlumens. Good night, Harry.”

“Enter,” Snape called, putting down the stack of third-year papers. He folded his arms over his chest and watched impassively as Harry put down his bag and braced himself for what he had to say. Snape did not rise from his armchair.

“Er… don’t we have a lesson now, sir?”

“Yes. Or rather, we have an hour during which the Headmaster has ordained we carry on the farce that is Remedial Potions.” Snape’s eyes were cold, unfathomable.

“Look, Professor, I’m…” Harry took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for what I said last time. I think I trust you now. Could we have real Occlumency lessons, sir?” he said, very quickly, all at once.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You mean to say, you trust the Headmaster, and so by proxy, you are willing to have some small measure of faith in myself. You went to see him, did you not?”

“He asked me to. We were talking about the war.”

“I did not ask you of the conversation, nor of the instigator. You spoke of Occlumency.”

Harry did not contradict him.

“The Headmaster trusts me,” said Snape. Harry nodded, slowly. “He… has no need of Occlumency lessons.”

 “Right... I know what you’re getting at, sir, but it’s not like that. Professor Dumbledore gave me some advice – he always does – but it’s my mind. My choice. I can’t say I trust you completely, but I’m ready to try.”

“I see.” Snape stood, then, studying Harry from behind his desk. “This is… quite a  development. You do not have any secrets to hide?”

“Don’t you?” Harry looked away; his mouth, it seemed, had again outrun his brain. “Sir?” he hastily added.

Snape’s eyes narrowed and seemed to lower the temperature between them by several degrees, like chips of ice radiating palpable hostility.

Harry got the message. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled at his shoes. “I… guess not, then.”

“There can be no secrets between us,” said Snape, with a bitterness even Harry could perceive. Dumbledore’s words seemed to play in his ears: I cannot imagine he would want to trust you.

“I know,” he said, very softly.

“Very well.” Snape swished his wand at the chair in the corner; it floated across the room and landed on the other side of his desk. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed, and Snape returned to his armchair. He tucked away his wand and clasped his empty hands on the tabletop. “Look at me, Potter.”

Harry looked up.

“I will enter your mind now. I would cooperate, if I were you.”

The professor’s eyes looked like two dark tunnels, and as Harry stared at them, it felt as though he were tumbling headlong into the abyss. It was not like the previous times, where Snape’s Legilimency was either a very violent affair, or else a subtle, imperceptible probe. He could feel Snape dragging him like a tide out to sea. He tried his best not to resist, though his instincts screamed otherwise.

Harry had not expected his mind to look like this. He and Snape were standing, not in a blank white room, nor even a dark one, but rather, a shapeless, colorless void. He looked around, uneasy at the way the space seemed to be churning around them, and noticed that he held the image of Snape’s face in his eyes; it was almost as though the scene in his office – Snape behind his desk – was faintly etched into the inside of his glasses. He scrubbed them with the sleeve of his robe, surprised that he was able to do so in his mind, but the image stayed.

The professor regarded him calmly, arms folded. “It is natural,” he said. “You cannot make it go away, not would you want to.” Two fingers appeared in the image, and Harry knew that they were Snape’s, though the Snape standing before him did not move. “An awareness of the physical world, while you are immersed in the mental one, is crucial.” The fingers produced Snape’s wand and brought it closer, till it was the size of a broomstick in Harry’s vision, as if to make his point. “It may well preserve your sorry life.”

Harry nodded, paying only half a mind to the routine insult as he squinted at their surroundings. “It’s so… empty,” he said, gesturing around them at the void at large.

Snape smirked. “Surprised, are you?”

Harry scowled then, which only seemed to amuse the man further. “I meant it,” said Snape, “in more ways than just the obvious one. I speak of not only the… lack of substance, but also of the lack of furniture.”

“Furniture? What are you talking about?”

“Your… parlor, if you will, is rather unadorned.”

“My parlor! What does that have to do with anything? You’re having me on, aren’t you!”

“Everyone has a sort of receiving area in the front of their mind. Of course, I mean ‘front’ in the most figurative sense; there is no corresponding physical location. When you think about something, it appears in this space.” Snape looked as though even this short explanation tried his patience. More irritably, he added, “Try it; it should work, even for you.”

Harry thought of Dumbledore, and the headmaster walked out of the swirling edges of the void, ambling easily towards them. It was like a Pensieved memory, but less solid.

Dumbledore produced a bag of lemon drops from within his wide sleeves, and popped one into his mouth.  

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” said Harry.

The old man smiled at him, and replied, “Hello, Harry.”

“You can talk to me? In my thoughts?”

“No, he cannot,” Snape interrupted. “You are creating his reaction, Potter.”

“Right. Of course,” said Harry, feeling vaguely disappointed. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Recall my remark regarding furniture. Try imagining a chair or two.”

Harry thought of chairs, and his thoughts wandered to the big red armchairs in his corner of the Gryffindor common room. Three of them appeared, followed by the large circular table where he usually did his homework. When he glanced up, Dumbledore had disappeared.

“Professor Dumbledore?” he called. The headmaster slowly materialized next to the far chair, but when Harry moved to take a seat, he found that the table and the other two armchairs had faded mostly out of sight.

“It appears that you can only actively think about one thing at a time,” said Snape, “though I should have expected as much.”

Harry crossed his arms, but found that it did not rile him as much as it should have. The longer Snape stayed in his mind, the easier it seemed for him to ignore the man's insults. Perhaps it was a consequence of playing host, even if in an admittedly unadorned mental parlor.

“Takes practice, right?” Harry asked. He glanced at the spot where Dumbledore had been, but both he and the chair were gone. “I guess that to Occlude, I need to imagine walls around this place all the time?”

“It’s not nearly that simple. Firstly, barriers and shields are not walls in the conventional sense. Secondly, this is but one portion of your mind, and a relatively small one, I should hope. Barricading one room does not protect the entire house.”

“But I thought you said this was the front door or something?”

“Has a house – a fortress, even – no back doors, or windows? That we are in your mind does not excuse you from using it, Potter.”

“I have to seal off all of them, you mean.”

“No. You are far too attached to this analogy of a house. I assume you are aware that your mind is not actually a house.” Snape tilted his head, his lips curling in a vaguely self-satisfied smirk. “You must seal off your entire mind, even – or perhaps especially – the areas you cannot see.”

“Well how do I do that? Sir?”

“Perhaps you require a different analogy. Imagine a city – and do try not to make London sprout up amongst us. Now, were your mind a city, we would be standing in one small park or square, from which it is impossible to see your mind in its entirety. You must build the city wall. But not only around the perimeter – it must also protect your mind above and below.”

“From here? I know I have to imagine walls, but how am I supposed to know where to put them?”

“That I cannot tell you. It is rather intuitive; it is your own mind, after all, so you should be able to sense where it begins and ends.”

“It was intuitive for you, wasn't it? Dumbledore said you're one of those naturals. Well, I'm not, so I can't feel a thing.”

“He told you that, did he?” There was a trace of... something... behind those words, but Harry could not discern precisely what it was. He might have imagined it, though, for it was gone before he could blink. “I suppose it's just as well,” Snape said heavily. “There can be no secrets between us.”

They stood a while, Snape studying Harry as though he were inspecting some particularly complex potion. Harry fidgeted, waiting for the man to say something, and attempted to imagine the red armchairs into existence again, but he could not help glancing in Snape's direction and being unnerved by the man's steady gaze. Finally, Snape said, “I can show you where the boundaries of your mind lie, though the perspective is... less than ideal.”

Without any further warning, the ground beneath Harry's feet lurched and disappeared as he was pulled upwards and sideways and out – until he was hovering next to Snape above what seemed to be a massive lightning storm. It crackled blue and white, emanating what Harry could perceive as thoughts and emotions; it felt like he was eavesdropping on a thousand conversations at once – all of them his own, he realized. He fervently hoped that Snape wasn't listening in.

“There,” Snape said, drawing Harry from his thoughts. “That is your mind. I assume you can hear the thoughts and memories within. This is what the Dark Lord will see when he enters, and unless you manage to construct a complete barrier, the Dark Lord will have access to everything you see before you now, and more.”

“I have to imagine walls around all of that?” He might as well have been asked to stuff a tornado into a box.

“Yes. It is usually done from the inside, of course.”
“All right then. Here goes.” Harry took a deep breath. You're a Gryffindor, he told himself.

Harry narrowed his eyes, as if to stare down the writhing, flashing mass before him. A mottled grey boulder appeared, sitting innocently in midair at eye level. Harry pushed against it with what seemed like pure force of will, shoving it inch by inch towards his mind.

“We don't have all day,” Snape snapped. Harry chanced a sidelong glance in the professor's direction; the man's irritation was apparent in his scowl. Harry supposed that their current suspended state must be rather difficult to maintain; he had trouble with physical hover charms of any prolonged duration, himself. When he looked to where the boulder had been, it was gone.

“Dammit!” he swore under his breath, as he hastily tried to conjure another rock.

“Language, Potter. And just how many of those do you think you will need to build a wall? Are mountains made of stacked boulders?”

“No,” Harry realized, “They're just sheets of rock, aren't they?”

Snape snorted beside him, but Harry ignored it, and bent his will to imagining a sheet of solid marble this time, encasing his whole mind. It was a gargantuan feat, he though, but there was no helping it.

A glimmer of stone materialized, tendrils of white snaking around – even through – the lightning storm. The image grew clearer and clearer in his mind's eye, the force of will leaving him feeling dizzy and disoriented, the massive egg-shaped thing spinning in his vision...

Harry found himself sprawled back in his chair, staring up at the dimly-lit ceiling. Blinking back the fog in his eyes, he tried to sit up but fell back with a groan, a splitting headache pounding in his temples. He slumped forwards, head in his arms, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Sweet Merlin,” he mumbled, “what happened?”

“You attempted to cast your entire mind in stone, idiot boy,” said Snape from somewhere above him. The professor placed a vial of potion by Harry's hand. “Drink this.”

Harry fumbled for it without opening his eyes, nearly knocking it from the desk before managing to close his fingers around it. He pried the stopper from the phial, hands slick with sweat, and brought it almost unthinkingly to his mouth before he stopped and asked, with effort, “What is this?”

“Something you have likely never heard of,” Snape replied curtly. “I would like the vial back, if you manage not to break it.”

Harry wavered a moment before the lancing pain in his head flared once more, and he gave in. He sucked greedily at the potion, cool liquid soothing his dry mouth and scratchy throat. The effect was almost instantaneous. He opened his eyes and picked his head up from the desk. “Thank you, sir,” he said, replacing the stopper in its phial.

Snape said nothing, but banished the empty phial with a flick of his wand. “You are not dead, are you?” he snapped. Gone was the tentative rapport, however uneasy, that had existed between them in Harry's mind.

“Er... no, sir.” He blinked at the professor, confused, but as Snape turned to fix him with an icy glare, it dawned on him. “Oh. Right, I get it. Trust. I know you wouldn't have poisoned me or anything, sir,” he said, though from Snape's expression, he wasn't so sure – but he wisely kept that thought to himself.

“Quite.” The professor looked him up and down, lips curled in apparent distaste, and gave a perfunctory nod. “You are dismissed for the night, Mr. Potter.”

Harry could feel Snape's eyes on his retreating back as he left. It made him uneasy, but then again, he supposed, the man always did.

“Merlin, could it be any simpler? What do you not understand?”

Harry groaned, clutching his head, eyes closed. What little patience Snape possessed had long evaporated as Harry showed negligible improvement, and the man's current temper didn't make it any easier. “I don't know!” he ground out.

“I had assumed you were studying those books of yours, Potter!”

“I am! I got the eggshells part, I just can't get it to work!” His eyes snapped open, shining with frustration. “I don't even know what it's supposed to look like! It's not like the books came with pictures!”

“Have you no imagination?”

“Yeah, but it's not like I'm a natural at this! You just assume that I should get it like you do!”

“Occlumency requires effort as well as skill, Mr. Potter.”

Harry's hands flew from his temples as they balled themselves into fists. He shoved them in his pockets as he drew himself up, his frustration suddenly turning into outrage. “You think I'm not trying?” he all but shouted, “You really think I'm not trying, after what I did to Sirius last term? I'm trying a hell of a lot harder than you'd ever know – it's just, you're not teaching me!”

“How predictable,” Snape sneered. “When in doubt, blame the teacher, is that it? The fault is always mine, never yours, then?”

“I never said it was! It's just, I have no idea how it's actually done! And you're just poking around in my head and not actually bloody showing me!”

“Language, Potter,” Snape snapped, though there was something almost mechanical about the reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his hair swinging forward about his face, and when he dropped his hand, Harry saw for the first time that his scowl was not so much cruel as drawn and lined with strain. He looks like Voldemort's been at him, Harry suddenly thought, and then, as if in Dumbledore's voice, It isn't easy for him, either. Harry felt his indignant anger drain away against his will, leaving behind only the echoes of his previous frustration. “I'm sorry,” he said softly.

Snape glanced up, genuine surprise in his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I said, I'm sorry. I know it's frustrating for you too,” said Harry earnestly. “We're both tired, and shouting at each other isn't going to help. I'm sorry. You're a natural, so you probably think I'm stupid or something. Look, Professor, I'm trying, I really am, but I guess I'm just really awful at this. I can't help it.”

Snape turned away abruptly, closing his eyes, his robes swirling around him. Harry warily regarded the professor's back; just as he was beginning to think he had gone too far, Snape spun around to face him. His expression bore no trace of its usual rancor; the infinite weariness that replaced it was perhaps more disquieting, if only for lack of familiarity.

“I suppose I owe you an apology as well, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. How he managed to sound simultaneously calm and as though every word was dragged forcibly from his lips, Harry would never know. “Occlumency is a difficult subject under any circumstance. Just as you have not made it easier for me to teach, I have not made it easier for you to learn. Your frustration is... understandable.”

Harry eyed him cautiously; he wasn't sure what he'd done to merit such an admission from the man, and regardless, Slytherins always had ulterior motives. Right? Snape would never apologize for anything, not to me, he thought. But that was no reason not to make the best of it. “Is there maybe... a different way to do this?” he asked. Harry had read about the strategies some famous Occlumens used to teach the art, but those required better rapport than he and Snape would ever have.

“There are numerous methods, but none that would be particularly effective in this situation.”

“Figures,” said Harry, shoulders slumping a bit. “Guess I just have to keep at it. Feels like trying to kick a hole in a brick wall.”

“If you find it too difficult, you might ask the headmaster to reconsider.”

“No!” Harry all but shouted. More calmly, he added, “I can't. I have to do this, or he'll see everything Professor Dumbledore's been teaching me. I... I know what's at stake this time. I can't just give up like that.”

This seemed to give Snape pause. His demeanor was pensive and grave as he examined Harry. “This, however, cannot continue. Perhaps... perhaps there is another way. It is dangerous, for both of us.”

Harry swallowed – something about Snape's tone raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. “What is it?” he asked quietly.

Snape looked him in the eye, as if searching for something in his very soul. Harry could not fathom what it was, but Snape nodded in what might have been satisfaction, and appeared to have found what he was looking for. He said, “I could show you mine.”

“What?”

“My shields,” he said, with a touch of his usual impatience, “so you can see how they should work.”

Harry gaped at him, rendered momentarily speechless as the full import of his words sank in. “But... You – you mean it?” he sputtered when he regained his voice, “Why?”

“Because you have made too little progress, and time is of the essence. Because the Dark Lord must not be allowed in your mind again. Because it is necessary.” Snape stepped towards Harry, so they stood barely a foot apart. Harry looked up at the man, finding it difficult to meet his eyes and yet impossible to look away. Snape's eyes were like two bottomless pits in a face devoid of expression. The man's voice was low – though he might well have been shouting, so complete was the silence around them – as he said, “You will not repeat to anyone what you see in my mind. I would have you swear an Unbreakable Vow, but the Headmaster would forbid any such thing. As such, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to... trust you.” He spat the last words as though they were poison on his tongue, and they sounded like a challenge.

“I won't tell. I promise. You probably don't think my promises are worth much, but I really mean it, sir. Gryffindor honor, I swear.” Harry winced a bit as the last bit slipped out; it likely made Snape less rather than more inclined to believe him. But Snape did not remark upon it.

“I cannot impress upon you enough the gravity of the situation, Mr. Potter. One mistake on your part costs me my life and the Order its spy. I can only hope that the dire peril of the Wizarding world is sufficient to mitigate any outstanding grievance you may bear.”

It took Harry a moment to understand what he was saying. “I wouldn't!” he said. “Even if the Order didn't need you, I would never – how could you think that?” Harry asked, more stung than he thought he ought be.

“Ah,” said Snape, “How easily I forget – the constraints of Gryffindor honor.” His voice had dropped to a fierce whisper, dripping with bitterness.

Harry sighed, shoulders slumping, and took a step back. “I'm not my father,” he said, looking Snape square in the eye. “He's dead, if you don't remember.” Just like everyone else, he thought, but shoved that away before he could examine it more closely.

It was Snape who looked away, this time. “However much you may resemble him,” Snape said a moment later, vitriol fading again into weariness.

Something's definitely off, Harry thought, ignoring a twinge of – was it satisfaction? – at Snape's words, as he regarded the man before him. He might just be tired, but he usually hides it better. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Snape glanced at him in what Harry took as suspicion. “Yes,” he said, though something in his tone gave Harry pause. But as Harry opened his mouth to speak, Snape added, in an attempt at indifference, “You need not concern yourself; I have done far worse in service to the Order.” Harry did not doubt that at all – though he realized too that it must have cost the man more than he would willingly admit.

“That's not what I meant. You just... well, you look absolutely knackered, sir.”

“Would you not be?” he demanded, gesturing sharply about them, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Harry, though he was convinced there was something more. It was best not to push him further, Harry decided. “I'm sorry you have to do this.” He himself was not certain what exactly he was apologizing for, which was, come to think of it, rather the point.

“I do not have to do anything, Potter. This is my choice,” Snape said icily, and Harry thought that it was as much for his own benefit as it was for Harry's.    

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry, perhaps out of habit. “Thank you.”

“Now go,” said Snape, turning away from him. “We are finished here tonight.” Harry went, and shut the door softly behind him.

Harry dreamed of Voldemort that night. That in itself wasn't unusual; he had gone to Dumbledore about his dreams – visions, really – and the man assured him that Voldemort remained blissfully unaware that the connection had reopened – for now. He was under the impression that the link was broken in the Department of Mysteries, and Snape, said Dumbledore, made sure he continued to think that. If Voldemort found it again, which was not improbable, it would be under his own power.

What was unusual about this dream was that Snape was there, too. He often was, to be sure, but only ever as a faceless figure amidst a horde of Death Eaters. This time, he wore the robes but not the mask, which he held in the crook of his arm. Harry got a good look at him – stoic and aloof as ever, despite the dark smudges under his eyes – as Voldemort turned to him. “Walk with me, Severus,” he said. Snape dipped his head in acknowledgement and followed him – Voldemort – from the room.

“You look ill, Severus,” said Voldemort as they stood together on the balcony overlooking Little Hangleton. “Are you well?”

“Yes, my lord. It is only fatigue, nothing more.” Inclining his head, Snape added, “I thank you for your concern.”

“Has something unexpected come up?” asked Voldemort, glancing keenly at Snape.

Snape, however, was looking out at the town, pale fingers resting upon the wrought-iron railing.

“Nothing... unexpected, my lord.”

“Ah. Does it involve Harry Potter, then?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered Snape without hesitation. Harry's breath caught in his throat; he was fairly certain it was his own throat, back at Hogwarts, but he quickly calmed himself nonetheless, lest Voldemort caught wind of his presence. Snape continued, “It is merely – Dumbledore has asked me to tutor him. The boy wishes to become an Auror, and his performance is... less than adequate, as you can imagine, in the essential subject of Potions.”

“But of course,” said Voldemort softly, his lip curling in what Harry imagined to be a smirk. “It is a pity that you must now pay for your fun, Severus.”

“It is, my lord. I meant to ask your advice on that score.” He waited until Voldemort prompted him with a nod, then added, “I cannot decide whether it would be advantageous for Potter to succeed in this particular ambition. Should he become an Auror, Dumbledore would not be able to coddle and protect him as he does now. Knowing the boy, he would likely insist upon being placed on the front lines – how well his Gryffindor antics serve us! But then... I am not certain we would want him to be an Auror – we do not want him learning all of Moody's or Shacklebolt's tricks, especially given that he shows, unfortunately, an aptitude for Defense against the Dark Arts. Not to mention that it would require more effort on my part.” The hint of a grimace flickered across his face, speaking volumes of Snape's distaste for the task.

Voldemort considered it a while, eyes narrowed. Snape faced him directly, and Harry knew he must be Occluding. Voldemort – or rather Voldemort's facial muscles – gave no indication of whether he noticed, or if he did, what he made of it. When he responded, his tone was as it had ever been – cold and condescending.

“Ah, Severus, how you underestimate me! Am I not more powerful than any Auror? Why should I fear any trick they might teach him? Once Dumbledore is eliminated, we need only to lure him from hiding, and he will be mine for the taking.”

“You are powerful, my lord, more powerful than any mortal wizard. I do not doubt you; I merely thought of the other Death Eaters. They might find him more difficult to capture, should he become an Auror.”

“Where has your brilliant mind gone today, I wonder? You brought me the prophecy; do you not remember its contents? I must kill him, myself and none other. You, my loyal Death Eaters, will not have to face him, not when he will be out in the open, with no need of capture.”

“Of course, my lord. How remiss of me.”

“I begin to think that you are merely reluctant to perform this odious task, Severus.” Voldemort darted a glance at the man, who had gone back to studying the town below.

“Never, my lord. I live to serve.”

“See that you remember it. You have done me a disservice in pursuing your personal animosity against Harry Potter.”

“I did not know it then, my lord. I did not believe his aspirations to the Auror service to be anything more than adolescent posturing. He has not the work ethic, I would think.”

“It matters little whether Potter achieves it on his own merit, or whether Dumbledore manages to pull enough strings to weasel his favorite student into the department. You will see to it that he perform adequately in Potions. You will not allow your personal grudges stand to in the way of my goals.”

“As my lord commands.”

Voldemort nodded once. “Your resentment is understandable, Severus, but not what I would expect of a seasoned Death Eater of twenty years. You set aside your own desires when you came into my service, as you should recall. See that you do not disappoint me.”

“Never, my lord. I will do better, in future.”

“Good. Now, Severus, tell me about the Order...”

Their conversation disappeared as Harry woke abruptly. Hedwig was tapping at the window, he saw as he put on his glasses. He wondered who would write him in the middle of the night, with so urgent a message that it could not wait until breakfast. Sirius used to write him at odd hours, he recalled with a pang, so the letter would not fall into the wrong hands in the chaos of morning post. But he's dead, Harry thought mournfully as he unlatched the window.

The neat script on the envelope was unmistakable. “Remus,” he breathed. Remus hadn't written Harry for a while now; they had corresponded over the summer, briefly, after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, but then Dumbledore had sent him on an Order mission somewhere, and the letters stopped coming. Though Harry usually loved letters, lonely as he was at the Dursleys', he had been almost relieved when Remus stopped writing. For all his tactful kindness, the man inevitably brought to mind his godfather. Remus could not replace Sirius, however much he might try – and he did try, perhaps because he considered it his duty as the last true Marauder. Harry wouldn't let him, though; he couldn't afford to lose anyone else.

Harry slit open the envelope with the tip of his wand and pulled out the letter. “Lumos,” he whispered, and began to read.

Dear Harry,

I am sorry it has been so long since I last wrote. We suspect that my post may have been watched. (I can't tell you the specifics; the Headmaster's orders.) I'm at Grimmauld Place now, and will be here for another week or two.

I've heard that you are resuming Remedial Potions lessons with Snape. I can imagine they are no easier, and Snape really isn't the ideal person to teach you. If you have any questions, feel free to firecall. I'm passably acquainted with the subject at hand (by no means proficient enough to teach, though), with an excellent, unrestricted library and plenty of time at my disposal.

Tell me about Hogwarts, Harry. I'd love to hear about classes, Quidditch, Ron and Hermione, whatever's happening. I enjoyed being a professor more than I realized, I think. Ah, well – it was all for the best, I suppose.

All the best,

Remus

Harry tucked the letter under his pillow – he would reply in the morning – and crawled back under the covers. Why did everything have to revolve around Occlumency – around Snape? He recalled his vision; unless Snape and Voldemort had been speaking in code – and they had no reason to be – Snape was indeed working for the Order, that much was clear. Harry recalled his earlier suspicions with a twinge of guilt, and realized that he hadn't truly thought Snape was Voldemort's spy for quite some time. Something had changed between them, though Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it, which made him a tad uneasy. His last thought, as he drifted off to sleep, was that Snape would not be pleased to know he had seen that particular meeting.

Snape flicked his wand at the nearest chair, which floated over to land obediently in front of his desk. “Sit,” he said. Harry sat.

“Look at me. Don't resist,” he commanded, plunging into Harry's mind without further warning. A brief, disorienting moment later, Harry found himself back in the familiar void of his “parlor”, where he quickly conjured up two armchairs, both unfortunately red and gold.

“We will not be lingering here,” said Snape, eyeing the chairs with distaste. “But, seeing as you are hardly proficient in Legilimency, I must lead you into my parlor. It is, I suspect, not unlike what happens when you dream of the Dark Lord.”

Harry felt something shift in the landscape, somewhere very close by. The vision, he recalled, and tried not to think of it – prayed that Snape would not notice. Snape darted a glance in the direction of the disturbance, and then at him, but made no comment. He merely held out his arm – his right, Harry saw – and said with a grimace, “Take my arm.”

Harry gingerly placed a few fingers on the professor's sleeve, his fingertips barely touching the cloth. “I am not a portkey, Potter,” Snape snapped without looking at him, “Take my arm.”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, trying to hide his mortification as he placed his hand more squarely on the professor's arm. Harry could feel the tension in him, like a compressed spring; Snape held himself perfectly still, as though he were trying not to recoil, nor even to breathe.

All Harry's reluctance vanished as they suddenly lurched upward and sideways; his hand clamped down instinctively on Snape's arm as the ground fell out from beneath his feet. It felt as though they were being sucked through a vacuum tube; Harry thought his shoulder might dislocate as he was dragged by one arm out of his own mind and into Snape's.

His feet struck solid ground with a thump; he landed, thanks to his death-grip on Snape's arm, largely upright. He let go as quickly as he was able, a flush of embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. Snape did not remark upon it.

Harry looked around at the dimly-lit room; the only source of light, the thoughts swirling about overhead, flickered ominously. There was a pair of wing-backed armchairs and a coffee table between them, all dark wood and leather. An empty fireplace adorned the far wall, its mantlepiece bare save for a few glass vials and dried plants. There was even a rug – dark green, of course – on the floorboards. “Wow,” Harry breathed.

“I do try to keep it simple,” said Snape. “You have not seen the Headmaster's; it is astonishing for the sheer quantity of odds-and-ends he keeps there.” He gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

Only slightly bewildered, Harry sat, and found the chair surprisingly solid, unlike those in his own mind, where the occupant was liable to fall through the seat at any time. “You are only the third person to ever have been here,” Snape remarked.

Harry looked up. “The others... they're Professor Dumbledore and Voldemort, right?”

“Do not speak his name!” Snape hissed, turning the full force of his glare upon Harry. Harry started; he had almost forgotten how venomous the man's eyes were when he was truly angry, rather than merely irritated. Snape's mind churned above them, snarling whispers and snatches of conversation filling the air like the static before a storm. Harry could feel his hair stand up on end.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, “You-Know-Who, then. It was him and Dumbledore, right?”

Snape turned towards the fireplace, his robes swirling around him, and lit a fire in the grate with a flick of his wand. His other hand gripped the stone mantlepiece; he stood there for several long moments with his back turned, framed in the orange glow of flames, as the roiling thoughts around them gradually calmed.

He slid his wand back into his sleeve and lowered himself into the other chair. “Yes,” he replied curtly, much of the previous strain returning to his voice. He did not look at Harry as he continued, suspiciously lightly, “ It appeared you were attempting an approximation of the Gryffindor common room, though of course, I would not know for certain.”

“Yeah, I was,” said Harry, relieved at the change of subject. “Should I be doing that?”

“A more exact replica is easier to maintain, by virtue of its familiarity. The Headmaster's, for example, is modeled after his office.”

“What about here?” Harry asked before he could stop himself.

There was a pause – Harry could have sworn the room dimmed – and just as he was about to mumble a quick “Never mind,” Snape replied, “My sitting room.”

“Oh.” Harry could not think of anything else to say, and fidgeted silently in his seat.

Snape continued as though the interruption had not occurred. “Of course, the Dark Lord, should he perform Legilimency on you, will not have the courtesy to stay within the confines of your parlor. It is merely the point of easiest access.”

“It's like walking through the front door, right? Instead of trying to go through the wall or something?”

“An oversimplification, but that is the essential idea. Recall, however – and never forget – that your parlor, in particular, has two points of entry where the Dark Lord is concerned: your eyes, and your scar.”

Harry groaned. “I can't be normal, ever, can I,” he muttered.

“If you were,” said Snape, “we would hardly be here, now, would we?”

“Well, it's not like I asked for it.”

“No,” said Snape, in quite a different voice, “I don't imagine you did.”

Harry frowned, and stared at the man, who gazed back at him with a shuttered, inscrutable expression. A few long moments passed, and Harry, desperate to say something – anything – asked, “So what do we do now?”

“I trust you have settled adequately. Now, I shall show you how the mind of an Occlumens should look. Come with me.”

This time, Harry was wrenched out of his seat without even touching Snape. They spun crazily through the space that was Snape's mind, the armchairs falling away beneath them, thoughts and memories flashing from every direction like a shoal of silver fish. Finally, they slowed, and then stopped, at what appeared to be an unending wall of smoky glass. Snape stretched his legs, unbending them from their seated position.

“This is the outermost barrier,” said Snape, gesturing at the vast crystalline structure before them. They floated a bit closer, until it was barely an arm's length away. Harry could feel cold mist emanating from it.

“May I?” he asked, his hand an inch from the surface. Snape nodded. Harry brushed the tips of his fingers against it. “It's ice!” he exclaimed. He looked down at his fingers, which were pink with cold, and then up at Snape.

“Yes. This is what is meant by constructing a barrier – often described as an eggshell due to its globular shape. Your own, however, will be made of something other than ice, as the Dark Lord would recognize my influence.”

“Like what? Rock or something?”

“I leave the choice of material to you. I recommend it be something you can easily visualize.”

Harry tried to imagine a wall of brick, or iron, or perhaps the brown and grey stones of which Hogwarts was built. He found it, oddly, much more difficult than last time.

“Potter,” Snape said, jolting him from his thoughts, “Do not attempt to conjure barriers – or anything, for that matter – in another wizard's mind. It is much more difficult, and is generally considered a severe breach of etiquette, without explicit permission.”

“Oh. Uh, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know – and I didn't think it'd do anything, anyhow.”

“I am aware of your ignorance,” Snape replied. “It was merely precautionary.”

“Right.” The ensuing silence, Harry imagined, was a trifle less tense.

“I believe this to be sufficiently illuminating,” said Snape a moment later. “We shall return to my office, Potter.”

Harry was prepared, this time, for the disorienting feeling of being bodily forced through the thicket of Snape's mind. He landed neatly in his own head, and blinked several times as his vision came back into focus; he was greeted by the sight of Snape observing him, looking unfairly cool and collected. “I trust you have a better idea, now, of the task at hand,” said Snape.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry replied, and added, “Thanks.”

“When we next meet, I expect you to have some idea of the material most suitable for your outer walls.”

“Right. I'll think about that.”

“And Potter, what was the earlier disturbance in your mind?”

Harry hesitated, avoiding his eyes. “I, uh, it was...” he began, trying to think of some plausible excuse. He scuffed a foot on the flagstones, the events of the past hour floating about his consciousness. Trust, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath.

“I had another vision last week. I saw you talking to Vol – I mean, You-Know-Who,” he said in a rush.

“Ah. You mean the conversation about 'Remedial Potions'?” Snape's expression remained impassive.

“Er, yeah.” A heavy silence followed, so Harry continued, as lightly as he could, “Actually, I've been thinking, isn't that story a little outdated? I mean, you don't teach Potions anymore.”

“I hardly think you require Remedial Defense, Potter,” Snape replied sharply.

“Well, no, but if I were really having Remedial Potions, wouldn't Slughorn be doing it?”

Snape's perpetual scowl seemed to deepen. “The Headmaster is well known for his belief in penance and absolution,” he said, gazing into the fire, which threw shadows onto his angular face. “Not to mention that Slughorn seems to think you quite the model Potions student.” He turned to look at Harry, the flames throwing strange glints into his narrowed eyes. “I have wondered about that, Mr. Potter.”

Harry froze. Of all the things to dredge up now, he had not expected that. Snape would confiscate the book, he figured, and he couldn't let that happen. Ron, for one, would never forgive him. He shifted in his seat, edging away from Snape – he didn't think Snape was going to Legilimize him, but he wasn't about to chance it – and did some very quick thinking. I wonder if this is how he does it with Voldemort, Harry thought with a twinge of newfound admiration.

“He's not nearly as suspicious as you are,” Harry said. “Well, he doesn't hover around looking over everyone's shoulders telling us how incompetent we are, anyhow. You think he notices if I copy Hermione?”

“And your friend Mr. Weasley, then?” Snape demanded. “There are no similarly glowing reports of him, as I recall.”

“Well... they've been fighting lately – Ron and Hermione, I mean.” At Snape's skeptical glance, Harry continued, “I... really shouldn't be telling you this – so please don't let on – but... well, they've been fighting... about Lavender, you know.”

“You mean Mr. Weasley's insipid... lady friend,” Snape sneered. “I can imagine Ms. Granger might disapprove.”

“Erm... yeah.” Harry prodded the rug with the toe of his shoe. Am I really discussing Ron's love life with Snape, of all people?

Snape must have noticed his sudden reticence; he cleared his throat, much discomfited, and said, “I suppose it is no business of mine how inattentively a colleague runs his classroom.” He glanced at the clock on the far wall, and again at Harry. “We are finished for tonight, Mr. Potter,” he said. He pulled a stack of papers from a drawer and bent his head to his work, ignoring Harry completely. Slightly mystified, Harry took up his bag and left. It was a long while before he found himself facing the Fat Lady once more.

 “So,” said Snape, steepling his hands on the desk in front of him, “I presume you have thought about the form your shields will take?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered. It was technically true; he had spent a good ten or fifteen minutes of dinner discussing the matter with Hermione at the end of the Gryffindor table, while Ron fended off eavesdroppers. He simply hadn't had time until then, what with all the exams he'd had that week. “We – Hermione and me, I mean – we were thinking I could use hedges. Like the ones from the maze in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Ms. Granger is quite astute,” said the professor, which, coming from Snape, was high praise indeed. “We shall see how well your mind takes to these hedges. Legilimens.”

Harry was expecting it, this time. He allowed himself to fall backwards, suppressing the instincts that told him to fight back. He found, upon landing, that his parlor had grown a carpet, in the same shade of deep red that adorned the Gryffindor common room.

“Hmm,” said Harry, scuffing one of his trainers through it, “I wasn't expecting this.”

“As one grows more accustomed to the use of his mental parlor, it tends to furnish itself. The Headmaster, for example, did not consciously populate his mind with its vast assortment of odds and ends.”

“Does this mean that I'm getting better at this?”

“Hardly. You are growing accustomed to, rather than proficient at, Occlumency. There is a world of difference between the two.” Snape crossed his arms and eyed the carpet with some distaste. “You need to learn how to use Occlumency, instead of merely stopping at the boundaries of your as-yet insufficient ability.”

"Right, I get it, sir," said Harry, seized with the sudden urge to roll his eyes. He refrained, and asked, "What do I do with the hedges?"

"Create walls around this parlor, It should not be terribly difficult." Snape glanced pointedly at the armchairs, and then at him; Harry tried to quickly school his slightly befuddled expression. The professor sighed, and added, "Imagine the walls of the Triwizard maze enclosing this space."

“All right,” said Harry, half to himself, “here goes.” He stared at some point in the flickering darkness of his mind, where he imagined the parlor might end and the rest of his mind begin. He pictured trees, shrubs, masses of branches and leaves sprouting from the edge of the carpet, the red plush bleeding into rich browns and greens. He found himself walking forward, past the couches, past Snape, who stood by with his arms crossed; the scent of fresh soil and undergrowth assailing his nostrils. He ended up standing with one foot in the carpet, the other in a pumpkin patch that looked remarkably like Hagrid's, his palms flat against the trunk of a tree. The scene looked like a cross between the Triwizard hedges and the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Um,” said Harry. “Well.” He propelled himself backwards and up -- it had been a disconcerting feeling, at first, but it was rather like Portkeying and he had quickly grown accustomed to it -- and came into himself, sitting across from Snape. He glanced at his hands, then back at Snape, who coolly raised an eyebrow at him.

“There is hope for you yet,” said the man, favoring him with a smirk that could possibly be mistaken for a smile, if Harry squinted. “The next task will be to create some defenses. I would not expect a coherent system from you, but it should not be too taxing upon your mental faculties to populate the forest with a host of unpleasant creatures – you have certainly encountered them in unusual density in your career at Hogwarts."

Harry grinned ruefully, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, it's not like I'm asking for trouble. It just... tends to find me."

"Including the troll of five years ago?" said Snape, just a bit snidely.

"That wasn't my fault! It was – Hermione was in there, and that was five years ago! I was eleven – I had just discovered magic was real about a month before, for God's sake – how was I supposed to know that it could have killed me?"

"By its sheer size, perhaps?" said Snape.

"If you're going by size, then Hagrid could have killed me!"

"If he did not, it was not for lack of effort. There was a certain dragon, I seem to recall, not to mention a few... indiscretions, you might say, in a pub in Eastern Europe," said Snape with a curl of his lip.

"It's not like he mean to – he, well, you know what he's like – a bit rough around the edges, but pretty harmless, most of the time. Anyhow," said Harry, casting about for a less incriminating topic, "I have to put animals in the forest, right?"

"Not only animals," said Snape, taking Harry's diversion impeccably in stride, "Magical creatures, Devil's Snares, Whomping Willows – traps for the unwary. You should strive not for realism, but for damage to intruders."

"Sounds like a lot of work to maintain," Harry said, half to himself.

"It will become easier, much as the parlor comes naturally to you now."

Harry blinked at him; he had been expecting something more along the lines of a sneer and an "If the work is too much for famous Harry Potter, then perhaps I shouldn't be wasting my time on you." But not really – he didn't think Snape had said something like that and really meant it, for some weeks now. He wondered, briefly, when things had changed – and how he hadn't noticed them changing.

"Collecting kneazles, are you?" said Snape, interrupting his thoughts.

"Huh? Oh, they're not that scary – Crookshanks – that's Hermione’s cat – is part-kneazle."

Snape looked, for a moment, as though he might roll his eyes. "It is a Wizarding expression," he said instead, "equivalent to the term 'wool-gathering'. Surely after so many years at Hogwarts, you have managed to acquire some knowledge of Wizarding colloquialisms."

"Well, 's not like anyone ever taught me," Harry grumbled half-heartedly.

"Have you never availed yourself of the vast library of wizarding literature at your disposal, then?"

"I've never really had the time for that. School, you know, and Quidditch, and stuff," Harry shrugged.

"You are aware that Madam Pince has a summer lending policy, are you not?"

"Err... Hermione may have mentioned that once, but, um, I don't really have time over the summer, either." Harry flushed; it was a weak excuse, he knew, but he couldn't come up with anything more convincing.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "The summer holiday is three months long. I would think you have ample time for a few books -- not to mention your summer assignments, which bear all the signs of having been completed the night before -- amidst the undoubtedly unprofitable activity that fills the summers of all teenaged wizards."

"Um, right." He could only imagine what Aunt Petunia -- or worse, Uncle Vernon -- might do if they caught him reading Hogwarts books over the summer. He sighed, and glanced up at Snape, who was looking expectantly at him. "Look, Professor, you probably know this already, since you've been in my mind and stuff, but my relatives don't like magic. I -- I basically pretend to be a Muggle every summer." At Snape's slightly dismayed expression, he quickly added, "It's not actually that bad -- I mean, I didn't know that magic existed until I got my Hogwarts letter." Merlin, thought Harry, why was he trying to reassure Snape, of all people?

"I am not, as you seem to believe, completely ignorant of the non-magical world," said the man, his expression inscrutable, "nor, as a Head of House, unfamiliar with cases of magic-adverse Muggles. Nonetheless, it is not as though most unillustrated books are manifestly magical to the eyes of untrained Muggles."

"I don't think they'd actually bother to check -- they kind of assume that anything that comes back with me from Hogwarts is contaminated or something," Harry said with a shrug.

"Contaminated," Snape repeated, nostrils flaring. "Really."

"Er... something like that," said Harry, flushing a bit. "It's not a big deal -- just means I can't do my summer homework until get back. At Snape's raised eyebrow, he added, reluctantly, "They lock it all up."

"And your wand?" demanded Snape, his tone suddenly much colder than before. "Do you go three months without that bare minimum of protection, too?"

"I'm not that stupid!" Harry exclaimed. "I keep it with me, under my clothes. Used to stick it in my waistband, but Remus got me this holster for my birthday -- it's a bit itchy and a bit big, so I don't wear it around here, but I use it over the summer hols."

"I see."

Harry could tell that Snape wasn't completely satisfied with the answer. "Really, sir. Remember that thing with the Dementors last year? How they dragged me in front of the Wizengamot? I cast the Patronus -- got me in trouble, but I had my wand, see?"

"Yes, I do remember," said the man, seeming somewhat mollified. "You say that your relatives lock up your school things?"

"Umm..." Harry looked away; he was beginning to regret having let that bit slip. "Well, just the really obviously magical stuff, like spell books. They let me keep my clothes -- my Muggle clothes, that is -- and my toothbrush, and most of my Muggle stuff, and Hedwig -- but that's mostly 'cause Order people expect to hear from me, and they'd probably get in trouble with them if she died or something."

Snape took a moment to respond. "Hedwig... is your owl, is she not?"

"Yeah." Harry didn't quite see where this line of inquiry was going, but didn't think it was particularly damning.

"And yourself?" said the man in a seeming non sequitur.

"What about me?"

"They do know..." Here, Snape coughed, as if reluctant to continue. "They do know that the same principle applies to you, as well?"

"Huh?" Harry blinked at him, and then said, "Oh, that. Yeah, some of the Order people let them know that they'd be keeping tabs on me all summer, so the Dursleys know not to do anything too horrible." Almost as soon as he had spoken, Harry realized that he had probably said a little too much. Snape was uncommonly good at getting people to talk when he so chose; it probably came from being a spy, Harry thought, or a Slytherin.

There was something in the man's eyes that scared him a little; it wasn't a nice expression, even for Snape. But try as he might, Harry could not fathom what it meant. "Too horrible?" the professor said silkily.

"Um. Never mind," Harry said quickly. "What about the hedges? Sir?"

"You mean your Occlumency shields," said Snape, taking the diversion in stride. If he noticed Harry's attempt at misdirection, he did not comment upon it. "I suppose we should see about populating your shrubbery with dangerous creatures, then."

The following week, Hedwig arrived at breakfast with a package wrapped in nondescript brown paper. Harry untied it from Hedwig's legs and hefted it in his hands; it felt like the books Remus had promised him, shrunken for owl post. There was a letter on top, and its envelope said, "Open this first!"

Harry slit the envelope with the other end of his fork. "Who's it from?" asked Ron.

Hermione glanced over his shoulder at the name below the fold. "Professor Lupin," she said, "probably stuff for... Remedial Potions."

The letter read:

Dear Harry,

I'm very glad to hear that you are doing well, and that you're progressing in Remedial Potions. Professor Snape really is a competent colleague and teacher when he chooses to be, though he is, of course, somewhat unapproachable the rest of the time. I do hope that the lessons have helped with this.

On that note, here are some books from Grimmauld Place that you may find helpful; I have used some of them myself. I chose only a few -- particularly ones that you would not necessarily find in the Hogwarts library (outside of the Restricted Section -- I would know), or ones that I thought would be relevant to your situation. I would recommend that you read, in particular, Manipulating the Dreamscape. You are welcome, of course, to ask Hermione for help.

I'm also very glad to hear that your dreams aren't troubling you much, and that my old House Quidditch team is doing well. I had every confidence that you would make a wonderful captain; your father was the same.

Take care of yourself,

Remus

Harry swallowed hard. Remus had no idea how badly Quidditch was going -- how dysfunctional their team was, how things had started falling apart after Katie got sent to St. Mungo's (or, if he really thought about it, even before then), how Ron just couldn't perform under pressure. And the match was in just a few days. I bet my dad could have handled all this, Harry found himself thinking. I bet he would have been able to put the team back together.

It usually did not bother him when people spoke of his father -- it happened often enough that he was used to it -- but Harry found that he was no longer quite as accustomed. People, or rather, the people who mattered to him, had not mentioned his dad to him in a long time -- not since Sirius; people who knew about Padfoot tried either to console him, or else avoided mention of the incident all together. Snape had, of course, brought up his father on numerous occasions, and his godfather a few times, but most of it was pure insult, and Harry wasn't sure if Snape counted as someone who mattered to him anyways.

"Well, what's it say?" asked Ron through a mouthful of eggs, shaking Harry from his thoughts.

"Ronald, that is disgusting," Hermione shot back. Ron gulped it down and grinned at her; she rolled her eyes, muttering "boys," under her breath.

"That they're books," said Harry, getting his bearings and pretending not to have heard the last bit, "you know, like Hermione said. And 'good luck with Quidditch,' and all that." He tucked the letter and the unopened package of books into his schoolbag. "Probably best not to open this here. I'll un-shrink them upstairs."

Ron paled a bit at the mention of Quidditch. "Please tell me he's not coming to watch," he murmured faintly.

"I doubt it. He's doing something on the Continent for the Order, last I checked. Probably left right after he posted these with Hedwig."

"Oh, thank Merlin."

"Ron, don't worry about it," said Hermione, patting his arm encouragingly, "you'll do fine. It's just Quidditch."

"Just Quidditch!" Ron moaned, "I'm going to embarrass myself in front of the whole school, and she says it's 'just Quidditch!'"

"Well, if only you would get so worked up over your NEWTs. There's such a thing as priorities, Ron."

Ron shook his head. "You just don't understand, 'Mione. It's Quidditch."

Hermione turned back to her pancakes in a huff, and ignored Ron for the rest of breakfast.

Harry made his way down to Snape's office that evening after a completely miserable Quidditch practice. He was tired, sore, and out of sorts -- he hadn't even had time to stop by Gryffindor Tower afterwards -- but somehow he didn't think Snape would find those to be acceptable excuses for skiving off an Occlumency session.

The door was already ajar, and he could see Snape at his desk, marking papers in red ink. He knocked, once; the man raised his head and said, "Come in." He sounded tired, Harry thought, or perhaps just bored.

Harry put his bag down against Snape's desk, and sat down in the chair opposite. "Do you want to finish grading those first, sir?" he asked, "I have homework I could do."

Snape glanced up at him, a strange expression playing upon his lips. "No, that is unnecessary." He gathered up the papers, casting a quick-drying spell on them, and put them aside. He stood up; with a flick of the wrist, his wand slid into his hand from within his sleeve. "On your feet, Mr. Potter."

Harry pushed the chair back and stood, his feet slightly apart in the dueling stance that came almost second nature to him, now. Snape wordlessly levitated the chair to the other end of the room, and then tucked his wand away. "You have been practicing, I trust?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Worked on my outer shields. The hedge walls, like you said."

"Good. Let us see how well your hedges hold up, then. Legilimens."

Harry could feel it as Snape impacted the outer layer of his hedge walls. He was not attempting to be especially subtle, Harry knew; if Snape really didn't want him to notice, he probably could manage it. As it was, Harry could see his presence right outside his mind, searching for a gap in the foliage. He appeared to have found one, and burrowed inwards. Harry wrapped one of his vines around him, and tossed him outwards, and away.

He blinked, and the room shifted into focus. Snape's arms were crossed over his chest, but he had a vaguely satisfied expression on his face. "You do understand, I hope, that most opponents, such as the Dark Lord, will be more aggressive, or else much more subtle."

"Yeah. I think I'm getting the hang of it, though. You can hit me with something harder," said Harry. He wondered, briefly, if it was a foolish thing to say, but then Snape nodded.

"Very well," said Snape, with a hint of a smirk. "Remember that you asked for it." And with that, he plunged.

Harry felt it as a needle this time, a much more concentrated, forceful blow. He grabbed at it with his barbed vines, but it slipped easily past, slicing through one of the plants as Snape twisted forward. Harry threw up a branch in his path, and felt the man's mind impact the wood with a satisfying thunk. Harry stumbled backwards a few steps from the force of the blow; his physical foot caught on something, and he landed on the dungeon floor on his backside.

He disentangled his foot from the strap of his book bag -- that was what tripped him, he realized -- and saw that half the contents had spilled out. His breath caught when he saw that the package from Remus had torn open, and the shrunken books spilled out onto the flagstones.

"What," said Snape, "are those?"

Harry swallowed. Trust, he thought. "They're, uh, books. I just got them today. Remus heard that I was doing Occlumency again, and, umm, he sent me some stuff he thought might help."

Snape nodded slowly, his expression blank. "I suppose they are from the Black library?"

"Yeah."

Snape hovered them, all three of them, onto his desk. "Finite Incantatem."

The books resumed their normal sizes. Snape glanced at their spines and flipped to their title pages. "Manipulating the Dreamscape. Yes, that would be rather appropriate, in your situation. It is... often overlooked, as most Occlumens are concerned with waking Legilimency. The Ultimate Duel is more of a Legilimency text, strictly speaking, but it is one of the better beginner's books. Defending the Mind is a rather standard Occlumency text -- I believe you already have it, though, from the Hogwarts library?" He glanced up at Harry.

"I -- yeah. Got it a while ago."

"Your spellwork is, undoubtedly, much better than your Occlumency, especially given the... illicit student organization of last year." Snape eyed him critically.

"Umm. Yeah. I mean, yes sir." Harry was not quite sure where the conversation was headed, and quickly added, "I haven't done any spells on the books, though. I didn't even cancel the shrinking spells."

"Yes, I know," said Snape. "You misunderstand me, though I have not... made myself very clear on this score. I am going to teach you a spell -- it is a rather simple one, so I do not anticipate having to teach you more than once."

"Umm, okay. Is it something to do with Occlumency, sir?"

"In a fashion." Snape stacked Defending the Mind and Manipulating the Dreamscape off to one side, and said, "Presumably, you have covered time-lapse spells in Charms at this point."

"Last year. We did cover Portkeys a few weeks ago -- the scheduling thing is a time-lapse spell."

"Good. I will teach you a time-lapse shrinking spell. It is designed to hold for exactly twenty-four hours, after which the object will revert to its normal size. Of course, it may be reversed at anytime prior. It is, I might add, only intended for inanimate, non-living objects, though one may achieve mixed results with living, nonmagical plants." He drew his wand, and continued, "The incantation is syrnothimer, with the accent on the second syllable, like so." He tapped The Ultimate Duel with his wand, incanting, "Syrnothimer."

The book shrank, much like with an ordinary shrinking spell, to the size of a Chocolate Frog card. They waited a moment, and then Snape incanted, "Finite." The book resumed its former size with a pop.

"Okay. Let me try," said Harry, repeating the incantation. The book obediently shrank, its final size not quite as small as Snape's spell had produced, but Harry could quite easily fit the whole book in his hand.

"Not quite," said Snape. "The tip of your wand should make contact with the object on the second syllable of the incantation. Any first year would remember that the wand motion usually ought match the incantation of the spell. Try again. Finite."

"Yeah, I do know that, sir" said Harry. "Just... forgot about it for a sec. Sorry. Syrnothimer," he said, making sure the wand motion matched.

The shrunken book was, this time, about the size of a Chocolate Frog card. "Okay. That worked better. Second syllable -- got it."

"And the other books as well," said Snape, folding his arms over his chest, "and then we shall resume with the Occlumency."

Harry cast the spell on the remaining books, pleased with how well it worked, and tucked all three of them back in his bookbag. He was reluctant to, but he felt he had to ask, "Umm... why did you teach me this? Sir?"

Snape glanced at him, a shuttered look in his eyes, and said, "You are aware that for legal purposes, the timestamp of most spells, including time-lapsed ones, marks the moment at which the spell leaves the wand, rather than the conclusion of its effects."

"Er... yeah," said Harry, confused by the seeming non sequitur.

"You are also aware, I am certain, that underage magic use, while against Hogwarts rules, is not actually illegal on the Hogwarts Express?"

"Well, of course. I mean, plenty of people use magic on the train." Harry thought for a moment. "Wait... oh. Oh. I get it, sir -- that's brilliant -- thanks!" Harry grinned, and couldn't help adding, "That's really, umm, Slytherin of you."

Snape snorted. "I am certain I have no idea what you mean by that," he said evenly. "Now, considering we have wasted enough of the evening, let us return to Occlumency, shall we?"

Harry woke up for the second time that night. He glanced at the watch on his nightstand. It was barely four in the morning, but he did not think he would be getting any more sleep. He threw the covers aside and rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what it was, keeping him awake.

Perhaps it was a dream -- perhaps even a Voldemort dream. He hadn't had one of those in a long while, so maybe he was overdue for one. It couldn’t be Quidditch, at least, he thought. The match was tomorrow – or today, if he thought of it that way – but he was never that nervous for Quidditch matches. Then again, he was captain, and most of Gryffindor’s best players were gone, graduated and otherwise -- and, well, there was Ron. He forcibly reined in his stray thoughts -- he was getting better at that, he noticed -- and murmured, “I really should be getting a good night’s sleep.”

He found, after ten long minutes of tossing and turning, that he was wide awake, the dream lingering on the very edges of his consciousness. He got out of bed, put on his glasses, and began to dig the Marauder’s Map and his invisibility cloak from his trunk.

He had intended to go on a quiet nighttime stroll, just to calm himself enough to fall asleep, but changed his mind when he happened upon his broomstick servicing kit, the one Hermione had given him for his birthday. Might as well do something useful, he thought, setting it on the windowsill. He then retrieved his Firebolt and sat down by the dormitory window to polish it by moonlight.

Harry had worked the front third of the handle to a dull sheen when he noticed an odd black splotch on the grounds. After watching it for a moment, he decided that it was not a splotch at all. It was a person, someone moving erratically towards the castle, hunched over and stopping every few feet. A gust of wind caught its dark robes, which billowed out around the person's legs.

It was Snape, Harry realized, squinting through his lenses at the figure; the man's lank, dark hair and hooked nose were recognizable even across the lawn. Snape was, judging by the shape of his robes, probably returning from a Death Eaters’ meeting. It looked as though he was injured, badly. At this rate, he would collapse before making it into the castle, and the thought made Harry’s chest tighten strangely.

He was not worried for Snape. Well, he amended, perhaps just a little. Harry had no great personal interest in the man, really, but if anything bad were to befall him, the Order would lose its spy, and he his Occlumency teacher. Harry’s gaze returned to the dark splotch, which was no longer moving towards the castle. He was not concerned for Snape, not at all.

Harry slipped into robes and a pair of trainers, not bothering to tie them. He threw open the window and quickly drew the curtains closed as the cold air blew into the room. He climbed onto the windowsill, the drapes falling silently between his body and the dormitory. It occurred to him that, were anyone looking upwards in his direction, he would have looked insane and suicidal, standing on the window ledge in the dead of night. He shrugged off the thought, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked off.

Harry landed in the grass a few feet from Snape. The man’s face was deathly pale, even more so than usual, and there was blood dripping from his lower lip and chin. His hands were shaking, though they were clenched in the folds of his robes, and he clearly found it an enormous effort to put one foot in front of another.

“Professor Snape,” Harry called softly, not wanting to startle him.

“Potter,” he said, his head whipping up, his wand hand twitching in its sleeve, “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was harsh, harsher than Harry had heard it in quite some time, but somehow it seemed less menacing than it would have, even a year ago. That, and the fact that he had not deducted points for being outside past curfew, indicated to Harry that something was very, very wrong.

“You’re hurt, sir,” he said.

“It is no concern of yours.” Snape’s sneer was ruined by the blood leaking from his mouth. Harry was strangely reminded of how, in grade school, he used to insist to his teachers that he was perfectly fine, after Dudley and his gang had engaged in yet another round of "Harry hunting". He pushed the memory away; he endeavoured not to think of the Dursleys while at Hogwarts, and usually succeeded.

“No, sir, you’re not," Harry persisted, "you’re bleeding.” He remembered that evening in Snape’s office, at the start of term, when the professor had made the same observation.

Snape glared at him, as if to say that he was stating the obvious, but Harry continued, surprising even himself, “Where are you going? I can take you there.”

“Insolent boy," he said, without much feeling, "I can walk.” Harry caught him, instinctively, as he stumbled, and let go of him just as quickly.

“You’re barely standing as is. Professor? I know you’re not going to the Hospital Wing. Which door do you use?”

Harry was made suddenly aware of how much the man hid, still -- how much Harry really did not know about him -- as Snape’s eyes bored into his own. He knew he was being Legilimized -- he could tell, now -- but found that he did not much care, at the moment. He understood why Snape might feel it necessary.

“Fine," said the man reluctantly. "Not a word to anyone, or –”

“You’ll poison me at breakfast or something, I know.” He held out his broom for Snape to get on. “Where to?”

“The back door by the dungeons. You don’t know of it, and won’t know of it –”

“Yes, of course, I promise,” Harry interrupted. "Just get on the broom, sir." Snape could barely lift his leg clear of the broom handle; Harry lowered it, until the bristles just skimmed the grass, so that Snape could get on. Harry mounted in front of him, careful not to jostle the man in the process, and kicked off. The Firebolt wobbled once before leaping into the air.

Once they were airborne, Snape said, “Come to think of it, the Headmaster’s office, instead.” Harry nodded and changed directions. Snape probably wanted to give his report, he figured, before he passed out for who-knows-how-long.

He felt the broom tilt upwards as it climbed. Snape was losing his purchase and sliding backwards. Harry reflexively leaned forward, pulling the Firebolt into a shallow dive. The professor slid forwards and did not have the strength to keep himself from hitting Harry.

Compared to taking a Bludger in the arm, Harry thought, the impact with Snape, however greasy, was nothing. Why, then, did he feel so heavy?

Harry whispered, as so not to startle the man, “It might be best if you just hang on to me, sir.” He received little response, save for a stiff arm around his midsection. Harry clutched Snape's arm with one hand, to prevent the professor from falling off, and with the other, pulled the broom out of the dive and towards the Headmaster’s office window.

The curtains were half-open, and the Dumbledore could be seen reading a book in his usual chair, with Fawkes perched on his knee. Harry rapped his knuckles on the windowpane, calling, “Headmaster! I’ve got Professor Snape here, he’s –”

Dumbledore looked up, as if expecting them. He waved a hand at tall window, which swung open. Before Harry could stop him, Snape tumbled to the office floor, pulling Harry with him. The headmaster stepped around his desk and knelt by Snape as Harry extricated himself from the man’s grip.

Harry just watched, feeling rather helpless, as Dumbledore summoned several potions from the bathroom behind his office and gently tipped one into the professor’s mouth. Snape coughed, a thin line of blue potion leaking from the corner of his mouth to mingle with the blood on his face. Dumbledore propped the man up against an armchair.

“Severus, can you hear me?” he asked.

Snape’s eyes were glassy and half-focused, but he raised a shaking hand to take the second potion Dumbledore held towards him. “Headmaster…” he whispered hoarsely. Even to Harry, who knew next to nothing about Mediwizardry, it appeared that his condition was quickly deteriorating.

“Harry, go fetch Madame Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said. “Take your broomstick.” Harry complied without question; he swung a leg over his Firebolt and fairly flew down the rotating staircase.

When Harry returned, with the Mediwitch behind him on the Firebolt, Snape looked marginally better. Though still sprawled awkwardly against the side of his armchair, with his eyes closed, he was conscious and in the middle of reconstructing the Death Eaters’ meeting for Dumbledore, while the headmaster foisted another potion on him and attempted to put off the report until after Snape’s recovery, or at least until the morning. The potions master fell silent as he noticed Harry and Pomfrey hovering, quite literally, at the top of the stairs.

Pomfrey got to work immediately, her manner brisk and her mouth set in a thin line. Dumbledore nodded to Harry and said, “Thank you, my boy. Go back to bed now; you have an important day ahead of you.”

Harry hesitated in the doorway. “Will he be all right?” he asked.

Dumbledore smiled, a weary, somber sort of smile. “I believe he will be. Thank you for asking.”

 The next morning, despite having slept only three or four hours -- and badly, at that -- Harry was awake before any of his teammates could see him slip out of Gryffindor Tower. He stuffed his Quidditch things into his school bag and slung it over his shoulder; the scarlet robes would have attracted more attention than his ordinary black ones. It was imperative that no one notice him. He really should not be seen visiting Snape at all, but he needed to assuage the vague concern that nagged at him, lest it affected his flying later that day. He wondered if anyone would believe that he had wanted a calming potion for pre-game nerves.

The infirmary was quiet as he entered. There was a first-year asleep in the bed closest the door. Madam Pomfrey stepped out of her little office, looking Harry up and down to ascertain that he was, in fact, perfectly healthy, before she realized what he was after. “Ah… he isn’t here, Mr. Potter,” she whispered, as so not to wake the little Hufflepuff.

“Oh, right, of course not.” Harry thanked her and left. As he headed for the Great Hall for what would be a rather early breakfast, he realized that Snape would hardly stay in the infirmary; it would only provide fodder for gossip. He was likely in his own quarters, where Pomfrey could undoubtedly check on him by Floo, if need be, as he was unlikely to call for her himself.

He found himself changing directions, heading down to Snape’s office in the dungeons, on the off-chance that the man was well enough to be awake and working at this hour. He was venturing into Slytherin territory, he knew, as he struggled to concoct some excuse for the fact. Before he had a plausible story, however, he arrived at Snape’s door without incident. He hesitated with a fist upraised. What would he even say to the man? But then his hand seemed to move of its own accord, producing a knock far too loud in the morning stillness.

“I am brewing,” came Snape’s voice. He sounded exhausted, but was apparently well enough to stir a cauldron.

“Professor, it’s Harry Pot–”

“Potter, what are you doing down here, at this hour? Have you at least the sense to wear your father’s cloak?” The door creaked open a crack, and the professor could make out the boy’s very visible form. “No? I thought not. Come in, then, before you are seen.”

Harry shut the door behind him. Snape looked positively ghastly, even paler than usual, with dark hollows under his eyes and a faint trembling in his fingers that he couldn’t hide.

“Are you all right, sir? You shouldn’t be up yet, I don’t think...”

“Spare me your Pomfrey impersonation, Potter,” he snapped. “What do you want here?” He tipped a spoonful of powder into the cauldron and stirred, his motions slow and careful.

Harry looked away. “I -- I just wanted… say, what are you brewing, sir?”

“A rather pitiful attempt at misdirection, Mr. Potter. What is it you want?” Snape did not look away from the potion, but a weary irritation crept into his voice.

“I… I wanted to see if you were all right.”

There was a short pause, though it seemed forever before Snape replied, “It counteracts the aftereffects of Cruciatus.”

“Huh?”

“I believe you were inquiring after my potion.” He smirked, but it did not reach his eyes.

“Oh. Yeah, I was. Wait, you’re not all right, then, if you need Cruciatus potion! Can’t someone else brew it? Like Madam Pomfrey or someone?”

“It is not a simple potion,” Snape said with a deepening frown. “Have you nothing better to do this morning than pester me?” He reached for a flask of armadillo bile, and had to steady himself on his desk as he leaned over.

“Here, sir, I’ll get it.” Harry dropped his bag on the floor and handed Snape the flask at the other end of the desk. “Er… do you want any help?”

“Have you not a Quidditch match today?” The irritation in Snape’s voice had largely been drowned out by sheer exhaustion. He closed his eyes for a moment, and it seemed to take an enormous effort to open them again.

“That’s not until later, Professor. You look a fright; maybe -- maybe you should get some rest. I’m awful at potions, I know, but do you want me to cut things up or something?”

Snape shifted his gaze back to his cauldron, stirring in measured strokes. It was a while before he reluctantly replied, “If you are really in need of something to occupy your time before the match, I suppose you may chop the shrivelfig. It is on the far workbench. Quarter-inch slices, against the grain.” He resumed his methodical stirring in the other direction.

Harry Accioed a knife from Snape’s desk. It spun through the air and impaled itself in the bench with a thump.

Snape’s head jerked up, towards the sound. His eyes raked Harry once, before settling on the quivering knife. “Potter, you are hardly playing at darts. You could have killed yourself just then, and then all my espionage would have gone for naught.” Snape managed a sort of grimace, a pale attempt at his usual sneer.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry, his voice laden with genuine contrition. During their Occlumency sessions, Snape rarely mentioned his spy work, even in sarcasm. Harry couldn’t suppress the pang of guilt that arose; the greater part of Snape’s injuries had undoubtedly been incurred on his behalf. “The Dark Lord asks about you more than you would imagine,” he remembered Snape saying once. Harry tugged the knife from the bench; it had transfixed itself quite securely in the wood, and took a few attempts to pry loose. "I'll be more careful next time," he said.

Snape nodded sharply, once. "See that you are."

They spent the next half-hour or so in companionable silence, save for occasional instructions from Snape. It was easier, Harry thought, than brewing in class. Perhaps it was because Snape was unwell, which made him quieter, and less likely to hover about behind people's cauldrons, looking for points to deduct. Perhaps it was because it was just the two of them, rather than an entire class -- much like with Occlumency. Wasn't it odd, Harry observed wrily, that he found it easier, now, to be alone with Snape, when half a year ago, he would not have willingly entered the man's office without backup, if at all?

"I'm done with the aconite," said Harry.

Snape waved his wand, forming the air around the powdered stems into a bowl, a handy little spell that Harry had seen him perform multiple times that morning. The bowl floated over to him, hovering obediently about a foot above his cauldron, releasing the powder in a steady trickle as he stirred.

"Anything else I can do?" Harry asked.

Snape glanced at the clock, and then at him -- and in that one look, Harry felt as though he were being weighed and measured like a sack of fire beetles, as though it were October again, or perhaps even September, in this very office, and Snape were deciding whether to let Harry into his mental parlor. Harry looked away, or would have, had Snape not suddenly nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw, and said, "Here."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Snape held the end of the glass stirring rod towards him. "Four turns clockwise, then one counterclockwise, for the next three minutes. Keep the fire at the same temperature throughout."

Harry numbly took the rod from him, and Snape limped towards the opposite wall. "Where are you going?" Harry asked.

Snape did not answer, but tapped on a stone in the wall in some pattern that Harry could not distinguish. A small section of wall opened up, and Snape withdrew a vial of some reddish-brown liquid. He closed up the wall with a flick of his wand, unstoppering the vial with his other hand.

"What is that?" Harry asked, carefully keeping track of the glass rod as he stirred.

Snape raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry muttered, "Right, sorry, sir."

"Blood-Replenishing Potion. My own formulation," was Snape's clipped response. He took an almost imperceptible breath, and drank the entire bottle in one go. Harry was mildly impressed; he had had to take that particular potion a number of times, and knew that it tasted terrible and had the consistency of yoghurt.

Snape coughed into his sleeve after draining the last of the potion. He incanted an Aguamenti into the empty vial and drank that down as well. Replacing the stopper on the empty bottle, he floated it over to the sink in the far corner, and then came back to the cauldron.

"Here," said Harry, finishing the last counterclockwise stroke, "I think that was okay."

Snape glanced into the cauldron, taking the stirring rod from Harry, and doused the fire beneath with a flick of his wand. He then withdrew the rod, and silently produced a clear, hard shield spanning the lip of the cauldron. "It must be allowed to cool without undue exposure to air," he explained, "else a skin will congeal on the surface of the potion, which would be detrimental to its medicinal effects." He handed the stirring rod to Harry, and said, "This needs to be washed immediately; the potion will stain even glass, if allowed to dry. The phial is less urgent, but--"

"That's fine," Harry said, "I don't mind." He took the rod over to the sink, slipped on a pair of gloves, and began scrubbing it down.

"You know," said Snape after a while, "had you produced similar work in class, your Potions mark would have been much better than it was in past years."

Harry turned around, the clean but wet stirring rod in his hand. "I guess. It's just, well, no one was going to drink anything I made in class."

"I believe I once threatened to make you -- or perhaps it was Longbottom -- do exactly that."

"I -- that's different. I don't know how -- it's different when it's a threat. And it wasn't... important, I guess." Harry grabbed a clean dishtowel and began wiping down the phial and rod. "Anyhow, I'm doing pretty well with Slughorn this year." Harry bit his tongue as soon as the words had left his lips.

"Indeed." Harry nearly cringed as Snape said it, though the man's tone was even and in no way accusatory.

"Umm... so, are you coming to the game?" Harry asked quickly.

Snape's expression was unreadable as he said, "Yes, I suppose I will."

"You -- you're up for it?" The man looked a little better after the Blood-Replenishing Potion, but not by much.

"Slytherin is playing, after all," he said.

"Right." Harry had almost forgotten that particular detail. "I... I guess I'll see you there, then?"

"Yes."

Harry nodded, and turned to leave. He was halfway out the door, when Snape said, "And Mr. Potter?"

"Yeah?" Harry glanced over his shoulder.

"With your Keeper being... what he is... I would not be amiss in wishing you good luck."

"Ron is going to be fine!" Harry protested, having grown quite accustomed to defending Ron's goalkeeping over the past weeks. "Umm... but, yeah, thanks." Harry added, having never imagined that he would find himself saying so, "And, uh, good luck to Slytherin, too."

Snape inclined his head, in a gesture that could have been acknowledgement, or perhaps dismissal only. Harry shouldered his bag, and made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

"Potter," said Snape, more brusquely than was normal during these Occlumency sessions, "sit."

Harry sat down in the chair in front of Snape's desk. Instead of taking his usual seat across from Harry, Snape gripped the back of his armchair, peered across the desk at Harry, and said, "Congratulations. On your Quidditch victory this weekend."

"Umm... thanks?" Harry fidgeted with the edges of his sleeves, his thumbnail catching on the fraying on his left cuff. He had a feeling that there was more going on than a mere "congrats on the game," but couldn't figure out why Snape was so jumpy. "Slytherin played pretty well, though," he offered, "gave us a good fight and everything."

"Not well enough, apparently." The corner of Snape's mouth twitched in an approximation of his usual wry smirk.

"Well... your Chasers should tighten their formations, I'd say. They probably know that already, though; it's nothing new. Though they did a lot worse this time with Vaisey out of commission. The reserve Chaser needs work -- Slytherin probably hasn't been holding enough joint practices. Apparently Charlie made that mistake one season when he was captain -- Charlie Weasley, I mean -- and it didn't work out too well for Gryffindor." Harry cut himself off, realizing that Snape probably wasn't all that interested in Quidditch, even if it did involve Slytherin.

"I will be sure to tell them so," said Snape, a true smile ghosting over his lips. "But also..." he coughed, and continued, "I wish to thank you. For your actions last Friday night, and Saturday morning."

Harry could not help staring a moment, but quickly picked his jaw up off the ground, and said, "You mean, helping you with the potion? And the, umm... the broomstick thing? I -- err... you're welcome?"

Snape nodded, or seemed to, his hair falling in curtains around his face. He produced a slim hardbound volume from within his robes, his hands obscuring the title. "I have been thinking about our conversations this past month," he said, "and it has occurred to me that you have not been receiving the aid that students in your position should. Perhaps this is a result of... negligence, on the part of your Head of House. Or perhaps you are in a somewhat unique situation, given that you are not Muggleborn, but were essentially raised as such -- and so the relevant parties did not anticipate such a need."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not realize that there are supplementary resources available to Muggleborn students, to aid them in acclimating to the Wizarding World?"

Harry furrowed his brow. "Well, you did tell me that there were books I should check out in the library. I asked Hermione about them, and -- of course -- she's read all of them already. I'll get around to it, really. I've just been really busy."

"I -- Potter. I did not mean it as a reprimand," Snape said stiffly. "It is merely... I recognize that Hogwarts has been rather negligent on that score. These matters are addressed in the acceptance letters that are posted to Muggleborn students, but you received the standard Wizard-born one, because your parents attended Hogwarts. I -- here." Snape held the book out to Harry, extending his arm somewhat abruptly. "This is for you."

Harry took it and ran his fingertips over the embossed lettering on the cover; it read, The Muggleborn's Handbook: A Practical Introduction to the Wizarding World. "I... umm, wow," said Harry, "thanks."

"The title, I will grant, is rather a misnomer, given that you are most definitely not Muggleborn," said Snape, as if he hadn't heard the last part, "but you will nonetheless find this useful. More useful, in fact, than if you had simply perused Ms. Granger's copy. Open it."

Harry opened the book. It was not, as he had thought, new. On the inside of the front cover was written, in silver indelible ink, "Lily Evans, Gryffindor House".

He swallowed around the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, and whispered, "Thank you, sir. I don't know how -- you didn't -- where did you get this?"

"Given that your parents' house was largely destroyed, the Headmaster thought it best to salvage those items that were undamaged, or at least not beyond repair, and put them in storage until you were in a position to claim them -- that is, when you graduate and acquire a residence of your own. Most of these items were not personal effects, you understand, but practical items, like furniture and silverware and the like, so the Headmaster thought it prudent to leave them packed away. This book was one such article."

Harry exhaled sharply. "There's... there's a whole room full of my parents' stuff?"

"Yes. I would, however, advise you not to attach undue sentimental value to it. These are not items like the invisibility cloak, for example. They are much more commonplace -- dishes and linens, the sort of domestic goods one would find in any household. I daresay most of your parents' books and papers, and clothing, even, caught fire during the attack."

"But still -- where is it? The room?"

"In Hogwarts Castle. You may petition the Headmaster for access, if you truly desire; I assure you, you will not be able to gain entry on your own, or even via the Weasley twins' dubious talents. But before you dash off to the Headmaster's office immediately following our lesson, consider that, for the same reason that you should not have lingered before the Mirror of Erised, you have no pressing need for artifacts you cannot yet put to use."

Harry sat very still for a long moment, and then, sounding deflated, replied, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just -- well -- "

"You have very little that belonged to your parents," Snape said quietly. "Your desires are... understandable."

"I guess. Yeah, I --" To his horror, Harry felt tears pricking at the backs of his eyeballs. He took a deep breath, much the way Snape had taught him to, for Occlumency. "I won't, then. I'll wait 'til I have my own place."

Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes radiating subtle approval. Harry found that the gesture warmed him, more than he imagined it would, even as his eyes threatened to spill over. He found, also, that he was clutching his mother's book to his chest, and with a twinge of embarrassment, lowered it to his lap. "You didn't have to do this," he said reluctantly, willing his voice not to crack.

"You have said as much to me before, under different circumstances. It grows tedious. I am well aware, as you should be, that I do not have to do anything." Snape paused, shaking his head. "Do not imagine that this is motivated by a sort of misplaced gratitude, or anything of that nature. I can see how you might have come to that conclusion, given that this followed directly after I... thanked you... but recognize that it is not a kindness. It is a mistake, on Hogwarts's part, that I wished to rectify."

"Well, you could have given me any old copy. You could have told me to check it out of the library or something, if you just though I needed to read it. But you got me my mum's copy. That -- I don't know. That means more."

"Perhaps it means that I would prefer you to have an annotated copy, without having to procure one and mark it up myself," said Snape, deceptively lightly.

"I -- annotated?" said Harry, nearly dropping the book. "Really?" He carefully turned several pages, to find that there was indeed copious marginalia in a fine, cursive hand. "My mum wrote all of this?" he whispered.

"Yes. The handwriting matches that in the cover, does it not?"

"Wow," said Harry, fingering the pages with the near-reverence that he had once displayed towards his father's cloak. It felt like something he should be reading by wandlight, with the curtains drawn tightly shut around his four-poster, in the middle of the night. He closed the book and tucked it into his bag between his Charms and Potions texts. "I'll read it later," he said, aware of Snape's eyes on him, even more so than usual. "We should probably get to the lesson," he added, with a reluctance that he hadn't felt in quite some time, when talking about Occlumency.

"Indeed," Snape intoned, a shuttered expression in his eyes.

They stayed in Harry's mind that night, and if Harry was less focused than he had been in some weeks, Snape did not rebuke him for it -- much.

Harry went to bed early that night. His friends did not doubt him when he told them that Occlumency had been particularly draining and so he would turn in before midnight; they were arguing again, and didn't pay him much attention.

Harry drew the drapes shut around his bed and incanted a Lumos, propping his wand up against his pillow. He then pulled out his mother's book and, lying on his stomach, flipped to the first page.

The first section was about wands: their usage and care (Harry hadn't known that wands needed care, beyond wiping them off if they got dirty); how wands worked (mostly things he already knew from Charms); the etiquette of handling one's own wand in the presence of others, as well as the wands of others, with their permission; a brief history of the usage of wands; et cetera. He skimmed most of the text, lingering instead on the notes that his mother had made. They were mostly practical things, like the best places to hide a wand in Muggle clothing; apparently, she sewed wand-pockets into all of her sundresses one summer. Harry could picture his mum in a yellow polka-dot dress like the one he'd seen Hermione wear at the Burrow, maybe holding hands with his dad, walking by the lake. It made no sense, really, if he thought about it; she would have worn Hogwarts robes at school, and she probably drew the sewing patterns in the margins of The Muggleborn's Handbook years before she started dating his dad, but it was a beautiful picture all the same.

He dug out the photo album Hagrid gave him and found one of his favorite photos of them: they were walking back from the Quidditch pitch, likely after an evening practice, his dad with a broom in one hand and holding his mum's hand in the other. The lighting wasn't very good; it was getting dark out, and the moon wasn't up yet, but the sunset caught in his mother's hair, which glowed like fire. His mum reached up to push her hair out of her eyes, letting go of his dad's hand, but his dad got there first and tucked her stray locks behind her ear. It was kind of sweet, Harry thought, and was he ever glad that they never snogged in this photo, but seeing them be tender to each other made Harry's heart ache, just a little bit.

It reminded Harry of the time he'd been at Grimmauld Place the previous summer, and Ron's mum was making dinner. It had been pouring dreadfully outside, and Mr. Weasley had just Apparated onto the front step. Without putting down his briefcase or taking off his boots, he swept into the kitchen and kissed Mrs. Weasley on both cheeks. Ron had made a disgusted sort of face -- he, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were playing Exploding Snap at the kitchen table -- but Harry remembered watching Ron's parents for a few seconds, until Hermione shot him a knowing look and patted his hand under the table. He looked away quickly -- he had not realized he was staring -- but the image stayed with him for days afterward. Ginny had found him sitting cross-legged on his bed that night, flipping through his photo album while Ron was in the shower; she sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and looked at his parents' wedding photo with him. She didn't say anything, but then again, there was nothing to be said.

"What are you reading?" Hermione asked. They were sitting in front of the fire in the common room, and Harry, bored of his schoolwork, had pulled out The Muggleborn's Handbook. He carried it in his robes sometimes, like a talisman, mostly only in Gryffindor tower, where he trusted that it would not be damaged or stolen.

"Mmph," Harry shrugged, not paying her much attention. He was reading about owls and postal protocol; his mother had drawn in the margin a remarkably accurate picture of an owl with a letter in its claws.

"The Muggleborn's Handbook," Hermione read, tilting her head so she could make out the lettering on the spine. "That must be a different edition -- mine has the brown cover."

Harry looked up for a moment. "Oh, yeah, it's an older one. Guess they used to make them in black." He turned his attention back to the book.

"Why are you reading it again? I'd have thought you got through it in first year."

Harry shrugged again. He didn't particularly want to reveal to her the provenance of this particular volume. Lately, it seemed as though his friends -- or at least Hermione and Ron -- had become less involved in his life than ever before. He hadn't told them anything of Occlumency, or of Snape, in some weeks. He was rather hoping to preserve Hermione's impression that he had received the book with his Hogwarts letter; he didn't relish explaining that Snape was the one who gave it to him, nor that it had once belonged to his mother.

"Let him read what he wants," Ron sniped, "it's probably better than this Transfiguration stuff."

"It's not like you've ever read The Muggleborn's Handbook. It's first-year material, if even that. And," she added, turning back to Harry, "you still have six or seven inches left on this essay. It's due in two days, mind."

"Two days, 'Mione!" said Ron. "It's six inches! We've done ten inches in a night, remember?"

"I do remember. And I also remember that you got an A on that assignment. I spent three nights on it, and I got an O," said Hermione, just a bit smugly.

"Well, you probably would have gotten an O anyhow, so it's not like you needed to spend three nights on it," said Ron.

"You don't know that. If you had spent three nights, you might have gotten an O, too!"

Harry hunkered down in his armchair and tuned them out. It was something like a Muffliato, but applied on someone else's conversation, and in his own head. He had gotten uncommonly good at it -- probably out of sheer necessity, given that his two best friends were capable of hours-long spats -- though he couldn't help but think that at least part of his proficiency was a result of Occlumency. He was getting steadily better at that, too. Even Snape had noticed; he had, during one of their recent lessons, commented on Harry's improved shielding reflexes.

Harry turned the page and ran his finger over a blot of red wax that he found on the next one. It was, appropriately, next to a paragraph about sealing letters by imprinting one's family ring. It was customary, according to the book, for more formal letters to be sealed in wax, usually in the hereditary color of one's family, if the sender came from a magical family. Otherwise, it was acceptable to use one's House color, at least while still in school. The drop of wax in the book, unsurprisingly, was red.

It occurred to him, then, that he didn't actually know what the Potter family crest looked like, or even what his family's colors were. He had thought that only the particularly pretentious families, like the Malfoys and the Blacks, had coats of arms -- but apparently every Pureblooded family had one, but many nowadays regarded them as old-fashioned and didn't use them outside of very formal circumstances.

"Oy, Ron," said Harry, "what's your family crest look like?"

"Huh? Oh, blue with a weasel on it." He shrugged as if to say it was obvious -- at least the weasel part.

"You mean azure," said Hermione.

"Yeah, that," said Ron. "Wait, how do you know what my family crest is?"

"I looked it up, Ron. I looked up yours, too, a long time ago, if you don't already know what it is," she said to Harry.

"Oh. Um... what is it?"

"You don't know?" said Hermione incredulously. "I thought you --"

"Not everyone's like you, 'Mione, wanting to know everything all at once," said Ron. At least, Harry observed wrily, he sounded somewhat amused, rather than completely ticked.

"Considering it's his own family crest, I thought he'd be curious! Especially since, unlike you, he doesn't have parents around to tell him that sort of thing!"

Perhaps it was because no one (aside from Snape) had spoken to him of his parents for quite a while, or perhaps it was because he had just been reading his mother's book -- the way she had said it, just then, rankled Harry more than it might usually have, more than was reasonable. "I'm tired," he declared. "I'll see you guys later." He gathered up his things, collecting what he couldn't carry in a variation of the air-bowl spell Snape had used -- the man had taught it to him a while ago, after he noticed Harry's interest in it, and Harry found that it could be generalized with varying degrees of success to larger objects.

"Now look what you've done!" said Ron. "You just had to talk about them, didn't you?"

"It was relevant! Anyways, he's fine with it -- we've talked about his parents loads of times!" Hermione shot back, the sting of her tone somewhat lessened as she eyed Harry's spell with ill-concealed fascination.

Harry turned back to them, about to retort with something like, "I'm still here, guys," but held his tongue when he saw a flash of genuine contrition in Hermione's eyes. She hadn't meant it in any hurtful way, of course; she didn't quite deserve Harry's ire, but neither did he feel like lingering. "It's fine," he said. "Good night." He made his way up the stairs, his various books and papers floating behind him. A thought briefly occurred to him, pricking like a thorn in his side: he had just Legilimized Hermione. It made him feel... well, Slytherin.

He tried not to think of it, as he changed into his pyjamas. Snape had warned him that it was crucial to develop awareness along with skill in Occlumency and Legilimency. It would become all too easy for him to unwittingly Legilimize others; most people were not Occlumens, and therefore kept their thoughts fairly close to the surface. Snape had made some snide comment, at that point in their conversation, about how Gryffindors were more prone than others to loudly projecting their thoughts where they were unwanted. Harry, then, had loudly projected at him the thought of Thanks for the book, but Snape merely harrumphed, and did not answer.

Still, he had not expected it to happen, or at least not quite so soon thereafter. It was disconcerting, to say the least; Harry shuddered as he considered being privy to the thoughts Hermione and Ron were undoubtedly projecting at each other -- it really was a pity that neither was a Legilimens. At least, he thought, it means I'm getting better at Occlumency.

He went to brush his teeth, his mother's book tucked rather absurdly into the waistband of his pyjamas. He ran into Neville by the sink, and it occurred to him that he hadn't really talked to Neville, beyond the usual inane pleasantries, in quite a long time. "How've you been?" he asked around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"Me?" said Neville, even though the only other person in the bathroom was a first year whom neither of them knew particularly well. "Doing pretty well. NEWT research with Professor Sprout's going well, so there's that," he said with a smile. "How're you? Or for that matter, how're those two?"

"Okay, I guess. Doing... stuff for Dumbledore," Harry said, tapping his scar with a wet fingertip. He had almost said, "stuff with Snape" instead, but realized that Neville, and anyone who didn't already know about "Remedial Potions", would probably find it strange. As far as the rest of Hogwarts knew, he and Snape were still bitterly antagonistic; their day-to-day interactions were still somewhat hostile, a charade of ill will that he was sure Snape still found entertaining, more for the pretense than out of any genuine malice.

"Hope that's going well," said Neville, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, pretty well."

"Noticed those two chased you out, eh?" Neville said with a bit of a conspiratorial wink.

Harry grinned. "They're something, I'll say."

"They should just kiss and make up. Honestly, the whole House is tired of watching them go at each other."

"But there's Lavender," said Harry in half-hearted protest.

Neville shoved his hands in his pockets. "He's just leading her on," he said quietly. "The whole House knows -- even Lavender knows, probably, but she's not going to admit it. There's a thing to be said for Gryffindor stubbornness."

"I don't know," said Harry, "I'm not sure there's much I can do."

"If there's anyone who can do anything, it's you, I figured, since you're his best friend."

"Ron's pretty stubborn himself," said Harry, half-shrugging a shoulder. "I'm not sure it'll do any good, even if I try. He's got to realize it himself, I think."

"You're probably right," said Neville, and then, "well, I'm heading off to bed. Good night, Harry."

"Good night," Harry replied, watching him walk out of the bathroom. Neville, too, had changed, and it bothered Harry that he hadn't noticed it happening.

He put his toiletries away and headed up to the bedroom. He made it halfway up the stairs before he noticed a strange, sloshing sound behind him; he turned around to find that he hadn't cancelled the air-bowl spell, after all, and now there was a quantity of slightly-sudsy water floating in the air behind him. Laughing a little at himself, Harry drew his wand and Banished the water, and then cancelled the spell. Then, suddenly anxious, he patted his waistband to make sure that his mother's book hadn't gotten wet. It hadn't, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn't have been anything a Reparo couldn't handle, but the thought had frightened him all the same.

Harry tucked his mother's book under his pillow next to his wand, where he used to put the Invisibility Cloak, and then the Marauder's Map. He crawled under the covers and thought about the D.A. He wanted to have another D.A. session, right then, but with Dumbledore back, it really wasn't necessary. He wondered how Luna was doing -- he saw her in the corridors sometimes, or at meals, but he hadn't really talked to her in a long time. He hoped that the older Ravenclaws remembered that she was his friend. Things were better for her when they did. He chuckled darkly to himself, and thought, I supposed the fame, bloody annoying as it is, is good for something.

It occurred to him, as he drifted to sleep, that he never found out what the Potter family crest looked like.

He took a sip of his pumpkin juice, put a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and glanced around the table. There were quite a few girls who would be happy to accompany him (Romilda Vane, in particular, was still disturbingly obsessed with him), but he didn't find the notion particularly appealing. One awkward Yule Ball had been enough. His eye alighted on Ginny, for a moment; he was sure that she would go with him, if he asked -- they were friends enough -- and he would have fun, at least, but he wasn't keen on facing whatever Ron might have to say about that. He looked away before she could notice his eyes on her, and he wondered, briefly, that he cared if she did.

He turned back to the History of Magic homework next to his plate. He was almost done with it, and it wasn't due until the afternoon, but it was slow going. Harry found himself idly wishing that someone like the Half-Blood Prince had made notes in his History of Magic textbook as well -- but then again, he thought, the Prince's expertise lay mostly in practical magic, rather than academic minutiae.

His thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of owls descending upon the Gryffindor table. Harry glanced up, but returned to his breakfast when he did not see Hedwig among them. He had gotten half-way through a paragraph on some witch trial or other when Ron elbowed him lightly and said, "Oy, my mum wants you to come over for Christmas again. I mean, figures, but she told me to let you know."

"Sounds good. Tell her thanks for me, will you?" said Harry, the prospect of spending the holidays at the Burrow cheering him considerably. He turned to Hermione and asked, "What about you? Plans for the hols?"

"Spending time with my parents. I'm not sure what we're doing yet, but my mum says it'll be interesting. We might be going somewhere on the Continent -- I'll see." Hermione sounded pleased -- Harry thought, for a moment, that having a Muggle family to go home to, away from the war and everything, sounded very nice. It occurred to him that that was what his mother's situation must have been, during the first war. Well, excepting Aunt Petunia -- he imagined she wasn't nice at all, even then -- but he tried not to think about her.

"Have fun," he told Hermione. "Take some pictures."

"I will," she said, still smiling, though there was something brittle in her happiness. Harry couldn't quite place what it was -- but then she met his eyes, and he found that he understood, after all. Given the uncertainties of war, given how close she was to Harry and how determined she was to see it through, she knew that each time she saw her parents could well be her last. She had known this for quite some time now, and was resigned to it, but that didn't mean she liked it. And there was, of course, the matter of their safety from Voldemort, especially given her increasing involvement in the war.

"Good to be getting away from it all, I'll bet," said Harry. "The war, and stuff. I can't imagine what it must be like for your parents."

"Well, we're never really away from it..." Hermione began. "Wait, are you...?" she trailed off, aware that they were surrounded by more than just Ron.

"Reading your mind?" Harry said lightly, in a way such that anyone other than she and Ron would think he was joking. "No. Or at least," he lowered his voice, "I don't try to. But if you're concentrating really hard on something, or thinking about something a lot, sometimes I can pick it up without even meaning to. Sorry -- I'm learning how to not do it, but..." He cut himself off, aware that he was rambling.

"Oh, right. I do remember reading about that once," said Hermione.

"You're not bothered by it?" Harry asked.

Ron slung an arm around his shoulder, his hand nearly dipping into the plate of eggs. Harry started; he didn't think Ron had been listening. "Don't worry about it, mate," said Ron. "I mean, it's not like I'm keeping any secrets from you."

"Just get it under control before you start really getting into all sorts of ethics violations," said Hermione, suddenly grave. "The laws are vague about it -- I imagine they're nearly impossible to enforce -- but it's important all the same."

"I know. We're working on it," said Harry.

Hermione nodded, a vaguely satisfied expression crossing her face. "How far are you on your History of Magic short answers?"

Harry groaned. "Last two. Stuck on the witch trials question. I can never remember any of the American ones."

"I just put down a bunch of English towns and added 'New' in front," said Ron, in what was possibly an attempt to be helpful. That earned him a smack from Hermione. "Ow!" he said, "What was that for? It's true!"

"Well, what about Salem? It wasn't New Salem, now, was it?"

Harry sighed and turned back to his homework, scooting a bit closer to the table. He made a mental note to never sit between Ron and Hermione again.

Harry entered Snape's office feeling considerably less at ease than he usually did. "Sir, can I ask you a question?" he asked. He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, and tried quite hard not to shuffle his feet, too.

"You may," said Snape, eyeing him critically.

Harry stilled his hands, with effort. "I've started picking up on other people's thoughts, like you said I would. Hermione's and Ron's, mostly, but still. Is there a way I can stop it?"

Snape favored him with a long, measured look. "There is. It requires more discipline than you currently possess -- mental discipline, that is -- but you may gain some measure of control, should you truly apply yourself to the task. It is in the realm of Legilimency, which is not strictly necessary to you."

"Yeah, I know. But it's related, right? I read about that. I want -- I need to not do this to my friends. To anyone, really. It's not right."

"I assure you, it is an unnecessary effort. It is commonly accepted that Legilimens read people at will. It is part of the reason we are somewhat... feared. Rather like Parselmouths, in fact," said Snape, with a slight nod to Harry. "Surface thoughts are not usually particularly incriminating, regardless."

"Well, sure. Believe me, I remember how the rest of the school reacted when everyone found out I spoke Parseltongue. I don't want people to think that of me." He stopped short of saying, "I'm not like you." It wasn't an accusation -- he was pretty sure that at least part of Snape's reputation was deliberately cultivated -- but he could not be sure how Snape would react. He found that he did not want to offend the man.

"There is one crucial distinction that you seem to have neglected," Snape said coolly. "The school, and likely the rest of the wizarding world, knows that you are a Parselmouth -- no thanks to The Prophet. Few enough people know about this; those who do and cannot defend themselves are not likely to begrudge you the occasional lapse."

Harry sighed. "You're talking about Ron and Hermione, right? I know that -- Ron told me he doesn't mind -- but that doesn't make it right. Look, maybe -- maybe it's a Gryffindor thing, maybe you think I'm being stupid or something, but it's really important to me. Would it be that hard for me to learn? Err... for you to teach me?" Harry added at the last moment, as he abruptly realized that, just as with Occlumency, Snape would have to instruct him in this, as well.

"You misunderstand me," said Snape. "I am not... unwilling... to teach you Legilimency. It is merely that Occlumency is vastly more important at this juncture, and we have very little time. As was demonstrated very recently, you are still not fully capable of controlling your mind when asleep."

"Oh," said Harry, suddenly feeling rather stupid, and also rather relieved. "I -- of course. Umm... thanks. I'll do the work, I promise."

Snape nodded, his expression vaguely satisfied. "Very well. See to it that your Occlumency does not suffer, and I shall lend you a few books on the subject. I expect you to read them thoroughly. I would," he added, his lips quirking in a manner Harry could not quite interpret, "also advise that you keep this particular ability to yourself, or at least to as small a group as you can manage. It is, as I have mentioned, not quite accepted in polite society."

"Thanks, sir. I understand, so... thanks for looking out for me," said Harry, feeling his cheeks redden.

"Cease your infernal thanking," Snape said, with more exasperation than any real ire. "It is unnecessary, I assure you. 'Looking out for you,' however, as you so crudely put it, is -- Merlin knows the sorts of trouble you invite."

"Not my fault," Harry mumbled, or something to that effect.

"One would think that anyone in your position would have the sense to stay out of trouble, but you, of course, have to go chasing after it -- daft Gryffindor that you are."

Daft? Harry found himself thinking. It was rather weak, as far as insults went; Snape, of all people, could do better.

Daft, quite so, said Snape's voice, in the front of Harry's mind. Harry gleaned a vague sense of amusement, almost like a mental smirk, as his Devil's Snares shot out to trap Snape in its vines. Snape slipped away like a serpent, going up in smoke and reappearing just out of reach. If it weren't Snape, Harry would have said that the man was teasing him. As it was, Harry blinked and went after him with one of the giant flytraps he'd embedded in his hedges.

Snape drew his wand and fired off a hex at the plant's jaws; a coil of thin black cord wound itself around the flytrap, snapping its jaws shut. "This is your mind, remember," he said to Harry, "The plant need not conform to normal strictures of herbology and physics. Also," he added, taking out another flytrap, "these things are too slow. They should not be so easily incapacitated."

"I know -- I've been working on the buffer," said Harry, as one of the flytraps swung around and snapped at the man's head.

"I see a distinct lack of a buffer," said Snape, dodging the plant. Harry cheered a bit -- he'd made the man duck, which was more than he usually managed.

"I'm working on it, I promise. It's hard -- I have no idea which memories are convincing. I mean, I don't think Voldemort will be fooled if all he sees is a hundred variations of me having breakfast or something."

Snape snorted. "Hardly. Surely you can piece together enough ordinary schooldays and Hogsmeade weekends. You might even include a few near-death experiences for accuracy's sake."

Snape had mentioned this when they first began working on Harry's buffer. The idea, as Harry understood it, was to create a layer of memories, thoughts, and emotions just outside of his main barrier, so that anyone who did not probe too deeply wouldn't even suspect that Harry was an Occlumens. The most successful buffers, like Snape's, were indistinguishable from the real surface layers of the mind; the object was to deceive an intruder into thinking that there were no barriers, that the artificially constructed buffer was actually Harry's unprotected mind. Harry, however, didn't think that Voldemort would be so easily misled. "He knows there's more than that, though," said Harry. "He knows that there are things I know -- things Dumbledore told me, for example -- that most people don't, and he's going to try to find them."

"Does he, though?" Snape sidestepped away from a Whomping Willow, which flailed its branches uselessly in his direction. "Recall that the Headmaster has deliberately kept you out of Order meetings. Recall that he sends you back to your aunt and uncle's house over the summer, where you are for the most part isolated from the Wizarding world. Recall that the Dark Lord does not know of your lessons with the Headmaster. As far as he knows, the Headmaster has deliberately shielded you from the brunt of the war -- the Dark Lord believes it is out of misguided affection, which is not wholly untrue. If he were looking for information specific to the Order of the Phoenix, he has a better source -- or rather, he believes he has a better source -- namely, myself. He seeks access to your mind to manipulate you," said Snape, coolly arching an eyebrow, "as you have good reason to remember."

Harry swallowed -- he could feel his throat working, in his physical body. Snape had not spoken with any ill intention, he knew, or even reproach, but within his own mind, Harry could not escape the sensation of guilt and grief that followed. It had gotten easier these past months, he thought; he had managed, to bury it where nobody -- not Dumbledore, not Voldemort, not even himself -- could reach it. Even when Ron and Hermione mentioned Sirius, in passing sometimes as they were wont to do, he no longer reacted. But Snape, speaking of it here in Harry's mind, prodded at a wound only half healed over, the Grim-shaped hole in Harry's heart. The hurt spilled forth like a thick vapor, like some sort of fog pouring through the forest of his barriers and throttling him, filling his lungs so that he could hardly breath with the pressure of it.

Dimly, somewhere in the forefront of his mind, Harry could make out Snape slipping past one of the Whomping Willows. Had it been a ploy, Harry thought suddenly, to distract me enough to slip through the barrier? Never mind that Snape probably didn't need any such trick, master Legilimens that he was -- Harry felt irrationally hurt, betrayed, and lashed out with his Devil's Snares. The vines shot out from behind the trees, four or five of them at once, and managed to bind Snape's hands at his sides. The man jerked backwards, pulling all at once against his restraints -- Harry felt it as though he were holding Snape with his own fingers -- and slipped out of Harry's mind. Harry clung stubbornly to him, and all of a sudden found himself in Snape's mind, standing in Snape's own parlor.

Snape, much to Harry's surprise, looked completely unruffled. "I suppose it worked," he said, smoothing down the front of his robes.

"What?" Harry's hands were clenched in his sleeves, his heart still hammering in his ears, for all that he was in another wizard's head.

"You are in my mind. Granted, I had a hand in bringing you here, and there isn't much you can glean from my parlor, but it is still a form of Legilimency."

"You -- you did that just to teach me Legilimency?" Harry all but shouted.

Snape took a step towards him, and he wrenched himself backwards, out of Snape's mind. He landed back in his own, and found Snape standing across from him, arms folded and a somewhat satisfied expression on his lips.

"It was successful, was it not?" said Snape.

"That's not the point! You didn't have to -- you bastard!"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "It appeared that I did. Legilimency, like Occlumency, is best learned through practical experience. The surest way to induce unintentional Legilimency is to provoke a mental attack."

"Still! It was -- it was just cruel! Of all things --"

"Potter."

"-- you could have picked --"

"Potter!"

"-- you had to choose --"

"Harry Potter!"

Harry stopped shouting, then, and closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth. "I... sorry, sir," he muttered, looking away, unwilling to face the censure he would surely find in Snape's eyes.

"Look at me," said the man. Harry swallowed, and slowly lifted his head. Snape seemed to loom over him, even with the desk between them. More quietly, he continued, "As difficult as it may first seem, you must learn to live with loss. We are at war, and death is unfortunate but inevitable. Dwelling, as it were, is a weakness, one that the enemy will not hesitate to exploit. If you allow it to incapacitate you, the Dark Lord will defeat you. You must master it, use it -- and Black will not have died in vain."

Harry swallowed. His mind was a wild tangle of hurt and bitterness, but he managed to dredge up some semblance of his usual defiance; he thought, recklessly, What would you know about it?

"More than you would imagine," said Snape, his tone turning suddenly frigid. Staring fixedly at some point above Harry's eyes -- his scar, perhaps, or James's messy hair, or nothing at all -- Snape said, only, "Think upon it."

Harry understood it for the dismissal it was. "I'm sorry, sir," he tried again, as he gathered up his bag. "I -- I didn't mean it like that. I do trust you, really, and I get what you were trying to do. I just... panicked, I guess."

"Yes," said Snape, who had turned away from him. "I shall see you next week."

"Okay. Uh, good night, then, sir."

As Harry closed the door, he fancied he could see a glimmer of silver in the office. Probably just tired, he thought, shoulders slumping as a sudden wave of exhaustion rolled over him. He shook his head and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. He did not dream at all that night, or if he did, he did not remember a thing.

Harry rather wished he hadn't agreed to attend Slughorn's party. Were it not for Luna, who was outrageously garbed and speculating about a Ministry conspiracy to spike the punch with some as-yet-unheard-of mind control agent -- in short, being her usual entertaining self -- he might have made his excuses and scuttled off an hour ago. In addition to avoiding the attentions of the host, the celebrity hangers-on, and various predatory girls (to which Hermione had alerted him just the other day), he found himself steering clear of both halves of the Hermione-McLaggen duo, who were easily the most dysfunctional couple in the room, which was saying something, at an affair such as this.

"Look at that witch's hat," said Luna, dragging his attention away from observing McLaggen from across the room.

The hat in question was an impossibly ancient-looking thing, with so many patches in mismatching colors that it was a wonder it didn't fall apart on the witch's head. It had probably been slathered with Reparos and Sticking Charms. It reminded Harry of Remus, the way he looked after a full moon -- or the first time Harry saw him, on the Hogwarts Express with his battered trunk.

"It looks a bit like the Sorting Hat, doesn't it?" Harry said.

"I suppose," said Luna. "You can tell it can't talk, though. I imagine it'd be happier if it could."

"Happier?"

Luna smiled. "It's old enough to have seen all sorts of interesting things, but it can't talk about them, so all anyone's ever going to think is that its witch should toss it in the bin. If it could talk, like the Sorting Hat, then people would probably keep it around."

"Err... I guess." Harry glanced away from Luna and spotted Snape, who appeared to be leaving the party with a shot of Firewhiskey in hand, resolutely ignoring Slughorn's gestures in his direction. Harry almost grinned at the sight; he wasn't at all surprised that Snape had no patience for the man -- he hardly did himself. Snape paused briefly in the doorway, downed the Firewhiskey, and dropped the glass deliberately at his side, where it disappeared with a pop and a faint shimmer of house elf magic. Of course, thought Harry, the party would be catered by the Hogwarts house elves. Won't Hermione be disappointed.

Hermione, for once, didn't notice. She was talking to some Ministry witch and had her back to McLaggen, who looked like he was contemplating ways to intrude on the conversation without making a complete fool of himself -- from across the room. Luna nodded at Harry and said, "She's a Gringotts liaison, I think. My father said they were looking for a way to turn onions into Sickles -- or Sickles into onions, I don't remember which."

"Right," said Harry distractedly. He had turned his attention back towards the doorway in time to see the hem of Snape's robe dart around the corner. That's odd, he found himself thinking, isn't his office in the other direction?

"Oh, no," said Luna. Harry turned to look. McLaggen was stomping away from Hermione in a huff, undoubtedly thinking himself more subtle in his anger than he actually was. Hermione looked like she was trying to hide behind her tiny plate of hors d'oeuvres, turning pink as she stammered out something -- an apology, or perhaps an explanation, Harry thought -- to the Ministry official.

"Right," Harry said, not looking at Luna. "Listen, I'm going to give McLaggen a piece of my mind -- don't mind if I leave you here for a bit, do you?"

Luna cocked her head. "You're not," she replied.

"What?"

"You're not going to talk to McLaggen. There's really no point. You want to know where Professor Snape's gone, I suppose."

"I -- what?" Harry stared at Luna, who was smiling serenely back at him. "No, I -- why would I care? Why would I care that he's gone off in the wrong direction?"

"It's all right not to trust people, Harry. And it's all right to trust them, too. You just have to sort out which is which."

Harry glanced at the doorway, and back at Luna. "I wonder how you do it, sometimes," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Thanks. For -- for coming tonight, and everything. I've got to go."

"All right, Harry. Watch out for the Blibbering Humdingers."

"And for Professor Snape. Not sure which is worse," said Harry with a grin. He made his way towards the door, muttering "Sorry, need the loo, got to go," as he elbowed past a trio of slightly tipsy witches. He dropped his plate and glass behind him, trailing a shimmer of house elf magic in his wake.

Harry strained to hear what they were saying; Malfoy was making a concerted effort to whisper, and Snape's voice had dropped an octave, into the soft, deceptively calm register that Harry associated with the man at his most dangerous. "I don't need your help!" Harry could make out, followed by a scrape of furniture. "I'm not a boy anymore. I'll prove myself to him -- I have to."

There was barely any warning before the door was violently thrown open; thankfully, it was hinged on the side opposite Harry. Malfoy stormed out of the room, his hands fisted in the pockets of his robes, the outline of his wand and knuckles pressed prominently against the cloth. Harry waited until he'd turned the corner, and then, gripping his own wand in his sleeve, stuffed his cloak into his robes and walked into the room.

"You're helping him," he said, drawing his wand.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Eavesdropping, I see. I take it Draco didn't notice you?"

"I thought you were on our side!"

"I am." He twitched his wand at the door, which shut and locked itself with an audible click.

"But -- you're helping him! I heard you!"

"There seems to be an alarming gap between your powers of observation and comprehension, Potter."

"My what? I know what I heard. You're helping them -- the Death Eaters -- aren't you? You -- Dumbledore trusts you!"

"As he should. We are on the same side."

"No, we -- you lied! You -- I --"

"Potter! For once, shut your mouth and listen to me!" said Snape, stalking forward to stand directly in Harry's line of vision. "Cast your mind back to everything you know about me, about what I do, and for which master. Consider that there are appearances to maintain. Think! Who are Draco Malfoy's parents? Why might it be advantageous to convince him that I want to help him?" Snape paced away from him, his robes swirling behind him like a pool of ink. "The simplest answer is not always the correct one, Potter. But if you are willing to risk everything -- the whole war, the fate of the Wizarding World, everything we hold dear -- on your own flimsy hypothesis, then by all means, take whatever misguided vengeance you see fit." Snape turned, slowly, holding his arms away from his sides, his fingers spread and his palms empty. "Go on. I'll not stop you."

Harry held his wand remarkably steady, trained on Snape's head. A moment passed, and another, before he lowered his arm. "You fooled me, at first," he said softly, shrugging as he pocketed his wand.

"As I should have." Snape smirked. "If I did not manage to fool one obtuse Sixth Year, how do you think I survived being a spy for all this time?" More gravely, he continued, "You should know, I think, that appearances are often deceiving."

Harry scuffed a trainer along the ground. "Were you really going to let me kill you?"

"I knew you wouldn't. I'd heard about the incident at the Ministry. You didn't kill Bellatrix Lestrange -- couldn't even cast a proper Cruciatus on her."

"Still a risk. You didn't even have your wand."

"Wandless magic, Potter. I'm surprised you hadn't considered it."

"Against Avada, though?"

"Again, I don't believe Unforgivables are quite your forte. At worst, you'd have Stunned me and alerted the Headmaster," said Snape, "who would have promptly Enervated me and offered me one of those inane lemon drops. There is very little that happens within the walls of Hogwarts Castle that he does not know about, you must realize. And that includes this little scheme of Draco's, so I would put it out of your mind, if I were you."

"What is it?" asked Harry, now curious. "What's he doing?"

"It is really none of your business, now, is it?"

"But I --" Harry caught himself and said instead, "All right, then, I guess." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Are you going back to Professor Slughorn's party?"

"No. I should think I've had enough inane social chatter for an evening."

Harry grinned. "Yeah. I went with Luna, though, so it wasn't that boring."

"Luna Lovegood?" Snape snorted. "Yes, I suppose she would be entertaining." He folded his arms, his hands disappearing into his voluminous robes, and said, "You are spending the holidays with the Weasleys, correct?"

"Err... yes. Why?"

"The Headmaster has placed certain protections on their residence, but even so, it is not as safe as Hogwarts or your aunt's house. You must Occlude at all times."

"I do."

"Even while asleep?"

Harry glanced at his shoes. "I try. I've had one or two of those weird dreams, but aside from those, I Occlude every night. They might not even be, you know, that kind of dream -- might just be nightmares."

"We've established, I thought, that by now you should be able to distinguish the two," Snape said impassively.

"Yeah, I know. Most of the time, I can tell -- I know that my nightmares are just normal dreams, usually. There's only been one or two that I wasn't sure about, really."

"At least you seem to be showing some improvement," said Snape. "Not at the rate I'd like, but it's certainly better than anything you did last year, for what little that's worth. Remember to Occlude at the Weasleys'. Read the books that Lupin supplied, if you aren't too preoccupied with stuffing yourself with sweets."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, "I know. And -- happy Christmas, if I don't see you before we leave."

Snape inclined his head, the barest trace of a smile ghosting over his lips. "And you. You ought to return to the soirée, now -- I'm sure Miss Lovegood is waiting for you."

"You sure you don't want to come, sir?" Harry asked, grinning.

Snape snorted. "Really, I have better things to do. Go on," he said, making a shooing motion with his hand, "get out of my hair for the night."

"Right, got it," said Harry, as he shut the door softly behind him.