"You said you were bored, yesterday."

Harry looked suspiciously at Snape. He had been bored every day but the one he had gone to Hogsmeade, two days earlier. Boredom wasn't his favorite thing, but there were things he liked less.

"Do you feel capable of assisting me in the brewing of some simple potions?" Snape prodded.

"Like what?"

"Healing potions, Pepper-Up potions, Calming Draughts ... I'll handle the sleeping potions and pain-killing potions myself."

"What for?" Can I have some? I'm tired of everything hurting.

Snape snorted. "In slightly over two weeks, the student population descends on this school in an unruly swarm, busily renewing old friendships and enmities -- especially enmities. First week of school is one of the top three weeks of the year for fights. Poppy likes to have her stores ready."

"Is that what you're so busy with?"

"That and a few special projects." Snape's face, which had been, until now, surprising relaxed, twisted into a bitter sneer. "One for each of my masters."

"Yes. They always are." Snape stood. "But you need not bother with that, Harry. Experimental potions work is far beyond your abilities. Furthermore, I trust no one's discretion but my own."

Harry sat back. "Look," he said harshly. "If you want me to help, drop it on the insults. You don't have a clue how good I am at Potions." Snape glared warningly in response, but Harry continued, while he had the nerve. "I don't have a clue how good I am at Potions, honestly. You're always letting the Slytherin students sabotage my stuff, you never tell Muggle-raised students half of what they need to know, and half the time I'm in your class I'm too angry to remember anything."

Snape scowled. He leaned over the table, his face coming threateningly close. "Then learn to keep your temper," he hissed. At a shout, he continued, "If you are only competent when things are going well, you are NOT COMPETENT!"

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't you talk to me about temper."

"I can do my work when I'm angry!"

"Fine. Go do it, then." Harry got up and strode over to his door.

"And what will you do? Sulk in your room all day?"

Harry turned in the door. "Go up to the astronomy tower, smoke Muggle drugs, and practice aeromancy."

Snape smirked as if he had won. "You'll be bored out of your mind in ten minutes."

"Better that than listen to you," Harry retorted, digging furiously through his trunk. He hadn't had any more of the cigarettes since his first day here, and they had drifted towards the bottom.

"Well, when you get desperate, it's the second left past the classroom," Snape volunteered. He seemed to have regained his control now that Harry had lost his. "And Harry -- there are only five students here that I consider competent to assist in a serious experiment," he said awkwardly. "It's not much of an insult."

Harry found the pack, finally, and sat back on his heels, ignoring the mess he had caused. "All seventh-year Slytherins?" he challenged.

"Mr. Malfoy of Slytherin, two of the Ravenclaw seventh years, one of the Ravenclaw fifth years, and ... Miss Granger." Snape said the last name as if it tasted sour.

Harry was incensed. Snape thought Hermione was one of his top five students? "I dare you to tell her that!" he shouted.

"I don't need to tell her anything. She knows quite well."

Harry stalked close. Snape was not as intimidatingly tall as he remembered him being. Harry pushed into the man's personal space, as Snape had often done to him, stretching up so that he had to tilt his head back as little as possible to look Snape in the eyes.

"You coward!" he spat. "You're still afraid to admire the Mudblood girl." He whirled quickly and strode for the door, hoping his difficulty in getting the slur out had not been as apparent to Snape as to him. He made it out into the hallway without Snape returning a word. As soon as he turned the corner, he ran.

Ten minutes, he thought later, as he stared at the wispy clouds, had been an optimistic estimate. He'd smoked two cigarettes, determined he had six left, and was not the least bit interested in trying to read his future from the sky. He wondered if he could remember all the ingredients in a basic Calming Draught. He wondered if he smelled as bad as he thought he did. He wondered what Snape actually thought of him.

Severus couldn't manage to say anything, or even to move, as the boy left. "You're still afraid to admire the Mudblood girl." And it was true, he admitted silently, with the vague stirring of shame that always filled him when he spoke to her, belittling her considerable accomplishments, or berating her interference in the work of her less competent classmates. He admired her command of the materials, the sureness of her hands, the accuracy of her eye, the way she continued to perform with precision, even under his derision. She wasn't beautiful, as Lily had been, and her spirit was demeaned by a fussiness that was all too easy to ridicule. He was in no danger of an inappropriate attraction. He could pause by her desk, some day, and say "well done."

It was easy to claim he did not do this because it would jeopardize his standing with the Death Eaters through the children they had in that class, but that had not been a real issue until Voldemort's return. With a little more honesty, he could claim that he did not do so because she needed the praise too much. She received it, in quantity, from other teachers, and she was addicted to it. The girl was too eager to please. Although somewhat true, that was also not the reason. Such talent in a Muggle-born girl angered him, and that this plain, fussy creature reminded him of Lily angered him still more.

Severus closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, where a headache was gathering. He doubted there was any point in hiking up to the Astronomy Tower, just to rediscover that he was incapable of apologizing. Besides, he needed to work on healing potions.

Severus had just started adding mistletoe berries to the second cauldron when he felt someone come to the door behind him. He glanced down at the polished silver cauldron and was able to make out enough of the reflected form to see that it was Harry, standing in the doorway in trousers and a shirt, rather than robes. He felt a curious lightening in his heart. I will not gloat.

"You were wrong you know," Harry remarked idly.

Severus didn't look up. "Oh?"

"It didn't take nearly ten minutes."

"Stir that first cauldron then. I can start a third, that way."

Harry approached slowly. "Which way?"

"It's Camilla's Bruise Salve."

Harry snorted. "Like that tells me anything."

"Mistletoe berries are a primary ingredient," Severus hinted.

"So?" Harry sounded belligerent as well as annoyed. "Does that have anything to do with the stirring?"

Severus was startled enough to turn. "Don't you have any idea why things are stirred counterclockwise?" he asked.

"I thought it was just ... random."

"Counterclockwise stirring weakens the mundane properties of the ingredients -- for example, the toxicity of mistletoe, or the antipathy of oil and water -- and strengthens the magical properties. Since mistletoe is very toxic, you must stir it vigorously counterclockwise, for a rather long time, but a number of stirs divisible by nine, because it is a northern plant associated with life, death, and the divine."

"You are shitting me," Harry said incredulously.

"This is very basic --"

"Great. Ever consider telling us?"

"Any eleven year-old should already know --"

"Who was going to tell me this? Uncle Vernon?!"

"I'm sure it was in one of your texts --"

"If it was in a text, Hermione would know it! She memorizes them, just like I do -- just like I try to, anyway."

"Harry, please stir the potion counterclockwise, counting to nine repeatedly, before the mixture is ruined." Severus flipped over a sandglass. "Continue for at least this long. We will discuss it when we are not both keeping count."

By the time the sands had run through, Severus was a little calmer. "It had never occurred to me to explain that principle, Harry. I will add it to the review curriculum."

Harry snorted. "Better late than never," he quoted.

"So, now that you understand it," Snape pressed quickly, ignoring the comment, "tell me which direction I should stir an Ignatios Pain Killing Potion."

"Er ... counterclockwise? Because of the bitter almond?"

"Close, but it was a trick question. Can you answer completely?"

Harry frowned, then suddenly perked up. "Clockwise for the first set of ingredients," he said, "then counterclockwise after adding the bitter almond."

"Exactly. Exact count does not matter -- the potion has a target consistency. Help me with the preparation."

"Give me some when it's done?"

Severus twitched. He looked back at Harry, who appeared anxious, but sincere.

"Why on earth would you need a pain killer?

"I don't know! I just know everything hurts. I've had a headache for over a week, now. I'm sick of it!"

"None."

"Were you taking any other Muggle drugs?"

"No," Harry growled. He pulled the echinacea stalks into place in front of him. "Quarter inch slices, isn't it?"

"Or slightly smaller."

"It started a few days after you came to the Dursleys. I thought it wasn't getting enough food, at first. Then when I came here I though maybe I'd picked up enough of an addiction to the cigarettes that I needed them. But they don't make any difference. It's not lack of water either, and more tea doesn't help."

Severus glanced over.

"I do not dispense medicines. You'll need to talk to Madam Pomfrey."

"Who won't believe that I don't know."

"Nonetheless, I suggest you speak to her. If you are in constant pain, she should be told."

"But what if it's related to ...."

"To what?" Severus snapped.

"To us being related. To the spell wearing off. I've been under a spell for over sixteen years, and it's ending. Could that hurt?"

Severus had to consider that. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Not only was sixteen years a long time to be enchanted, but it was an enchantment affecting the body. Appraisingly, he looked at Harry. Hadn't the boy seemed taller this morning?

"Stand up," he said.

Slowly, Harry stood. Severus looked at his feet. The new grey trousers just brushed the tops of his shoes, though Severus was quite sure he had requested they be hemmed a bit long. Severus looked up at his face, and tried to decide if it was more angular than it had been, or if it just seemed that way because the boy was too thin. He was still recognizably Harry Potter, with a strong resemblance to James, if one could imagine an undernourished James with neatly combed hair. As Severus reached that conclusion, Harry, apparently tired of being examined, gave him back an inquiring, sarcastic look that was like nothing that had ever crossed James Potter's face.

"You ...." Severus had to sit down.

"Are you done staring at me? I what?"

"Get out," he managed.

"What?"

"Get OUT!" And that hurt, frightened look -- he'll either scream at me or run.... "Come back in an hour," Severus managed to force out, before Harry did anything. "It's not you." Harry nodded wordlessly, and retreated quickly. Severus had no doubt he had learned young how to make himself scarce. Bugger all, hadn't I believed it? I thought that I had believed it. Lily, what do I do?

Harry returned exactly an hour later, being unsure whether it was the greater offense to be late or to be early. He stood hesitantly in the doorway. Snape was stirring a cauldron with visible concentration. Harry thought he might be counting.

"Sir?"

Snape held up a hand for silence. Harry moved quietly into the room and sat down. He waited.

A few minutes later, Snape stopped stirring and moved the cauldron from the fire.

"I ... Sorry I screamed," he muttered quickly.

He was barely audible. With difficulty, Harry repressed the impulse to ask Snape to repeat that. It was enough of a miracle for Snape to apologize to him once. Harry wasn't going to complain that he did it like a reluctant six-year-old.

"Can you tell me what I did?" Harry asked ruefully. "So I can not do it again?"

"It won't matter if you do it again," Snape said cryptically. "It was just the first time."

"So?"

"I.... You looked like me," Snape answered. "You don't -- not now! It was a particular expression that crossed your face, just as I'd decided you hadn't changed. I'd believed you were mine, but that was the first time I saw it." He let his breath out in something close to a growl. "I panicked," he said, with visible distaste.

Harry was too disturbed to worry about Snape's reaction. "I thought this was supposed to take months," he protested. "It's only been two weeks!"

"The facial changes are slight. They only showed with that particular expression." Snape shook his head. "But you are more than an inch taller. You're taller than you were two days ago, if they hemmed those trousers correctly." He sat back, a self-satisfied sneer back in place of his earlier anxiety. "So, child, tell me why it hurts."

Harry understood almost immediately. His eyes widened. "Er ... because I'm growing too quickly?"

"Precisely. Remember how Madam Pomfrey said you showed strain at your joints? This is the cause of the strain."

"Why should I be growing, though?" Harry frowned at Snape. "Weren't you and James about the same height?"

Snape rubbed his forehead. "I was shorter much of the time, though slightly taller by the time we graduated." He frowned. "You'd always seemed oddly small for James's son. Recently, I'd decided it was malnourishment."

"So, whenever it was my body was supposed to gain James's height, it couldn't."

"Most likely, yes. You didn't have the resources. Either that or you inherited height from his mother, or some other of his ancestors through him. However, as the charm wears off, your body is getting a new command to grow. And now, you have the resources to manage it." He looked appraisingly at Harry, then gestured him back. "Up against the wall."

Harry laughed. "For growing?"

"You know very well what I mean. We need to track how much you are growing. And this is a good place." Snape smirked. "No one else ventures in here if they can avoid it."

Grinning, Harry stood against the wall. Severus took a sharp stone and marked the line his head came up to. Harry remembered how Aunt Petunia used to do this to Dudley when he was young. It felt rather silly and childish, but in a good kind of way.

"So how about the headache?" Harry asked, as he stepped away, afterwards. "Why should my head hurt, if my face isn't changing much?"

"Where is the headache?"

Harry traced around his eye sockets and at his temples. Snape looked thoughtful.

"Take off your glasses, Harry." he suggested.

Harry took off his glasses and looked at Snape. "Well? Is my face different?"

"Look around. Do things look as you expect?"

"What do you mean?" Snape didn't answer, so Harry looked around the room, squinting and frowning. Without his glasses, things looked like blobs, he thought glumly. He scanned over a multicolored tower that he knew to be a pile of books, then... "Hey! That-- I can tell that's a quill."

"Normally, you could not?"

"No. Normally it would just be a white blur. Now it's a white blur with a sort of a shape."

"Very good. Your eyesight is improving. Your glasses are wrong for you. Thus the headache."

Harry shoved the glasses back on. Now that he thought about it, everything was a bit blurry. "But I still can't see without them!"

"We'll need to correct the lenses." Snape frowned. "That will require consulting with Pomfrey." He growled. "I was hoping to avoid that."

"Well, we don't have to tell her why they're wrong, do we?"

"Harry, sixteen year-old boys do not suddenly become less nearsighted."

"But Madam Pomfrey doesn't know how nearsighted I am. I'll tell her I broke my lenses and seem to have fixed them wrong."

Snape raised his eyebrows. He looked almost amused. Harry did not get to hear his response, however, because a flash of color in the doorway caught his attention. He twisted his head. Dumbledore was watching them.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"Not at all," Snape sneered. "We've just finished three potions, concluded our second fight of the day, and reached an agreement on what is wrong with Harry. Your timing is excellent."

With a dismissive scowl, Snape turned away and began to gather dirty tools from his work area. Dumbledore gave Harry a quick, private smile and a wink.

"Could Harry do that, Severus? I would like to confer with you, briefly."

Snape twisted back. His robes furled momentarily about his calves, then settled in a neat drape. Harry wondered if he could devise a scale of Snape irritation based on the swirling of the man's robes. I would need to factor in both maximum height off the floor and degree of wrap, he mused.

"Very well. Harry, please clean these. Recall we have been dealing with highly poisonous, as well as magically potent, substances. Start with a manual cleaning, then purify with salt."

"Yes, professor."

Snape followed Dumbledore from the room, and Harry set to work on the various utensils Snape had used for the bruise salve.

When Snape returned from his conference with Dumbledore, he looked shaken. His lips were set in a thin line, and he avoided Harry's eyes.

"I.... Follow me."

Harry followed Snape from the room. He wanted to ask what Dumbledore had said, but from Snape's manner, felt it was best to keep quiet. Snape began to mutter to himself, too indistinctly for Harry to catch any words. They went up to the Entrance Hall, then, to Harry's surprise, outside into the bright sunshine.

Snape led Harry down the stairs, then back alongside them, to the sheltered place between the holly bushes and the base of the stairs where they had sat several days before. Snape turned and faced him, but remained standing.

"I don't know how much of what Dumbledore says to take seriously," he said, almost to himself. "I learned from the Dark Lord not to trust people with visions. But...." His eyes met Harry's, at last. "Hold out your hand," he said.

Harry, not knowing what was wanted, held out his hand slightly, in a neutral orientation. Snape grasped his wrist and twisted his hand gently, so the palm faced up, then let it go. He drew a little bundle of white silk from his pocket, and unwrapped it cautiously to show a small ring with a large green stone. He closed his eyes a moment, and his lips moved again, though this time there was no sound at all. At last, he took the ring and placed it in Harry's palm, then curled Harry's fingers closed over it.

"I gave this to your mother for you," he whispered, "now, I give it to you for her."

He stood a moment, perfectly still, a strangely fearful expression on his face. Harry's heart hammered in his chest. He heard Snape's breath catch. Snape let it out in a slow hiss.

"I am glad you lived," he said.

The words were flat and quick as his six-year-old's apology, earlier in the day. As soon as they were out, he loosed Harry's hand, turned away, and began walking back to the base of the steps.

"Dumbledore wants to see you in his office," he said, without turning. His tone was now clipped and efficient. "I would like to spend the afternoon alone. Amuse yourself as you wish."

He went rapidly up the stairs. Harry followed more slowly, the ring still clutched in his hand.

It was not until he had ridden the moving stairs up to the antechamber of Dumbledore's office that Harry paused to examine the ring. The band was narrow, but that was, to Harry's relief, the most feminine thing about it. There were no embellishments to the band or mounting, and no other stones than the emerald. He had not know what Snape had meant by "pentagon step-cut emerald," but it was clear from looking at the ring. The stone was cut with five even sides, and each side angled in from near the top. It was a simple, solid cut that let the green stone glow, rather than flash, in the caught light. Hesitantly, Harry tried putting the ring on. It just fit onto his little finger. The pentagon pointed towards his fingertip. Harry wondered if it would look better the other way, and panicked when he realized it was too tight to slide back over his knuckles. After a minute of frantic twisting and pulling, he managed to get the ring off. His finger hurt from the effort. Harry held the ring up both ways, decided it was better the way he'd had it, and with some trepidation, pushed it back on.

"At least I know it won't fall off," he muttered. With that settled, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," Dumbledore called. His voice was cheery, but the smile he gave Harry never reached his eyes.

"Your father gave you my message, I presume?"

Harry was slightly taken aback to hear Snape referred to as his father, but he nodded. "And the ring," he added, holding up his hand to show the green stone. This won him a brief, but more sincere smile from the headmaster. "That is assuming that your message was 'come see me.'"

"It was." Dumbledore extracted an envelope from an unusually large pile on his desk and leaned forward to push it towards Harry.

"Miss Granger wrote me with a letter for you. She said you had told her not to contact you directly?" Dumbledore looked politely inquiring. Harry smacked himself in the forehead.

"Because I'd just found out that I was a suspect in Uncle Vernon's death. I'd forgotten it. I should contact Ron, too, because I told him the same thing."

Harry felt a little queasy at the thought of Uncle Vernon. He wondered if he'd forgotten as part of forgetting the attack had happened.

"Understandable," Dumbledore said. He motioned for Harry to pick up the letter. "Read it here, please. I already have done, as she included permission, and I need to discuss it with you."

Dear Harry,

What is happening? The Daily Prophet says you have been cleared of your family's deaths, but the Muggle press seems certain that you are responsible. They don't have any actual information to add, so they've been branching out; the Sunday paper had an "In Depth" section on psychotic responses to long-term abuse. Fortunately, the most recent picture they've been able to produce of you was from your last class picture in Muggle school, so it's not very recognizable. Mum and Dad were trying to get me to send one of mine, but I wouldn't. I only have wizard pictures of you, anyway.

Shouldn't the Ministry of Magic be able to plant a few memories to clear you? I've shown my parents the wizarding news, but they're nearly hysterical, and are threatening to not let me go back. Of course, even if I get them to believe that you didn't have anything to do with it, they still understand that it happens now. I think they may realize it wasn't you, really, and just be trying not to think about the alternative. I've told them before that there are wizards who would like to kill me, and them, but I don't think they believed it. The longer this stays in the news, the more it will frighten them.

I do hope you mean it about "appropriate vengeance." A day or two of uncertainty and a research project?

Love,

Hermione

Harry looked up.

"The last bit is that I came up with an excuse about having asked Ron about the Paternity Charm. Of course, he asked Hermione, as well as his Mum. I told them both that someone had told me that someone I don't like is a half-brother of mine, but I'd looked up what they said about how the charm worked and it was wrong, so I'd tracked the sender and extracted 'appropriate vengeance -- nothing awful.'"

Dumbledore nodded. "On to the main problem, then."

"Well, she's right, isn't she? The Ministry should be able to do something. Don't they usually?

"Yes, they usually do." Dumbledore looked grim. "Fudge, I believe, is sitting on this just to inconvenience us. It limits your movements, and thus your potential for power. I will push him on it privately. If that is ineffective, I will try a more public forum."

"Is there anything I can do?" Harry asked.

"Not with the Minister," Dumbledore acknowledged. "However, I intend to invite the Grangers here for a conference. I would like you to come and speak to them." Amusement brightened Dumbledore's weary eyes. "The point, of course, is for you to be sane, friendly, and courteous. If you are at all angry, please clear up the matter beforehand, or conceal it well until they have gone."

Harry looked down, both abashed and amused. He scuffed a toe against the dark boards of floor, but largely for effect. "Yes, sir," he said in exaggerated submission.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Well taken. That's all for now. Please remember to write to your friends."

Harry returned to Snape's kitchen, and sent a quick reply to Hermione, and a letter to Ron saying that Ron could write to him now. He didn't have any news that he felt he could relate, so he said nothing of what he was doing, other than that he was back at Hogwarts. Afterwards, he wandered into the living room. Out of boredom, he began looking through the bookshelves. The books were about half Potions texts; many of the rest were Dark Arts, in Harry's estimation, or borderline.

He pulled out a moderately-thin, brightly-colored volume entitled Not Bad Enough: The Historical Origins of the Unforgivables, and began to flip through it. To his surprise, it was a chatty, readable survey of curses that had preceded the modern Unforgivables, with examples of usage, and a few casting notes that would definitely have kept the book in the restricted section of the school library. Intrigued, Harry curled up at the end of the couch, and began to read.