Headmaster’s Office Hogwarts, 17th July 1592.

“Headmaster! They are coming!!”

Professor Carwyn Myrridin turned slowly, gracefully, the feldgrau wool of his heavy robes sighing against the stone floor. In the light of the dying sun, his auburn braids shone like Welsh gold, flaming against his pale skin. “Aye, I ken that, lad” he said softly, sadness welling in eyes the shade of a stormy sea.

Angeal Trelawney sighed, shaking his shaggy, brown head "Bobbie Raymonds has succumbed, sold his soul to King James this morn, Headmaster. Fifteen pieces of gold, that's what our children's lives were worth to that filthy mudblood!"

"Come, Trelawney. Purebloods have sold good men to Dark Lords afore this." Headmaster Myrridin said firmly "I won't be having you speak slightingly of muggleborns. There but for the grace of God."

"Three and twenty thousand march upon us, Headmaster. There aren't wizards enough in Europe to fight half the score!" Trelawney cried, terror and anguish burning in his brown eyes. "And they are aided by muggleborn mages! Our own kind! Children we have raised in these Halls return with murder in their hearts. Can this be borne?"

"Courage, Angeal."

"Tis the priests who tempt the muggleborns away: they threaten Hell and promise redemption- at a price." The Deputy Head sobbed "They tell them that we are devils, Headmaster, devils! That the path to salvation is paved with our blood and bones. They intend to annihilate us!"

"You will nae die, nor the bairns. I'll see tae it." Myrridin said firmly, placing a pale hand on the quaking man's shoulder.

"What can you do, Professor Myrridin? What can any of us do?"

"Gather the bairns in the Great Hall." Myrridin ordered "They may hide in the Chamber when I release the basilisk, ye have a serpent-speaker amongst them, young Elfrick Gaunt. Have him return the basilisk to his Chamber when all is over."

"Headmaster..?"

"Do as I tell ye, Trelawney." Myrridin snapped "There isn't much time."

oOoOo

As Slytherin's basilisk patrolled the grounds, roaring its violent intent, Headmaster Myrridin strode the silent halls of Hogwarts; the children were safe within the chamber, guarded by the rest of the Hogwarts Staff and, his footfalls muffled by soft, leather boots, the only sound Myrridin could hear was the whisper of his robes as they trailed along the stone floors.

All protective spells known to Wizardkind had been cast, from Cave Inimicum to Repello Muggletum, statues and suits of armor manned the outskirts, ready for the fray, and, in the sky, Eltanin's huge form circled, ready to engulf any who strayed past the castle gates in fiery death.

Yet Myrridin, scion of the two greatest Wizarding families of his Isle, knew that there was something else to be done this day. He was not a seer but, in his blood, there was a strain as pure and sweet as the water of the mountains where he was born. Had Myrridin been a muggle, he would have been not merely a priest but a prophet, for the Almighty spoke to him sometimes. As noon burnt in the sky, today, the Lady had appeared to this favoured child, whispering that, although the grains of Myrridin's life had run, if he died of his own choice, those he loved may yet be saved.

That Myrridin must complete the rite of Sanctum Sanctorium.

In the tawny sunset, Headmaster Carwyn Luis Myrridin shed his heavy robes: his soul felt light, warm as the sunshine which played against his pale, bare skin. Struck by a sudden impulse, he unbound his braids, shaking his fiery hair loose. It had been long, too long, since the happy, carefree days of Myrridin's childhood, since he was wild and free and unbound as any creature on Brigid's fair earth. This felt like coming home.

Carwyn, it felt strange but good to call himself the name by which his mother knew him, transfigured his wand into a small silver knife and, taking a deep breath, raised the shining blade to the light.

"I give the bones of my body to form a room." Carwyn intoned, cutting into his wrist "I offer the flesh of my bones to create a veil. I sacrifice the blood of my flesh to act as a shield. Children of Hogwarts, hearken to me: my body, heart and soul your sanctuary be!"

oOoOo

When King James' Army arrived at the castle, beaten and bleeding from fighting off Hogwarts' defenders, both beast and automation, they found the halls empty. Even the Chamber of Secrets, where Robert Raymonds swore the wizards must be hiding, was discovered to be deserted.

Believing that they had been betrayed, the army turned on their mage comrades, brutally putting them to the fire and sword. The angry soldiers stormed out of Hogwarts, only to meet the condemning gaze of the basilisk, who awaited them just outside the castle doors. All but one died under the dread creature's glare and that single, surviving trooper returned to his barracks with the message: there be dragons, do not try their power.

King James, humiliated and infuriated at the defeat of his army, tore this tale from the book of history, destroying the records and silencing any who dared to speak of it. Yet, in Hogwarts, a legacy of this horrific event remains; if any soul, within this castle's ancient walls, needs sanctuary from their tormentors, they will find themselves in Myrridin's corridor.

“Good morning Mr Potter, please sit down.” Headmaster Dumbledore said, smiling tightly.

“Err, Thanks, Sir” Harry nervously edged himself into the empty chair beside the stiff, forbidding form of Professor Snape: the Potions Master had dark shadows under his eyes, a clear indication that, today, even breathing loudly would put Harry in detention. To make matters worse, Harry was feeling somewhat dopey as, after the run-in with Ron, he hadn’t been able to sleep: potions this afternoon would be sheer murder.

“Now!” Dumbledore said, with an attempt at his customary joie de vivre, “The Triwizard Tournament. Yes, well, I regret that we have yet to find a loophole, my boy. And believe me, we have searched the archives, some more thoroughly than others.” the Headmaster added, with a concerned look towards the pale and exhausted Professor Snape. A muscle under the Potions Master’s eye twitched.

“So, I’m still competing?” Harry asked, anxiously.

“Yes, Mr Potter” snarled Professor Snape, turning sharply, his dark eyes flashing “A prospect which must delight you no end!”

“No, I…” Harry blustered, hunching back like a rabbit faced with a black mamba.

“Gentlemen, please. Mr Potter has assured me that he did not enter himself for the Tournament and I believe him” Dumbledore said firmly, his eyes hard as sapphires. “Now, Harry, Professor Snape has very kindly offered to give you duelling lessons.”

“But, I thought that the Champions weren’t allowed to accept help from teachers?” Harry said, scrubbing his wayward, raven hair.

“We are not allowed to aid you specifically in your tasks, Potter. However, both Karkaroff and Maxime are giving their protégé’s extra tuition and the Headmaster believed that you might benefit from lessons in Advanced Defence. Or do you believe you are above such?” Snape asked, his upper lip curling to reveal a yellowed incisor.

Flushing, Harry looked away. Why did Dumbledore always have to choose bloody Snape? Why not Flitwick, whom everyone knew was a Duelling champion, or Mad-eye Moody, who, rumour had it, was the most powerful Auror of his time, or, here’s a damn good idea, why not himself? The Headmaster had defeated the last Dark Lord, hadn’t he?

“Thank you, Sir” Harry bit out “Advanced Defence lessons would be very useful.”

“Good, good!” Professor Dumbledore beamed, rubbing his hands together “Well, my boys, shall we say Saturday afternoons?”

oOoOo

It had been the week from hell:  even in his second year, when everyone seemed to believe that Harry was Slytherin’s heir, he had not felt himself so suspected and despised by his fellow students. The Slytherins, of course, already hated him for being a Gryff and, as far as Harry was concerned, the catcalls and contempt were par for the course.

Hufflepuff, also, could be expected to hold themselves a little aloof; handsome, charming Cedric Diggory, Quidditch Captain, Prefect, outstanding academic, was their star student and Hufflepuff could be forgiven for feeling pretty put-out when, at Cedric’s moment of glory, he was overshadowed by the shock revelation that there was a fourth Champion and, to add insult to injury, that ‘champion’ was the famous Harry Potter. However, Harry hadn’t quite expected this degree of froideur; even the ever-friendly Ernie, Justin and Hannah were acting as if he didn’t exist or, rather, didn’t deserve to.

Even Ravenclaw, whom Harry dared to hope might consider him with a little more compassion, had, instead, decided to ignore his protestations of innocence and conclude that Harry Potter was just an arrogant little toe-rag who used his position as Headmaster’s pet to wheedle his way into obtaining a bit more fame.

And the fact that Gryffindor was so ostentatiously, so clamorously proud of Harry, so delighted that he had been chosen, so ready to sing his praises or fight his corner, only drove Harry’s reputation lower in the eyes of the other Houses and, worse still, threw into sharp relief the behaviour of the one Gryffindor who did not support Harry.

Ron’s sneering disregard hurt Harry the most; everyone else, even people like Hannah and Ernie, who Harry considered friends, could be forgiven- to an extent- for believing that Harry was an attention-seeking delinquent but not Ron. Not his best mate, who knew how much Harry hated being the centre of attention, how little the fickle public’s regard was worth to him, how desperately, hopelessly, Harry wished to be a normal boy, with a home and a family to return to at the end of each school year. Ron’s betrayal cut Harry to the soul.

And, after the week from hell, Harry had an interview with the devil himself.

Scuffing his shoes against the stones, Harry slouched miserably down to the dungeons: he could just imagine the greasy bastard, standing amid his disgusting jars of formaldehyded specimens, rubbing his pale, spider-like hands together, hard, dark eyes alight with glee at the prospect of being able to spend the next two hours hexing his least favourite student into a quivering mess. Harry kicked the floor, grimacing; if Snape thought setting a viper loose on a second year was acceptable, what the hell was he planning to do to Harry now?!

If, and it was a big if, Snape ever intended to teach Harry anything at all. The Potions Master had said to meet him, not in his office or even the Potions Classroom, but somewhere down past the Slytherin dorms; an area with which, Snape had said with a sneer, Harry should be familiar. Chances were Harry was walking into an ambush, knowing the slimy git.

Eventually, Harry spied, in the distance, a portrait which matched the description Snape had given him; a blue-robed wizard holding a snake. As he hurried forward, Harry was irritated to realise that there was no door opposite the painting, merely a bare expanse of wall. Harry snorted; it was typical of the man: if he left, Snape would dock him points for disobedience, if he stayed put, Snape would ridicule him ‘I didn’t mean that portrait, Mr Potter, I meant the other one, just around the corner, you scum-sucking, dunderheaded waste of oxygen. 500 points from Gryffindor for merely daring to exist.’

As Harry stood sulking, he was shocked to see a doorway form in the wall opposite him. A second later, the door creaked open and Potions Master poked his head outside, his greasy curtain of hair swinging lankly.

“In, Potter!”

Shrugging, Harry sullenly loped through the door…

Into a grassed area which, to Harry’s amazement, seemed at least twice the size of a professional Quidditch pitch: on one side of the field, bordered by a circular moat, there was an obstacle course, complete with bramble thicket, on the other, a large meadow, padded with springy moss. 

“Where are we?!” Harry gaped, staring around, “What is this room?”

“That, Mr Potter, is none of your business.” Professor Snape replied silkily, having silently stepped behind the teenager. Harry spun around to see the Potions Master standing, arms crossed, with a tight smile on his face.

“Leave your wand with your bag, Potter. You have twenty minutes to complete the course. Go!”

“But…” Harry gasped, he didn’t even know where the course started.

“Now!” Snape snapped, pointing a long, elegant finger towards a gnarled tree, which stood in the middle of a high hedge. A knotted rope hung from one of its broad branches, like a hangman’s noose. 

Slipping his wand into the front pocket of his satchel, Harry dropped his bag and sprinted over to the rope, silently thanking Dudley for the agility and climbing ability which Harry had developed through constantly evading attacks from his cousin’s thugs.

However, climbing the rope was more troublesome than Harry had anticipated: his trainers kept getting caught in his baggy trouser bottoms and his voluminous robe tangled around his legs. Worse still, the tree’s broad branches abounded with little, claw like twigs, which caught Harry’s sleeves and, when he climbed down the wooden steps which were nailed to the tree, Harry’s loose trainer laces caught under his feet and almost tipped him head over heels.

By the time he’d reached the thorn thicket, Harry was hot, sweaty and rather more ragged than when he started out. Taking a deep breath, the teenager took a running jump.

Harry would have made it, had the hem of his right trouser leg not caught a bramble, mooring him, stalling his momentum, sending him falling, face-first, towards the inch long, wickedly sharp thorns.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry threw his arms in front of his face and prepared for the hot rush of pain.

Which, in fact, never came. Instead, there was another sharp tug, the feeling of movement, a rush of wind in his face and the tickling sensation of grass against his hands. Harry opened his eyes and, realising he was lying on the grass like a dead fish, pushed himself onto his feet and set off over the stepping stones which bridged the moat. Halfway across, however, the lace of his left boot came untied and one unwary step later, Harry was sitting, soaked to the skin, in the deceptively shallow water.

Struggling to his feet, sodden robes dragging against his every movement, Harry sloshed through the water, struggled over the bank and squelched his way across the field to where the Potions Master was standing, smirking.

Obsidian eyes sparkling with amusement, Professor Snape said, satisfaction oozing from his voice, “That, Mr Potter, was a lesson. Now, let’s see what you have learnt from it.”

Harry’s immediate reaction was that it had taught him never, ever to obey slimy, sarcastic sadistic gits who dedicated their miserable existences to humiliating him as painfully as possible. However, as he didn’t wish to drive his house into negative points so early in the term, Harry simply huffed “That the school uniform is rubbish.”

Professor Snape raised an elegant eyebrow, a smile playing at the corner of his lips “Correct. And what is your honest opinion of my attire, Mr Potter?”

Wide green eyes beheld the close-fitting, tunic-collared, fusty black robe, the drainpipe trousers, the buttoned sleeves, which embraced the Potions Master’s arms so tightly that they appeared to be almost painted onto his skin.

“Old fashioned?” Harry heard himself say. Oh shit…

“Exactly so, Mr Potter.” Professor Snape smirked “Now, observe.”

Harry watched, half-awed, half-irate, as the pale, skinny, middle-aged, Quidditch-hating Potions Master strolled, literally strolled, through the obstacle course. As much as he hated to admit it, Snape was exceptionally fit and moved with the dexterity, effortless grace and absolute economy of a cat. Harry crossed his arms, soaking sleeves squelching sullenly, glowering as his professor casually vaulted over the brambles and strode across the slippery stepping stones, no less at ease than he was in his classroom.

Snape sauntered up, an unbearably smug expression on his face. After casting a drying charm on Harry’s clothing, the Potions Master said, in a triumphant tone, “Zipped ankle boots, Mr Potter, with a mild suction charm applied to the sole. Laces often become loose or, on occasion, inexplicably tie themselves together, thereby causing accidents. The leather a. prevents damage to the ankles, b. provides a shield against water and c. allows one to enfold one’s trouser-leg safely inside the boot, thus avoiding loose material catching.”

Harry felt his jaw drop.

“My collar and the hems of my sleeves encompass no excess material and, therefore, will not be caught by either flame or foe.” Professor Snape informed the wide-eyed boy laconically “And the jacket of my robe is designed to fit closely, with no visible pockets, for the self-same reason. Moreover, my clothing has powerful shield, flame-retardant and waterproofing charms woven into the fabric.”

Shaking his head to dispel the sheer strangeness of getting fashion tips from the worlds worst-dressed wizard, Harry observed “But the skirt of your robe and your cloak are loose.”

Snape raised an eyebrow “An intelligent question, Mr Potter, wonders will never cease. Both have powerful evasion charms and, more importantly, detach at the slightest tug.”

Harry stared at Snape appraisingly, curiosity obscuring the usual loathing and fear which marred his emerald eyes. “Um, but why do you wear them in the first place. I mean, wouldn’t it be better not to wear a cloak at all?” the tousle-headed teen asked, regarding the billowing garment suspiciously.

The Potions Master smirked, his eyes amused “You may find, Mr Potter, that in a duel it pays to have a second-shadow; people aim for the centre of a mass and, if that centre contains only your cape, they will hit fabric rather than flesh.”

On feeling a smile tugging at his lips, Harry ruthlessly gritted his teeth: this wasn’t a mate, or a parental figure like Sirius or even one of the cooler teachers, like Flitwick; if Harry forgot, even for a moment, he was talking to Snape, he knew the sarky git would make him regret it.

Professor Snape’s eyes suddenly hardened. Taking a tiny book from a hidden pocket on his sleeve, the Potions Master enlarged, then thrust the leather-bound volume at Harry.

“‘Warlocks Weft: Combat Clothing Throughout the Ages’…” Harry read, his green eyes wide.

“‘Old fashioned’ clothing, Mr Potter, was designed during the Golden Age of Duelling.” the Potion master drawled, hooked nose in the air. “Read, choose an appropriate style, apply the relevant spells and I will see you next week.”

“Yes, Sir” Harry replied gratefully, stuffing the book into his bag. He could scarcely dare to believe that Snape would let him off so lightly, not to mention actually teach him something useful. Perhaps these Defence lessons weren’t going to be so bad after all. 

“And if I observe so much as a crease in that book when you return it to me, you will be gutting flobberworms every evening for the next three terms.”

Despite the fact that Snape was still a total, greasy git.

oOoOo

Monday evening found Harry more than ready to admit that Snape, despite being a complete hypocrite, knew his stuff. ‘Warlocks Weft’ was brilliant; seventeen chapters of pure genius, each focused on maximising the protection and minimising the dangers of every conceivable item of clothing: from underpants to handkerchiefs. It was a fascinating, often amusing, read: the author, Wilber Raghast, was obviously the seventeenth century’s answer to Mad-eye Moody and his suggestions varied from the obviously necessary to the sublimely inspired to the ridiculously paranoid. Indeed, Harry might have dismissed half the suggestions had it not been for the annotations, written in a small, cramped hand, which liberally smattered the pages, explaining, for example, that it was not uncommon for victims of the cruciatus curse to lose control of their bowels, thereby making the automatic-scouring charm, which Raghast recommended the reader to cast on their underpants, a wise precaution.

Thus, supplied with ‘Warlocks Weft’ and a notebook, Harry actually found himself enjoying spending time in the library, which, previously, had been the only drawback to having Hermione for a best friend.

oOoOo

Despite being within a hair-breadth of unpunctuality, it was with some satisfaction, not to mention assurance, that Harry walked into Professor Snape’s classroom for his Friday afternoon double period of Potions: Harry’s adapted robes were, at last, finished, the final touches being added as the bell heralding the end of lunch rang. Now that he was wearing his sleek, warded robes, Harry felt a strange sense of self-sufficiency, rooted in the knowledge that, for once, he was not merely reacting to events, he was prepared for them. Thus, the sniggers of the Slytherins, their ‘Potter Stinks’ badges, even Ron’s comment that Harry looked ‘a right prick’, were the proverbial water off a duck’s back: for once, Harry simply didn’t care what the they thought.

Catching Snape’s eye, Harry was amazed to see something not unlike approval in those obsidian depths as they observed his narrow sleeves, covertly zipped from elbow to wrist, thus minimising loose material, the streamlining of Harry’s robe, the collarless jacket of which was now securely zipped closed and the skirt stripped of pockets. All that was missing was a pair of sturdy, sensible ankle boots, which had not arrived in time to complete the ensemble, however, Harry’s drainpipe trousers and Velcro-closed shoes made adequate amends.

Feeling rather more respect than usual for his domineering tutor, Harry set down to work on his antidote commenting to Hermione, with a wry smile, that it was much easier to prepare ingredients when their robe-sleeves weren’t dangling over thier hands. (Hermione had also altered her attire, albeit to a lesser extent; never one to leave an interesting book unread, Hermione had opted to taper her sleeves to fit her wrists snugly and, naturally, cast the undetectable expanding, strengthening and lightening charms on her book bag).

As Harry chopped, diced and sliced, he found himself thinking that Potions was rather like cookery, the one chore which he actually enjoyed. In hindsight, it seemed a little daft to doss around just because Snape was an ass. Mucking around with Ron was, well, used to be, fun but, considering how his best friend, no, ex-best friend, was behaving, he wasn’t worth losing out on the chance of gaining a NEWT in Potions- Harry did want to be an auror, after all…

Severus Snape gazed over at Potter, a bemused crease between his elegant, sable eyebrows; the incorrigible boy seemed, for once, to be concentrating, nay, even deeply absorbed in creating his potion. The old adage ‘clothes maketh the man’ appeared particularly apt and a smile had the impertinence to twitch at the side of the Potion Master’s mouth, fighting against his impassive mask. Folding his arms, Severus forced his countenance into ‘neutral’, inwardly indulging in the satisfyingly spiteful thought that Potter, like his worthless sire, was impossibly shallow; he probably thought that a scholarly mien would show off his attire to its best advantage.

Besides, Harry thought, stirring his antidote, it wasn’t as if Potions was a boring, like History of Magic, or useless, like Divination; the prep was absorbing and there was something magical about watching a dish- or a potion- coming together: with just a few simple, unappetising ingredients and a bit of elbow grease, you could create something wonderful. And, anyway, despite Snape’s inherent gittishness, he was a decent Defence instructor: ‘Warlocks Weft’ was genius and Harry had to admit that, although Snape had been an ass, making him humiliate himself on that obstacle course like that, at least Harry had learnt, albeit the hard way, something that could save his life. So, perhaps, if Harry just made the effort with Potions…

There was a frantic rapping and Colin Creevey tumbled through the doorway, panting like an excited puppy. “Professor! Professor Snape, Sir! Harry’s got to come upstairs. All the Champions…”

Severus glared, his eyes hard as jet “Mr Potter still has an hour of Potions to complete…”

“Please, Sir!” whinged Colin, his brown eyes beseeching “The Headmaster, he says Harry’s got to come now! All the Champions...”

Severus’ lip curled.

“There’s a photographer! They’re going to take pictures!”

White knuckled and painfully aware of Ron’s contemptuous gaze, Harry stared into his caldron, hoping, praying that Snape would refuse.

“Get out of my sight, Potter” Severus snarled, pointing his wand at Harry’s perfect, nearly completed antidote. “Evanesco!”

Gritting his teeth, Harry scooped his equipment into his bag and stormed out of the room, Colin skipping after his heels.

Harry’s emerald eyes prickled with heat and his chest tightened uncomfortably; Snape was as much of a sadistic, nasty, evil git as ever.

“Hey, Scarhead! Want a hankie!”

“There’s a lav over there, Potter. Why don’t you go and have a cry over your mudblood parents.”

“Such a media whore. Will do anything to see himself in the papers…”

“Cheat…”

“He only gets away with it because he’s the old poof’s pet…”

Harry stumped through the dungeons, head down, arms tightly crossed, too depressed to even respond to the other students’ vicious taunts. Yesterday, Rita Skeeter, a journalist, had practically kidnapped him whilst Dumbledore was out of the room and then, after a brief interrogation, translated his ‘ums’ and ‘errs’ into soppy, ‘two fingers down the throat’ tat: the lying cow had made up whole quotes about really private stuff, like Harry’s feelings about his parents, embroidered his life-story to breaking point and, worst of all, crammed the misspelled names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions into the last sentence, omitting to mention Cedric at all.

If Harry had thought that things couldn’t get worse, that the other students couldn’t hate him more, he’d been wrong; the Hufflepuffs were livid, the Ravenclaws considered him to be no better than a ‘kiss and tell’ bimbo and the Slytherins took delight in ridiculing him over the article. Hell, even some Gryffindors were looking askance at Harry and, in light of what Skeeter had written, he couldn’t really blame them.

And now Harry had his duelling lesson with Professor Snape. It seemed bizarre to Harry that, only yesterday morning, he’d actually almost looked forward to this class; although Harry’s usual interest in clothing only extended so far as to appreciate stuff that lacked holes, patches or obvious stains, creating his sleek ‘battle’ robes had actually been enjoyable and he’d happily anticipated reattempting the obstacle course- this time with considerably more success.

However, given the white-hot glare that Snape had zapped him with at breakfast…

As Harry approached the snake handler’s portrait, the door materialised and flew open.

“You’re late” Professor Snape snapped, baring his yellow teeth “I do not tolerate tardiness, Potter, even from a ‘tragic hero’! Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

Gritting his teeth Harry followed his teacher’s billowing cloak, silently repeating his usual mantra: ‘I will not rise to the bate, I will ignore him, I will be respectful, I won’t give him any reason to take off more points’.

Once inside, Harry set down his book bag and straightened up, looking at his Professor with what he hoped was an unthreatening and respectful expression. However, given that Snape was regarding him very much as a hawk would eye a cheeky mouse, Harry was somewhat dubious as to whether his attempts would be enough.

“I trust you have my book?” Professor Snape snarled, holding out his hand.

Stifling a sigh, Harry pulled open his satchel and, with cautious care, withdrew ‘Warlock’s Weft’. Almost as soon as the book was out of the bag, Professor Snape snatched it and began riffling through the pages, scanning for damage. To Harry’s chagrin, his teacher appeared even more angry when he couldn’t find anything with which he could fault Harry.

“It appears, Mr Potter, that you have, at last, learnt a modicum of respect for other people’s belongings.” the Potions Master sneered, his baritone tightening like a silken noose “It is, indeed, a pity that you are incapable of respecting other people. However, it would be foolish not to expect you to fully exploit your ‘supporting characters’. I expect that the great ‘Harry Potter’ epic needed human interest, hmm?”

Harry stared at his teacher, green eyes wide. He’d expected scorn, ridicule, even anger but not this corrosive bitterness. It wasn’t as if Snape was related to the other Triwizard Champions and, Harry thought, he’d certainly made his dislike of Harry’s parents clear throughout his years at Hogwarts.

However, Harry’s shocked expression seemed to only fuel Professor Snape’s anger “It would be too much to hope” he snarled “that, unlike your arrogant father, you would have the slightest scruple in exploiting another person’s misfortune to aggrandise yourself.”

“Well!” snapped Harry, flushing “If my Dad was as arrogant as you say he was, he wouldn’t have minded, would he?”

“You had two parents, Potter. Your mother...”

“I wouldn’t have thought my mum counted as anything to you, Sir, seeing as she was what you Slytherins call a ‘mud-blood’." Harry replied sarcastically.

The Potions Master’s countenance drained white and, almost vibrating with anger, he closed his fists, convulsively, as if he could barely restrain himself from throttling his student. “Never! Use! That! Word! In! Front! Of! Me!” he barked, his breaths fighting out from between his clenched teeth in harsh hisses “Your arrogance, Potter, is beyond belief. You, like your damn father, believe yourself omniscient. You know nothing! Nothing about me!”

Harry opened his mouth, torn between apologising and fighting his corner.

However, before Gryffindor courage could prevail over survival instinct, Professor Snape snapped “I believe that it is you who does not value your muggleborn mother. I expect you consider muggles as little better than house-elves, hmm, Potter?”

“What!” Harry gasped “How can you say that! Hermione’s my best friend!”

“Friend? Hardly, Potter. You use the girl as a study guide and walking encyclopedia. It is clear for all to see that you favour Weasley’s friendship. However, I suppose that, having been waited upon hand and foot by your muggle relations, you would not see them as fully human.”

The banks of Harry’s fury broke. “How dare you tell me off for thinking I know everything about you, you hypocrite! You know nothing about my life at Privet Drive! Nothing at all!" Harry cried, his green eyes blazing "You’re the arrogant one, always going on about how I’m a spoilt brat…”

“Enough, Potter! I will not…”

“Shut up!” Harry screamed “Until I was eleven, I slept in a cupboard under the stairs and they only moved me to a bedroom when they got the Hogwarts letter- they thought someone was watching them. I’m their house elf! At home, I do housework and gardening eighteen hours a day and I’m lucky if I get the scraps from their plates! Dudley and his gang beat me up if I venture outside and, inside, I’m a punch bag for Vernon! You think I’m spoilt now! Huh!”

As Harry panted, his hands balled into fists, Severus said quietly “You are exaggerating, Potter.”

“L….ike Hell I am.” Harry gasped, suddenly on the verge of tears.

“Dumbledore told me that you were living with Lily’s cousin Melanie and her husband.” The Potions Master said, the expression in his dark eyes unfathomable. “I believe that Vernon was, in actuality, married to your mother's sister, Petunia?”

Harry frowned, why would Dumbledore lie?

“Mr Potter?” Professor Snape asked quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah Vernon is Petunia’s husband” Harry replied, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“And you have lived with them since..?”

“Since my Mum and Dad died.” Harry replied, blinking tears from his eyes, eyes that were exactly the same shape and colour as Lily’s, save that their lashes were sable rather than mahogany.

Professor Snape’s mouth twisted and he looked away. “Come with me, Mr Potter.” He said in a tight voice, walking across the grass and tugging the door open. Although awash with adrenaline, Harry was still aware enough to be surprised, and a little fearful, to find himself outside Dumbledore’s Office.

“The doorway of the Room of Requirement moves, Potter.” The Potions Master explained in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.

“Um, Sir” Harry started, “Er, I don’t think this is really necessary. I mean, I expect Dumbledore already knows…”

“It is wholly necessary, Potter.” Snape said bluntly “Now, I believe the password is ‘Parma Violets’.”

The Potions Master strode up the staircase and shoved the door open, smashing the handle against the wall. Albus looked up from his paperwork, peering at the irate young man with concern “Severus..?”

“Mr Potter has just informed me that he is currently and, indeed, for as long as he remembers has been living with Petunia Evans!” Professor Snape snarled, rigid with fury.

“Ah!” Professor Dumbledore stood up, straightening his robes nervously.

“You do not deny it?!” Snape snapped, his eyes flashing obsidian fire.

“Regretfully, no, I cannot deny it, dear boy." Professor Dumbledore replied, his white eyebrows knotting. "Ah, Harry, come in, don’t hover in the hallway. Now, my boys, if you could just take a seat…”

“I do not want a seat, Albus, or a cup of tea or a cake or even a bloody sherbet lemon” the Potions Master cried “I just want the damn truth for once!”

“As you wish, Severus.” The headmaster replied, his azure eyes clouding with concern. He walked around his desk, to stand at a sensible but courteous distance from his irate professor “You wish to know why I left Harry with Petunia”

“Yes!”

“Um…” Harry said quietly, looking nervously between Professor Dumbledore, who was twisting the end of his beard, and Professor Snape, who has the demeanour of a ticking bomb.

“Yes my boy?” asked the Headmaster, grateful for a diversion.

“Er… does Professor Snape know my aunt?”

“We grew up in adjacent streets, Potter, and a more prejudiced, petty, spiteful, jealous, nasty, little cow than your Aunt used to be, I have yet to meet. I doubt that she has improved with age.”

Harry nodded, then felt silly for doing so because, although the students all believed Snape had eyes in the back of his head, the Potions Master seemed too intent on staring down Dumbledore to notice anything. 

“Which,” Snape snarled “naturally, leads to the question of why your esteemed Headmaster saw fit to leave a helpless infant at the mercy of a woman with none!”

Dumbledore sighed, looking tired, and pinched the bridge of his nose “My priority was to keep Harry alive. Although, with Voldemort’s demise, Harry had gained a reprieve, we are both aware, Severus, that he will rise again. You, I know, see proof of it every day.”

Professor Snape stiffened, his jaw tensing. Dumbledore waited for a response and, when none was forthcoming, continued “When I was in the position of placing Harry with an adoptive family, I was in a quandary; Voldemort might return in a year, a decade, even a century and, moreover, many of his more dangerous followers, for example the Lestranges, were still at large. Had I placed Harry with a wizarding family, he would have been raised by devoted, loving parents, yes, but only until their locations were discovered by those out for his blood. And, indeed, sooner or later, that family would be discovered.”

The Headmaster sighed “The alternative was to utilise the ancient magic which Voldemort knows, despises and, therefore, has always underestimated. Lily died for you, Harry; she bartered your life for hers and, thus, a magical contract was formed, signed with her own blood. The same blood which runs in your veins and, also, in her sister, Petunia’s. As long as Harry can call Petunia’s house his home, Voldemort and his followers cannot harm him there. Therefore, although, I am ashamed to admit it, I condemned you to ten dark and difficult years, I only did so with your best interests at heart.” Dumbledore finished, gazing forlornly at Harry, tears shimmering in his forgetmenot blue eyes.

“I understand, Sir.” Harry whispered in a choked voice, bowing his head.

“Well I bloody don’t!” snarled Snape “Quit the crap, Albus! Why not adopt the boy yourself!”

“Huh?” Harry gasped.

“As erudite as ever, Potter.” the Potions Master laughed darkly. “Well, Albus? Everyone knows that you are the only person Voldemort has ever feared, none of his followers would have been foolhardy enough to cross wands with you.”

Albus’ mouth trembled “But, my dear boy, my responsibilities are such…”

“You could have resigned as Headmaster, Albus,” snarled Severus, prodding the Headmaster in the chest “Professor McGonagall is more that capable of running and protecting the School, as is Madam Bones of the Wizengamot.”

Professor Dumbledore paled, looking like an elderly fox confronted by a particularly powerful hound, “I… I have no idea how to raise a child… I am an elderly bachelor… I…”

“Were you afraid that you would spoil him, Albus?” Professor Snape snapped, his black eyes hard as hematite.

The Headmaster’s blue eyes widened “I… it was a consideration… as a Headmaster, I have never had much to do with discipline, it is usually a matter for the student’s Heads of House, and, having no children of my own…” Dumbledore sighed “Few people have loved Harry as I do, yet I will not always be around to protect the boy and, as long as Voldemort and his sympathisers live, Harry will be in danger. If he were an indulged child, one used to relying on his guardian for protection and support…”

“I see” the Potions Master said, his voice as deathly sweet as arsenic “You were preparing him for his future.”

“I would have, quite literally, killed him with kindness.” Albus retorted “A pampered little prince…”

It happened in less than a second. Professor Snape jerked forward, his fist blurring, there was a crackle of bone and Dumbledore collapsed, his nose bloodied.

As Harry gaped in horror, the Potions Master stamped towards the prone Headmaster and kicked him, rolling Dumbledore onto his side.

“Please, Sir! Don’t” cried Harry, rushing up to stand between Dumbledore and the fuming Potions Master.

Professor Snape sneered “I was moving him into the recovery position, you dolt!” and yanked open a cupboard, grabbing a couple of thick, vellum scrolls. “Come with me, Potter.”

“We can’t just leave him!” Harry insisted, staring with wide green eyes at Dumbledore’s elderly and, now that he was unconscious, strangely small form.

“He’ll recover; it takes more than my right hook to kill the old bastard.” Snape sighed “Now, come! Or do you wish to summer with the Dursleys until you reach your majority?”

To his surprise, Harry found himself following his teacher, not to his office, as he had expected, but out into the grounds. Initially, Harry had thought that Snape was going to report Dumbledore to whatever the Wizarding equivalent of Social Services was but, as they headed towards the Forbidden Forest, his mind began whispering terrifying suggestions.

Was Snape going to kidnap him? Okay, the Potions Master might be a better guardian than the Dursleys; despite his recent display, Harry knew that Snape was not, habitually, a violent man and his fury over Harry’s childhood rather implied that he wouldn’t starve, overwork or generally neglect anyone in his care, even Harry. However, being forever exiled to an (almost) solitary existence on some windswept island or gothic castle (Harry just couldn’t see Snape living in the Bahamas) would be torture.

All in all, Harry thought, he would happily spend his summers with the Dursleys if it meant returning to Hogwarts during the autumn, winter and spring.

However, before Harry could pluck up the courage to voice this sentiment, the Potions Master had ascended the steps to Hagrid’s hut and thumped on the door

“Sev’rus! I’m righ’ pleased to see yeh,” the huge man beamed, beetle black eyes crinkling with pleasure, then widening in surprise on seeing Professor Snape’s companion “Oh an’ Harry too. He’s not in trouble, is he, Professor?”

“Yes and no, Hagrid," the Potions Master said solemnly. "May we come in?”

“O’course, o’course. Just having a jar and a chinwag with Abe.”

“I’ll be leaving you, now, Hagrid” a rather stooped, thin man appeared at the door; his bristly white whiskers and clouded glasses reminded Harry rather unpleasantly of Aragog.”

“If you could spare me ten minutes of your time, Mr Dumbledore, I would be grateful.” The Potions Master said smoothly.

“Dumbledore!” Harry gasped.

“No need to wet yer knickers, kid.” Snorted the old man “An’, Sev, for Pete’s sake, call me Abe. Same for you, sprat.”

Severus smirked and, motioning for Harry to follow, strode into the hut after Hagrid and ‘Abe’. After the cold, frostiness of the grounds, Hagrid’s warm, fuggy room made Harry shiver and, as the numbness of shock was slowly fading, suddenly, he felt positively giddy.

Fang, who was running around the group, barking his joy, noticed Harry’s unsteadiness and pressed his large, soft-furred head into the teenager’s hand, gazing up with large, worried, brown eyes.

“Harry?” Hagrid said, his tone concerned “Are yeh alright, lad?”

“Yeah, yeah! I’m fine!” Harry choked.

“Sit! Potter.” sighed Professor Snape “Hagrid, some strong, sweet tea for Mr Potter if you please."

As Hagrid bustled around, providing Harry with his tea (“with a wee drop of brandy, just fer medicinal purposes”) Aberforth sidled up to the Potions Master.

“What’s wrong with the boy?” he asked quietly, gazing over at Harry and Fang, who was quietly sitting beside the teenager. “Al finally told him the truth about summat?”

“He revealed that he knowingly condemned the boy to ten years of neglect, abuse and slavery.” Severus sneered “Instead of adopting Harry himself, Albus left him, a one year old infant, with a woman he knew was petty, spiteful and extremely prejudiced against magic.”

There was a crash of china. Hagrid, the colour draining from his countenance, muttered “That can’t be true. Dumbledore would never, not intentionally…”

“He did, Hagrid” Harry said quietly “Professor Dumbledore said he would have killed me with kindness because, as Voldemort is after me, I had to be self reliant, not a pampered little prince…”

“And then I hit him.” Severus held up his hand, revealing bruised, blood flecked knuckles.

Aberforth sneered “Not the first time it’s happened, I can tell you.”

Hagrid's mouth opened and closed like that a beached catfish. “Yeh hit Dumbledore?” he finally gasped.

“Wouldn’t yer, Hagrid?” Aberforth snapped “He left the kid to the life of a house-elf” Harry blushed, looking away in embarrassment. “You’ve got no call to be ashamed, kid” Abe said in a slightly gentler tone “It’s Albus who should feel the shame. Good on yer, Sev.”

“I have a set of adoption papers” Professor Snape said stiffly. “Hagrid, if we are to prevent Harry from returning to the wretched life provided by his Aunt, you need to adopt him, now!”

“Me!” Hagrid flushed, torn between anxiety and delight.

“Yer love the boy as a son, Hagrid.” Aberforth grinned. “Anyone can tell it by the way yer rabbit on about him!”

“But… er, Dumbledore… Albus that is, I owe him…” Hagrid muttered wretchedly, twisting a tea-towel in his massive hands.

Professor Snape crossed his arms “Do you care more for Albus Dumbledore’s feelings than Harry’s welfare?”

“O’course not!” Hagrid cried, the tea-towel shredding between his fingers.

“Do you care for Harry’s welfare more than Albus Dumbledore’s feelings?”

“Werlll, Yeah. Yeah o'course I do.”

“Then your choice is clear” The Potions Master smirked.

“But… what does Harry think about all this?” Hagrid asked nervously, gazing at the teenage boy, trepidation lurking in his dark eyes.

Harry swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. Hagrid, the man who’d made him a vast, squishy chocolate cake for his eleventh birthday, who’d bought him his first ever-as far as he could remember- present, his beautiful familiar Hedwig. Hagrid, who was always there for Harry, with kindly advice, bear hugs and huge mugs of tea. The closest thing he’d had to a father since James died.

Although Harry felt a pang for Sirius, who he knew would be upset, he couldn’t say no. Not with Hagrid looking at Harry like that. Like he’d looked at Norbert’s hatching egg but a hundred times more tender. A thousand times more anxious.

Harry just couldn’t bring himself to turn Hagrid down and, in truth, he didn’t want to, so he gave the only answer he could; “Yes!”

The next moment, Harry was swept up in a tight bear hug. Although Harry’s arms couldn’t quite reach around Hagrid’s massive girth, he hugged the huge man with all his might, laughing as Fang joyfully inveigled his bulky shoulders between them, so as to join their embrace.

“As loath as I am to disturb this heart-warming moment” Professor Snape drawled “I think it wise to complete the formalities.”

Hagrid set Harry down and twinkled away a tear from his beaming eyes. “Right yeh are, Sev’rus.”

“Mr Potter,” The Potions Master intoned, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth “by accepting Hagrid’s offer of adoption, you will be granting him full parental authority, including trusteeship of your Gringotts account, Enduring Power of Attorney…”

“What’s that?” Harry asked, looking confused.

Professor Snape rolled his eyes “If you break your foolish head, an injury of which you are perpetually at risk, Hagrid will make medical decisions until you are capable of giving consent.”

Harry knew he should be irritated by the snide aside but, at the moment, he really couldn’t summon up the spleen to feel offended “And trusteeship?”

“It means you can’t blow your entire fortune on a broomstick, Potter…”

“Unless yer persuade Hagrid that it’s a good idea, which yer well might” sniggered Aberforth.

“Hoi!” cried Hagrid in mock offense.

“And, finally” continued Professor Snape, “Hagrid will be your Fiduciary, which means that he has the right to sue or contract on your behalf…” the Potions Master paused, looking thoughtful.

Harry shrugged “Sounds fine to me”.

Professor Snape briskly unrolled the scrolls on Hagrid’s rather messy table. Inside the vellum was a beautiful, golden quill, which filled with coloured motes as Harry held it. “If you could just sign here, Harry, and here and here, and the date! Honestly boy, your penmanship is appalling…”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t brought up writing with quills, you know.” Harry grumbled, giving the quill to Hagrid, who squeezed the teenager's hand comfortingly.

“And, Hagrid, if you could sign here. Just there, and on this one too, block capitals where it asks you to print your name, if you please.”

Aberforth strode over and scanned the documents “And you’ll be needing me to witness ‘em, Sev?”

“If you would be so good.”

Whilst Professor Snape and Aberforth signed the Adoption Papers, Hagrid wandered over to a large, ancient trunk and, after a swift rummage, returned with a long, scruffy, leather box, which he pressed into Harry’s hand.

Inside, was a beautiful, blue-black quill, tipped with a fountain pen nib.

“Me Dad gave it to me” Hagrid said quietly “I could never get the hang of quills, so he got me that. It’s a Habrok feather: real rare, they are.”

“Are you sure?” Harry gasped, touched and surprised by Hagrid’s generosity.

“O’course.” Hagrid beamed “Me Dad would’ve liked that. It’s like a heirloom or somethin’”

“If you have finished imitating Disney,” Professor Snape drawled, his dark eyes sparkling “We need to discuss an issue of some importance.”

Harry grinned and rolled his emerald eyes, a gesture so reminiscent of Lily that the Potions Master could not quite bring himself to rebuke the impertinent boy.

“When Harry’s name was entered into the Goblet of Fire” Professor Snape said, folding his arms, “he, supposedly, entered a binding magical contract. However, as Harry has not reached his majority, no magical contract is binding without his parent’s express consent…”

Hagrid’s gaze flew to Harry “I have to consent?” he muttered, uncertainty twisting his eyebrows.

“No, yer don’t, Hagrid” chuckled Aberforth, “there’s no ‘have to’ about it.”

The wave of relief that washed over Harry almost knocked him off his feet. Quietly, the teenager stumbled into a chair and put his head into his hands. He was free.

Hagrid bit his lip “Werl, I wouldn’t like to deny Harry anything he particularly wanted…”

“It’s not about what the boy wants, it’s about what he needs, Hagrid.” Aberforth stated shortly. “What’d yer Pop say?”

“Me Dad?” the large man replied, his eyes misting “Werl, he’d probably be a bit worried; at fourteen I’d have known a deal less than the N.E.W.T students and, p’raps you’d need all that learning to complete the challenges?”

Professor Snape nodded “Yes, indeed. I hear that the tasks this year are particularly difficult; even an Auror would find them taxing.”

Hagrid paled “So, yeah, I recon that’d make it right dangerous and, werl, Harry’s got more’n enough fame for his liking as it is and, if he wants Galleons, I can give him a bit of pocket money.”

“So your answer is..?” the Potions Master asked, folding his arms.

“No, I can’t say I want Harry to do it.” Hagrid replied firmly.

Harry let out a shuddering sigh “Thank God!”

“Yeh pleased, then?” Hagrid asked, sounding relieved.

“Of course! You know I never wanted to compete” beamed Harry “I mean, it was sort of a mad dream but not one that I really wanted to come true.”

Aberforth nodded “Well, I recon me and Sev can leave yer to it.” He paused, regarding Harry with a beady, blue eye. “Might tell a couple of me regulars about this, if you don’t mind, Harry. I know a nice young lad, name of Jenkins, who’ll write the story up, an get it published before Skeeter can print her rubbish.”

“A wise idea, Abe.” Professor Snape nodded “Nip any rumours in the bud. However, can you trust this ‘Jenkins’?”

“He’ll write as I tell him, if he don’t want his tab called in.” Aberforth said fiercely.

“You won’t say anything about the Dursleys though?” Harry asked anxiously.

“I won’t say nowt: I’ll just tell him that you and Hagrid been near enough father and son for a while and, when you found out that a Dad could get you off the Tournament, you both decided to make it official.” Aberforth winked at Professor Snape “And I won’t say nothing about you punching my brother and all!”

A horrible thought hit Harry “Um… won’t… I mean, Professor Dumbledore is your employer, Sir…”

“I scarcely think the Headmaster is in a position to sack me, Harry.” The Potions Master smirked. “I would, naturally, have the right to appeal his decision in front of the Board of Governors.”

“Which would end up with old Al in the chokey” smirked Aberforth, stroking his rather grubby beard. “Knowingly condemning the-boy-who-lived to the life of a house-elf? His feet wouldn’t touch the ground, lad.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that” groused Harry.

“Bound to come out sooner or later, kid.

Professor Snape nodded “I think it might be pertinent to deliver these documents to the Ministry forthwith. Although the papers are spelled to be binding with immediate effect, I would wish this Adoption to be formally registered as soon as practicable.”

Harry’s eyebrows almost hit the ceiling when Hagrid, his face alight with happiness, tugged the slender Potions Master into a hug.

“Thank you, Sev’rus. I just wish I could have done the same for yeh.”

“That is quite alright, Hagrid” came Professor Snape’s muffled voice, from the region of Hagrid’s shoulder.

Aberforth grinned at the wild-haired, wide-eyed teenager, a familiar twinkle in his blue eyes “As yer get older, boy, yer’ll start to see adults as the kids they used to be. Sev, that’s Professor Snape to yer, was allus a nice boy, a little reserved but kind to those who’d give him a chance.”

Harry nodded. Perhaps a second chance might be possible, after all.

“Hello Harry!” Hermione chirped from behind her mountain of books. “How was your lesson with Professor Snape?”

Fighting a grin, Harry bought himself time by pulling back a library chair and straddling it.

“Oh, you know, okay” he managed.

Hermione raised an eyebrow “Given the way you practically bounced over, Harry James Potter, I think it went rather better than okay.”

Smiling at his friend’s perspicacity, Harry nodded “Okay, something great’s happened but I can’t spill. It’s not my secret, y’see.”

Hermione’s brown eyes, alight with interest, scanned Harry, almost as if looking for clues, but, eventually, she shook her dark curls with a smile “Okay, well I won’t tempt you. I better find out soon, though.”

“I hope you will” Harry beamed “I don’t think it’ll stay a secret long, anyhow.”

“Oh, just read a book, Harry, and stop tempting me.” Hermione whispered with a giggle.

Chuckling, Harry grabbed a book from his friend’s pile and started reading.

oOoOo

As it turned out, however, Hermione's suspense did not outlast the hour. As the Great Hall filled with students that evening, the tables remained bare until all were seated.

Dumbledore stood up, looking, Harry was pleased to note, somewhat sheepish. "I apologise for keeping you from your nightly repast, however, I have a very important announcement to make” the Headmaster looked over to Harry, a sorrowing expression in his blue eyes. “Mr Potter has been withdrawn from the Triwizard Tournament”

Echoing silence saturated the candlelit hall. Even the Slytherins, who usually chattered through Dumbledore’s speeches and announcements, were too gobsmacked to speak.

“Mr Potter, who, against his will and interests, was entered into the Triwizard Tournament by persons unknown, has been adopted by our Groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures Professor, Rubeus Hagrid. In the interest of fairness and equality, Professor Hagrid and Mr Potter have agreed to take advantage of a loophole, previously overlooked by the judges, which enables the parent of a Wizarding child to veto any magical contract that their child has made.”

Dumbledore sat down, obviously intending to say nothing more, and, on realising this, Professor McGonagall stood up.

“I would like to extend congratulations, on behalf of the school, to Master Potter and Professor Hagrid” the elderly witch said firmly. “Professor Hagrid has been the closest to a father to young Master Potter for many a year, from carrying him to safety on that fateful Halloween, fourteen years ago now, to reintroducing him to the Wizarding world, including, I hear” she said with a slight smile “buying him his first owl. I have no doubt that Professor Hagrid will provide Harry the home and family he needs to flourish into the upstanding young wizard I am sure he will become. And, moreover, I know that Harry, who Professor Hagrid has always looked upon as the son he’d never had, will bring much joy and pride to his new father.”

As one, the students at the Gryffindor table broke into applause, followed by Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and even a few lower year Slytherins. Hagrid, who was blushing like an apple, rubbed tears out of his eyes with a quivering hand and stood up.

“Thank yeh, Professor McGonagall, fer yeh kind words. I’ve loved Harry like a son fer many a year and being able to call him my own is the greatest joy I have ever had. Not because he’s famous or nothing, but because a better, kinder son no father could have. I’m just happy that he chose me and that I could do a service to him. This Tournament ain’t no place fer a child, even one so skilled at Defence as Harry, and I know he’s been getting a fair amount of flack for being chosen, despite the fact that everyone with half a brain knows yeh can’t beat Dumbledore’s age line.” Hagrid said, casting a stern eye over the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs “Well, now all’s square amongst us; all the champions are adults an’ there’s one per school, as we all thought there would be. I figure many of you owe young Harry an apology, not that he’d ask fer one. Anyhow, I’ve said my piece and all that’s left to add is that I’m right happy and so is Harry.”

As Hagrid sat down, the Gryffindors clapped hard, as did the shame-faced Hufflepuffs and a majority Ravenclaws, most of whom looked rather embarrassed.

“I can’t believe you, mate!”

“You never told us!”

“Thousand Galleons!”

“So happy for you!”

“You’ll have to do the end-of-year exams now! I’d rather face a dragon!”

“Really, Dean!”

“Well, I would!”

Harry laughed “It was a spur of the minute thing. I was talking about the tournament to Hagrid and Aberforth, Professor Dumbledore’s brother…”

“Didn’t know he had a brother…” Seamus said, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, well Dumbledore didn’t exactly step out of heaven fully formed, he has a family.” Harry replied, rolling his eyes “Anyway, Aberforth said that there might be a way of getting me out of it.”

“But, Harry, a *thousand* Galleons!” moaned George.

“Yeah, well, it’s just money, as Hagrid said, it’s not worth dying over.”

“Aww, come on, Harry, no one’ll die! Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it.”

“They might, they did last time” Lee pointed out. “That manticore killed a couple, I think.”

Harry shook his head, grinning “I’m happy, okay. I’ve got a decent parent now and, really, I think with Voldemort and co. turning up every year or so, I’ve got enough excitement in my life.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded “Don’t say that!”

“Whatever, I’m well out of it.” Harry replied, reaching for a handful of chips.

There was a clunk of cutlery as Ron stood up and stomped out of the room.

“He’ll come round, mate” George said patting Harry on the shoulder.

“Or we’ll bring him round” added Fred with a scowl towards the still swinging doors.

Harry bit the tip of a chip viciously “Yeah, well I might not be there when he does.”

oOoOo

When Harry looked back, he realised that his situation during those terrible first three weeks of November had been somewhat like having a bad cold; he’d felt awful but he only realised just how awful he’d felt. Now, without the weight of public distain on his shoulders, his stomach free of that clutching, churning fear that Harry had felt whenever he’d thought of the Tournament, it was as if light had flooded back into his life, like storm-clouds fleeing the sunlight breeze.

Admittedly there were a few bits of cloud in Harry’s new found silver lining. While the Hufflepuffs, under the stern eye of Professor Sprout, did their best to make amends during Herbology that Monday morning and the Ravenclaws, abashed at their lack of perception, were at least respectful during History of Magic, nothing short of Hell freezing over could compel the Slytherins to be civilised. Harry, however, knew better than to rise to their taunts that he was a coward or (on the strength of a promise to his new father) even defending Hagrid from their aspersions. As the gamekeeper said, himself, “I may not be Lucius Malfoy, Harry, I may not have his land or his galleons or his ancestors but I’ve never licked the boots of no Dark Lord either. And I’ve earned all I’ve got through honest graft. So don’t yeh split hairs over what young Malfoy will say, y’hear.”

Sirius's disappointment had been another grey fleck on the horizon; Harry sent a letter to his godfather that Saturday evening, explaining the reasons behind the speedy adoption and begging Sirius, firstly, not kill the Dursleys and, secondly, to understand that, while Harry loved Hagrid like a father, he'd truly wanted to take up Sirius' offer of a home and would have done so if it had been possible. Sirius' response was mercifully swift and charitable: he knew, as a man on the run, he couldn't provide Harry with a home and wrote that Harry would have been a 'blithering idiot' to refuse Hagrid's offer because 'come on, kiddo, Gryff loyalty is all well and good but only an idiot would stick with the Dursleys if a decent bloke like Hagrid offered them a home...'

A rather darker and more enduring wisp of cloud was Ron, who continued to ignore Harry as if his life depended upon it. Although Harry pretended not to care, he had hoped that his best friend, no, make that ex-best friend, would realise he’d been a dick and apologise. Or at least call a truce. However, if Ron didn’t relent now, Harry couldn’t see how he ever would.

And, of course, there was the lingering shadow of Snape. After the Potions Master’s championship of Harry, up to and including getting Harry adopted against Dumbledore’s wishes, it was impossible to harbour even the most miniscule doubt that Snape was on the side of the light. However, although Harry wasn’t anywhere near as bright as Hermione, he prided himself on having some smarts; whichever way he looked at it, Snape was obviously a spy. The Potions Master’s favouritism of purebloods, his ‘dark wizard’ demeanour, the way he always called Voldemort ‘the Dark Lord’, it all added up and, Harry thought, it didn’t take a genius to realise that Snape's head would be on the line if he publicly took ‘the-boy-who-killed-Voldemort’ under his wing.

The wretched thing was, Harry thought as he wandered through the sunlit corridors to his Tuesday morning Transfiguration class, that he really couldn’t see himself hating Snape again. Okay, the man was scarcely Father Christmas but, for all his harsh impatience and snide asides, the Potions Master had a heart somewhere under that icy exterior. And, now Harry knew that Snape had feelings, he didn’t much want to risk hurting them by acting like they were still at loggerheads. However, if Harry went into Potions that afternoon and didn’t behave like the sulky, truculent, disrespectful brat he knew he’d always been with Snape (fairs fair, the Potions Master had given as good as he got and then some), the Slytherins would notice and report back to their parents.

All in all, Harry rather wished that Hermione would nag his worries out of him but, unfortunately, she seemed to have concluded that Harry was upset over Ron and, as Hagrid had warned him that Snape wouldn’t appreciate his role in the adoption being mentioned to anyone, the teen just couldn’t justify telling Hermione off the cuff. Where was her inconvenient inquisitiveness when he needed it?

Having spent most of his Transfiguration class staring out of the window, Harry was not wholly surprised when, at the end of lesson, Professor McGonagall rather sharply asked him to stay behind.

“Mr Potter” the stern witch intoned “It has not slipped my attention that your attention has been elsewhere during this period.”

Harry saw, out of the corner of his eye, a petite, bushy-maned witch grab a lanky redhead by the ear and drag him outside very much in the way that a tugboat would lead a liner. 

“I’m sorry, Professor” Harry replied, flushingly meeting her cool, blue gaze “I’ve… well, I’ve got a lot on my mind”

To Harry’s surprise, the Deputy headmistress merely nodded “So I have been informed, Mr Potter. Follow me.”

Not a little confused, Harry traipsed after Professor McGonagall out of the Transfiguration classroom and through the corridors, towards her study. When he stepped inside, Harry noticed that there was another door, one which he had never seen before, beside the fireplace.

Bemused, Harry watched the Deputy Headmistress step swiftly across her office floor and knock thrice on this new door. On reflection, Harry knew he shouldn’t have been surprised when it opened to reveal Professor Snape.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall." Professor Snape said, inclining his head. "Mr Pott… Harry, a word if you please.”

“Um, sure.” Harry replied, his eyes bewildered “er, bye Professor.”

Minerva McGonagall looked up from her desk with a kindly smile “Good bye Harry.”

Once inside Snape’s ‘Room of Requirement', Harry noticed that the chamber had shrunk to the size of a cozy sitting-room and now contained a fireplace, complete with crackling fire, two mahogany chairs, upholstered in burgundy velvet, and a little round table, laid with a white cloth, plates, goblets, a flagon of what looked like butterbeer and a large platter of sandwiches.

“I though it best to arrange a discussion before our first Potions Class, Mr Potter” Professor Snape said, his eyes shuttered.

“Um, yeah. Sound’s like a good idea.” Harry nodded.

The Potions Master gestured to the table “If you would like to sit?”

Harry nodded, then felt a bit daft: he must look like Noddy! “Thanks” he mumbled, pulling out a chair.

“I have ordered a variety of sandwiches: cheese and pickle, fish paste, cream cheese and cucumber, coronation chicken…”

“Sounds good.” Harry said awkwardly.

The two ex-adversaries stared at each other, feeling rather like manticores trying to converse using a book of etiquette written by centaurs.

Harry took a sandwich at random and bit into it. Professor Snape did the same.

“Um, so, about our lessons.” Harry finally volunteered “Er, I guess you’re a spy, right?”

“Indeed” the Potions Master nodded.

“Right, so, seeing as Voldemort…”

“The name is taboo, Harry” the Potions Master said, his dark eyes flashing “If we were anywhere else and the Dark Lord was incarnate, he could materialise in front of us or, worse still, summon us to him. No spell, short of the Fidelus Charm, would be sufficient to bar his entry.”

Harry’s green eyes were as round as Galleons “But Dumbledore…”

“Can use his name with impunity as the Dark Lord will not willingly test his strength if there is a risk of his own destruction.” Professor Snape said harshly. 

“Oh!”

A strange little smile twisted at the corner of the Potions Master’s mouth “Covertly teaching a child such as yourself, Harry, has proved somewhat trying.”

“I guess.” Harry replied, looking uncomfortable. “Er… Do you think we could start over?”

“However, I expect that, with your open, honest demeanour, it was foolish that you would consider *all* the rules of a tyrant as arbitrary.” Professor Snape continued calmly.

Harry’s eyebrows hit his messy hairline.

“I am aware that, being misinformed as to your upbringing, I have been somewhat… unreasonable” the Potions Master said, a livid flush creeping over the bridge of his nose. “However, the pretence was necessary: my political position is such that I cannot afford to allow the Dark Lord’s follower’s to doubt my loyalty to their cause. Nevertheless" the young Professor sighed "My ill-treatment of you was, I admit, excessive from the first.”

Harry, feeling somewhat embarrassed, scrubbed at his tousled, raven hair “I didn't exactly make it easy for you to like me. Um... I guess we’re going to have to act as normal, though? In front of the Slytherins and everyone?”

“Indeed, Harry.” Professor Snape replied, with an appraising look in his dark eyes. “Master Malfoy is, in fact, his father’s spy and, should I fail to demonstrate extreme prejudice in my every word and action, he will notice.”

Harry nodded “I thought as much.”

“However,” the Potions Master said sternly “‘act’ is the operative word; if I undermine your class-work and under-mark your homework, the grades you publicly receive will not be replicated within my private records. And, when I insult you, listen.”

“Because you’ll be giving me advice, right?” Harry guessed.

“Naturally.” Professor Snape inclined his head. “You, of course, will respond to my blatant favouritism and insults with a reasonable degree of self-righteous rage. I will deduct points, which will, later, be returned, and you will receive a detention once a week. Swearing at me, I believe, will usually do the trick.”

Harry grinned “And these detentions will be my duelling lessons, right?”

Professor Snape smirked broadly “No, Harry. You will be learning Occulmency.”

“What’s that?”

“Mind magic. The ability to defend your mind from the assaults of a Legilimens, a witch or wizard who can access your thoughts.”

“Like a mind reader?” Harry asked.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow “Indeed, Harry. Considering your track record, I would prefer my secrets to be somewhat more secure.”

Harry nodded “V… Moldywart is a Legilimens, then?”

“Indeed. It would be wise, however, to keep your shields raised at all times. One cannot trust even those closest to oneself. Moreover” The Potions Master paused, running a pale, elegant finger over his lips “‘Moldywart’ might do more with his legilimency than merely read your mind. I have heard that your scar becomes especially painful around the Dark Lord?”

“Um, yeah.” Harry’s green eyes darted to Snape, scanning his face “And, er, sometimes I have dreams. Dreams that make my scar hurt.”

“Explain.”

Harry looked perplexed “Um, well, on Saturday night I dreamt that Mad-Eye, I mean, Professor Moody was in the dusty house, in the same room where the old bloke died…”

“Perhaps it would be wise to start at the beginning, Harry” Professor Snape drawled, raising an elegant eyebrow. “The Headmaster has not confided the particulars of this incident to me.”

“Well, you see, this summer I dreamt about V… Moldywart. He was in a tiny bundle, like a baby, but he spoke with his normal voice and he could hold a wand. Um, he was with Peter Pettigrew and a snake, I think it’s name was Nagi, Nanini or something."

Something flickered in Professor Snape’s eyes “Nagini, yes.”

“Er, well, this old bloke, he looked a bit like a gardener, wandered into the room- it was very dusty and looked like it hadn’t been lived in for a while- and Moldywart killed him.”

The Potions Master shut his eyes, his sable eyebrows forming a graceful arch on his high, pale forehead. “Please continue.”

“Right, well, on Saturday night Professor Moody was in this room, kneeling in front of Vol...Moldywart and he was telling him about me, how Hagrid had adopted me and broke the contract, so I wasn’t competing in the Tournament anymore. Moldywart went insane and started torturing him but, by that point, my scar was hurting me so badly that I woke up.”

When Professor Snape eventually spoke, his tone was one of desperate resignation “Harry, please ensure that I give you detention tonight. In fact, if you can find an opportunity to do so, punch Draco.”

Harry gaped.

Professor Snape opened his eyes “Although you may rather not spend an hour with me every evening this week, if my fears are founded, it will be necessary.”

oOoOo

Harry, much to his disappointment, was unable to engineer an argument with Draco Malfoy: halfway through their discussion, Professor Snape had realised that he had five minutes until class and, as they could scarcely arrive together, by the time Harry dashed into class, everyone was sitting down. However, half way through the practical, Harry caught his Professor’s eye:

//add half an ashwinder egg-shell. Now!//

The resulting explosion, which, while contained within the caldron, projected a large volume of soft, purple goo, had three consequences. Firstly, Harry was given a week’s detention, secondly, having been told to ‘get out of’ Snape’s sight, the teenager had the rest of the afternoon off and, thirdly, Draco’s moon-pale hair was still violet the next morning.

Even if Harry’s been facing real detentions, it would have been worth it.

oOoOo

As the weeks past, Harry found it easier to think of Professor Snape as two, separate people. Inside the ‘Room of Requirement’, as Harry now knew it, he was taught by Professor Snape, who was firm but fair, exacting but reasonable. Outside the room, Professor Snape’s evil twin, otherwise known as ‘Snape’ or ‘the git’, lurked, waiting to make Harry’s life miserable. It helped to divide the man’s personas and, in reality, it wasn’t all that difficult; they were like two different people, night and day. One was his enemy, the other almost his friend.

Even with a history such as theirs, the extracurricular lessons had drawn them together. Lying on a comfortable couch, with Snape sitting beside him, teaching him to clear his mind, had been a bit weird at first. However, after tuning into his own heart beat, letting the slow, steady rhythm fill his mind, clearing it of psychological clutter, Harry realised that the technique not only worked but made him feel much better. Learning to Occlude his waking mind was rather less pleasant; even the first lesson, when Professor Snape showed him how to recognise the gentle, almost indistinguishable sifting of a spy had been both uncomfortable and embarrassing and, as the lessons progressed, Harry had the repeated displeasure of realising that his new, strengthened shields were still no match for his Professor, especially when Snape used the harsh, invasive technique favoured by Voldemort.

Duelling lessons, however, more than made up for Harry’s frequent frustrations with occulmency. The warm approval in Professor Snape’s eyes when Harry achieved a milestone- like his first wandless spell (a summoning charm to rearm himself), their shared passion for duelling, the companionable breaks, spent eating sandwiches and discussing technique, showed Harry that Snape, without an audience of mini-deatheaters, could be a decent, even inspiring teacher.

And Severus, in learning that Harry’s nature was more akin to Lily’s than James’, found a tiny cockle of his heart thawing for the boy who looked up to him with those admiring green eyes.

“And that Horntail… I am well out of it, I can tell you.” Harry said, lying back on the grass and chewing an egg and cress sandwich.

“Indeed. However,” Professor Snape replied, his eyes sparkling like hematite, “I hear that Hagrid is petitioning to adopt the Chinese Fireball?”

“Wants to call her Vermillion.” Harry chuckled “Still, she’s better than the horntail. I felt so sorry for Diggory, fighting that vicious brute. The Swedish dragon wasn’t much better, either.” 

“Have you considered how, had you been competing, you might have subdued your dragon?” Professor Snape asked, pouring two goblets of butterbeer.

“Well, from what Hagrid says, their thick skins are pretty much chocoblock with magic" Harry replied thoughtfully. "A single wizard wouldn’t have much luck with stunning spells and, even if he did, the dragon might fall on the eggs, like the poor old Fireball did when Krum hit her in the eye.”

“Indeed.”

“So, I suppose I’d first try talking to it in Parseltongue.” Harry grinned at the Potions Master’s surprised expression “Hagrid says that wyrms and dragons are related so it might be worth a shot, especially with the Fireball because Oriental Dragons are much friendlier than western ones.”

Professor Snape quirked an eyebrow “Well, in Japan and China, both mage and muggle populations have long considered dragons as beneficent spirits, whereas, in the West, a dragon’s head was a must have trophy for any aspiring knight or warlock. Have you read ‘George and the Pendragon’ by Aled Aeron?

When Harry shook his head, Snape smiled “It is rather controversial in that the protagonist is a dragon.”

Harry laughed “Cool!”

“I’ll give you the book” Professor Snape smirked. “However, we have digressed from the question; if the dragon was unable to understand parseltongue or refused to relinquish the golden egg, how would you proceed?”

“I might a summoning charm on the Golden Egg” Harry said thoughtfully “And, if that didn’t work, I might try the homio-gemini spell and then disillusion myself: the dragon would think the illusion was me and I could sneak over and grab the egg.”

“The dragon would still be able to smell you, however.” Professor Snape advised.

Harry nodded “Yeah. Is there a spell that de-smells the caster?”

“Indeed there is. However, the charm is somewhat complex.” Professor Snape paused “Although you are very strong in Defence, your real talent is Flying, Harry.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have my broomstick with me.” Harry replied, gnawing an eccles cake.

“You could summon it or, indeed, shrink it and carry it into the arena. Speed, rather than disguise would best avail you.”

Harry laughed “So, fancy teaching me this de-stinking smell?”

“We are due to begin our occulamency session, Harry.” Professor Snape said in a reproving tone.

“Spoilsport.” Harry sighed. He closed his eyes and slowly coaxed his triple shield into place. First, Harry erected the outer shield, a whirlwind; all the books seemed to recommend this particular shield for beginners because whirlwinds are, firstly, easy to visualise, secondly, encase the entirety of one’s mind and, thirdly, can be used to forcibly hurl the Legilimens from the Occluder’s mind. The second shield, a sheet of fire, enabled Harry to show the Legilimens his ‘false thoughts’, whilst hiding his true thoughts and memories behind the veil. When Harry, on Snape’s suggestion, first imagined this shield, he found himself spinning the colour of his mother’s hair into flame, which seemed to strengthen the shield considerably. Finally, Harry secured the tiny, grey stone castle in which he had hidden his most precious, dangerous secrets. The wards fully erected, Harry opened his eyes.

“Legilimens” Professor Snape said firmly. Harry felt those dark eyes forcing through the whirlwind, squeezing open the gaps in the air. Harry pushed the whirlwind, spinning it more quickly, weaving currents into the gaps, and he felt Professor Snape slip out of his mind.

“Adequate” the Potions Master said abruptly “Now, let us try again. Legilimens!”

As the clock chimed in the hour, Professor Snape and Harry stepped out of the Room of Requirement and into the Professor’s office. Harry immediately relaxed his features into a slouch and his expression fell into a truculent grimace, while Professor Snape’s countenance hardened and contracted into peevish ill humour.

Yanking a thin, leather-covered volume from his tall bookcase, Professor Snape thrust it at Harry just as Pansy Parkinson ran in.

“Sir! The Weasleys have…” Pansy paused, smirked nastily at Harry, and continued “The Weasel twins have thrown a firework into our common room.”

Professor Snape scowled. “Chapter five, Potter. Copy it out, no mistakes or I’ll make you transcribe the whole book.”

“Git” Harry muttered, not quite under his breath.

“Ten points from Gryffindor” Professor Snape snarled over his shoulder as he strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Grinning, Harry grabbed a couple of sheets of parchment from Snape’s desk, opened the book and cast “Ego Escribo”, instantly copying the text onto the parchment in Harry’s messy scrawl. ‘Punishment’ completed, the teenager sat down at Snape’s desk and started to read.

Twenty minutes later, Harry had scanned the book from cover to cover and, although the Wizarding fairytales were interesting enough, they were too short to hold his attention during a second reading. Bored, the tousle-haired teenager wandered around Professor Snape’s bookshelves, looking for something interesting to read among the indistinguishable brown and grey volumes. Finally admitting defeat, Harry slouched back over to the desk.

It happened in an instant. Harry’s foot caught on the edge of the dark green carpet, he tripped, falling forward towards Snape’s desk, on which stood a Pensieve. One hand landed on wood, the sank into the Pensieve's silver depths.

Suddenly, Harry found himself in a dark, low-ceilinged corridor, lit with flickering oil lamps. Heavy, oak doors were set into the white-washed walls and, beside one of these doors a lanky boy with long, greasy black curtains knelt on the rusty-red carpet, listening intently to an indistinct, yet clearly female voice. As Harry stood, agonising over just how he was going to explain this to his Professor, the woman’s voice deepened.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches.”

Harry’s hand flew to his mouth in horror. Trelawney. The woman inside that room was Trelawney. The voice, that dramatic, sudden change of tone…

“Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.”

There was a swirl of silver and the setting abruptly changed. While the interior remained dark, it was a plush, luxuriant darkness; in the soft candlelight, the silver, silken walls shimmered, catching rainbow rays from the crystal chandeliers, whilst the emerald velvet furniture glowed with reflected light.

In a high backed, green-silk armchair, sat a tall, skeletally thin figure, his face obscured by darkness. The high, cold voice however, was immediately recognisable when Voldemort spoke to the kneeling man at his feet.

“You have news for me, Severus?”

“In… indeed my Lord.” whispered the young man, his deep voice tenuous, uncertain “Grave news. In pursuit of my duty, I followed the Headmaster, I mean, Professor Dumbledore to the Hogs Head, the pub in Hogsmeade”

“I know it” Voldemort replied sharply “What of it?”

“My Lord, he met with a woman, Sibyl Trelawney. She is a seer, well, she said she was but I heard little evidence of it during her interview until the very end.”

“Indeed?” Voldemort replied in a bored voice.

“My Lord, her voice deepened quite suddenly and she said thus; “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.”

Voldemort stiffened and, reaching out a long, spirder-like hand, clasped the kneeling Snape by his chin, wrenching his head up, so that they looked into each other’s eyes “Show me.”

A moment later, Voldemort hurled the young man away with brutal force.

“Defeat me, hmm?” Voldemort stood up and, to Harry’s horror, started walking towards him, his red eyes glowing with malice. However, it was not Harry who he approached but a rather plump, sandy haired young wizard.

“Pettigrew?”

“Yes!” Peter squeaked, sounding very much, Harry thought, like the rat he was.

“Who among the Order are expecting?”

“Expecting what, my Lord?” Peter burbled. Face twisted with frustration, Voldemort backhanded him, his slap landing with the speed and ferocity of a striking snake.

“A child, you fool!”

“The Potters, the Longbottoms, the Bones…” blithered Peter, cupping his injured face.

“The child will be born in July, late July.” Hissed Voldemort.

“Jam… I mean the Potters' child, a boy, is due in July. And the Longbottoms, I believe.”

“As is my son” Lucius drawled from his armchair, his pale hair glittering in the dull light.

“Have you thrice defied me, Lucius?” Voldemort asked, his voice uninterested.

“My Lord knows I have not” the death-eater replied, equally carelessly.

“Then” Voldemort waved a dismissive hand. “The Potters and the Longbottoms, however, are known thorns in our side. A dangerous child may well be born to either.”

“You wish them to die, My Lord” Lucius questioned languidly. A number of Death-Eaters stood up, casually awaiting orders.

Gesturing the wizards back into their seats, Voldemort smiled like a viper “No, I am claiming this kill for my own.”

Harry’s chest tightened with horror and, suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. Snape! Snape had been the one to put Voldemort onto his parents. 

Panting, Harry knelt, pressing his clenched fists into his burning, aching eyes. He couldn’t bear this, couldn’t bear being here, hearing the evil bastard plotting his family’s destruction. A glowing silver light encased the teenage boy as his magic pulled him up, out of the Pensieve and into the light, familiar room that was the Potion Master’s office.

Harry, unaware of the change in scenery, remained in his hunched crouch, his mind ablaze.

The office door creaked open. “Harry?” that uncertain, almost boyish voice suddenly hardened into the stalwart tones of authority “Potter, what is the meaning of this?”

Green eyes, red-rimmed and burning with outraged betrayal, rose to meet Severus’ uncomprehending gaze.

“You killed them!”

“I…” Severus’ dark eyes flickered to the pensieve, widening in horrified comprehension.

“You sent Voldemort after me. It was because of you!” the teenager cried, his voice suffused with anguish. “I trusted you! I thought you were my friend.”

Obsidian met emerald and, with a strangled sob, Severus span on his heel, fleeing the room. Lumbering to his feet, Harry stumbled outside…

The long, dungeon corridor was empty. Snape was nowhere to be seen.

 oOoOo

Harry’s feet flew on wings of fury as he pounded through the corridors, his mind aflame. Falling against the outer wall of Professor Dumbledore’s office, Harry sneered down at somewhat discomforted stone gargoyle.

“Let me in!”

“Er… Password?” the gargoyle asked nervously.

“I need to speak to Dumbledore!” Harry bellowed.

“Yes, dear boy, well here I am” the Headmaster called softly, striding up the corridor.

Harry span round and glared into Professor Dumbledore’s kindly, forgetmenot-blue eyes.

“Where do you get off hiring a Death-eater?” Harry ground out.

“My dear boy..!”

“Snape sold my parents to Voldemort!” Harry screamed, his green eyes sparking with anger.

Dumbledore’s countenance hardened and, with a surprisingly strong grip, he caught Harry around the forearm and hauled the struggling, spitting teenager up the stairs and into his office.

“Enough! Harry, that is quite enough!” The ancient mage stated firmly, pushing Harry down into a chair. Irate, Harry made to jump out of his seat but his body would not obey him.

“Wandless binding charm, Harry.” Dumbledore explained, his face stern “Now, are you ready to be reasonable?”

“Me! I’m not the one who hired a death-eater!” Harry snarled.

The Headmaster’s busy eyebrows gathered across his eyes like storm-clouds.

“You are currently at variance with Mr Ronald Weasley, am I correct?”

“What has that..?!” Harry’s jaw struck, silencing him.

“Imagine, if you will, Harry, that you and I knew that Voldemort had returned but, following his usual modus operandi, he remained ‘underground’, to use the common patois. Now, the Ministry may decide, on the advice of the eminently generous Mr Malfoy, that you are merely an attention-seeker who has befuddled a fond old man into believing his lies.” the Headmaster paused “Percy Weasley, is an ambitious, somewhat ruthless young man, one whose first loyalty is to the hand that feeds him. Should such a situation come to pass, Percy will choose the Ministry as surely as Arthur and Molly will remain faithful to you. Ronald, however, will be in an unenviable position; will he join his ex-friend’s cause or, alternately, will his anger and jealousy drive him to pledge loyalty to the Ministry?”

Harry sent Dumbledore a glacial glare.

The Headmaster sighed “Let us assume that Ronald sides with Percy and in the fullness of time, becomes a spy. One day, whilst he is on a routine mission, he hears something which, while of obvious interest to his masters, does not appear detrimental to the safety of Ms Granger, who has become estranged to him due to their opposed alliances. Imagine Mr Weasley’s horror when he discovers that this seemingly innocent information has, in fact, signed Ms Granger’s death warrant. Imagine Mr Weasley, under the charitable veil of midnight, approaching me, informing me of the Ministry’s plans and begging me to protect Ms Granger. Imagine Mr Weasley, after my insults, my unveiled contempt, answering that he would give me ‘anything’ in return for protecting the woman who was once his best friend.”

An icy stillness unwound in Harry’s chest. Something within him whispered the explanation before it came.

“Professor Snape would have died to protect your mother, Harry. Lily was his friend, his only friend, and, although, at the time of her death, Lily had not spoken to Severus for almost five years, he remained loyal to her.” 

Nausea clutched at Harry’s stomach his ears rang with his pulsing heart.

“I trust that you no longer see fit to berate Professor Snape for his mistake” Headmaster Dumbledore said quietly, releasing the silencing spell.

“Too late” Harry whispered wretchedly.

Dumbledore’s bright eyes clouded with worry “You have already spoken to him?”

“He found me.” Harry replied dully “I’d fallen into his pensieve. I didn’t mean to: I tripped. I saw it, the prophecy, Snape telling Voldemort, everything. I…” Harry gazed up at the Headmaster, his green eyes wide with distress. “I accused him of murdering them.”

“Where is Professor Snape now, Harry” Dumbledore said abruptly, his mouth set.

“I don’t know. He ran out of his office and just disappeared” Harry answered, staring at his feet.

“Disappeared?!” Professor Dumbledore turned on his heel and strode over to an ancient portrait of a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, shaggy brown hair. Although this wizard looked more suited to the battlefield, he seemed completely immersed in his book.

“Headmaster Trelawney?”

“The corridor has been opened” the portrait replied in a thick, Devonshire accent, his brown eyes not leaving the dense text.

“Is Severus Tobias Snape the current inhabitant?” Dumbledore asked, the colour draining from his countenance.

“Whoever Myrridin holds, it is between himself and the Gods.” Professor Trelawney replied primly, turning his face away.

The Headmaster walked, like a man half asleep, across the room to his desk and, collapsing in the chair, placed his head in his hands.

“Sir!” Harry gasped, horror scything through his heart.

“Professor Myriddin has taken him, Harry,” the elderly mage muttered “Myrridin is a guardian spirit, his soul is tied into the very stone of Hogwarts. The last asylum of the doomed, they used to call him, for Myrridin forms his corridor around those in mortal peril, protecting them until all danger is past…”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause and, when Dumbledore raised his head, his blue eyes were bleaker than midwinter. “Professor Snape will never be safe in the Wizarding world while Voldemort and his supporters live. Unless, unless we can persuade Myrridin to release him, poor Severus may remain in the corridor forever.”

Arms around his legs, head on his knees, Harry stared, unseeingly, at the heavy, scarlet velvet hangings which surrounded his bed.

The teenager knew that anyone, even someone as logical as Hermione, would have been upset the discovery that a person they trusted had been a Deatheater and, indirectly, caused the death of their parents. However, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if anyone he respected would have reacted as badly as he had: accusing Snape of murdering his mum and dad had been extreme, even without the benefit of hindsight; it wasn’t as if there’d been a clear, causal link between the contents of the Prophecy and Voldemort killing his family.

Besides, thought Harry wretchedly, Snape had just been a kid and most people, even experienced aurors, would have expected Voldemort to either dismiss the Prophecy entirely or keep a weather eye on the alleged ‘vanquisher’. 

He had given Sirius a chance to explain, he’d even spared Pettigrew and, in the circumstances, Harry couldn’t help but feel that he had been majorly unfair to his Potions Professor. After all, the guy had been looking out for him throughout his school career and, when push came to shove, Snape had chosen the welfare of one irritating, impertinent brat over the wishes of his employer and protector.

And now he was gone, lost within the very heart of Hogwarts, because Harry'd kicked Snape right in his 'achilles heel'. The guilt did not end there, however; according to Dumbledore, the Potions Master had been attempting to prevent a plot which, if successful, would ressurect Voldemort. Snape had discovered, through skilled legilimency, that Professor Moody was an imposter, in the pay of Voldemort. According to the Headmaster, even he, Dumbledore, dared not venture into the false Moody’s mind, lest his presence be felt. So, Harry thought, if Voldemort returned, every injury rape or murder he commited was, indirectly, Harry's fault.

Harry pressed his face into his pillow as he recalled how Dumbledore’s wrinkled hands had trembled as he attempted to pour them a cup of tea, the waver in his voice when he told Harry that Snape had uncovered a plan to kidnap someone from the castle. “Take especial care, my boy” the elderly mage had whispered, his blue eyes dull, “Never venture anywhere alone.”

The cold, grey light which precedes the dawn was creeping through the mullioned windows before Harry’s buzzing brain finally wound down and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

oOoOo

Hermione lay dead in a weeping Ron’s arms, her glossy brown hair burning auburn in the dying rays of the sun. “Your fault! Your fault” Harry heard his voice scream and the tears on his best friend’s face ran scarlet.

Cringing, the teenager battled against his slumber, trying to awake from the nightmare which shattered his rest. As Harry drifted up, through the layers of consciousness, the dream changed.

“Severus, it seems, has met with an accident, my Lord” a whey faced young man muttered from beneath a fringe of thick, straw coloured hair. “The official story is that he has to visit his cousin, who is ill.”

“And the real reason, Crouch?”

“A potions accident, my Lord, apparently an experiment exploded in his private lab. He is convalescing at home, according to Dumbledore.”

Voldemort snorted derisively “The cover story is more believable; I have never known a Snape to make an inaccurate hypothesis.”

“My Lord has long believed Snape a traitor.”

“Potentially a traitor, Crouch.” Voldemort replied, his thoughtful tone sharpening “Do not presume your feeble brain equal to understanding my thoughts.”    

“Forgive me, my Lord.”

“If Dumbledore is suspicious, if he has sequestered Snape… yes. Our plans must be brought to immediate effect.”

With a groan, Harry pressed his aching forehead into the pillow and slipped again into the arms of sleep.

oOoOo

As had become his habit, Ron awoke at six; the other Gryffs, while initially understanding his sense of betrayal, had dropped him like a red hot cauldron when Harry had pulled out of the tournament. “Mate, I know you think he put his name in but, now he’s pulled out, surely you can see it’s more likely he’s telling the truth, yeah?” Dean had said one evening and, although Ron had the horrible suspicion he was right… well, Harry hadn’t exactly fought for their friendship, had he? And, really, in Ron’s opinion, if Harry had been a real mate, he’d have stood up for Ron when Fred and George had a go; instead, he’d just walked past the arguing trio with his nose in the air, like a right tosser. Besides, shouldn’t Harry have talked to Ron’s Mum and Dad before deciding to be adopted by Hagrid? Everyone knew that his parents had been on at Dumbledore, wanting to adopt Harry for yonks. It was probably because Hagrid was richer, what with all the rare, expensive stuff lying around in the Forbidden Forest, like unicorn hair and such.

Anyhow, now that he was in everyone’s bad books, thanks to his excuse for a best friend, Ron always made sure he woke before his dorm-mates and was breakfasted and out and about by the time the other Gryffindors entered the Great Hall.

As Ron sulky munched through his breakfast of fried egg and sausage muffins a small, pink envelope fluttered across the nearly empty hall and landed in his pumpkin juice. Cursing, Ron fished the envelope out with his tomato sauce besmeared fork and laid the note on a napkin, staining the white linen orange.

oOoOo

From the acidic quill of Rita Skeeter: the news of tomorrow, today.

To: Ronald Weasley.

Dear Master Weasley,

I am currently compiling an article on the Triwizard Tournament and, like you, I have reason to believe that Harry Potter’s involvement is not as innocent as it seems.

As a highly intelligent young man, your insight would be greatly appreciated by our readers who, like me, wish to know the truth about the so called ‘boy-who-lived’.

Naturally, as a professional I fiercely guard the privacy of my sources; if you do not wish to be named in my article, I will, of course, keep your involvement confidential.

If you wish to speak to me, meet me in the third floor Trophy Room at Seven-thirty. 

Sincerely yours,

Rita Skeeter.  

oOoOo

Screwing up the sodden note, Ron grinned; if Skeeter’s last article, a soppy account of Hagrid’s adoption of Harry, had ruffled his feathers, he’d be hopping mad when he discovered that someone had given a truthful account of what happened with the Tournament.

It was only right, after all, that the public knew the truth. If they went around thinking Harry was some butter-would-not-melt, goody-two-shoes… well, they were being deceived, right? 

And, besides, he didn’t have to tell Rita everything, did he? He could just give Skeeter the facts, as he saw them, and she’d string them together.

After all, he was being no more disloyal than Harry’s been to him.

Stuffing the rest of his now soggy muffin into his mouth, Ron causally stood up and wandered upstairs.

Harry Potter was going to get the surprise of his life.

oOoOo

“Do yeh wanna stay over, tonigh, Harry?” Hagrid asked solicitously, ladling a generous yet sensible helping of spiced cider into a goblet and handing it to the sad and unusually silent boy. Although Hagrid’s heart ached for Harry, there was precious little he could do; Dumbledore had forbidden them from speaking about Severus’ breakdown outside the warded walls of the Headmaster’s Office. It was too dangerous. 

However, even if Hagrid couldn’t comfort Harry with words, he could still be there for his son. “This is yeh home, after all and I could make up a right comfortable bed fer yeh, near the fire so as yeh wouldn’t get cold.”

“It’s okay.” Harry sighed, petting Fang’s downy ears, “I was meaning to talk to Ron, tonight…”

“It can wait, lad.” Hagrid said kindly, patting Harry’s hand. “I’ll make yeh my special pumpkin and venison casserole.”

The teenager smiled ruefully “Yeah, okay.”   

“And I’ll ask the elves to bring us a treacle tart teh share. With clotted cream.” Hagrid beamed.

“Sounds great.”

“Come on, then, lad, let’s go choose ourselves a nice pumpkin”

As Harry stood beside the pumpkin patch, listening to Hagrid describe the attributes of a perfect ‘eating’ pumpkin, whilst a gentle breeze tore the clouds into pastel ribbons, he felt his heart lift. Yes, Harry had made a mistake and, as a result, someone who he’d come to consider a friend had been hurt.

However, standing here, in the warm, bright rays of the dying day, Harry knew that was better by far to save his energy for making amends rather than waste it on guilt and grief. As sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, what Harry had lost in a few, hasty, unkind words could be found again, if sought. And, Harry though with a grin, they didn’t call him a ‘Seeker’ for nothing.

The ghost of unease, engendered by Harry’s all-but-forgotten nightmare of Voldemort, twisted away in the winter wind.

oOoOo

A hand shook Harry’s shoulder, seeking to rouse him from the rose-tinted peace of his comfortable hammock. Grumbling, Harry batted the hand away and, curling up, dragged the thick, sinfully soft, Shetland-wool blanket over his head.

“Harry!” a voice insisted, as the hand shook him harder, “Wake up.”

Rising like a wrathful leviathan from the deep, Harry poked his tousled head of raven hair out of his comfortable nest and glared at Dumbledore through sleep-slitted eyes.

“Waddayawan?”

A warm, soft flannel embraced Harry’s face, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

“There now, lad,” said Hagrid in a kindly voice “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Groaning, Harry pulled himself into a sitting position and gazed foggily at his Headmaster. Two things occurred to the teenager in quick succession; firstly, the window behind Dumbledore revealed that dawn had not yet broken, and, secondly, Dumbledore’s pale face was as set as that of a statue’s.

“Sir? What’s wrong?” Harry gasped.

“This morning, I received an owl” the elderly man replied, his fingers trembling as he unfolded a rumpled note “it appears… Well, it appears that Professor Snape was correct in his conclusion that Voldemort was planning to kidnap a student.” Dumbledore licked his lips, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture for the usually phlegmatic man. “However, you were not the target, it seems.”

“Who” Harry’s voice was more of a hiss than a whisper.

“Young Master Weasley.”

Harry’s green eyes widened as his jaw dropped “But… what does he want with him?”

“Harry… I require a promise, on your honour, that you will remain in the school grounds.” The Headmaster said firmly.

“I…”

“Promise him, Harry.” Although hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard concealed much of Hagrid’s face, the area still visible had drained of colour, making his dark eyes appear large and strangely vulnerable, like those of a deer when faced by a lion.

“I promise.” Harry heard himself saying.

“Voldemort is holding Mr Weasley as a ransom” Dumbledore said quietly. “If we do not surrender you, his life is forfeit.”

Numb with horror, Harry nodded absently: it had been the obvious conclusion. 

“Bu… but we can’t jus’ leave him teh die, Headmaster” Hagrid replied, tears shining in his eyes.

“No, we cannot.” Professor Dumbledore replied, twisting his white beard between his elegant, yet gnarled fingers. His blue eyes rose to meet Harry’s “We must hope that Professor Snape’s convalescence is speedy, my boy. Yule is our deadline for deciding Mr Weasley’s fate.”

Clutching his invisibility cloak around his shivering shoulders, Harry padded through the dungeon corridors, desperately trying not to notice how creepy the narrow, subterranean hallways were without Professor Snape’s presence. Whilst the Potions Master reigned, his fellow troglodytes were mere children who would scatter from his tall, striding figure or clutch onto the tails of his billowing robes. However, although most people thought Snape the epitome of a dark wizard, Harry couldn’t help but feel a true darkness had descended in his absence: it was the difference between a serene, moonlit evening and one of those nights when one fears to step out into the darkness which coats the world like tar.

Eventually, Harry stood before the portrait which, in a way, had started it all. It seemed a little too apt but, Harry thought gloomily, the coincidence wasn’t surprising; the Wizard in the portrait, Herpo, was the first basilisk breeder, so it was only fitting that his portrait hung in the Snakes' domain. Herpo’s portrait, Dumbledore had informed Harry, guarded a corridor which only a Parselmouth could reach.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Harry shifted from one frozen foot to the other whilst staring at Herpo’s undulating pet serpent.

*“Er… Hello”* he fssed uncertainly.

*“What! Ssshow yoursssself, ssssserpent ssspeaker!”* spat the elderly wizard, his golden eyes aflame with suspicion.

After a moment of indecision and a quick glance at the Marauder’s map, Harry swiftly tugged the the hood down, revealing himself.

*“Ah, the dissssappearing sssnakelet. Well, well.”* the mage folded his blue robed arms.

*“I need to enter the nest you guard”* Harry whispered, his voice sharp with anxiety.

The portrait raised one bushy eyebrow *“I think you’ve bitten Onyx enough, sssnakelet. Go to your family nesssst and sssleep away your venom.”*

*“Onyx? You mean the Mage-water Basilisk?”* Harry hissed nervously.

*“The sssame. Now, ssslither along.”* spat Herpo, fixing Harry’s invisible form with a beady gaze.

*“Pleasse!”* Harry hissed *“I do not hunt Onyx as prey.”*

*“Why do you sssseek him?”* psshed the ancient mage sceptically.

*“To draw my venom from hiss ssscalesss”* the teenager replied sadly.

Herpo shook his head *“Ass you wisssh. However, if you hiss that the ssssun iss black, Myrridin will give venom unto you. He isss old and hisss fangsss are sharp.”*

*“I hiss that the sssun iss gold”* Harry fssed truculently as Herpo’s portrait flipped forward, revealing a narrow stairwell of honey-coloured stone. Taking a deep breath, the teenage boy climbed through the portrait hole onto the first step. As he alighted, a small lamp overhead flickered into life, then another and another, until Harry’s wide eyes beheld the climb in all it’s intimidating glory. The stairs seemed to span an entire side of the castle!

As Harry ascended, he found himself wondering over the peaceful, almost spiritual atmosphere of the steep stairwell. With its high walls, the windowless passage should have felt claustrophobic or, at least, depressing but, instead, the ambiance was of a room which had known no malice, fear or pain, only love.

Just when Harry’s legs were tightening with the leaden weight of overexertion, the steps spiralled off onto a long gallery. Leaning against the oak balustrade, Harry noticed that the honey stone walls were set with a myriad of arched, stained glass windows, each depicting a stylised rowan tree.

Harry shook his head and wandered over to a window, tracing the lead-lined glass with a callused fingertip. The vibrant, golden berries, set against verdant green leaves, were almost hypnotic in the way they drew the eye and Harry found himself wondering why nobody had noticed these beautiful windows or, if they had, why this ‘lost’ gallery was not one of the school legends.

Harry unfurled the Marauder’s Map; apparently, he was currently standing within a wall.

“None so blind, my lad, as those whose eyes look always inward.”

Green eyes wide as galleons, heart racing, Harry turned.

He was not a ghost, as such. Nothing so corporeal. No, it was as if the pale moonlight, in streaming through the window, had reflected the image of a man onto the air: the wizard's heavy, woollen robe echoed the grey-green leaves, his skin was as pale as the rowan flowers and the golden hue of the glass berries refracted into long, auburn hair. Only the ghost's stormy-grey eyes did not take hue from the stained glass.

Swallowing, Harry bit back his first, rather rude question but the spirit appeared to read the query in his eyes.

“I am a vortex, young Harry. I have nae human form, save that which is recalled by these here casements.”

Harry nodded uncertainly “Um, you’re Professor Myrridin, right?”

“Aye, that I am.” the shade replied, turning to face Harry. “Ye have come for one under my protection?”

Harry twiddled with the frayed hem of his pyjama top. “I know I shouldn’t have spoken to Professor Snape like that; he couldn’t have known that Moldywart would react as he did and… and I know now he tried his best to protect us.”

Myrridin’s eyes were hard “It’s not been the first time, lad, nor the second that this poor soul’s faced unjust censure from ye.”

Harry bit his lip “Look, Snape and I got off on the wrong foot; we thought we knew all about each other and, because of that, we both behaved badly.”

“Severus has never physically harmed you.”

“What?” Harry gasped, shock and indignation blurring in his emerald eyes. “I never..!”

The gallery shimmered for a moment, then their surroundings bled and merged; suddenly, the honey stone morphed into a thicket of grey-brown tree trunks, the pale, golden floorboards brightening to lush, green-yellow grass, upon which five, prostrate figures lay.

Breath still in his lungs, Harry saw himself lying, glasses askew, next to Hermione, whose brown hair hung across her face like a veil. A yard or so away, Ron lay crumpled on the ground, his face grey in the starlight.

Movement caught Harry’s eye and he turned to see Snape struggling into a sitting position, his countenance unusually pale and drawn. With a pained expression in his dark eyes, the Potions Master gingerly touched the back of his head. To Harry’s horror, blood shone on the man’s long fingers.

“You allowed Lupin and Black to beat him.” Myrridin’s cold voice intoned.

“No!” Harry cried, turning in the direction of the voice. “No one laid a hand on him!” Memory flooded back, bringing a blush to the teenager’s cheeks “Well, Sirius might not have been too careful with levitating him… but no one harmed him on purpose.”

Harry’s surroundings blurred again, and, this time, he found himself in Professor Snape’s office, watching the Potions Master apply burn salve to his calf, which was scorched raw.

“So intent was he on saving ye, that he ignored the fire your young friend started, though it did pain him terribly.”

Harry swallowed “I didn’t know they were going to do it. I didn’t.”

“Ye thought it a good tale, even when the man was proved innocent.” Myrridin replied scathingly.

“Look, I was a right brat to him and I’m sorry. I didn’t know how badly he’d been hurt.”

“Nae lad” the scenery shimmered and bled back into the image of the gallery, “Ye didn’t care.”

The teenaged boy felt a lump growing in his throat and, swallowing down a wail at the injustice of it all, whispered “But I do now.”

Myrridin gazed at Harry, a coolly appraising look in his flint-blue eyes “So, ye know better now and, ifn I relinquish my care, ye’ll treat him well?”

“Yes.” Harry promised desperately.

“And, by that you mean sending him to the mercy of his auld master, whom ye ken has none?”

Harry blinked, shocked to the core by the bitter scorn in Myrridin’s tone “But…” The teenage boy paused, trying to gather his wayward thoughts. Professor Myrridin was a guardian spirit, so Ron’s plight would gain his sympathies, right?

“You see, there’s this boy in my year, Ron, whose been captured by V… Moldywart and he’s going to kill him.” Harry swallowed “Ron’s family are dead upset; Dumbledore's had to tell them that Ron's been taken ill with a highly contagious strain of Dragonpox: Moldywart said he'd kill Ron if Dumbledore tells anyone, he want's to keep his return secret, Dumbledore thinks. Anyway, Ron's family are really scared he'll die; his little sister’s crying and his brothers’ are well quiet and serious, which isn’t like them at all. Only Snape can save him so we really, really need him back…”

oOoOo

Streaming sunlight battered against Harry’s tired eyes, drawing him back to aching consciousness. Turning over onto his stomach, Harry felt a dull, grazing pain as his right boot scraped against his left ankle.

Fully awake, Harry sat bolt upright, staring at his half-invisible, half-pyjama clad body.

A heavy, leaden feeling suffused the teenager’s heart; Myriddin must have, somehow, moved him to the Gryffindor Dorm last night. Although hope flickered, like a half-smothered flame, Harry knew, deep down, that he had failed.

Climbing out of bed, Harry threw his robe over his pyjamas and, tiptoeing around his slumbering friends' beds, slipped through the door.

Walking through the empty corridors, passing between cold shadow and warm sunlight, Harry couldn’t help but think about his friendship with Professor Snape. Although he’d once loathed the man, distaining his blatant favouritism towards Slytherin and the wanton cruelty he lavished on everyone else, Harry was beginning to realise that, since first year, he had relied on Snape. Yes, okay, catching sight of that tall, severe figure bearing down on him, robes billowing like a vampire’s wings, dark eyes ablaze, had, more than once, given Harry heart-failure and, indeed, the teenage boy had spent long evenings devising plans to avoid detection by the Potions Monster. But, and it was an important but, Harry had always known that, if things went ass up, Snape would protect him. Take last year, for example; Snape had raced down to protect three disrespectful, arrogant kids from a convicted mass-murderer and a werewolf. Okay, afterwards he’d been petty, spiteful, deaf to the truth but, nevertheless...

Gazing out of window, Harry caught sight of the Whomping Willow; Snape had almost died there as a teenager and, if Black really had been a killer or the moon had risen five minutes earlier… Well, perhaps Snape had deserved that Order of Merlin.

Harry sighed; he didn’t understand his logic. Part of him wanted to be protected, to have the security of knowing that someone else was responsible for his safety and, now Snape was gone, Harry felt strangely vulnerable, like a kid left at home alone. However, at the same time, Harry knew that, as soon as danger reared its ugly head, he’d curse Snape for fettering his independence, for standing between Harry and his chosen foe.

In a way, the teenager couldn’t blame Myrridin from refusing to release Snape to return to such a thankless task.

Sighing, Harry whispered the password, ‘Peverell”, to Dumbledore’s Gargoyle and let himself into the Headmaster’s office. As he opened the heavy, intricately carved door, Harry saw, much to his suprise, that the usually energetic, albiet elderly wizard had fallen asleep in his chair. A quill, still clasped in a wrinkled, frail hand, leaked ink into Professor Dumbledore's snowy beard. He had obviously been up all night.

“Um, Sir.” Harry said tentatively, padding across the room and touching the Headmaster’s thin shoulder.

Dumbledore jerked awake, and, focusing his eyes on Harry, murmured “Ah, dear boy, pray forgive me.” Sitting up, the Headmaster straightened his half-moon glasses and motioned for Harry to sit. “I trust you found the corridor?”

Harry nodded “Yeah and I met Myrridin but” he added, his heart falling at the prospect of quashing the hope in those innocent blue eyes “I think I failed, Professor. I talked to him, Myrridin, for a bit and, well I thought he was coming ‘round” the teenager said wretchedly. “But then I mentioned Ron and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the Gryffindor dorms.”

Professor Dumbledore shut his eyes and, as he did so, his glasses tipped askew on a nose which now had two ridges. Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Snape had forgiven Dumbledore before he’d disappeared: the Potions Master had been furious with the Headmaster and, although Harry couldn’t blame Snape, far from it, he still felt a squirm of guilt when he remembered the almost indulgent tone Dumbledore always had in his voice when he talked about the younger teacher.

When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was steady “I’m sure you did your best, my boy” he said kindly, patting Harry’s hand. “Myrridin was a difficult man, by all accounts. Although, as a general rule, it is wise to judge others as one would judge themselves… well, the man possessed every possible virtue save compassion for the mistakes of others.”

“I’ll try again, Sir.” Harry promised. “I know Professor Snape will want to be free because… because I would and Snape and I are the same like that, aren’t we?”

Although his blue eyes were saturated with sadness, Dumbledore smiled “Indeed, my boy, I have often thought so, particularly on the many occasions when either you or Professor Snape stood in front of this desk, angry over some or other example of the other’s arrogance or unkindness, stubbornly refuting the validity of my opinions and indignant at what you presumed my blind favouritism. I was so pleased” the elderly mage’s voice trembled “So pleased when you resolved your feud.”  

“Me too. I understood, though, Sir." Harry replied quietly, answering the unspoken sentiment. "I get why you placed me with the Dursleys, I mean. You had to think about more people than just me.”

When Dumbledore’s blue eyes met Harry’s, the teenager was shocked to see that they shone with unshed tears. “Thank you, my boy.”

“And I will persuade Myrridin to release Professor Snape” Harry said, his throat tightening. “I promise.”

Looking back, Harry didn’t know how he’d managed to struggle through the days that followed his first, disastrous attempt in rescuing Professor Snape from Myrridin’s Corridor.

Potions under the pre-fourth year Professor Snape had been pretty unbearable but at least then Harry’d been able to vent his frustration. Now, with neither moral support nor a justifiable target on which to blame his misery, the teenage boy spent the lesson stewing in a toxic combination of guilt and worry. And, to make matters worse, the other Gryffs just would not shut up about how much better Professor Dumbledore was at teaching Potions, with Dean and Seamus even going to far as to petition Harry to persuade the Headmaster into sacking Snape. Forcing himself to nod, smile and insult Snape was, Harry knew, the least he could do for his mentor: however, the lies were a corrosive poison, burning his throat long after they were spoken.

Defence was similarly aggravating; although Dumbledore hadn’t said as much, Harry knew, in his bones, that ‘Moody’ was responsible for Ron’s abduction and hearing the imposter’s braggart lies about his life in the Ministry, listening to the awestruck students' questions and, hardest to endure of all, observing that smug, self-satisfied little smile, twisted Harry’s guts. Even at Snape’s worst, Harry had never actually wanted to hurt the guy; tip a cauldron of nasty-smelling but otherwise harmless goo over his greasy head, yeah, but nothing much worse. ‘Moody’, however, was another story entirely, especially when Harry’s gaze fell upon Hermione, who, having lain awake worrying over Ron all night, was scarcely awake enough to take notes, her usually busy quill lying limp in her pale, lethargic hand. However, there was one slither of silver lining; the necessity of raising and maintaining his strongest occulmancy shields around the imposter proved enough of a distraction from some of Harry’s most pressing worries, such as how to persuade Myrridin to release Snape.

Harry knew he was not the most patient of people; his usual technique was to simply react to situations, rather than submitting to the long, tedious process of planning. However, Professor Dumbledore had forbidden Harry from staging another attempt on the corridor immediately and, without Ron’s (im)moral support and as Hermione, unaware of Snape’s (and by extension Harry’s) predicament, was unable to advice, prepare and generally boss him into patience, Harry found his solitude teeth-grindingly frustrating.

And, to add insult to injury, the teenage boy couldn’t fault Dumbledore’s logic: Harry knew he was tired and stressed and, if he lost his temper with Myrridin or tried the man’s patience, well, it’d be a case of more haste, less speed. But it still sucked, especially when Harry discovered that his mind bombarded him with unwelcome thoughts as soon as he lay down.

Yes, nights were in their very own, hair-tearing circle of Hell: every, single time Harry had managed, by dint of sheer effort, to focus on his heartbeat, banishing the myriad of fears, anxieties and self-admonishments from his mind, he would be on the very brink of sleep when, suddenly, another thought would burst into life, resurrecting all those which he had just defeated. Every night it seemed to get worse, happening over and over until Harry was ready to scream with frustration; he didn’t dare not sleep but, if he allowed his tired, red-veined eyes to close before he had cleared his mind, he’d be practically laying out the ‘Welcome’ mat for Voldemort.

As the cold, grey light preceding Friday’s dawn filtered through the red velvet curtains surrounding Harry’s bed, the teenager snapped bolt upright, clutching his sheets with balled fists. “Enough!” Harry snarled, kicking the away his counterpane and thrusting his feet into slippers. “I’ve had enough!”

Harry’s bubbling mind cooled as he descended though the cellars into the dungeons below, his sharp footfalls softening as his temper faded.

Eventually, he stood, gazing dully at Herpo, who was singing lullabies to his dozing serpents.

*“Winter windsss will not prevail,
Sssummer comesss to hill and dale,
Hussssh my hatchling do not wail…”*

*“Um, excuse me?”* Harry hissed nervously.

Herpo jerked in surprise, causing his pet cobra to shudder awake. With a particularly poisonous look, the ancient portrait spat *“The dissssapearing egg-eater! I thought Myrridin had seen you off!”*

*“I came back”* Harry snapped *“Onyx will ssscccsssh in the hidden nest, trapped like a serpent in a snare. His fangs will give venom unto himself.”*

Herpo shook his white, shaggy head *“If you must, but don’t come ssscssshing to me when Myrridin bites your tail.”*

As the sun’s first, feeble rays lit the sky, Harry stepped up into the gallery. Myrridin was standing, quiet and still as a statue, his high cheekbones and lofty forehead appearing as carved marble in the dawn light.

“How is Professor Snape?” Harry heard himself ask.

The slender spirit turned, his flinty eyes softening to the dusky blue of a spring sea “As one asleep; he kens not that he is between realms.”

Harry swallowed “You know, he’d really hate being a prisoner; even if he doesn’t know about it now, one day he will and he’ll be well upset.”

“In his waking life, he is caught between two masters, with nary a moment to please himself, Potter.”

“He’s still free inside his mind” Harry insisted “And when he’s in the Room of Requirement he doesn’t have to act!”

“Are ye sure about that, lad?” Myrridin asked, folding his arms. “Ye words starved him cruelly, though ye couldnae have know the full effect. Ye have ye mother’s eyen, Potter and ye are more alike to her in spirit. Ye would do well tae remember that, lad.” 

“Look, I screwed up” Harry grumbled. “I know it’s not going to be easy to make amends but” light blazed in Harry’s mind; clear, pure and illuminating “I am more like Lily than James, right? Well, if you don’t release Snape till after I die or whatever, he’ll always blame himself! I’ll never get the chance to tell him that I understand! Okay, getting involved with the Death-Eaters was dumb and I still don’t know why he did it, so I can’t really comment on that, but what I do know is, when Snape had to decide between serving Voldemort and protecting my Mum, he chose her. He did his best to protect her and that’s what counts. I know my Mum would’ve felt the same. Not only would she have just forgiven him, she’d have been bloody grateful for all he’s done to protect me, even though I was a snotty brat most of the time.” Harry gazed up at Myrridin, his emerald eyes blazing “Snape needs to know that.”

“Ye think he’ll give ye the time to tell him this?” Myrridin asked, an appraising expression in his flinty eyes.

Harry swallowed “Maybe not at first but I’m not going to give up on him.”

A brief, enigmatic smile tugged at the corners of Professor Myrridin’s thin mouth “Very well.”

Harry heard a strangled gasp behind him. Turning, as one in a dream, Harry found himself face to face with Professor Snape.

“I’m so sorry! I overreacted. You couldn’t have known what Voldemort would do; it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry!” Harry cried, half formed ideas tumbling out of his mouth in jerky sentences as he observed the Potion Master’s pale, pinched face, his despairing eyes, dark and bleak as black holes, the taut posture of one poised to flee.

“Harry…”

“I tripped and fell onto your desk, my hand landed in the Pensieve! I was… I hated seeing Vol… Moldywart like that, it really upset me and I lashed out.”

Panting, Harry gazed up at the tall Professor with pleading green eyes “I’m sorry.”

Professor Snape blinked and, slowly, the tension bled from his muscles. Another blink and Harry saw, to his relief, the haunting despair in the Potion Master’s eyes fade before his thoughts retreated behind the occulmency shields.

“Your reaction was… not entirely unexpected or unreasonable Potter.”

“It was, though” Harry whispered, inwardly flinching at the Professor’s use of his surname. “My Mum would have been right ashamed of me; shouting my mouth off without thinking. You were just a kid who made a mistake. How could’ve you known what Moldywart would do? His reaction was mental!”

“‘Moldywart’ as you insist on calling him was, indeed, ‘mental’; a fact of which I was well aware at the time I gave him the information.” Professor Snape replied, a twisted expression of self-loathing marring his features.

“I recon you wouldn’t have told him anything, though, if you even thought he might go after kids?” Harry said shrewdly.

“No, of course not.” Professor Snape replied, folding his arms. Harry wondered why he’d never realised how defensive a gesture that was.

“There you are then!” Harry replied resolutely. “You made a mistake, like everyone has, and I don’t think my Mum would’ve blamed you; she’d have been glad you came back to the right side and grateful for you keeping an eye over me.”

The Potions Master froze “What, exactly, has Dumbledore…”

“He told me that you and Mum used to be friends.” Harry replied simply “That you fell out of contact after you left school and, when Moldywart went after Mum, you told Dumbledore so he could protect her.”

“Ah.”

“And I worked out the bit that you were looking out for me by myself” Harry finished with a shrug “I’m not a complete dunderhead!”

“Some parts are missing?” Professor Snape asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry choked back a laugh “Yeah. A bit of my brain: turns out heading Bludgers isn’t a great idea.”

“Where exactly are we, Harry?” Professor Snape asked, looking around “I imagine, given the freedom with which you are speaking, that we are somewhere secure?”

“Well,” Harry said tentatively “have you heard of Myriddin’s Corridor?”

“Ah! And how long, exactly, have I spent in this corridor?”

“Um, since Saturday. It’s Friday Morning now.” Harry answered nervously.

“Has anything significant happened in the meantime?” Professor Snape asked, his tone almost bored.

“I think it’d be best if Dumbledore…”

“Harry!”

“Moldywart’s kidnapped Ron and says he’ll kill him if I don’t hand myself in by Yule” the teenager replied baldly. “And Professor Dumbledore taught us how to make butterbeer in Potions.”

The Potions Master pinched the bridge of his nose “I see.”

“You’re taking this very well” the teenage boy said sceptically.

Professor Snape sighed “One reaches a point, Harry, where neither words nor actions could adequately convey one’s outrage, indignation and sheer frustration. In such times as these, it is best to merely keep calm and carry on.”

oOoOo

From: Onyx.
To: W

Suspected involvement, so low profile for last week. Recalled to find the Pop; most emphatic-might be a deal breaker- so need orders.

Remember who tried to save you from the canines’ maws.

oOoOo

From: W
To: Onyx

Meet at usual place; will apparate from there.

OoOoO

Heavy emerald curtains drawn across the windows, with no light save for the flickering fire in the grate, Harry and Professor Dumbledore sat in the scarred, sage leather armchairs, waiting for someone they were unsure would ever return.

Professor Snape had left to meet Peter Pettigrew over two hours ago and, while Harry knew the man was an outstanding occulmens and the story he had concocted, complete with supporting evidence, sounded believable, Voldemort was criminally insane. It was impossible to predict how he would react.

Harry, of course, was not supposed to know any of this but, as usual, fate had given the teenager a hard shove towards forbidden territory; had Harry arrived at Professor Snape’s quarters a minute later, the teacher would, having disillusioned himself, been sneaking out of the castle. Had Harry turned up a minute earlier, Professor Snape would have still been inside his living quarters.

However, Harry had opened his Professor’s office door bang on time to catch the man, if not red handed, then certainly blister handed. The Potions Master, knowing that time was of the essence, used this opportunity to bawl out Harry for ‘disrespect’ and dragged the shocked teenager through the floo and into the Headmaster’s office. A sharp order of ‘explain’, seemingly aimed more at Dumbledore than Harry, and Professor Snape disappeared into the green flames.

Thus, in the dark, nearly silent sitting-room, where only the crackle of flames and occasional, dull thunk of a moving chess piece broke the silence, Harry and Professor Dumbledore sat, hoping, praying and fearing.

Suddenly, there was the sigh of the door bushing across the carpet of Dumbledore’s office. Motioning for Harry to remain sitting, the Headmaster swiftly stood and strode across the room to the door opening into his office. However, before he could reach for the handle, the door wrenched open and Ron staggered inside.

“Ron!” Harry cried, jumping to his feet and instinctively starting towards the boy, whose face was pale as milk in the firelight. A pace away from his friend, Harry stopped, hesitating as he remembered the animosity of the past months. Licking his lower lip nervously, Harry held out a hand.

Ron swallowed, his eyes meeting Harry’s for the first time in months. Sorrow, guilt and residual fear lurked within those blue grey depths and, the next moment, Harry found himself patting his friend on the back.

“It’s okay, mate. You’re safe now.”

“Yeah” Ron replied, pulling away. As Harry stepped back, he caught Ron’s eye again; guilt burned there like brimstone and, before Harry knew what he was doing, he had slipped into those blue depths.

A slender figure, whose long, dark hair slipped around his metal mask and onto the shoulders of his dark robe, knelt beside an armchair, from which stretched a small, icy white arm ending in tiny, black-nailed claws. The black-robed man's blistered hand was clasped within those claws and, above their joined hands, a plump, rat faced man held his wand.

Do you, Severus Tobias Snape swear that you will deliver Harry James Potter to me before midnight falls on 25th December 1994?” a high, cold voice asked from within the depths of the chair.

“I will!” A thin, golden snake twined around their hands...

Horrified, Harry jerked out of his friend’s mind, stumbling backwards as his thoughts whirled behind wide, emerald eyes.

Snape had made an unbreakable vow to Voldemort.

“You alright, Harry?”

The teenager opened his mouth to snap a retort, then paused: he’d just managed to patch things up with Ron so perhaps it might be wisest not to let on about the accidental legilimency. “Yeah, just tripped. It’s well dark in here.”

“Right” Ron muttered, backing out of the dark sitting room. Harry followed his friend back into the Headmaster’s office, where, to Harry’s shock, Dumbledore was kneeling beside an ashen faced Severus Snape, dabbing firewhiskey onto his lips. 

“You-Know-Who was… um… a bit rough…” Ron whispered to Harry, looking slightly nauseous. “Used the Cruciatus curse on him. A lot.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, suddenly standing up “I need to take young master Weasley to the infirmary. If you would stay with Professor Snape?”

“Er, doesn’t Snape need the infirmary more, Sir.” Harry asked, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Professor Snape, Harry, and no, he is in no danger, merely exhausted.”

Harry nodded and silently reached out for the alcohol seeped handkerchief.

“Good boy" Dumbledore said quietly. "I will return shortly.”

“Bye Harry” Ron said, his expression perplexed as he watched Harry gently move a lock of greasy, black hair away from the Potions Master’s face.

“Oh, bye Ron.” Harry replied, looking up with dazed green eyes. “Catch you soon.”

As Dumbledore and Ron disappeared through the floo, Harry turned back to Professor Snape who had fallen asleep.

“Oh Sir,” Harry sighed, scrunching the handkerchief in his fist as tears, unbidden, filled his eyes “What have you done?”

oOoOo

Harry was half-expecting to be called into Professor Dumbledore’s office throughout the weekend. At first, Harry grew irritated, thinking it scandalous to waste even a second before getting down to work on a plan, considering the seriousness of the situation.

On Sunday, Professor McGonagall entered the Gryffindor Common-room and blandly requested that Ginny, Fred and George accompany her to her office. Ginny, her proudly raised chin belying her pale face, leapt to her feet and followed the Deputy Headmistress, with Fred and George walking behind her, sombre eyed and silent. 

As Harry watched them leave, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Hermione clasp her hands in her lap, brown eyes boring into Professor McGonagall as if she wished to legilimize her. Torn between running away and blurting out the truth, Harry gritted his teeth and put an arm around his best friend’s shoulders.

When the Weasley children entered the Common-Room half an hour later, a hush fell, saved only from total silence by the forced conversation of a few groups of Upper Year students.

A firecracker blazed around the room, popping and crackling merrily. Everyone looked across to the trio, whose red-rimmed eyes formed a stark contrast with their relieved smiles.

“Now we have your attention…” started Fred,

“Not that we don’t appreciate…” continued George,

“You tactfully ignoring us...”

“Ronniekins is over the worst…”

“And ready for visitors!” Ginny added, to general laughter.

As Dean ran upstairs to grab a bag of ‘Liquorice Allsorts’ his mum had sent him, Ginny wandered over to where Harry and Hermione were sitting.

“Come on, you two. Ron’s finally decided that life’s too short” the pretty red-head grinned, rolling her eyes.

Hermione glanced hesitantly at Harry, hope and fear merging in her brown eyes. Smiling, Harry stood up “Yeah, hoped he would. Accio Chocolate Cauldrons!”

OoOoO

Standing outside the Infirmary, Harry listened sympathetically as Hermione nervously discussed Wit Sharpening Potions. Madam Pomfrey, in Harry’s opinion, was taking the pretence a fraction too far; the Mediwitch was only allowing Ron two visitors at a time, at this moment Seamus and Dean, and only for five minutes. As far as Hermione was concerned, five minutes was no way long enough to sort out the past month and Harry longed to tell her that all was well, that Ron had already made amends with him.

Harry felt a great deal of empathy for Snape; being a proper spy must really suck.

When Madam Pomfrey bustled Harry and Hermione over to Ron’s bedside, however, Harry began to wonder if his optimism had been somewhat premature. The Weasleys, with their celtic colouring, were pale at the best of times but, now, Ron’s countenance was the whitish green of sour milk. The dull, inward looking eyes, pox scarred cheeks and forced smile rounded up to a impressively convincing picture, in Harry’s opinion. He’d never thought that the forthright Ron would have any acting ability whatsoever.

“Oh Ron!”  Hermione sighed.

“Hey mate,” Harry said, in what he hoped was a convincing tone. “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Don’t have to pretend” Ron sniffed miserably, turning a red-rimmed eye on Harry “Was a git to you. Surprised you came at all.”

Forcing his incredulity behind his occulmency shields, Harry scrubbed at his messy, raven hair. “Yeah, you were but I recon I can’t let you die without forgiving you ‘cos, according to Skeeter, I’m at least the Second Coming, so you’d probably go to hell or something” he added with a cheeky wink. “You look like shit, mate.”

“Harry!”

“Feel like shit.” Ron groaned. “Infirmary must be the worst place to be sick; nothing to distract you from the damn itching. Even Potions would be better.”

Ron sneezed and, to Harry’s surprise, green smoke poured out of his nostrils.

“Don’t worry, I’m not infectious or anything” the miserable red-head replied.

“You’ve had your five minutes, Mr Potter, Ms Granger!” Madam Pomfrey intoned, her robes rustling as she approached with a tray full of potions.

“Okay. Well, here are some chocs.” Harry said, placing the box on Ron’s bedside. “A good cure all, according to a werewolf I know.”

“Thanks Harry, Mione.”

As Harry walked away, the insalubrious sound of Ron gagging down potions made him wonder just how far Dumbledore was willing to go with this pretence.

oOoOo

In hindsight, it was impossible to say when Harry began to realise that something was off about Ron’s behaviour. Sometimes, Harry thought he’d been suspicious from the first day, which always led him to wonder why he’d taken so damn long to work it out.

Another week passed and, despite expecting the summons to Dumbledore’s office every moment (and, more than once, rushing from the breakfast table to read his letter under the privacy of his invisibility cloak) the invitation never came. 
 
The worst of it was that, right now, Harry no longer had daily contact with either Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor Snape; the teenage boy arrived in his Tuesday Potions class to find the iron haired, steely tempered Professor Grubbly-Plank chalking up instructions for a canker-cleansing solution. This change of tutor, combined with Dumbledore’s continued silence, evolved Harry’s incredulity into a simmering fury; the Headmaster wasn’t going to involve him at all!

Harry’s first thought, when he realised that Dumbledore didn’t intend to include him in his discussions, was to break his silence and tell Hermione, in the hope that the usually astute girl would know how best to approach the Headmaster or, better yet, be able to see something in the situation that proved Dumbledore was just biding his time. However, as angry as he was, Snape’s life was on the line. Moreover, Harry’s temper wasn’t tempted because, as Hermione was so busy looking up dragonpox symptoms and treatments in the library, she barely noticed her friend’s distraction.

Although Ron’s condition was slowly improving, he had, in what, to Harry’s mind was an impressive bit of acting, been bemoaning the ice green tinge of his skin, managing to appear so miserable that, had Harry not known what he did, he felt sure he’d have been convinced.

On Friday, Professor Grubbly-Plank mentioned that Professor Snape would remain absent for another week and, although this announcement was joyfully received by the Gryffindors, Harry’s mood plummeted: without the hope of a Saturday lesson, the teenage boy could scarcely have endured such a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

When Harry, in what he hoped was an offhand manner, mentioned this to Ron during a visit that evening, he was surprised by his answer.

“Alright for some! By the time I recover, the greasy git will be back" the red-head harrumhed. "Probably dock me points for being ill or something.”

“Oh, Ron! Grow up!” Hermione snapped. “Have a little sympathy, won’t you; from what I’ve heard, his aunt is dying.”

“Wish he’d catch whatever she has” was the vindictive response.

As Harry lay in bed, later that evening, he replayed the conversation over and over in his head, those words, the way Ron’s mouth twisted as he said them, the cold, hard look in those blue-grey eyes.

The hatred was genuine, Harry’d stake his life on it; Ron actually loathed the man who had bartered his life, made an unbreakable vow, to save him.

Even Ron, as petty and blind as he could be, couldn’t be that ungrateful, could he?

For a moment, Harry entertained the thought that Ron might resent Snape, believing the man was going to hand him to Voldemort. However, that idea made no sense: surely Ron would have told him? Harry knew his friend had neither known nor suspected that he’d been legilimised. Hell, Ron didn’t even know that Harry’d been having Occulmency lessons!

Harry sat up, hauling his invisibility cloak from under his pillow and around his shoulders. As he swivelled his legs around, toes searching for and insinuating their way into slippers, Harry’s leg knocked against the Potions text on his bedside table.

“Always make a note of significant events” Snape had once said “After all, wizards can delete and insert memories.”

Deciding that safe was better than sorry, Harry grabbed his quill and notepad, found a spare line between his scrawlings on potions for magical creatures, and wrote; “Snape saved Ron from V, unbreakable vow to deliver me to V by midnight, Yule.”

Carefully raising his trunk lid a fraction of an inch, Harry slipped his closed notebook inside and locked it, before slipping out into the night.

oOoOo

The sun filtered through the velvet hangings of Harry’s bed, onto his closed eyelids. Yawning, the teenager sat up and looked at his watch; ten o’clock already. Too late for breakfast.

Stretching, Harry stood up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and wandered over to his trunk where, through force of habit, he always kept a few chocolate bars and bags of crisps.

Slightly surprised to find the box locked, Harry pressed his thumb against the panel and opening the lid, dug around the arm-deep debris for his tuck-box. As he tugged a bag of crisps loose, Harry’s eye alighted on his Potions note-book. Might as well make a start on Grubbly-Plank’s homework.

Sitting down, munching a handful of crisps, Harry flicked through his notebook, finding a clean page. Riffling through, the word ‘Vet Spells, written in large, block capitals, caught Harry’s attention.

“I don’t remember writing all this?” the teenager muttered, flicking through three pages of close script. He glanced over at his potions book, which was lying on his bedside table, and shrugged. “Must have gotten bored during the night.”

Thanking his somnolent self, Harry grabbed a roll of parchment and started writing his essay on the differences between potions intended for animals and those made for human consumption. The teenager had just started a paragraph about which ingredients, while being safe for humans, could poison animals when he read something that made his quill punch a hole in his essay.

“Snape saved Ron from V, unbreakable vow to deliver me to V by midnight, Yule.”

OoOoO

Swallowing, Harry read the words again, forcing his swimming vision to focus on that deadly sentence.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, Harry pushed his wayward, dark hair away from his pale face. Right, first things first, there was no way Snape would just hand Harry over, not in a million years. The guy had more than proved his allegiance, firstly by choosing Lily’s safety over his loyalty to Voldemort and, secondly, by protecting her son from mad broomsticks, werewolves, suspected murderers, Dumbledore and even from Harry himself.

So, Snape must have a plan, he wouldn’t have taken such a step without knowing how to wriggle out of it. Unbreakable Vows were deadly serious: the Potions Master had told Harry about them a while ago, on the basis that forewarned is forearmed. If you broke an unbreakable, you’d die.

Harry stared at his writing: there was no mistaking that messy scrawl, he’d definitely written it and, as the essay had only been set the day before, he must have written that snippet of information last night.

At the very beginning of Occulmency, Snape had warned Harry to always record important memories, lest someone fiddle with his mind. The teenager had nodded, noted it down and promptly forgotten.

Until, it seems, last night, when something had prompted him to write down that memory. It didn’t take a genius to work it out: he’d gone to talk to someone about this and they’d wiped his memory.

Lying back on his pillows, Harry drew himself back into his mind, feeling around the familiar contours for something unfamiliar, alien. The colour of Harry’s magic was a pale, peridot green, sparkling in the folds of his memories; another person’s magic would be a different hue. First, Harry found a strange greenish-black clot, small and calcified into the fabric of his mind. Focusing his flames, Harry scorched the lump, cauterising the surrounding tissue and burning the dark material away. However, although Harry immediately felt better, cleaner, the memories did not return; if anything, the teenage boy felt something leave.

Frustrated, Harry resumed his search for the bound memories, half afraid that he’d just destroyed them. The teenager was about to give up when he noticed the mortar of his stone wall; it sparkled with lilac magic. Growling, Harry set about dismantling his carefully constructed defences, brick by metaphorical brick.

oOoOo

Ron had been reading a magazine when Harry entered the hospital wing yesterday evening, hidden under his invisibility cloak. The bed bound boy had looked up as Harry approached, perhaps hearing his muffled footsteps, and Harry had looked into those flinty eyes and seen no trace of his kidnap or incarceration, no recollection of the tiny monstrous form that Voldemort now inhabited, Peter Pettigrew or even his rescue; Snape being tortured, the unbreakable vow. Ron’s recent memories were merely of illness and the hospital wing.

He’d been obliviated.

Furious, Harry had turned on his heel, ran through the school to Dumbledore’s office. And there he had learnt the truth.

There was a plan but it was neither ingenious nor daring; Snape had refused, point blank, to countenance taking Harry within fifty miles of Voldemort. Harry would stay at Hogwarts, ‘Moody’ would be arrested, Voldemort and Pettigrew mopped up by a taskforce of trusted Aurors.

And Snape would die. He was resolute, Dumbledore had said, wiping a tear from his eye. The Headmaster had tried his best to persuade Severus, even pleading that, if the wards prevented anyone else from accompanying them, Snape and Harry had every chance of success. Pettigrew and Nagini were no real match, Snape and Harry could despatch both within a second, leaving the weakened Voldemort a sitting duck. However, Snape had sneered that a second was long enough for Voldemort to kill and, even if they did, by some miracle, survive, Severus’s deception would be uncovered. That, if he could not be of use as a spy, there ended any point or purpose for his life.

Harry had sworn and yelled and smashed Dumbledore’s silver machines, demanding that a loophole be found, that Snape had to be persuaded, via the imperius curse if necessary, even howling that they should sacrifice Harry because, surely, a spy and warlock was more valuable than a teenager who’d only survived due to sheer dumb luck.

Dumbledore had listened in silence and, when Harry had screamed himself hoarse, calmly said that this was why he had obliviated Ron, inserting false memories of the Infirmary and infecting him with a mild strain of Dragonpox.

Then the Headmaster had pointed his wand at Harry and everything faded to black.
OoOoO

Betrayal, guilt, fear and grief clouded Harry’s mind like toxic smog, smothering his half-formed thoughts. Digging his nails into his palms, the teenager forced his mind to clear.

Right. Option one, doing nothing, wasn’t even worth considering, so Harry could dismiss that idea right away.

Option two, finding Snape and trying to persuade him into fulfilling his vow was very risky. Okay, Dumbledore’s word had proved somewhat unreliable; it was even possible that the Headmaster had obliviated Snape, preferring to sacrifice him rather than endanger Harry. However, Dumbledore seemed genuinely fond of his Potions Master and, besides, the old man had let Harry try his strength against Voldemort plenty of times before. Moreover, the Prophecy said that Harry was going to defeat Voldemort or vice versa, so it was going to come to a confrontation eventually. Harry shook his head; the Headmaster’s story rang true and, therefore, running off to tell Snape would end with his memory resembling Swiss cheese.

Ditto with bells on for Dumbledore. Harry liked to think of himself as the patient type but he didn’t think he could talk to the Headmaster without yelling- or hexing- and, unless he could prove that Snape would be willing to give his currently non-existent plan a go…

Hagrid, while loyal and unfailingly honourable, spent at least one night a week down at the Hog’s Head and, well, he was a chatty drunk: while Harry would trust his adoptive father with his life, it’d be dangerous to tell him such a deadly secret. Especially considering that, in this instance, 'success' meant Hagrid's adoptive son being able to walk into a battle with Voldemort.

Sirius, on the other hand, honestly loathed Snape and it didn’t take a degree in psychology to work out that his Godfather’s first instinct would be to protect Harry, even if it meant throwing an innocent man to the wolves. In his anger, Harry spitefully thought that it wouldn’t be the first time, then the teenager immediately felt guilty. Sirius wouldn’t betray him. Not without great difficulty, at least.

Ron was as bad as Sirius and, although Harry knew that Hermione would help all she could, knowledge had already proved to be a dangerous thing.

Then inspiration struck: fast, accurate and powerful as a serpent.

Myrridin.

“Ye did well tae come here, lad.” Professor Myrrindin murmured, as Harry alighted onto the long, honey-hued gallery. “Very well indeed.”

“You know why I’m here?” the teenager asked, slightly surprised.

The wizard turned, his auburn hair gleaming amber in the sunlight, a smile softening the harsh planes of his face. “I do, lad.”

A hesitant smile tugged at Harry’s lips as the embers of hope flamed “There’s a way, isn’t there?”

“Aye. Just get him tae follow ye to the edge of the forest; run aways in, then compel him to take ye tae his old master.”

“Compel?” Harry asked, his green eyes widening, “You mean the Imperius?”

“Life or death, boy. Once ye are in, transfigure nightshade berries intae rats and send ‘em afore ye. Yon serpent will gae intae a feeding frenzy, might even bite Pettigrew if ye are in luck.” Myrrindin added with a wink “Poisoned rats, see?”

“They’ll kill it?”

“Aye. A transfigured berry may look like a mouse and move like a mouse and even smell like a mouse but it isn’t a mouse. One ‘finite’ from ye, and she’ll have a belly full of poison.”

“Wicked!”

Myriddin frowned “Well, it’s them or ye, lad.”

Harry grinned “No, I mean it’s like, well cool.”

“A cold head is required if ye are going into battle, boy. Sacrifices must be made.”

“Cool as in ‘brilliant’, not as in cold.” Harry laughed, feeling light headed with relief.

“I’m joshing with ye, lad.” Smirked the ghostly figure, his blue eyes twinkling.

oOoOo

“Where are we going, Harry?” Hermione asked, her brown eyes quizzical as they descended into the bowels of the castle “I know you said you’d tell me what this was about when you got there but I would like to know where we’re going.”

A beetle who, despite the frosty chill, was roosting on the frame of a portrait, took to the wing, lazily flying after the children.

“We’ll be there soon, right." Harry replied shortly. "It’s a secret passageway.”

“Is all this cloak and dagger business really necessary?”

“Totally.”

On seeing Harry and Hermione approach, Herpo flipped open the portrait hole. Harry grinned at the herpomancer: although less chatty, he was certainly much more friendly of late.

As Harry helped Hermione up onto the staircase, Herpo’s familiar struck, pushing her snout outside the canvas and deftly catching the beetle.

*“No intrudersss, sssspeaker.”*

*“None, indeed, my pretty ssssnakelet. We guard our nessst well.”

oOoOo

“So, basically, I’ve got to save someone’s life and, if I tell you who and why, a. I’ll be breaking a  promise and b. it’ll be twice as dangerous because the people against us are world class Legilimens.”

“You still haven’t told me what spell you need to learn.” Hermione said pointedly, eyeing her nervous friend, who was rubbing his glasses against his robes; a ‘tell’ which always showed when he was uncertain.

“Imperius.” Harry muttered.

“The Imperius Curse, Harry! But that’s…”

“Illegal, yeah.” Harry replied, looking up with blazing green eyes. “But this is life and death, Hermione!”

“You’ll get life if we’re caught!”

“It’d be worth it. I’m not just letting him die!” Harry cried.

Hermione sighed, dragging a hand through her bushy brown hair. “Why are you such a magnet for trouble, Harry?”

“You’ll help?”

“Yes, of course, but you’d better have a good explanation, when all this is over.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Hermione sighed, trying to look resigned, but Harry could see academic interest lighting the brown depths of his friend’s eyes.

oOoOo

Now Harry had a clear and achievable goal in front of him, much of the anxiety which had weighed the teenager down had dissipated, evaporating away like the sweat on his brow as he duelled with Hermione. Easily the brightest student in Hogwarts, Hermione was on a pretty even footing with Harry, despite his training in mind magic, thus her strength in resisting the curse increased almost at the same rate as his power in casting it. However, instead of being frustrated, Harry found himself relishing the challenge, optimistic that, when the time came to use the spell in earnest, he would not be found wanting.

Therefore, with his days filled with classes and evenings spent practicing the imperius in Myrridin’s Corridor and visiting Ron in the infirmary, Harry’s week flew past swiftly and even enjoyably and, at breakfast on Saturday, Harry received an owl from Professor Snape, telling him his detention was at two o’clock.

Harry grinned in delight; earlier on in the week, Professor McGonagall had announced that, this Yule, a ball would be held between eight and Midnight. As Harry and, therefore, Snape, had to be with Voldemort at Midnight on 25th December, the Ball provided a perfect opportunity to casually and oh so innocently ask where the Potions Master would be at that time.

This, of course, raised an interesting question; how was Harry going to ask his Professor whether he was going to the Yule ball without, horror of horrors, sounding like he was about to ask Snape to the ball. Even if he discounted their history, the fact that he was a guy and Harry’s teacher to boot, that conversation would be in a whole, gut-wrenching world of embarrassment merely because Snape was Snape.

As Harry sat, fiddling with his yorkshire pudding at lunch, a shining head of long black hair wafted past him, trailing the scent of jasmine flowers. Warm, liquid brown eyes met his and there was a flash of white as the pretty Seeker smiled at him, from the midst of her entourage, before drifting away to the Ravenclaw table.

Flushing Harry stared into his mashed potatoes; if only Cho wasn’t always surrounded by her friends…

Harry dropped his fork, grinning ear to ear; he could ask Snape’s advice. Okay, it’d still be embarrassing, asking his bachelor teacher for dating tips, but any pretext was better than none.

OoOoO

Sitting down to their ‘half time’ sandwiches, Harry poured himself a butterbeer and said “Sir, I was wondering whether you’d give me some advice.”

“I’ve been giving you advice all afternoon, Harry” the Potions Master responded, carefully selecting a ham and chutney sandwich.

Harry pulled a face “And, although you have the countenance for gurning" Professor Snape added "if you continue to make faces at me, I’ll stick it that way,” Snape smirked, “which will scarcely improve your chances of getting a date for the Yule ball.”

“It was about that I wanted to ask your advice” Harry said with a grin. When Snape raised an eyebrow he continued “I want to ask a girl to the ball but she’s always surrounded by people.”

“Could you not ask her for a private word?”

“They giggle all the time!”

“Thus wounding your manly ego.” Snape rolled his dark eyes “Owl her, Harry.”

Harry’s green eyes stretched comically wide “Of course! You’re a genius!”

“If I may, however,” the Professor added, “I would advise you to consider that you will be spending four hours in the company of your date, four excruciatingly long hours if, in fact, she turns out to be a complete Veela. I take it that you have not spent a substantial amount of time in her company?”

“No, not really” Harry admitted. “but she’s well nice.”

“It is best to discover the accuracy of that statement during a Hogsmeade visit.” The Potions Master sighed. “The Yule ball is the highlight of a young lady’s social calendar; if your behaviour fails to reach her expectations, and, believe me, some girls will expect to be treated like Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella combined, your beautiful date may well turn out to be the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“You know a lot about muggle films, Sir.”

“My best friend was a muggle-born, Harry. It was not unusual for her parents to take us to the cinema during the holidays.”

Harry nodded, smiling over this little snippet of information.

“You would do far better to ask a girl you know and like, as friends, and invite this other girl on a date during a Hogsmeade weekend. She may, indeed, be modest, accommodating, intelligent, interesting and understanding. However, she may not.”

“Did you go to the Yule Ball with your best friend then, Sir?” Harry asked cheekily.

“Indeed.” The professor replied, giving his wayward charge a long look “We had a lovely time.”

“Bet my dad was jealous.” Harry teased.

“I believe Lily might have bound him to one of the ornamental fountains.” Snape replied, examining his finger-nails “Black was definitely stuck to the other; he howled like a chained mutt.”

Harry laughed, in spite of himself, “You going to be there this year, Sir?”

“In the early evening.” The Potions Master said, taking a sip of butterbeer “However, a word of warning; stay out of the rose bushes.”

oOoOo

To: Cho Chang
From: Harry Potter

Dear Cho,

I was wondering whether you’d like to come to the Yule Ball with me. I’ve always wanted a chance to chat and stuff but we hardly ever see each other off the field, what with being in different houses and everything, and on the field it’s kind of hard talking, seeing as we’re racing each other for the snitch.

Harry Potter.

OoOoO

To: Harry Potter
From: Cho Chang

Hi Harry,

I’m really sorry; I’d have loved to have gone with you but I’ve already accepted Cedric’s invitation. Sorry.

Love Cho x.

oOoOo

“Hey, Harry what’s wrong?” Ginny asked, wandering over and sitting beside the raven haired boy. Harry sighed and, scrunching up the letter, threw it into the fire.

“Nothing much. Just feeling gloomy, nights drawing in and stuff.” Harry replied, trying to shield some part of his crumbling pride.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Ginny nodded, crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair “At least you’ve got the Yule Ball to look forward to.”

“Got a date, Gin?” Harry asked absently, studying the flames.

“No” the redhead replied, blushing “Are you asking?”

Harry looked up, surprised, and Ginny sighed “Guess not.”

Ebony eyebrows lowered as thoughts raced through Harry’s mind; take a friend, Snape had said, someone you know. Ginny was definitely easy company.

“Sure, why not?” Harry grinned.

An uncertain smile tugged at the girl’s lips as her brown eyes searched Harry’s face questioningly “You mean it?”

“Course, as friends though.”

Ginny nodded, her smile looking slightly forced “Sure. Ron’d probably go ape if I went with you on a date.”

oOoOo

Before Harry had really registered the days passing, the halls had been decked, spruce trees decorated and, suddenly, it was Christmas eve. Although during the day, Harry found it easy to forget his fears, filling his hours with snowball fights, trips to Hagrid's hut, roast potato eating competitions with Ron and, if all else failed, study, those worries came flooding back as soon as Harry drew the curtains around his bed. Tonight, Christmas eve, the thoughts fled, leaving a strange, empty feeling in their wake; knowing, in the depths of his soul, that this might be his last night on earth was a strange feeling. Stranger still was knowing what would happen if his plans failed.

Periodically, Harry, despairing of sleep, hauled himself out of bed and checked his adapted dress-robes. Harry had carefully tailored the beautiful, bottle-green robes be almost identical to his special school robes, with shield charms, waterproofing and evasion charms. Every time Harry passed his wand over the fabric, the spells glowed golden, silver and copper; every inch was protected yet, still, he found himself checking, compulsively, every fifteen minutes.

And, of course, part of those checks involved feeling inside the robe’s pockets, withdrawing the two tiny, metal boxes and checking the belladonna berries inside one, the dung-bomb within the other.

Halfway through the night, the teenager wondered if he was going mad.

OoOoO

As Harry, showered and with his hair brushed, if not into order, then into smooth, if choppy waves, zipped up the sleeves of his dress robes, Ron glared at him from his bed.

“Tarting yourself up, huh?”

Harry sighed “Look, Ron, I know that you’re pissed about Hermione…”

“I just don’t want you messing around with my sister.” Ron interrupted grumpily.

“I won’t, we’re going as friends.” Harry replied, rolling his green eyes “I scarcely think Ginny would be happy if I rolled in dog turds before meeting her.”

“Yeah, well, alright for some.” Ron grumbled, looking morosely at the frayed sleeves of his dress robes.

“Oh, for Heavens…”  pointing his wand at Ron, Harry transfigured the maroon velvet into navy blue linen.

“Hey!”

“Quit whining, Ron!” Seamus snapped, “You’re doing me head in.”

Still bickering, the boys trooped down stairs, Harry lagging slightly behind. However, he had no sooner alighted on the common-room carpet when he saw a flash of long red hair.

“Ginny!”

“Hey.” The girl turned, the white, crepe skirt of her dress robes swirling around her legs. Harry noticed that the green of her sash and bead necklace were almost identical to the hue of his robes.

“Snap!”

Ginny laughed “Well, mum did get the robes for you, Harry. When she heard we were going together, she owled me her serpentine necklace and this sash. Well, after I reassured her like three times that you and Hermione weren’t dating.”

“Argh! Evil! Snake lover!” Harry joked, making the sign of the cross.

“Idiot!” Ginny giggled.

“Where’s Hermione?”

“Right here, Harry.” Hermione’s voice laughed.

Harry’s head swivelled to his right and he did a double take “Whoa! I didn’t recognise you!”

Hermione smiled, showing off perfectly proportioned teeth. She was dressed in pretty robes of blue filmy material and her hair was tied in smooth knot. “Thanks, I think.”

“What happened…” Harry’s voice trailed off and he blushed, embarrassed.

“My teeth? Well, earlier this year I tripped whilst carrying a few too many books and one of my front teeth cracked” Hermione said, pulling a face “Madam Pomfrey took pity on me, I guess.”

Harry saw Ron dragging Lavender through the portrait hole and sighed, the adrenaline draining with his good mood. “Well, let’s go then.”

As Harry ducked out of the portrait hole, a thought came to him. “Gin, I’m not just at the Ball for, y’know, the Ball; I’ve got a job to do, a very important one. So, if I disappear for a bit, it’s not because I’m not enjoying it or anything, it’s just that I have to be somewhere else” he said, gazing at her with earnest green eyes.

When Ginny’s chocolate brown eyes rose to meet his, they were equally serious “I understand. I’ve sort of thought you might be involved with something, you’ve been rather distracted of late.”

Harry flushed “I didn’t realise I was so obvious.”

“Well, whatever it is, take care, okay?”

“Okay.” Harry nodded, gratefully, “And thanks. Not many girls would be that understanding.”

Ginny grinned, her brown eyes sparkling “You’re Harry Potter; if you can’t stand the heat, get off the cauldron.”

Laughing, Harry led Ginny into the Great Hall.

oOoOo

By nine O’clock, Harry was wondering whether he’d been wise to bring a date to the ball at all.

It wasn’t that Ginny was bad company, anything but. She was a great, if rather energetic dancer and, when they paused for breath, Harry found himself becoming so engrossed enjoyed her conversation, her jokes, her silly mimicking that he forgot about Cho completely. Indeed, the first part of the evening, when Snape stayed where Harry could see him, was wonderful.

However, after the meal, Snape went walkabout and, as Harry’s nerves went with him, they were stretched past endurance. The irritating git had only chosen to go zap students out of the Rosebushes and, apart from the occasional zip of burning flora and anguished or indignant yelps, Harry constantly feared that he’d been given the slip. Especially as the silence following each zap always lasted a second or five too long. Unable to stand this tension any longer, the teenager stood up.

“Want to go for a walk, Ginny?” Harry asked desperately.

“Sure” the redhead replied, bouncing out of the seat in which she had collapsed, exhausted, but a minute before.

As they walked thought the pretty, rose-bush lined shrubberies, Harry straining almost every sense he possessed, Ginny looked up at him with a soft smile “I’ve had a lovely time, you know. If you need to go, you can.”

Harry’s green eyes widened slightly “Thanks, Gin. I’ve had a great time too, I really have.”

“Maybe next year, then?”

“It’s a date.” Harry confirmed, kissing her cheek. “Bye.”

“Bye.” Ginny replied, waving as she ran back into the Great Hall.

Swallowing, Harry reached into his pocket, pulling the dung bomb from it’s casing.”

“Oh look, famous Harry Potter cannot keep a girl interested for more than half a night” a baritone voice sneered silkily “It appears that fame isn’t everything…”

Turning on his heel, Harry lobbed the dungbomb at Snape’s clean, shiny hair.

“Potter! You little bastard!”  

“Catch me if you can!” Harry cried, sprinting away.

“Come back here this minute!” Snape shrieked.

Hurdling the rose bushes, Harry ran, pell mell, across the grounds, his feet gliding over the icy grass. Through the bare, trunks of deciduous trees, over spongy moss and crisp, yellow bracken the teenager ran, looking back every now and again to make sure Snape was following. Eventually, however, an icy stream blocked his path.

Panting, Professor Snape skidded to a halt “Why the blue blazes…”

“Imperio!” the Potions Master’s face fell into the slack, blankness of those under the curse. Harry had seen it a hundred, maybe a thousand times with Hermione but this time, when it was for real, sent a shiver down his spine.

“Take me to the Dark Lord. You will take me to the Dark Lord, known as Tom Riddle, now.”

“No I bloody won’t” Snape spat, his dark eyes flaming into life. “Oh very clever, Harry, how long have you known?”

“Practically since you made the vow.” Harry replied, his hands starting to shake “Please, Sir, you can’t… you can’t just give in!”

“I had every intention of breaking the vow when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me to make it, Harry.” Something strange shifted in Snape’s dark eyes. “I never had any intention of handing you to him and I never will, do you understand?”

“We can still fight, though: Wormtail is pants as a wizard and he owes me a life debt…”

“I wouldn’t bet your life on that debt being repaid...”

“And I’ve got some belladonna berries, we transfigure them into mice and Nagini will have a belly full of poison.”

“What of the Dark Lord?”

Harry crossed his arms in an attempt to stop trembling “ he’s only a baby-monster thing, isn’t he?”

“You cannot be sure of that” Professor Snape snapped “He may well have decided to resurrect. My loyalty is still somewhat under suspicion.”

Tears stung at Harry’s eyes, “Let’s just give it a chance, okay?”

“No” the Potions Master replied coldly. “We will return to the castle, where I will place you under the personal care of the House Elves. Now, are you going to come willingly?”

“And leave you to die?!” Harry spat “No! I won’t! I’m not losing anyone else to Vol…”

Professor Snape raised his wand “Do not say his name.”

Breathing hard through his teeth, Harry suddenly screamed “Voldemort! Voldemort! VOLDEMORT!”

Pale as a ghost, Professor Snape clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth “Quiet you foolish child!” he gasped “Do you want to bring him down on us?”

However, it was too late; with a resounding crack, a tall, thin, dark robed figure spun to a halt in front of them.

The dark figure paused, then a pale, elegant hand rose from the voluminous black sleeves and pulled aside the heavy dark hood, revealing long auburn braids and kindly eyes the colour of stormy seas.

“Myrridin!” Harry exclaimed.

“Aye, lad” the wizard murmured, smiling like a beneficent god, “Ye have passed the test, ye are both free.”

“Free?” Harry spluttered, staring at Myrridin with wide green eyes and knotted brows.

“I am the White Laird of the Mountains, boy; shadows, woven from memories, dance at my fingertips and act out my merry little plays.” Myrridin explained, running his fingers down the long braid of his beard.

“This, then, is not real?” Professor Snape asked, his elegantly arched eyebrows tensed into a line, like a drawn bow. 

“Smoke and shadows” Myrridin confirmed “Young Harry visited me twice and, on the second time, I chose tae give him a chance. He said he wanted tae give ye back tae yeself, for ye own good and, it seems, his heart was honest.”

“So, this was all… what? Some sort of dream?” Harry asked, half appalled, half awestruck.

“Aye. When ye wake, twill still be 5th December.”

“How much of this dream is true?!” demanded the Potions Master furiously “Has Ronald Weasley been abducted?”

“Aye lad but do not fash. The lad is hidden in yon trunk of the one who calls himself Moody, Barty Crouch as was. He tempted Ron into the Trophy room with a forged letter, knocked him out and locked him intae the lowest layer of his trunk.” Myrridin fixed a flinty eye on Harry “Hogwarts has wards, ye see, that detect concealed people; ye cannot kidnap our bairns, nor can ye bring hidden foes over our borders. Riddle knew this, thus his toady kept their prisoner nice and snug inside the castle.”

“Is he, I mean Ron, still alive?!” Harry asked nervously.

“Aye,” Myrridin nodded “merely sleeping. Tom Riddle, from what I can tell from the imposter's thoughts, is shacked up in the old family Manor. Oh, and a nasty wee buggy is buzzing around Hogwarts, an animagus scribe with a taste for the midden.”

"Taste for the midden..." Severus echoed, his mouth twisting, then furious comprehension dawned in his dark eyes. "You mean a muck-raker? Rita Skeeter is an animagus?!"

"That's how she's been getting stories on me!" Harry exclaimed angrily. "She's been..."

"Breaking the law, lad." Myrridin relied, folding his arms. "No more muckraking for her once this gets out, I'll warrant."

“How do you know all this?” muttered Severus, woozily putting a hand over his eye, in an attempt to focus his swimming vision.

“I am Hogwarts, lad,” the ghostly wizard said softly, as Harry’s mind started to fog with exhaustion. “Now sleep, bairns. Sleep.”

oOoOo

On January 30th, Myrridin’s birthday, Harry, Hagrid and Severus planted a young Rowan sapling. Digging the soil, filling it with nutrient rich compost and tamping down were completed with good humour and conversation, except on the part of the disillusioned Severus, who quietly stood sentinel, listening to the men he had made father and son.

When the Rowan was planted, however, a silence fell as each person was consumed with their thoughts.

Hagrid’s joy was the innocent happiness of a husbandman: he had his son, his dog, a snug home, money enough to keep body and soul together, plus a little extra, and a job he loved, all of which were now safe. Following Snape’s tip off, Dumbledore had called in a small, trusted task force of Aurors; Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew had been captured and, on Fudge’s order, received the Dementors Kiss. Although Hagrid, himself an short-term inmate of Azkaban, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for Pettigrew and Crouch, who had also been ‘kissed’, his family’s security was by far the most important and, as this was now safeguarded, he allowed himself to feel content. Indeed, it was hard not to, when he considered how well his budding relationship with the beautiful Olympe was progressing.

Harry’s happiness was more complex, comprised of many different strands.  Awaking on 5th December, Professor Snape had, after being joyously welcomed by Dumbledore, immediately informed the Headmaster as to the facts of Ron’s kidnap and Riddle’s whereabouts. After dispatching the Aurors, Dumbledore had unravelled the wards around ‘Moody’s’ office and, after stunning the imposter; Ron and, to everyone’s surprise, the real Alastor Moody were discovered, blissfully asnooze, in the depths of the trunk.

Sirius, of course, had been freed and, naturally, spun into a whirlwind of activity, giving interviews, campaigning for an overhaul of the Justice System and practically demolishing and rebuilding his house where, he shyly hoped to Hagrid, Harry might stay occasionally.

Another source of pleasure, not to mention relief, was his reforged friendship with Ron: after being woken up and informed of his close shave, Ron had, wisely, decided to let bygones be bygones (not least because Molly was standing beside his bed, arms folded and with a certain glint in her brown eyes.) Harry accepted the stilted apologies gracefully (it was hard to stay angry with someone with whom you’ve already made amends, even if it was only in your dreams) and, with Hermione scolding and smoothing ruffled feelings by turns, the hatchet was buried and swiftly forgotten. 

The Yule ball was yet another blissful memory, even more wonderful than the dream. Harry had, originally, intended to ask Cho Chang immediately when or, rather, if the Yule Ball was announced. However, as the days past, Harry’s mind had niggled away, like a tongue at a loose tooth, about the contrast between the beautiful yet insubstantial ‘dream’ Cho and the vivid, rounded character of ‘dream’ Ginny. Thus, when it came to writing his invite, Harry found himself scrunching the half-written letter into a ball, tossing it into the fire and asking Ginny. After all, he had sort of made a date of it. 

Severus, on the other hand, felt a strong, secure sense of contentment. Yes, he was still a spy, yes, he still had a role to play but his charge, a green eyed boy he had come to regard as a nephew, was safe for the time being and Severus felt certain that, with continued tutoring, Harry would blossom into a warlock worthy of the title ‘Saviour’. (Even if, in fact, Harry continued to be the one who was saved, against his will, by his demented old teacher; Severus knew, much to his resigned embarrassment, that, as long as there was blood in his body and wits in his brain, he’d be protecting Lily’s son- not as duty but through force of habit!)

As Harry, Hagrid and Severus stood beside their bonny, yellow berried tree, gazing up at the beautiful line of arched, stained glass windows, a tall, fair figure glimmered, just for a second; a flash of fire and ice in the golden sunset.

The White Laird of the Mountains; forever watching the borders, forever feeling the magical currents, forever listening to the murmurs of the souls in his care. The Final Sanctuary, for as long as Hogwarts castle stands.