-Severus-

Severus Snape paced in Minerva McGonagall's office. Twenty minutes ago, he had finally left the hospital wing after containing the curse on Katie Bell as best he could. The girl was alive but unresponsive and Poppy was arranging for her transfer to St. Mungo's. He had sought out Minerva immediately upon leaving the hospital wing and she had just filled him in on the part Harry had played in the event with the cursed necklace.

"He could have been killed! ANY of them could have touched that thing. As it is, I'm not sure that Miss Bell will recover fully, and she was wearing gloves when she touched it!"

"But they didn't, Severus. Calm down, please. As I understand it, Harry prevented Mr. Weasley from touching the necklace and only picked it up himself after wrapping it in his school scarf."

Snape brandished the scarf. The necklace it has contained was now encased in a locked box in the Headmaster's office. The Headmaster, of course, was off on one of his fact-finding "missions" and was not scheduled to return until tomorrow.

"This scarf? What if IT had had a hole? This cannot go on, Minerva. I have no control over Malfoy anymore. Someone is going to die, and it is unlikely to be his intended target."

"Malfoy was with me today, Severus, serving detention," said Minerva. Severus looked at her, surprised. "Now calm down. You are as bad as Harry. Would you like me to call the boy here so you can speak with him yourself?"

The pleading look he gave her held his answer. Minerva pushed a rather full glass of scotch across the table toward him and called Dobby while Severus dropped down into a sturdy armchair and reached for the glass with a shaky hand.

/

12 October, 1996

Saturday

Dear Harry:

This day has been a long one for me, and certainly for you. You may find it odd that I am writing this reply only hours after meeting with you in person in Minerva's office. After the events that transpired today, I am certainly on edge and even the physical evidence of you, hale and healthy, was not enough to put me at ease again. The curse on that necklace was not child's play but dark magic so deep that it would certainly have killed you had you picked it up with your bare hands. There is no sure way we can protect you—ANY of you—outside of Hogwarts. You must remain vigilant at every moment. Think of what Miss Bell's friend said—that she was not acting herself after she returned from the bathroom, that she was, as we now know, surely under the Imperius curse. Your vigilance must extend to the behavior of all those around you and you must alert me, Minerva or the Headmaster if anything—and I mean anything—seems out of place in any way.

I was in my quarters marking second year assignments today while you were making your way back from Hogsmeade. The clock, which now sits on my desk instead of my mantel, read "Traveling." When next I looked up, the hand had moved to "Mortal Peril." I had no sooner jumped to my feet when the hand moved back to "Traveling." I have already told you the rest—that I made it to the doors at the same time that Hagrid did and went with him and Miss Bell to the infirmary, that Hagrid told me you had been there when Katie was injured. I wonder if I should cover the clock with a cloth to save myself the gut-wrenching fear I experienced today, or change the hands all the hands to read "being his usual self."

Enough of this drama. We are all in need of an end to it. On to your previous letter. You may recall you wrote it after our last in-person meeting earlier this week. I hope you have had your fill of me of late—you are not likely to experience this degree of physical proximity again until the term break. I do not know why you found it odd that the squirrel found me to be such a suitable seat, so to speak. I am, I suspect, quite calm when compared to your teenage twitchiness, and therefore a squirrel magnet, so to speak. I must admit that spending the evening as we did, without the baggage of my evil Professor persona or our usual classroom enmity, smoothed the ragged peaks in my psyche as well. It was as if I had the most unnatural of deposits on my skin—callouses of pettiness and anger, raised scars left from barbs and jabs. The night seemed to smooth these away, leaving me closer to the even keel on which we departed September 1. Sand is a curious substance. It is rough, gritty and abrasive, yet leaves a smooth, unblemished and level surface.

I confess, as I must if I am to maintain this relationship with you that we fell into this summer, that I worry about you now even more so than when you were injured and ill this summer. You are finding it more difficult to trust in adults and depend on them now that you are back in this environment. I see that in your continued pursuit of the matter of Draco Malfoy. I am not telling you that he is innocent or that he should not be watched. Indeed, it will behoove you to keep your distance from him whenever possible. I am, however, telling you to trust me and the Headmaster to appropriately deal with him. You must not distract yourself with his doings nor endanger yourself in any way by getting between him and his game, whatever that may be. Harry—let it be.

And speaking of games, I am returning the chessboard with this letter. You will find yourself in "check," Harry. This may be an appropriate time to call in Mr. Weasley. I will not fault you if you do.

As your behavior in class on Friday—when I praised the shield spell you used at Quidditch practice and suggested you used it deliberately to denude your female fan club—was enough in-line to earn you another fact about your mother. I should hold out for more information from you on your hula hoop skills and expect an answer to my question on that subject in your next letter. However, as I am playing nice, here it is. Your mother's favorite ice cream flavor was mint chip. She was rather allergic to strawberries, as well as to bee stings. Perhaps that is why you are not meant to be a bumblebee.

I have risked a glance at the clock. It is half past midnight now and it has you in Gryffindor Tower where, I might add, you belong. I hope sleep has found you, and restful dreams.

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus re-read his letter, finding it satisfactory if not a bit too revealing of his emotional state during the day. At this point, however, there was no real reason to hide it. After all, he'd shown his hand earlier today in Minerva's office. When Harry had knocked on the door only ten minutes after Minerva had sent Dobby off to find him—just long enough for Snape to get down a healthy portion of scotch—and Minerva had bade him enter, Severus had been on him in a trice, grabbing his shoulders and, because he was too insecure to hug him, shaking him until Minerva had to maneuver herself between them to make him stop. He'd dropped back into his chair, grabbing his head and muttering "Sorry" until Harry himself had knelt down next to his chair, apologizing to Severus and promising to be more careful. "It's all right," he said. "I'm fine. Really, Severus, I'm fine."

It was the first time he'd called him Severus in person.

-Harry-

Harry read the letter from Severus one more time. He would keep this one, as he kept them all, words hidden behind the secrecy spell, rolled up and stored in the corner of his school trunk. But he wanted to remember parts of this letter in particular, the part about the gut-wrenching fear, and about the sand, the substance that was an equalizer for the two, filling in Harry's emptiness, wearing down the calloused spots on Severus' soul.

He had a lot to write about this evening. He, Ron and Hermione were sitting in the library tonight, preparing for a Charms exam on Thursday. Katie Bell had been sent to St. Mungo's—Harry had tried to visit her on Sunday and Madam Pomfrey had told him then. He didn't like the look on her face when she told him. It didn't speak of hope and the promise that she'd be back in class—and back on her broom—by the end of the week. He was a bit behind in his studies already as he's spent the previous evening with Professor Dumbledore, exploring Dumbledore's own memory of the first time he'd met Tom Riddle as a little boy in the orphanage in London. Tonight he'd managed to complete his Defense and Transfiguration essays and had revised the reading assignments and his notes for the Charms exam. Across the table, Hermione was studying diligently, a half dozen or more reference books piled up around her, creating a low castle wall to shield her from his gaze. He glanced at Ron who was sitting next to him, across from Hermione. Ron was checking his chess move on the post-owl chessboard and shaking his head. He looked at Harry and rolled his eyes as he bent over the board to study it some more. Harry knew he was trying to figure out Snape's strategy and make some excuse for Harry's lack thereof. He'd be at it for a while.

15 October, 1996

Tuesday

Dear Severus:

I'll admit straight up that Ron is helping with my next chess move. He's been looking at the game for fifteen minutes now, shaking his head. If he could play Quidditch like he can play chess…no, forget I said that.

I found out they sent Katie to St. Mungo's. Do you know what is going on with her? Madam Pomfrey has me really worried—she didn't look very hopeful when I tried to visit Katie on Sunday. Listen, I'm really worried. It's not just about Quidditch, though she was our most experienced chaser. I'm guessing you know more than I do, as they'd have to have told the teachers when to expect her back in class.

I went down to Hagrid's after classes today to see the owlets. They're nearly grown now, and Hagrid is starting to feed them whole mice. It's rather disgusting, I suppose, but after more than five years of making potions from pickled newt spleens and parboiled rat tails, not much phases me anymore. And even though I'm not taking Care of Magical Creatures anymore, Hagrid set aside one of them for me to train! It's a male that I've been calling him "McKenzie" after the priest in Eleanor Rigby, but Hagrid has shortened it to "Mac." Mac is more solitary than the other owls—hence the name and why I picked him out. There's just something about him. He seems older than the others, somehow.

I love mint chip ice cream. It's one of the first flavors I ever tried at Fortescue's in Diagon Alley. Was Fortescue's around when you and my mum were at Hogwarts? Or did you have it in the Muggle world? By the way, thanks for making all my classmates think I'm a pervert (they're calling me Pervy Potter now) and that I deliberately made all those girls naked! How could I POSSIBLY have known what spell they'd lobbed at me? I was on a broom on the Quidditch pitch, not hunkering down behind them spying on them in the stands! I just saw them all pointing their wands our way and naturally threw up a shield spell. When I saw what the spells did when they bounced back on them I about fell off my broom. It was like a mass riot! They were in full panic mode, screeching and crouching down under the seats for cover. Hermione had to go over and start conjuring robes for them. Anyway, I think Ron was a bit miffed at Hermione for that piece of help. Ginny had to hit him on the back of the head to get him to look away. I of course was the perfect gentleman and kept my eyes averted. OK, I was kind of forced to as my beaters knocked themselves out running into each other trying to get a closer look at our naked fan club. I am glad they were finally disbanded. I mean, if you're going to have a boy-ogling fan club, why not call it that instead of pretending they like Quidditch?

Well, last night I had another session with Professor Dumbledore. This time, he pulled out some of his own memories. Apparently, he was the one sent from Hogwarts to tell Tom Riddle that he was a wizard and was on the list to attend Hogwarts. This has to be 100 years ago or so—there was a horse drawn carriage on the street in London, anyway. I've never really thought about how old Voldemort is…well, when he was born anyway. Not sure if you count someone's age by how old their current body is or from the year they were born forward. You know what I mean. Is he one and a half or eighty? Anyway, he's got to be about the same age as Hagrid, right? Since they were at Hogwarts together? It's just hard to imagine how old Hagrid is. I've never looked up the lifespan of half-giants. Wait—I'll just ask Hermione. She's sitting right here at the table. I'm sure she'll know and if not, we're in the library and she'll have an answer in five minutes! What else would you like to know while I have her on the hook? How much bigger (or smaller) their brains are than the average person?

I think the whole idea of the memory last night was to show me that Voldemort was already set on his path even before he came to Hogwarts. I don't feel sorry for him, really, even though he grew up in an orphanage and his mother was dead and his father abandoned them. He didn't have to be bitter and angry about it, did he? He didn't have to treat the other kids so poorly. He could have tried having friends—there were certainly enough other kids at that orphanage. No, what bothers me is that he was a wizard, and down on the list for Hogwarts, but no one bothered to check out how he was doing, or find a wizarding family to take him in. He just grew up in that orphanage until one day a stranger comes by with the offer of a boarding school in Scotland, and a fantastic story that he could do magic. And he had to go back to that orphanage in the summer, too. It doesn't make any sense to me.

I remember what you told me this summer, the night before we went to St. Mungo's from the flat in London. You said "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Look how strong it made Tom Riddle. That worries me. A lot.

Do you know how to make an antidote to a love potion?

Regards,

Harry

/

Ron had pushed the chessboard parchment over to Harry right as he was rolling up the homework parchment on which he'd written the letter.

"Will that save me?" whispered Harry, looking at the move Ron had indicated on the board.

"Maybe," whispered Ron. "You started out OK but missed his intent on the third round. This move gets you out of check and starts a more proper offensive."

Harry smiled at his best friend. "Thanks, Ron," he said. He had a feeling this would be Ron's chess game from here on, but figured he'd learn a lot about strategy from watching it play out. He tucked the chessboard parchment and the letter into his Charms text book and read it again as he pretended to study Charms. He wondered if Snape would notice he hadn't mentioned Malfoy at all. He'd made the conscious decision to drop the matter, at least in the letters. He wasn't making any promises yet, however, with real life. Instead, he'd take a piece of Snape's advice and remain vigilant. If anyone at Hogwarts bore watching, it was Draco Malfoy.

-Severus-

Albus has summoned him to his office on Wednesday afternoon after classes to tell him that he would be gone again on the weekend and would he and Minerva sit through all four Quidditch practices, just to keep an eye on things? Severus agreed, albeit grudgingly, but only on the condition that Minerva would also agree, and would bring Irish coffee this time.

Sixth year Defense class had been more stressful than usual that day. Harry had been late to class, and Severus had immediately docked ten points from Gryffindor. Harry didn't protest, sliding into his seat quietly. He looked like he hadn't slept well and Severus suddenly remembered that he himself had been up half the night with a migraine. It had been painful, and annoying, but simply a part of life that he'd been putting up with for many years. He hadn't even considered how it would affect Harry now that they shared this connection.

He found Harry watching him intently during class. He could read the worry in his eyes and considered keeping the boy after class to assure him that he was fine; that he hadn't been called; that he was just plagued with occasional migraines and one had come on last night.

He thought better of it as class went on. He shouldn't slip at all, let down his carefully constructed façade even once. Fortunately, the entire class seemed to be performing abysmally and he had the opportunity to rant at them as a whole. "It's bad enough that I was up half the night with a migraine and you are not helping my mood with your third-year performance!"

Harry gazed at him intently for a moment and apparently accepted his statement. Severus tested him, flinging an insult his way about inability to do a simple shaving charm. Who had taught him, Hagrid?

The comment won the approval of the Slytherins. Harry, however, remained silent and did not appear amused.

/

17 October, 1996

Thursday

Dear Harry:

I should have told you some time ago about my migraines. They are, unfortunately, quite unpredictable. I am not as likely to have them in the summertime, for some reason, and last night's was the first I'd experienced in several months. The one last night was not terribly severe as migraines go. I have taken several doses of migraine headache potion to Madam Pomfrey for your use. Please pick these up from her and avail yourself of them as needed if I have another similar attack.

That being said, it has been nearly a month since I have had "to leave the castle" as you say. I am hopeful that your Animagus transformation will have progressed enough by Christmas that you will be able to shield yourself behind your animal mind instead of relying on the deep Occlumency you depend on now when I have to leave again. Until that time, do what you must to avoid further damage to yourself when I must go.

I suppose I owe you something about your mother after belittling your shaving charm today in class. I taught your mother to play chess when we were ten years old, a year before coming to Hogwarts. It took her six years before she beat me. After she beat me, she never played against me again.

I think McKinzie is an appropriate name for a post owl. Be sure to introduce Hedwig to him early on before she gets wind of him and gets jealous. Familiars are not as unforgiving as you might imagine them to be.

Why don't you ask Hagrid what years he attended Hogwarts? You will also find yearbooks going back more than a hundred years in the library. Please do not make an effort to look for me in those books, though you may find me skulking about if you are looking for photos of your parents or godfather. I was not the most photogenic of children.

I think, Harry, that your outrage—no, perhaps outrage is too strong a word for the emotion you are feeling—on behalf of the boy left in the orphanage is, perhaps, outrage on your own behalf. You cannot help but see the parallels between your life and Tim Riddle's and if you are normal in any way, shape or form, those parallels will bother you. The Headmaster is striving to help you reach your own conclusions, of course, but to cut to the chase, he is showing you that two boys of similar backgrounds and life circumstances chose two very different paths. You know that you, too, were placed in an orphanage of sorts, in a place where you neither felt at home nor had parents to call your own. You were both neglected and isolated. The wizarding world ignored you both until you were of age to attend Hogwarts. At that time, you both did great things, but with different intent. Harry, consider the outcome, not the circumstances. You could have become bitter, disenchanted, vindictive. You did not. Whether that was the result of nature or nurture, blind luck or divine intervention, no one knows. I suspect the Headmaster will set a task for you and the successful completion of this difficult task will depend on your ability to understand Tom Riddle and to know his mind. Do not allow pity for the child to color the picture of your enemy. "Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories."

Tell me Harry, how did Tom Riddle's experiences in the orphanage make him stronger? And how did yours at the Dursleys?

You asked about Miss Bell. The faculty has been told that she will recover, most likely fully, but that she may spend months in the hospital. The recovery will be slow as she regains the energy and magic depleted by the curse's attack.

Love potions? Please give me more to go on. Are you intending to make one or imbibe one?

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus spread out the chessboard parchment on the table and studied the chessboard he had set up on the table, making sure he had the pieces set up correctly. The move Mr. Weasley had made was a strong one. He'd have to pay more attention to the game now—it wouldn't do to be bested by a 16-year-old Gryffindor.

Suddenly, Severus laughed out loud.

Bested by a 16-year-old Gryffindor.

He may as well throw in the towel right now. A 16-year-old Gryffindor has been besting him all summer and it was getting harder and harder to feel the least bit annoyed by it. He glanced at his clock. The hand was stuck between "Gryffindor Tower" and "Somewhere Safe." Curious.

Up in Gryffindor Tower, Harry was dreaming and in his dream, he was sitting on the beach at Shell Cottage, smoothing the damp sand with his hand.