Harry stormed up the stairs, unable to bear their well-meaning platitudes and concerned glances one second longer. Where was all that when he'd been shut up at the Dursley's for weeks on end? Bit rich of them to sit there now, acting all shocked and worried, as if he was the unreasonable one! After he'd been left alone with nothing but his grief and the ruddy Dursleys for company for a month! He'd every right to be bloody angry.

He turned onto the landing, considering the corridor in front of him. He contemplated his and Ron's room for all of a second— no, he didn't want to be somewhere others could get to him. He didn't trust himself not to scream at anyone who came too close right now. But where could he go? He turned back to the staircase and kept climbing.

Though Mrs Weasley had had a year to get the house to rights, some of the rooms on the third floor were still untouched— there was already more than enough space for the Order's purposes, after all, and time was precious. They'd been banned from entering the remaining rooms, of course, but then, reasoned Harry, it was his bloody house! Sirius had left it to him. Why shouldn't he go wherever he pleased? And no one would think to look for him up here either. It could be a bit dangerous, theoretically, but what of that? He was marked for death anyway, thanks to the prophecy.

Harry continued down the corridor, not pulled in any one direction, waiting to see if any room in particular took his fancy. As he continued, he heard something. Or thought he did. He stopped, straining to listen, and stepped back a few paces, the floorboards creaking beneath him. Voices. Whispering voices. They reminded him of the Veil. Of Sirius. There wouldn't be a veil in Grimmauld Place though, surely?

His ear to the door, he could hear them. Murmurs, not fully audible. No recognisable words. Withdrawing his wand, he placed his hand hesitantly on the doorknob, and turned.

The room he entered was cluttered, coated in dust and grey in the half-light that filtered in through the thin, closed curtains. If Harry had to guess, he'd have said it was once a study— a large table or desk was against one wall, covered by a draped sheet to keep away dirt and scratches. There were boxes everywhere. Harry could see why this room had been left; not big enough to be of any real use, filled to the rafters with boxes and likely teeming with dark artefacts.

But his attention was drawn to an object, covered by a sheet, towards the left of the room. It reminded him immediately of the Mirror of Erised— the domed shape, the thin profile. He could hear the whispers from beneath the sheet that covered it, and fancied that he could see light around the edges, as if it were a window with a view to a sunny day beyond. A part of him advised him to leave it alone, to fetch someone, but he'd never been good at leaving mysteries unanswered, and found himself drawing closer, shifting boxes and furniture to clear a path.

In a few short minutes he stood in front of it, the noises louder here. No longer murmuring— he thought he could hear shuffling, the shifting of heavy items. The occasional word maybe- the voices sounded familiar. He reached out a hand and, with a smooth motion, dragged the sheet off the object, causing a plume of dust to rise into the air as he did so.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, covering the sharp intake of breath. In the mirror– for it seemed to be a mirror, though it did not show his reflection– he saw a room beyond, very similar to the one in which he now stood. But he was not there. Or rather, he was, but on his knees, some distance away from the mirror itself, sorting through boxes. Harry turned to look behind himself— no one was there. He turned again to look into the mirror, observing carefully.

It was him, no doubt about that, but it was also not him. His glasses were different– rectangular and black– lending a more mature countenance to his face overall. His hair was different too; longer, tied in a ponytail hanging down his back, no longer untamable, possibly due to its length. He was dressed differently— wearing robes, but not his Hogwarts robes or his formal dress robes. Something in-between; casual robes, like those worn by Remus, yet in a finer fabric. Dark green and well-made, arranged neatly around his legs as he knelt on the floor, up to his elbows in a box marked, 'books'.

"Harry?" came a voice from the mirror, faint but easily distinguishable as his name.

"In here!" called Mirror-Harry, without pausing in his perusal of the book he'd most recently lifted from his box. Harry turned his attention to the open doorway behind his alternate self, wanting to see who emerged, before cursing himself silently for his idiocy— what if the mirror people could see him, too? Who were they? Were they an illusion, created by his own mind, like in the Mirror of Erised? Or something sentient— dangerous? He moved to the side, out of the immediate eyeline of the mirror, and, crouching low, situated himself between two boxes, looking through the gap between them at the mirror beyond.

Behind Mirror-Harry, a tall dark shape appeared, black robes billowing around its legs and contrasting sharply with the pale face above them, framed by limp black curtains of hair. Snape! Or Mirror-Snape, Harry supposed, glancing behind himself again, seeking reassurance that the horrifying apparition was not, in fact, standing in the room with Harry.

Harry returned his attention to the mirror once more, as Mirror-Snape cast his eye appraisingly around the room he had entered before fixing his gaze on Mirror-Harry. Harry did a double-take at the expression on the man's face. There was no look of hatred, no sneer of disdain. The look on his face was relaxed, conveying an emotion that a disinterested onlooker might mistake for fondness.

"Have you found anything of interest?" the man enquired mildly, and Harry was once again struck by the lack of venom, this time in the man's tone of voice. Since the very first register the man had taken in the very first potions class of Harry's first year, Snape had always spoken to him with thinly-veiled contempt, at best, and obvious loathing at worst. This Snape seemed almost friendly in manner, and it was so incongruous with Harry's experience of the man so far that he became convinced that this must be an image created by the mirror, and it hadn't gotten it even remotely right.

"Are you asking me to judge books by their covers?" asked Mirror-Harry, and it was utterly bizarre to hear his voice coming out of that... that impression of him. It was, Harry imagined, akin to how Aunt Petunia always exclaimed over how strange her voice sounded on video. Harry had no personal experience, because of course they'd never bothered to capture him on film.

Mirror-Snape snorted –snorted!– and offered a mug to Mirror-Harry, who brushed his hands together to rid them of dust before accepting it. Snape cast an expectant look at Harry's counterpart.

"Well, as we thought, they're mainly dark-arts," expounded Harry's mirror-self, with a grin, "written in a variety of languages, including one or two I don't even recognise, never mind speak. It'll be worth going through them when we get back; there might be something useful. I think this one looks promising," he grabbed one from the top of the pile next to him and handed it over to Snape, who regarded it with interest, flicking open the front cover, his eyes shooting across the page as Mirror-Harry sipped on whatever was in the cup.

It looked quite companionable, and Harry couldn't get over the unlikeliness of the scene. And what had his mirror-self meant by, 'when we get back?' Where would they be returning to together? Hogwarts? Why would Snape go with him on an outing from Hogwarts?

"What have you got the house elf doing?" asked Mirror-Harry, in between sips.

Mirror-Snape answered without looking up, "General disinfection. The thing is clearly mad, of course, so I've little faith that its efforts will make any discernible impact on the filth." He raised his head to meet the gaze of Mirror-Harry. "Once we've cleared everything of danger and value, it might be worth paying someone to come and sort out the rest."

Mirror-Harry hummed thoughtfully. "I wondered about Lupin."

"The wolf?" Snape sneered. This, at least, thought Harry, was a believable reaction.

"Do we know any other Lupins? I thought maybe he could come and take this place on as a project. I could pay him for it and it'd give him a place to live."

Snape seemed to bite back his gut response and paused, thoughtfully. "The idea has merit," he intoned, slowly. "You know my opinion of the wolf, but he is competent enough to deal with the... unique charms of your newly-acquired property, and considers himself honest enough not to take what is rightfully yours. You may, however, find that he is inclined to keep from you anything he feels is too dangerous for you to handle, and he is likely to pass any such objects on to the headmaster, who may or may not deign to inform you of their existence."

Mirror-Harry frowned. "Could I write something into a contract to prevent that?"

"Potentially. As you know, legal matters are not my forte— we would need to seek advice. Now," he cast his eyes around once more, "would you like to continue in this room?"

Mirror-Harry nodded, "I've still got these books to work through. You could start over there?" He gestured in the vague direction of the back of the room. Towards the mirror.

Harry held his breath as Mirror-Snape worked his way around the room beyond the mirror, mind in a whirl thinking of all that he had overheard. Newly-acquired property.... Had Mirror-Harry also inherited Grimmauld Place? And why was Mirror-Harry seeking Snape's advice? Referring to Remus as Lupin? Why did Snape refer to Harry by his given name? The smooth baritone of Snape's voice drew Harry's attention away from his thoughts and back to the mirror.

"This is an intriguing object."

"The mirror?" came Mirror-Harry's absent-minded query, his nose in yet another book.

"Indeed. Though I don't believe it is a mirror, per se."

"No?"

"No. It doesn't reflect— it is more of a window than a mirror."

Harry could see where Mirror-Snape stood, large as life now he was up close to the mirror's other side, clearly perusing the details around the edge. Mirror-Harry came to stand alongside him, and Harry was surprised to see that his mirror self was only slightly shorter than Snape. Significantly taller than Harry himself.

Mirror-Harry read aloud, "Fenestra ad alium mundum- window to another world. Have you heard of this before?"

"In passing," replied Snape, "The window of Alium, it is said, shows a reality that is different to our own in one key way. Its use is to answer questions- the sort of, 'What ifs' that plague those who suffer with a proclivity for introspection."

"Oh." Mirror-Harry (or Alium-Harry, if Alium-Snape was to be believed,) moved to peer more closely into the artefact, but Alium-Snape caught his arm and pulled him back sharply. "Have I taught you nothing, Potter? NEVER touch a potentially dark object. For all you know, you might be trapped in there forever."

Alium-Harry flushed slightly, muttering his apologies as Snape softened his expression before returning his attention to the Alium.

"What do you see, Harry?" Snape asked, speaking in a softer tone than the scolding bark of a moment ago. Alium-Harry peered closer, this time careful not to lean too far.

"It looks like a mirror image of this room, more or less, but without you and I." His voice slowed as he deliberated, cataloguing the differences, "The box of books is still closed. There has been a disturbance though, like someone recently cleared a path to the mirror... Do you think we're being watched?"

"Very good," remarked Snape, a note of genuine approval in his voice that Harry had only heard directed at Malfoy, and then only rarely. "Care to conjecture as to the identity of our observer? We should be safe from here, but to be certain..." Snape raised his wand and muttered under his breath, causing a wall of blue to flash momentarily across the mirror, or window, if alternate Snape was to be believed. "That should prevent ingress of spells or matter."

"If I had to guess," said Alium-Harry, somewhat hesitantly, "I'd say a member of the Black family, or maybe even my alternate self. Or yours." Snape motioned with his hand for Harry's counterpart to elaborate. The other Harry continued, "This is the ancestral home of the Black family, which makes one of them a possibility, if they're not all dead in this alternate world. But then," he paused, thinking if over, "from what you said about the mirror, it deals in what-ifs, so maybe it's your alternate self, or mine."

"I'd say it's most likely to be yours," opined Snape, "Given that whoever it is has left a very obvious trail and chosen a rather conspicuous hiding place." At this, a pair of obsidian eyes locked on to Harry's with precision. "Come out then, Mr Potter. I promise you, we mean no harm."

Heart hammering, Harry considered his options. They knew where he was, and who he was. They were just figures in a mirror, he reasoned (carefully ignoring what the man in the mirror had said about possible 'ingress of matter'). They didn't seem like they wanted to hurt him. And he'd really like to ask some questions. Decision made, he slowly rose to a stand, allowing himself to be illuminated by the dim light that escaped into the room through the thin curtains on the far wall.

Alternate-Harry's eyes widened, but Snape simply nodded a greeting, maintaining an air of complete control over the situation, as if he regularly conversed with other versions of his students. "Thank you, Mr Potter," he said. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The cordiality was jarring. Harry slowly nodded in return, still working to process the surreal nature of the situation in which he found himself. He gathered himself a moment more and stepped towards the mirror, meeting first the eyes of Snape, then of his alternate self. As he had thought, he was a full head shorter than his Alium double.

The eyes of his other self roved over Harry, seeming to note the height difference. Harry felt rather self-conscious about the state of Dudley's hand me downs–he'd chosen some of his worst for the chores Mrs Weasley had planned for them that day– and he shifted slightly under the scrutiny. Alium-Harry's eyes found his again, and an expression of concern wound its way across his face. Harry felt a familiar flash of irritation-–why did everyone find it necessary to pity him?!– but the next words out of his alternate self's mouth shocked him out of his rising temper.

"You still live with the Dursley's, I take it?"

Stunned, Harry simply nodded. His alternate self grimaced, while Snape simply frowned at him, his expression grave. "I'm sorry to hear that," said Harry's alternate self, those green eyes unwavering. Harry actually found the intensity of their gaze slightly unnerving, and wondered if his friends ever felt similarly.

In response to the question, Harry shrugged, "They're not that bad really." Alium-Harry shot him a disbelieving look, with a significant glance at Dudley's hand-me-downs, but said nothing. Harry felt incredibly uncomfortable. There had been plenty of significant looks from his friends and the occasional muttered comment from Mrs Weasley over the years, but it felt different to have them coming from someone who undoubtedly knew everything, rather than suspected. Or, rather, from someone who knew everything and still thought it worthy of such attention— it really wasn't that bad.

"Well then," began Snape, in a slow drawl, drawing both Harrys' attention to him, "What purpose has summoned you to this," he regarded the room around him with a sneer, "...delightful compendium of clutter?"

Alium-Harry rolled his eyes at Snape. "You could just ask him why he's here."'

Snape sniffed, "Remind me to procure a better thesaurus for you. Precision is vital, in prose as in potions."

"No, you're completely right," conceded Alium-Harry, "I don't know what I was thinking. Why say something in four words when you can say it in a dozen?"

"I am pleased that you see it my way," replied Snape, dryly, for all the world as if he were serious, but Harry noted a slight curve to his lip.

His alternate self grinned at Snape in response before throwing an apologetic look Harry's way, "Sorry. You should probably just answer the question."

Harry had been completely thrown by the familiarity with which his alternate self teased the normally irascible potions master (in what reality or universe or whatever this was could that ever be a possibility?) and it took him a moment before he could formulate an answer to the question.

At length, he shrugged. "Just exploring."

Snape frowned at this, while Alium-Harry furrowed his brow, looking curious.

"Do you spend much time at Grimmauld?" Alium-Harry asked, brushing some dust off his robes. "It's just that if you don't, it's a bit of a coincidence that we're here at the same time, don't you think?"

"I'm staying here at the moment," Harry explained. "It's the headquarters of Ord.... the old crowd," he corrected, hastily.

Alium-Harry raised his eyebrows quizzically. "The old crowd?"

"The Order of the Phoenix," clarified Snape, quietly, "A group dedicated to resistance of the Dark Lord, headed by Albus Dumbledore. Currently disbanded, in our reality at least, since the Dark Lord's defeat fifteen years ago."

Alium-Harry looked horrified. "Wasn't he defeated in your world?"

Harry found a covered table to perch on. He sensed this would be a long conversation.

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

He explained to the pair, as briefly as he could manage, the history of Voldemort in his timeline, from his defeat and the death of Harry's parents, leading through to the events of this summer and the death of Sirius. He did notice that his alternate self looked uncomfortable every time he used Voldemort's name, which surprised him— it had never bothered Harry at all. Snape and Alium-Harry let him finish before they all lapsed into silence, while Harry watched as some dust motes danced in a ray of sunlight from the gap in the curtains. After a moment, Harry's alternate self spoke, his voice soft and laced with a sympathy that, somehow, Harry didn't mind.

"So now, Sirius is gone, you've got to destroy all the horcruxes, sort out your scar and kill the resurrected Dark Lord?" He shook his head and looked at Harry sadly. "I'm really sorry, Harry, especially about your godfather."

Harry wanted to ask what his Alium-self meant by that- what were horcruxes? And that bit about his scar? However, suspicion had stolen into his heart and demanded to be addressed. "Why do you call him the Dark Lord?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he stared at his counterpart accusingly.

His alternate self looked at him in surprise. "What else should I call him? You-Know-Who? Or, the even longer and more unwieldy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Voldemort," replied Harry, shortly. "Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself," he finished, repeating what Dumbledore had told him back in his first year at Hogwarts.

Alium-Harry chuckled darkly. "Yeah, Dumbledore tried that one on me as well. He failed to mention that using the name causes pain to all those carrying the dark mark in the vicinity."

This stilled Harry and his sense of righteousness, and he quizzically glanced at Snape, who looked mildly irritated at the admission, but nodded in confirmation. Harry's brows knitted together in consternation.The reaction of the Snape he knew to Voldemort's name suddenly made rather a lot of sense. "I'm sorry," he said, seriously, "I had no idea."

His counterpart brushed it off. "You couldn't have known. I'd like it if you'd stop now though. It's safer that way, anyway; at the height of his power, the Dark Lord placed a taboo on his name- saying it aloud would cause the Death Eaters to apparate directly to you. It's not a helpful habit to get into, particularly given that he's back in your world."

Harry nodded, but felt a sense of bewilderment. "Why would Dumbledore encourage us to, then?"

The other Harry shrugged and Harry silently admired his alternate self's robes as they shifted around him in response. Mrs Weasley had been right; he did look good in green. "Dumbledore probably doesn't fear the Death Eaters. Then again, he's not a teenager prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord."

Harry frowned. "Why the Dark Lord though? Why not You-Know-Who?"

"Habit." His counterpart answered. "It's how I hear him referred to most often."

"To explain," continued Harry's alternate self, obviously noting Harry's confusion, "I'll need to let you know the difference between our worlds. It was obvious from quite early on in your story, actually." He paused, as if weighing up his next words. "Did the sorting hat, by any chance, want to put you in Slytherin?"

Harry felt his jaw slacken slightly. "It did," he admitted, "but I asked it not to. How did you know?" he asked, curiously.

"Well, it wanted to put me in Slytherin too," explained his alter-self. "The difference is that I let it."

Harry's mouth fell open. "You're in Slytherin?" He asked, horror evident in his tone.

"Yep."

"With Malfoy?"

Alium-Harry let out a snort of amusement. "Yes. He was a bit off-putting at first– well, an utter prat, actually– but he's improved now, right?" This last he directed at the man standing beside him.

Snape inclined his head in agreement. "I believe," he drawled, "That you have been a good influence on Mr Malfoy. In the main," he narrowed his eyes at the younger man, who beamed at the praise, "Though Merlin knows his father would not agree."

"So, what, Malfoy's nice in your world?" Harry queried, incredulity in his voice.

"Well," his other self amended, "to say nice would be pushing it a bit, but he's been alright. I actually feel quite sorry for him, you know," Alium-Harry, added, leaving Harry to stare at him sceptically. "No, really! He is a decent bloke once you get to know him, underneath it all. He's capable of pity and compassion and everything normal, but he's never been allowed to show it. He has to repress everything good about himself to please his father, has had to since he was small." Alium-Harry shrugged. "It's tough on him."

Harry contemplated this for a moment; it was not a thought that had occurred to him before, and he resolved to think it over later, but didn't add anything in response to his alternate-self.

"Anyway," continued Alium-Harry, with a wry smile, seeing that he was not going to get a response, "you spend five years living with people who call him the Dark Lord and try not to pick it up!"

Harry had lots of questions about this-–what was life like in Slytherin? Had anyone tried to kill him?– but one pushed all the others to one side as it fought its way to the front. "So, is that why you two get along? Because you," he gestured at his counterpart, "are in Slytherin?"

The pair in the Alium exchanged a significant look, and it seemed as though a silent conversation were being held.

Finally, alternate Harry began to answer the question. "I suppose," he began, somewhat hesitantly, "it does make a big difference that Severus is my head of house. We probably wouldn't have anything to do with each other if he weren't."

Harry didn't think that was the whole answer. "I get on well enough with McGonagall," he said sceptically, "but I'm not spending my free time with her. And we don't speak to each other like you do."

"Well," said Alium-Harry, slowly, "There's a reason for that." He lapsed into silence though, seemingly at a loss for how to explain further, looking at Harry cautiously, as if worried he'd say something to upset him.

"Allow me to explain," Snape began, casting a reassuring glance at the young man beside him. He spoke in a calm, measured voice, but his expression was grave, as if delivering news he knew may be unpleasant for Harry to hear. "When Harry was in first year, I noticed that all was not well for him, in terms of his home life. At length, I persuaded the headmaster that he should not be sent back there for the entirety of each summer, and I have been his de facto guardian since that time. Which is why our relationship is somewhat closer than that of a typical student and their head of house."

Harry stared for a long moment, temporarily robbed of the power of speech. "You're his guardian?" He began, eventually, his voice coloured by doubt and an undertone of anger. "You? But you hate me!"

When Snape's eyes met Harry's, they were so soft and compassionate that Harry couldn't see his potions professor in them at all. It unnerved him, and so he turned his attention to his own counterpart before Snape could respond. "What does that mean for you, then?" he asked, "that he's your," he paused before uttering the word, "guardian?"

"Essentially," said Alium-Harry, slowly and cautiously, in a low voice, as if Harry were a cornered animal he was trying not to frighten. "I have a bedroom in his quarters at Hogwarts and one at his home. I spend most of my breaks living with him. I do spend two weeks a year at the Dursley's though, for the wards. Severus keeps monitoring charms on me the entire time, and comes by every so often to check in."

Harry nodded his understanding, ignoring a flash of envy at the other boy's freedom from his aunt and uncle, but his alternate self continued. "He also takes me shopping for school supplies and stuff, talks to me about anything that bothers me. We meet every week during term just to have dinner, and talk or play chess." He shrugged. "Normal stuff people usually do with their parents, I guess."

Harry didn't know what to say to this. He couldn't comprehend the idea of Snape as anyone's parental figure, much less his own, so he simply stood there a moment, before turning back to look at Snape, who had thankfully regained his usual unreadable expression.

"Why would you be his guardian?" Harry asked again, quietly, ready this time to wait for an answer. "In my world, you hate me."

Snape regarded him carefully. "I can well imagine that," he said. "When Harry arrived at Hogwarts, I was fully prepared to act as if I hated him- when the Dark Lord rose again, I would not then be in a position which I could be expected to exploit in order to deliver Harry to his demise. I intended to ensure that Harry would not trust me, that any children asked by their parents would immediately reply that I clearly hated him, and him, me." Snape's eyes continued to assess Harry carefully throughout his speech, and Harry felt that Snape was concerned for him, though why this might be he didn't want to consider.

Snape continued, "However, he was sorted into Slytherin. I immediately perceived that my plan would no longer work. Peace in Slytherin house is predicated on presenting a united front and I could not justify treating a Slytherin Harry Potter as I would have treated a Gryffindor one. Besides which, as his head of house, I already held a great deal of influence over him, which no amount of animosity could do away with. As such, I elected to treat him as I would any other Slytherin."

"So how come you adopted him?" demanded Harry. "Or are you telling me you spend summers with all your Slytherins?"

"I did not adopt him," corrected Snape. "I became his guardian; there is a precedent for heads of houses to take on guardianship of members of their houses temporarily when there is a need, so I was the logical person for the headmaster to look to when the need arose. I would not, perhaps, have taken the role more permanently had he been someone else. However, the headmaster agreed that he is safest with me, for as long as the Dark Lord is unable to return— I am a member of the Order, an able duelist, was able to put my home under the strongest of protections due to not sharing it with anyone else, and of course, there is the vow."

"The vow?" queried Harry.

Snape nodded. "An unbreakable vow I made when Harry was still in nappies— I promised on my life and my magic to protect him to the best of my ability."

Harry's eyes went as round as saucers. "Why would you do that?" he breathed, incredulously.

"It is a rather long story," Snape hesitated. "However, I suppose if you wish to hear it…"

Harry nodded repeatedly. "Yes please, sir," he said, hoping that the honorific would help.

Snape raised an eyebrow slightly, but continued regardless. "If you insist," he said, and began.

"Your mother and I grew up together," he began, his voice soft and low, "and we were very close for a time. However,"

"Wait," interrupted Harry. "You were friends with my mum?"

Snape took a very deliberate breath, and Harry became convinced that, regardless of how dissimilar the Alium world was from his own, the Snape there despised repeating himself as much as the one from his own world did. "I was," confirmed Snape, after a moment. "We grew up together in a small town called Cokeworth in the West Midlands. She remained my best friend until an incident in our fifth year."

"When you called her a mudblood," breathed Harry, horrified at the realisation of just how much Snape had lost that day. Harry hadn't just viewed his utter humiliation in that pensieve, he'd watched the loss of his best friend. He now felt even worse about looking into the pensieve than he had before.

Snape nodded, but narrowed his eyes as though wondering how Harry had come by that particular bit of information. To Harry's relief though, he said nothing more on the subject, instead continuing on with his tale. "While working as a Death Eater, I informed the Dark Lord of a prophecy I had overheard. I did not put any stock in it- Trelawney was widely renowned as a fraud- but the Dark Lord unfortunately took the news very seriously. This led to the Potter family being placed into hiding under Fidelius and, subsequently, to the deaths of Harry's mother and father."

Harry gasped in shock and the beginnings of outrage but made no move to speak, not wanting to miss the end of this tale, forcing himself to listen even through his rising anger. "It was the worst mistake I have ever made," continued Snape. "Upon realising who the Dark Lord would be targeting, I immediately went to the headmaster and pledged my services, in return for his protection of Harry's mother. He asked me to make the vow as proof of my loyalty, and it has bound me since. This formed part of the reason that the headmaster agreed to my guardianship of Harry. I cannot say, of course, whether the vow was also taken by my alternate self in your world, though I suspect it will have been, given that he teaches at Hogwarts."

As this sunk in, Harry felt the rage coiled in his chest begin to unleash. "You're telling me," he began, in a dangerous whisper, "That Snape," he spat out the word like it was poisonous, "is the reason my parents are dead? The reason I had to grow up with the Dursleys? And knowing that, he still treated me like something he'd stepped on for five years?" He glared a challenge at the two opposite him, but, being only met with sympathetic expressions, he soon turned away. He wanted to rage and storm, but he also wanted the answers to his questions, and he didn't know if he'd be able to find these two again to answer them if he left now. Nobody else seemed to have the slightest inclination to tell him anything. Besides which, if he kicked boxes and hurled things across the room the way he wanted to, half the Order would come running. There wasn't even any room to pace! So Harry sat in silence for several minutes, glaring at his shoes and clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to get his anger under control, until he eventually felt calm enough to speak again.

"How are you OK with this?" he asked, finally, dragging his gaze up from the floor to meet the compassionate expression of his counterpart. "He," Harry pointed to Alium-Snape, "gave your family to Voldemort!"

"Don't say the name!" admonished Alium-Harry.

"I don't bloody care," gritted out Harry, refraining from shouting it only to avoid attracting the attention of the rest of Grimmauld Place, "about the bloody name! They were our parents! And even if they hadn't been, it was always a baby, a family going to be torn apart, and he went to tell VOLDEMORT, knowing that!" he raged, ignoring the flinch of his counterpart.

There was silence for a moment, punctuated only with Harry's heavy breathing as he worked to calm himself once more.

"You have to understand," said Alium-Harry after a moment, a note of sympathy in his voice, "that I've known for a long time; I've made my peace with it. Yes, it was an awful thing to do, but everyone makes mistakes and Severus has been atoning for his for about as long as I've been alive, so," he shrugged. "I've forgiven him."

"Mistake?" repeated Harry, incredulously. "It's not a mistake, it's practically murder!"

"No it isn't!" declared Alium-Harry, hotly. "The only murderer of my parents was the Dark Lord. Severus has enough guilt to deal with without you heaping more on top! What you do with your version of him is your business, but I forgave mine years ago and it doesn't help anyone to rake over it all again!"

There was a long minute of silence, while both Harrys glared at each other. "I don't think I could ever do that," uttered Harry, eventually, venom in his voice as he looked down to stare at his hands gripping the table he perched upon, knuckles white. "Forgive him I mean. I think the best I can do is avoid him. I don't have lessons with him anymore at least."

"Mr Potter," came Snape's voice, after a moment. Harry ignored him. "Harry," the voice was more insistent now. Harry reluctantly dragged his eyes up to meet Snape's obsidian pools and was shocked by what he saw. Grief and guilt swirled in their depths, so obvious that they were nearly tangible, but Snape maintained eye contact as he began to speak.

"You do not need to forgive your version of myself, if indeed he is as culpable as I am in the death of your parents. Harry's forgiveness of me is between him and I, and I am grateful every day for the chance it has given me, but I have never for a moment believed I deserve it. I did not ask it of him, will not ask it of you and will never forgive myself. My friendship with Lily was one of the few bright spots of my years at Hogwarts and I loved her even after we parted ways in fifth year." His voice was as deep and level as Harry had ever heard it, yet Harry could somehow hear the pain behind the words.

"I was a foolish and wretched young man, consumed by hatred, but when I discovered that the Dark Lord was going after Lily and her family, the horror of what I had done was so complete, so all-encompassing, that I came to the side of the light, became a spy for Dumbledore, vowed to protect Harry with my life. It is not enough. Nothing I do will ever be enough." His voice was still strong and steady, yet the other version of Harry placed a hand on the older man's shoulder and squeezed in a gesture of comfort, and, in spite of himself, Harry was glad, because the torment in the man's eyes was such that it hurt to look at him.

Snape continued, his gaze unbroken, "I do not ask for sympathy or forgiveness from anyone, as I know I do not deserve it. I cannot know for certain if the man who you recognise as your teacher is also guilty of my crimes, but, if he is, I doubt he would ask for your forgiveness either. I doubt that he would want it even if offered, for he would feel, would know, as I do, that he does not deserve it. He does not deserve any measure of relief from his guilt, as he has stolen so much from you and from your family. For this reason, if my Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor, if I had been able to nurture a mutual enmity with him as planned, I would never have revealed my part in his parents' deaths to him. His condemnation would have been painful, his forgiveness unbearable."

The man took a deep breath, before continuing, his eyes flitting briefly to the young man beside him in the Alium, before he directed his gaze back to Harry. "However, with our situation as it was, I told him when he was twelve, before he agreed to my permanent guardianship of him. I wanted him to know the worst of me, so that he would not discover it later and feel misled, or betrayed. I was fully prepared to ask for another staff member to take temporary guardianship while we looked for a more permanent solution, but Albus said that one of Harry's greatest strengths was his ability to forgive, and Harry proved him to be correct in his assessment." Alium-Harry's hand had remained on Snape's shoulder, and, after a moment, he began to speak.

"I spoke to the headmaster about it, once," said Harry's other self, drawing the attention of the other two to him. He was speaking to Harry, but looking at Snape. "He said that it had to happen, that it had to be Severus, or the Dark Lord would never have been defeated."

Harry was confused, "How so?"

"It's like this," said the other boy, turning to face him, "Mum and Dad were actively fighting the Dark Lord, right?"

Harry nodded mutely.

"Right," the other boy continued, "So, odds are, he'd have gotten them eventually, regardless. And the Weasleys, and the Longbottoms- everyone, really. What stopped him, before he could?"

"I did," said Harry, softly. "Well, my mum's love, or so Dumbledore says."

The other Harry went on, staring meaningfully at his other self. "Exactly. But why you? Do you really think no other parents stood in front of their children to protect them during that war? Why did it have the effect it did when Mum did it? How was your case different from the countless others where the Dark Lord wiped out entire families?"

"Because…" Harry thought about this, shifting his weight from foot to foot, restless but unable to move because of the boxes surrounding him, "because Mum didn't have to die, I guess. Vol, sorry, You-Know-Who told me that once. And I hear him, when the dementors come close- 'Stand aside, foolish girl!'" He shrugged. "It's different because the others were going to die anyway, but he'd have spared Mum if she'd moved."

"That's right," said the other Harry, softly. "And why did he offer to spare her life, when he viewed Muggleborns as filth and had killed hundreds of others already? Why did he bother?"

Harry narrowed his eyes in thought for a long moment. He'd never really considered it before. Then, clarity came to him and he turned to look at Snape. "You," he breathed. "You asked Vol-sorry-You-Know-Who to spare her."

Snape nodded, grimly. "I did. And so, I would imagine, did the version of me in your world, given your tale."

"And," added the alternate Harry, "if he hadn't, and their home had been attacked by Death Eaters, like so many others were during that war (which is especially likely given that Mum was a muggle-born that had 'thrice defied' him) the Dark Lord would not have offered to spare her life and she would have died anyway. But so would you, because your mum wouldn't have had the opportunity to truly sacrifice her life for yours. If Severus hadn't told the Dark Lord the prophecy, he wouldn't have been defeated, and, in all likelihood, our parents would still be dead, but so would thousands of others, and possibly even ourselves."

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Snape absorbed this. "It does not excuse what I did," stated Snape, firmly. "I did not know that my actions would lead to the defeat of the Dark Lord."

"No," agreed Harry's alternate self, "but Dumbledore once told me that, knowing what he knows now, even if he could go back in time and stop you revealing the prophecy to the Dark Lord, he wouldn't do it. In fact, he said if he had to, he'd tell you to go and do it, to make sure it happened as it did last time. He said that many prophecies never come to pass, and that if you had never revealed the prophecy to the Dark Lord, the man would be running the country today. My parents' deaths at the Dark Lord's hands, or those of his followers, were probably inevitable, along with countless more, but this way, their deaths bought fifteen years of peace. And that makes it all much easier to deal with, for me at least." He removed his hand from Snape's shoulder, with a final squeeze.

Harry mulled this over for a minute. He nodded, slowly. That did make it easier to deal with, somehow, and besides which, there was no guarantee that Snape had played the same role in his own world. He decided to lay the matter to rest for now. He would investigate later- right now, another question had occurred to him.

"Alright," he said, turning to Snape. "New question: no one ever tried to take me from the Dursley's in my world. Why did you, in yours?"

Snape sent a look over to the alternate Harry, who shrugged. "He is me," he said, "It's not like he doesn't know. So you can tell him. I think he should hear the full story."

"You are certain?" Snape clarified, and on Alium-Harry's nod, he turned to Harry. "You may not realise this- few people do- but the traits of Slytherin are closely allied to the traits of survival. As such, it is a little-known fact that we have more children who come from abusive homes than any other house. I am, therefore, adept at recognising the signs.

"Harry Potter, child of two archetypal Gryffindors, being sorted into Slytherin was, for me, the first sign that something may not be right at his home. As time went on, I spotted more signs. His lack of correspondence with home, no cards or presents, staying at Hogwarts every holiday. His pyjamas were clearly not his own, and his shoes in a poor state of repair, several sizes too big and seemingly held together by magic itself. He asked me if it would be possible to remain at Hogwarts over the summer. And, of course, I noted a failure to thrive: short stature, despite his parents' respective heights being normal, and his father in particular being taller than average; in addition to appearing underweight. Consequently, I requested a physical examination, which raised certain concerns as well. As his head of house, I was already in loco parentis. I spoke with Harry, and then the headmaster, and we came up with the arrangement that currently stands."

He made it sound so simple. So obvious. Harry felt the injustice deep in his bones. Why did no one do that for me? He thought. It wasn't until Snape responded that Harry realised he'd spoken his thought aloud.

"Do what for you, Harry?"

Harry paused. He'd never put it into words, what life at the Dursley's was like. He didn't want to make a fuss, didn't want pity. But then, but then... These people already knew, didn't they? They already knew. And they were in a mirror- it's not like they could tell anyone. So, haltingly, he tried to put into words what he'd always known, deep down, to be true.

"Someone should have taken me from there." He said, quietly, eyes on his shoes. "They know how I'm treated. They know.." he paused for a moment to gather himself, continuing in an almost-whisper, "My Hogwarts letter was addressed to the cupboard under the stairs… the Weasleys had to pull iron bars off my windows, and I know they told Mrs Weasley about them. They always send me food for my birthday because they know I don't get enough... In third year, I blew up my aunt and ran away from home. I asked Dumbledore not to send me home for the summer too, back in first year." He took a breath, slightly unevenly. "No one ever did anything. Someone… someone should have done something."

There was silence for a moment, then Snape's resonant tones filled the air, factual yet soft. "Yes, Harry. They should have."

Harry closed his eyes and sank to the floor, leaning against the table leg, suddenly fighting tears- whether of anger or sorrow he could not tell. When he opened them again, after several long minutes, he saw that Snape had lowered himself to the ground, in a mirror of Harry's pose. Harry's alter-self was seated alongside him.

"Sorry," muttered Harry, feeling heat build in his cheeks. "I'm being ridiculous, it wasn't that bad."

"It was exactly that bad," his alter-self contradicted him, defiantly. The boy in the mirror hesitated, glancing at Snape, who nodded at him solemnly. Apparently taking encouragement from this, the boy turned back to Harry, taking a steadying breath. "It's taken a long time, and a lot of work for me to realise that..." The young man in the Alium swallowed audibly. It was now Snape's turn to comfort, it appeared, as he put his arm around Harry's counterpart's shoulders, and the boy met Snape's eyes for a moment, gratitude in his own, before he turned again to face Harry, exhaling with a shaky breath before continuing, "to realise that...abuse," he stumbled slightly over the word, "isn't always physical."

"I've come to learn," he continued, and Harry watched as Snape's hand tightened around the other boy's shoulder, pulling him closer in a brief show of support, "that being called freak or boy almost exclusively, being shoved in a cupboard and left to cry alone at night, whether ill or injured or simply scared of the dark and the spiders, having lies and insults directed at me and my parents constantly, being threatened and belittled by my aunt and uncle, chased and beaten by my cousin's gang or bitten by my aunt's rabid dog," Alium-Harry's voice, already quiet, and slow, had begun to quaver noticeably during his listing of the injustices Harry remembered from his own childhood. The boy in the Alium took a deep breath, resuming his speech in a much stronger, more matter-of-fact voice, as if he had somehow taken a step back from the accompanying emotion, "...that being an outcast in my own home, always second-best, always inconvenient, unworthy of love, unworthy even of food… that it was abusive, and it was that bad".

The boy turned back to look at Snape, as he added, in an undertone, "The absence of broken bones does not mean the absence of abuse." He spoke the last bit as if reciting something from memory, and even from Harry's vantage point, the pride that the man had in his charge was obvious, written all over his face in his eyes and his smile. Alium-Harry smiled at him in return, a little tremulously, and wiped discreetly at his eyes with a handkerchief that Snape proffered with his free hand before the boy turned to level his gaze at Harry, "You've been abused," he said, his voice soft. "We both were. And you have every right to feel angry, and upset and betrayed. I feel all those things for you, because you're absolutely right, Harry. Someone should have done something."

Harry sat and contemplated this for a while, avoiding eye contact with the other two. How had his experience as a Gryffindor been so very different from that of the other Harry?

"Do you think," he eventually managed to say, his voice slightly tremulous, "that Professor McGonagall knows?"

Snape's voice was quiet. "She will likely suspect. I remember her trying her best to convince the headmaster to leave you with a different family. 'The worst kind of muggles imaginable,' she called them, when they returned from dropping you off after that Halloween. The Albus of this world certainly was not surprised when I came to him with Harry's testimony, but he viewed it as a necessary evil for the sake of the blood wards. It took my threatening to alert the ministry, as per my legal obligations and the requirements of my unbreakable vow, to get him to agree to the compromise we eventually reached."

Harry thought about this. He supposed it made sense, but some things still didn't add up for him. "Why take him at all?" asked Harry. "You mentioned monitoring wards, wouldn't they have been enough? You didn't need to take him home for him to be safe."

"Albus made that point, too," nodded Snape. "However, I made a vow to protect Harry Potter, and that meant not leaving him in a place in which he was unwanted and scorned by his own family for two months every year." He paused, seeming to choose his next words carefully. "Without going into too much detail, my upbringing shared some commonalities with that of Harry, so I know the realities of the situation. I could not be a party to allowing the same harm to come to a child in my care, especially one I had sworn to protect. Not if I had the power to prevent it, at any rate."

Harry nodded glumly, feeling thoroughly let down by his own head of house. It left a hollow feeling in his stomach, and he found that he didn't want to continue this line of discussion, so, when he felt better able to speak, he changed the subject to a less personal one he wanted to address.

"How come Voldemort didn't return in your world? "he asked, just as the silence threatened to become awkward.

Harry's alter-ego hesitated at this, glancing at Snape, whose brow furrowed the tiniest amount, giving the appearance, as far as Snape went, at least, of deep concern.

At length, Alium-Harry began to speak, hesitantly. "OK, so, please don't blame yourself for this." he said, his voice slow and careful, his eyes on Harry's face. "You couldn't have known because no one bothered to tell you."

Harry frowned at this, feeling a sense of unease, but nodded regardless. His alter-self continued. "You mentioned the Mirror of Erised, in your first year? Well, our Dumbledore had a plan, you see. He set up the trap to lure the Dark Lord, with enough layers that it'd take a while to figure out, so the possession would gradually weaken Quirrell. When he was weak enough, the last of the protections was revealed, and Quirrelmort went to get the stone. Quirrel wasted away in front of the mirror (his life-force was sapped by it and his body was on its last legs anyway) and the Dark Lord's spirit was trapped by the mirror. It's been there since; the mirror makes a nice little fantasy world for its occupants. I doubt he wants to leave. So, the upshot is that in my world, he never came back."

Harry felt like he'd jumped into a cold lake. The realisation hit him— if they'd not gone after the stone, if they'd just listened, if they'd just trusted, Voldemort couldn't have come back. It was all Harry's fault. Snape had been right all along— he was arrogant.

"No," he breathed, "It was all my fault, all my…" he struggled at the weight of the realisation, horror struck. All the deaths— Cedric, Sirius, Barty Crouch Senior, Bertha Jorkins… They all happened because he had interfered in Dumbledore's plan! His mistake had killed those people. He wanted to run, to run far away, pound this feeling into the ground with his feet, but he couldn't. He was stuck, here, in this room, in this house just like Sirius had been, until Harry's second big mistake had led to his death. Trapped. He couldn't even scream out his horror— he had to be quiet, not to alert the others. His throat felt tight and his hands clutched at it. He could hear the roaring of his own blood in his veins. He couldn't breathe. On the edges of his awareness, he could hear the other two in the mirror- his counterpart frantic and Snape's slow and methodical. He couldn't make out what they were saying, so completely was he drowning in his own horror.

After a moment, he became aware of his name, spoken in a voice that was calm, yet strong and authoritative. A voice he was used to hearing and obeying, for the most part, in potions class.

"Mr Potter. Harry," Harry felt sick and like he couldn't breathe but he tried to look up, desperately seeking help.

"I need you to focus on my voice," continued the man, seeing Harry's attention shift. "Breathe with us, Harry." He said, making exaggerated breaths, which Harry's counterpart matched.

With difficulty, Harry turned towards the voices, clutching his throat, unable to breathe, sure he was dying.

"Good Harry- stay with me now," said Snape calmly, "Breathe in slowly with me, you can do it. In….. out. Very good, and again."

At length, Harry's breathing levelled out and he felt tears running down his face. He wanted to leave, to get away from these people who'd seen him at his most vulnerable. But what if he couldn't find them again? He wanted to know more, even if knowing more was unbearable. This, though— he'd never had an experience like this before. He felt so humiliated.

"None of that, Mr Potter," came a stern voice from the other side of the mirror, as if Snape was reading his mind, but Harry knew he'd not made eye contact. "You've had a nasty shock. Your response was not embarrassing, nor an overreaction. I want you to stay exactly where you are." Harry nodded, breathing slowly.

"Would you like to know about years two through five?" asked Harry's alter-self, after a moment. At some point he seemed to have retrieved his cup. Or maybe Snape had done it for him, but it was steaming in a way that suggested it had been reheated.

The offer of a story was a clear attempt to distract him, but Harry nodded, not minding, and still not up to talking, as he watched his alter-self get comfortable and begin his tale.

"We also had the Chamber of Secrets open in second year, but when I told Severus about the voice, he worked out it was a basilisk very quickly."

"How…" Harry whispered, still recovering, "Did he know you were a parseltongue?"

"The Slytherin common room is full of snakes," replied Alium-Harry, with a smile. He seemed to smile a lot. "Pictures, statues… Everyone found out in my first year. Well, all the Slytherins did. We don't tend to give information away to other houses unless necessary."

"Anyway, the staff figured out where the entrance was and caught Ginny Weasley in the act of going down there. The headmaster took the diary, and realised that it was a horcrux— a piece of the Dark Lord's soul in a container. He's had a few long conversations with Riddle since he's had it, and he's been looking for the rest of the horcruxes since the diary was discovered."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "There's more?" he asked, horrified at the thought.

"Unfortunately so," replied his alternate self. "Dumbledore has been able to trick a bit of information out of the teenage Dark Lord in the diary, and Severus has been working with the headmaster; he knows the character of the Dark Lord reasonably well and used his knowledge of the Dark Arts and Riddle's diary to invent a spell that detects the Dark Lord's horcruxes, which is how we found out about a lot of them." He grimaced.

Harry felt slightly ill at the mention of the horcruxes. "How many are there?"

"Seven horcruxes, eight soul shards including himself, we think," Snape supplied. "Ravenclaw's diadem in Hogwart's Room of Requirement, Hufflepuff's cup from Bella Lestrange's Gringott's vault, Nagini the snake, Marvolo Gaunt's ring and of course the diary. We only recently found Slytherin's locket when Harry inherited Grimmauld Place." He gestured around the room. "The seventh, I'm afraid, is…"

"This," supplied Alium-Harry, gesturing helpfully at his forehead. "Don't panic again," he said to Harry, sternly. "That's why we're here, looking through Dark Arts books. We're going to find a way to remove it."

Harry paled, his chest tightening again.

"Breathe, Harry," instructed Snape, his voice determinedly calm despite the look of frustration he sent his ward, who looked very guilty.

For a few moments, there was no sound but that of calm breathing as Harry tried to match his own to that of the Alium Snape, and of whispered reassurances from the other two.

"Am I really a horcrux, sir?" asked Harry eventually, swallowing his nerves.

"In all likelihood," confirmed Snape, calmly, as if he were discussing whether it would rain this afternoon. "However, we are in the process of determining a way in which to remove the horcrux from you without causing harm."

"But it took basilisk venom to destroy the diary!" responded Harry, fighting against his rising panic.

"Yes," agreed the other Harry, "Generally speaking, they can only be destroyed with basilisk venom or fiendfyre. Not so good for us. But we are accidental horcruxes- we were never intended to have the Dark Lord's soul in us in the first place, so it shouldn't be bound as tightly. We were also the last made, so will contain a smaller portion of the Dark Lord's entire soul than the diary did, as it was first. We believe there will be a way that doesn't destroy the host."

"But you've been researching this for years," pointed out Harry, "and you haven't found one yet!"

"We've only known about the scar horcrux for about a year, actually," corrected Snape. "And I assure you, I shall make certain before we part that you have all the pertinent information that I have gathered thus far."

"Thanks." Harry swallowed and changed the subject, addressing alternate Snape. "So, did the hat want us," he gestured between himself and Alium-Harry, "in Slytherin because of," he indicated his scar. "Does it make us…"

"Evil?" Snape shook his head, looking mildly exasperated. "I've told you already, Mr Potter," he continued, softly. "Abused children often sort into Slytherin. It's not a sign of inherent evil. For what it's worth, I've known Harry for five years now, and he fits into Slytherin perfectly, but I know he'd fit into Gryffindor almost as well." Harry nodded and was silent for a minute, before another question made itself known.

The temperature in the room was beginning to rise with the heat of the day, and Harry pushed back his hair from his damp forehead as he spoke. "You said that you think Snape told You-Know-Who about the prophecy in my world. Why do you think that?" Harry asked.

"In the main, because I have no reason to suspect otherwise," admitted Snape, slowly. "There's no way to know for certain aside from asking him of course, but think back- could your version of me be under the same vow?"

Harry considered this. Could Snape have made a vow to protect him? He thought back to first year, when Snape kept him on his broomstick when it was jinxed, then refereed the subsequent Quidditch match. To third year, when Snape followed him and Lupin to the Shrieking Shack on a full moon, despite having nearly faced death in the form of a werewolf there once before thanks to Sirius's prank, then proceeded to put himself between said transformed werewolf and Harry. To fourth year, when Snape argued against Harry's inclusion in the Triwizard tournament, then returned to Voldemort's side at Dumbledore's request to spy. To last summer, where he contacted the Order to send them after Harry in the Department of Mysteries. His eyes widened in shock. Not only was it plausible, it was the best explanation for his seemingly incongruous behaviour.

"Yeah," exhaled Harry, in disbelief. "Actually, that makes a lot of sense."

Snape nodded.

"But," Harry frowned, "Why be so awful to me outside of class? Last year, we had occlumency lessons, just him and me- no observers. And he was vicious. Bellowed at me, "Clear your mind Potter!" without ever explaining how. And he pulled up my worst memories, over and over, taunting and berating me, and I was so angry and humiliated and it just made it impossible! And then he'd point his wand at me and the whole thing would happen again."

"Wow," commented Alium-Harry, after a moment's silent shock, "Your Snape sounds like a total git."

"Language!" rebuked Snape, sharply, "Though I can't say I disagree with your assessment."

He turned his attention to Harry, "I can only speculate, Mr Potter, as my experience of Harry Potter has been completely dissimilar to that of my counterpart and so have our respective actions towards him. However, from my understanding of my own character…" he tailed off, before continuing, somewhat haltingly, "I believe that your mutual enmity with my counterpart may have reached such dizzying heights that he no longer distinguishes you from your father. He likely mistakes your intrinsic distrust of adults and disinclination to ask them for help for arrogance and believing you do not need help. He may, in fact, consider your perceived arrogance as part of the reason for the Dark Lord's return, given your actions in first year."

"And third," volunteered Harry, heavily. "We knocked Snape out in the Shrieking Shack. If we'd not done that, perhaps Pettigrew wouldn't have escaped."

"Perhaps," agreed Snape, "But that is irrelevant to our discussion, and I wouldn't recommend you try out the Alium with that scenario either. This is a dark object, after all, and will draw you in with repeated use. This one excursion into the realm of what-if should not cause lasting harm; nevertheless, I will be destroying our Alium, once I am satisfied that you have some support in your own world."

"I've got support!" protested Harry. "I've got Ron and Hermione, Remus, though he's not around much admittedly, the rest of the Weasleys…"

"Ron and Hermione?" interrupted his alter-ego. "Weasley and Granger?"

"Yes," Harry paused, amazed that this hasn't occurred to him before now, "Wait, who are your friends? Ron would never be friends with a Slytherin."

Alium-Harry scoffed, "You're right there," he said, dryly. "Sorry, I know he's your friend but he's a prejudiced sod. I can't say we get on well. Granger's alright though."
"You know Hermione?"

"Yeah, she's pretty well-known in our year. Narrowly survived an encounter with a mountain troll our first Halloween. Got hit by flying toilet shrapnel but the teachers got there not long after and Pomfrey pulled her through. Bloody Weasley's the reason she was in there in the first place, apparently. She's mostly friends with Longbottom, but we've studied in the library a lot and I keep the prattier Slytherins off her back."

"Are you suggesting that there's such a thing as a non-pratty Slytherin?" Harry joked.

Here though, his alternate self scowled. "I can tell you're best friends with Weasley. Of course there are decent Slytherins! We're not all obsessed with blood, you know. Tracy Davis is a half-blood, like me, and Severus too for that matter!"

Harry had so many questions after this exchange that he didn't know which to ask first. But then, a thought occurred to him.

"Wait, if you're not all automatically blood-purists, why was the Slytherin password in second year 'pure blood'?"

At this, his counterpart looked visibly confused. "Password? What are you talking about?"

"In second year, we thought Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin so we polyjuiced into Crabbe and Goyle and followed him into the common room. He gave the password— pure blood! How'd you explain that if you're not all blood purists?"

His alternate self's expression remained bewildered, "Why would the rest of us have any say over Malfoy's password?"

"Wait," Harry was utterly at sea, "Malfoy's password?"

Alternate Harry's expression cleared. "Ohhhh, do Gryffindors not have individual passwords?"

"Individual passwords?"

"Of course. Slytherins each have their own password, as well as their own bedroom. Something about not relying on others."

Harry's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Their own bedrooms? How was that fair? "So," he said aloud, "you're saying Malfoy set his own password? Makes sense I guess- it's not exactly subtle." He paused, struggling with the idea that Snape, of all people, could be a half blood, but not feeling comfortable enough to ask about it. "Who would you say are the decent Slytherins then?"

"I stick with Blaise Zabini, Tracy Davis and Daphne Greengrass, in the main. Nott's OK too, if quiet."

Harry grinned, "Not Malfoy then?"

"As I said, he's a bit of a prat at times," Alium-Harry returned the smile. "It's not really his fault- I defy anyone to grow up with Lucius Malfoy as a father without being at least 20% obnoxious. We do sometimes hang out though. Used to be more often, but he distanced himself once he started fancying Hermione after the Yule ball in fourth year."

"He fancies Hermione?!" Harry was aghast at the thought of Hermione and Malfoy as anything other than enemies.

"Yeah. Of course he didn't say that— probably can't even admit it to himself– he'd be disinherited if old Lucius heard so much as a rumour– but it's fairly obvious, even without legilimency."

"You're a legilimens?!"

Here, Snape cut in, with a scowl at Harry's counterpart, "I've been teaching Harry since last year, against my better judgement, I might add, beginning once I was satisfied with his skills in occlumency. He is still very much a beginner. And he should not be telling anyone about it."

"You're going to destroy the Alium anyway!" objected Alium-Harry.

"The walls may have ears," Snape said pointedly, directing his most withering glare at his ward, whose own ears promptly went the colour of Gryffindor common room. "But, as I was saying," he directed his attention back to Harry, "Harry has quite a natural affinity with mind magic, which means you do too. I suspect the problem was with the teacher and mode of instruction.

"Occlumency by nature requires a degree of trust between student and teacher, which you and your professor lack. Further, I suspect he did not put the requisite time and effort into considering how best to teach you. When I taught Harry, it took us some time to find mental imagery that worked for him."

"Mental imagery?" queried Harry.

"Harry found that trying to simply think of nothing was untenable." Snape responded. "Eventually, we decided to focus instead on building a mindscape— he built a mental image of flying above the Forbidden Forest. Flying is a diversion, the forest, a shield. He hides his memories and emotions in the lake within it, guarded by the giant squid. To start, you should focus on simply flying above the forest. Lose yourself in the sensation and the visualisation. Imagine the forest so thick beneath you that you cannot see past the canopy of their branches, stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions. You will then require need a teacher for the next part."

"Fat chance of that!" grumbled Harry. "Snape wouldn't teach me again if his life depended on it, and Dumbledore thinks I'm being possessed so won't go anywhere near me."

"Why do you think Professor Snape wouldn't teach you?" queried Alium-Snape.

Here, Harry flushed red, running his hand through his hair. He knew he didn't come out of this story well. "Last year, he had to leave during an occlumency lesson and, well, I… looked-in-his-pensive," he said in an embarrassed rush, feeling very ashamed.

"Ah." Snape said in understanding, looking thoughtful. "Yes, given your history, I imagine he now feels justified in discontinuing lessons. It won't be impossible to convince him to resume them though. After all, he did not see fit to provide you with the opportunity to use a pensieve, did he? By rights he should have done, and by failing to do so, it could be argued that he was effectively in your pensieve the entire time."

This gave Harry pause. "But Dumbledore only has one pensieve, so we couldn't have both used it, could we?"

"Indeed not," came the reply, "However, someone capable of resisting interrogation by the Dark Lord should be able to defend himself from an untrained teenage boy without recourse to a pensieve. Your need was clearly greater."

Harry considered this. Alium-Snape was right, and he suddenly felt far less guilty about the pensieve debacle last year.

"It's his fault that Sirius died!" he declared, angry and relieved all at once.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Explain your reasoning."

"I've been blaming myself, for not learning occlumency and being fooled by the dream, but Snape didn't teach me properly, so when Vol-sorry-You-Know-Who sent me a fake vision of him with Sirius in the department of mysteries, I fell for it and went there, then Sirius came after me and then…" his throat closed up as he tried to swallow his grief.

Snape and Alium-Harry remained quiet for a moment, an expression of concern and sorrow on Alium-Harry's face, while Harry fought to regain his composure. When he looked up again, he saw two pairs of eyes locked on him. Alium-Harry glanced at Snape, who nodded back to him.

"Harry, for what it's worth, I don't think it was anyone's fault," offered Alium-Harry. "Aside from whoever killed him, of course. We recently lost Sirius too- to a motorbike accident."

"A motorbike accident?" replied Harry, incredulously. It seemed too… muggle.

Alium-Harry nodded silently. "Obviously, in our world there is no Voldemort, was no vision, no incident at the ministry, but… I think it was just his time. He wasn't even flying it," he added, sadness colouring his voice. "I didn't really know him very well- he dragged Weasley into the Shrieking Shack in third year, killed Pettigrew and ran. The Weasley twins found the body; I was never clear on how. We wrote each other letters, but I never met him in person. He died while on the run, and I got a notification from Gringotts saying he'd left everything to me." He shook his head. "I've been trying to get Lupin to take as much as I can- I think Sirius would've wanted that, but he obviously couldn't stroll into Gringotts to change his will. He's refused everything so far, unfortunately."

"...You call him Lupin?" ventured Harry, curious about this difference.

"Yes, well, we've not had much to do with each other personally. He's a decent defense professor though." Alium-Harry shrugged.

"He taught me the patronus charm in third year," said Harry, making circles in the dust on the cloth covering the table.

"Severus taught that to me," said Harry's alter-self. He paused, "What form does yours take?"

"A stag, like my Dad's."

"Ah. Mine's a doe."

"Oh," Harry frowned at the difference. "Why'd you think that is?"

"His mother's patronus was a doe," Snape said, immediately. Harry's alternate self gave Snape a significant look but said nothing.

"What?" asked Harry, puzzled.

"I think it has more to do with my dad than my mum," said Alium-Harry, quietly, under his breath, but Harry heard and so did Severus, whose lips quirked upwards in a small smile as he clapped a hand down on the younger man's shoulder, making eye contact with him for a long moment, but saying nothing aloud. Alium-Harry's face pinked slightly, but a smile found its was onto his face and he beamed at the older man. Snape's reaction, as well as Alium-Harry's initial statement, confused Harry a bit, but he didn't want to risk awkwardness by asking for clarification, so he let it be.

"So, do you think I should try to get him to teach me again? My Snape, I mean." Harry shuddered as his choice of words registered.

"I believe," said Snape, slowly and deliberately, "that I need to speak with my alternate self. I believe that it can be managed under the rules of the Alium- though if I am correct in my assumptions, only you and he will be able to see us here."

"Like the Mirror of Erised?" asked Harry. "Ron couldn't see what I saw."

"Precisely," confirmed Snape, with a perfunctory nod. "You would need to call him here, alone, to avoid confusing the mirror with another potential scenario from a party uninvolved with this one, without yourself leaving the room."

"Why without leaving the room?"

"I cannot be certain that, were you to return, you would see the same versions of us that you now behold. You have the answers to your 'what if' and thus I think it unlikely that the window would connect to these versions of us again. And we have information, pertaining to horcruxes and other research, that has the potential to be incredibly helpful to your battle against the Dark Lord, if there are as many parallels between our respective worlds as I believe there are. I'd like to be certain that at least one adult holds that information in your world, prior to destroying our version of this mirror. Adults in your world do not seem predisposed to take your ideas seriously, so the information coming from me can only help."

Harry was at a loss. "How can I get Snape up here without anyone else?"

Snape thought for a moment. "Is it safe to perform magic in Grimmauld Place? Or do you risk detection for underage magic?"

"I've been told it's safe. We're under Fidelius, but I'd rather not risk it," said Harry. "I've already had one trial by Wizengamot for underage magic; I'd prefer not to risk another."

Snape hummed in acknowledgement. "I could see if my patronus can enter your world. I'll have to deactivate the shield first, to ensure that the magic I exert in casting it may return to me. With your permission, may I try?" Seeing Harry's nod, he continued, "First, do you know where he is? If he is at the Dark Lord's side, this method of getting his attention could ultimately kill him."

"There's an order meeting downstairs," said Harry, by way of permission, and then he watched as a flash of blue once again illuminated the window, before Snape cast the patronus and a beautiful doe cantered out of his wand, through the window, and stopped to sniff at Harry before heading downstairs.

"Oh," said Harry, realisation striking him, turning a shocked expression towards his Alium counterpart, who smiled a tad self-consciously.

Snape raised his hand to squeeze alternate Harry's shoulder once more as he spoke, "And now, we wait."

They didn't need to wait long. Downstairs in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the meeting was disrupted rather efficiently by the dramatic arrival of a patronus deer, which walked up to Severus and seemed to nuzzle at his ear before vanishing into a puff of ether.

"Severus?" The room was entirely silent, save for the headmaster's query, the tone of which underscored its urgency.

"I do not know where the patronus originated," responded Severus. "It used my voice, and said only, 'Find Harry.' I presume it refers to Potter- where is the boy?"

It was Lupin who spoke, "Upstairs somewhere, I think; his morning was somewhat fraught, and we thought he might benefit from some time alone."

"Molly," began the headmaster, "Would you please go and satisfy our minds as to Harry's whereabouts and wellbeing, so that we may continue?"

The panic began when none of the children loitering around and pretending not to eavesdrop outside in the hallway had seen Harry since his earlier outburst. The panic intensified when it emerged that he was not in any of the downstairs rooms, the study or his bedroom. The panic reached fever-pitch when a search of the fourth floor revealed a glowing blue door that resisted all attempts to force it open and delivered a rather nasty shock to anyone who tried. The panic seemed to solidify and become tangible when the headmaster's whispered, "Point me, Harry Potter," resulted in his wand aiming directly at said blue, glowing door.

Mrs Weasley was beside herself by this point, and she wrung her hands as she spoke. "Oh, what does he think he's doing in there all by himself? I've told them all not to go near these rooms! We should have cleared them regardless, I knew we should have! What if he's hurt- can't you do something Albus?"

"Calm yourself, dear Molly," said the headmaster absently, casting a diagnostic charm over the ward. "What is your impression, William?"

The eldest Weasley son, busy working his own magic, whistled. "It's a complex one. Old too- I can get through it, I think, but it'll take some time. I'd love to get a look at the thing that triggered it."

"Severus," called the headmaster, drawing the Slytherin head of house rather reluctantly away from the spot he'd found by the wall, observing everything but interacting with little, "Could you come here for a moment?"

As Severus stepped closer to the door, the blue glow dimmed noticeably. "As I thought," mused Dumbledore. "Could you try to touch the door-handle, my boy?"

Bracing himself for the likely shock, Severus did so, and found that he could touch the door handle without suffering ill-effects. A number of attempts were made by others to piggy-back along with him, but touching the door or the man resulted in the aforementioned nasty shock. After a moment, it was reasoned that, for some reason, only Snape could pass the wards.

"Severus," said Dumbledore, beckoning him closer, "I'll need you to keep whatever is holding Harry in there distracted for long enough that we can get through the wards. By all means, if you get the opportunity to leave with him, try to do so, but I do not anticipate that you will be capable of leaving once you have entered."

Snape nodded once; he, too, had deduced that much.

"Are you prepared then, my boy?" asked Albus, urgently, and in response, Severus returned to the door handle, tried to grasp it, and noted that his hand immediately passed through it. At a confirmatory nod from the old man, he steadily walked forward, propelling himself through the door itself and into the room beyond.

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

Barely ten minutes after the patronus was cast, the door at the end of the room rippled and Snape appeared, his face impassive, wand drawn. He seemed to walk straight through the door, which solidified behind him as soon as he had cleared the threshold. He glared assessingly at the sight that met his eyes.

"Hello, sir," Harry broke the silence, his voice artificially cheerful.

"Potter, you absolute imbecile," he spat, his voice cold and dangerous, "Come away from that object, immediately!"

Harry looked uncertainly at his friends in the mirror. "Go on, Mr Potter," encouraged Alium-Snape, his deep voice calm and soothing, forming a sharp contrast to his own Snape's hateful bark of command. Harry opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again and did as he'd been bidden, picking his way across the room reluctantly to stand beside his surly potions master. Snape dropped his gaze to Harry for a short moment, giving a quick once-over from top to toe, as if assessing for injury, before he barked out his next order, "Try the door."

"No! We shouldn't leave yet; you need to talk to them! They won't hurt us!" protested Harry, but at a firm glare from his hated professor, he turned and approached the door, to find that the door was completely solid and the handle wouldn't budge.

"It's locked, Professor," he called out.

"Then unlock it!" Snape gritted out.

"The last time I used magic outside of school, I was tried by the Wizengamot!" Harry countered, aggressively.

"Unless you want me to demonstrate some of the things that I have been tried by the Wizengamot for, Potter," Snape snarled, his voice dripping with disdain, "Open the door!"

Trusting to the Fidelius, Harry tried, "Alohomora!" The spell produced a flash of light, illuminating the doorknob, but when Harry jiggled the handle, it still refused to turn.

"Now," came Snape's voice, distantly, and Harry turned to see that it had come from the Alium, where Snape's alter ego stood, arms folded across his chest, eyebrow arched and his trademarked sneer marring his face, "Are we quite finished with our foolish wand waving and silly incantations?"

Harry couldn't help it. He snickered, along with his alternate self. Snape ignored the comment entirely.

"I'm glad you find this amusing, Potter!" he hissed. "Your usual unbounded arrogance and sheer idiocy has managed to once more land you in peril, and myself into the bargain. Most diverting, I am sure. Are explicit instructions not to go into the uncleared rooms insufficient for the great Boy-Who-Lived, or do you simply delight in the drama?" He sneered, "Perhaps you've not been receiving the expected level of adoration since your last bout of Gryffindor stupidity?"

Glancing back at the Alium, Harry noted that his alter-self was frozen, a look of disgust warring with horror on his face as he observed Snape's vitriol. Conversely, Alium-Snape remained in his earlier position, eyes impassive but dark. Bolstered by the knowledge that the Alium duo were less than pleased by Snape's horrid display, Harry decided to take the high road and ignored the jibes. "Your alternate self, sir," he managed with a decent amount of dignity, as he ignored the rage that had begun to bubble through his veins- really? Arrogant? Him? "calls it the Alium."

At this, Snape whirled around and raised his wand towards the Allium, directing his next question at his alternate self.

"You're certain?" he barked.

"Reasonably," returned Alium-Snape. "I believe your Mr Potter here was the one to activate it, so the Alium will keep us all here until such a time as it determines that he is satisfied that he has learned all he wishes from us. Harry and I," here he jerked his head towards his version of Harry, "Have answered most of his questions. I thought it prudent, however, to send for you, as I am in possession of information that I believe may prove highly useful to you."

At this, Snape arched his eyebrows and muttered under his breath, drawing complicated little shapes with his wand. There were a variety of flashes and sparks, and when he had finished, he at last lowered his wand and used his other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in apparent frustration at the results of whatever spell or diagnostic he had cast. He uttered something to himself that definitely included the word, "Potter!" before giving a long exhale and drawing himself up to his full height.

"Very well then," he announced, his voice clipped, "about what did you wish to speak?"

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

The alternate Snape cast his eye over his counterpart. They were incredibly similar, though the Alium version flattered himself that he looked better groomed, and generally happier. "You are aware of the properties of the Alium?" he asked.

"Obviously," returned Snape, cooly. "If this is indeed the Alium, I presume that you are from a similar yet different reality?"

The other Snape nodded his agreement. "Precisely. We have discerned that the root change is that, in our reality, Harry did not talk the sorting hat out of placing him in Slytherin."

At this, Snape turned to stare at Harry. "You could have been sorted into Slytherin?"

Harry smiled mirthlessly. "Surprise? Apparently, this," he gestured at the mirror, "would be the result if I had let it happen." He sighed, "You-Know-Who isn't back in their world. Seems like I'd have done everyone a favour if I'd listened to the stupid Hat after all."

Alium-Snape frowned. "You've never been one for self-pity, Harry, don't start now. If you would, please tell your teacher everything you've learned about horcruxes today. He is likely to find it highly relevant, and I would like to reassure myself that you've grasped it fully."

Harry nodded once, turning to face the sneering visage of his potions master, swallowing his nerves. "In their world, Vold- I mean You-Know-Who, sorry professor, made seven horcruxes, which are pieces of his soul trapped in an object. The diary I destroyed in second year was one, and they can be destroyed with fiendfyre or basilisk venom. They," he gestured at the Alium, "told me that one is with Kreacher in Grimmauld Place,"

"Slytherin's locket," interjected Alium-Snape, with a nod.

"Right," said Harry. "And there's Hufflepuff's cup in Bellatrix Lestrange's Gringott's vault, Marvolo Gaunt's ring,"

"In the Gaunt Shack," added the alternate Harry, helpfully.

"Indeed," intoned Alium-Snape, "Be warned though; there is a fatal curse embedded within the ring. It should not be worn under any circumstances."

Harry thought he saw his professor twitch slightly at that, but the moment passed so quickly he wouldn't like to swear to it. He continued, "Umm, one at Hogwarts, what was that?"

"Ravenclaw's diadem," supplied Alium-Harry. It's in the Room of Lost Things, within the Room of Requirement."

Harry nodded his thanks and continued, "You said Nagini was one and that," here he took a fortifying breath, glancing at Snape worriedly before continuing, "That I'm the last, though unintentional."

Snape stared at his Harry, abject horror written on his face. Well, barely hinted at, but with Snape that was practically the same thing.

"Your scar," corrected Alium-Snape. "Not you. That's the main avenue we're looking down for a solution to that particular problem."

"He said," continued Harry, ignoring the incredibly disconcerting look on his Potions master's face, "That because my horcrux was unintentional, it probably isn't as tightly bound to me as the others, so may not require my destruction to remove. They're looking for a solution in these," he gestured to the boxes around him.

"Apparently, we have to destroy the horcruxes if we want killing You-Know-Who to stick. They're doing much better than we are, because he," Harry jerked his head towards the Alium, "wasn't an idiot and didn't ruin Dumbledore's plan back in first year."

"Because," came Alium-Snape's voice, with a tone that came closer to biting than anything he'd heard from Snape's alternate self so far, "My Harry had a trusted adult who told him the truth when he needed to hear it. You have not been an idiot, Mr Potter- you have, somewhat predictably, stumbled around in the dark and made some rather unfortunate choices as a result of that. Do not blame yourself."

Snape made a derisive noise at this, drawing the attention of his alter-ego.

"Professor Snape," the other Severus said, his voice carefully neutral, "I would like to talk to you about some observations I have made that I would prefer not be overheard by our respective Harrys. Could you come closer and cast a muffling charm? I shall do the same on my end."

Snape cast a suspicious look at the artefact, but with a sharp, "Stay here, Potter," swept over to it, using an unfamiliar wand motion that filled the air with a soft buzzing. Harry could no longer hear anything from the Alium.

"Stay here, Potter," Snape ordered imperiously, and made his way across to the Alium, clearing a path as he did so with a flick of his wand. The man looked remarkably similar to the one he saw in the mirror each morning, unlike the two versions of Potter, which were markedly different. As he came to a rest in front of the window, he cast a muffiliato, while watching his counterpart do the same.

"Well?" he demanded, as soon as the faint humming told him that the muffling charm was active. "What information do you have for me?"

His counterpart didn't respond at first, instead taking a moment to assess him carefully. "I noticed your reaction to my mentioning the curse on the ring horcrux," he began, after a moment. "Has the headmaster become cursed in your world, as well?"

Snape said nothing, but his alter-ego's lips formed a thin line as he watched Snape for a reaction. "I am sorry to learn it," he commented, in response to Snape's silence. "We are experiencing the same misfortune. I imagine the problem this poses is somewhat exacerbated by your role as a spy."

Snape simply stared, with an air of boredom, as if waiting to hear something of use. He had no intention of confiding any information at all in his Alium self, and the man in front of him seemed to know it, as he did not wait for a response before continuing.

"Of course, knowing the man as I do, I imagine he plans to use his impending demise to advance the war effort. He will wish you to be given control of Hogwarts, I daresay. And, to that end…"

Snape leant against the table behind him in a show of casual disinterest at his other self's musings. The man was rather fond of the sound of his own voice, Snape noted with derision.

His alternate self narrowed his eyes suddenly, seeming to have come to a conclusion. "If you need to seal the Dark Lord's trust in you…. perhaps Albus intends to have you kill him to cement your position?"

In response, Snape merely stared impassively at his alternate self, which the other man apparently took to be a full confession.

"An effective leader, Dumbledore," the Alium-Snape said, shaking his head, "yet capable of such cruelty. I imagine he has instructed you not to confide this information in anyone else. However, I'd like you to inform Harry before any action needs to be taken."

"Potter?" sneered Snape, his voice dripping with derision, "Why, so he can have the information ripped from his imbecilic mind by the Dark Lord? Why should he know?"

"Because," came the answer, "He needs an adult on his side that he can trust and that trusts him."

Snape snorted impatiently and turned to leave, having wasted quite enough time on this nonsense. Perhaps he could find a way out before Weasley burst his way through the wards.

"Stop!" he heard his own voice command, and he halted, cursing his own curiosity even as he did so. "I would not speak to you if I did not think it important."

At this, Snape turned, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Seeing he had the man's attention, Alium-Snape continued. "You must hear me out- let me explain why you should tell him."

Snape met the man's eyes in a blank challenge and willed his counterpart to simply get on with it.

Taking a deep breath, the man continued, at a calm and unhurried pace. "I have raised Harry for most of the last five years," he said, with a significant glance at Snape, "and I can tell you that he does far less in the way of foolish Gryffindoresque plots when he's given all the relevant information in the first place."

This gave Snape pause. "You say you have raised the boy?" It was a mark of how surprising this revelation was that Snape requested the confirmation; he was not in the habit of pointless repetition in conversation.

"Certainly," confirmed his counterpart, with a nod. "He has been my ward since towards the end of his first year. I have spent every summer, aside from the first two weeks, with him since that time. And every holiday break, in addition to Thursday evenings during term time," his lips quirked up fondly at the recollection, and Snape found himself seriously doubting whether this was the Alium at all, so unlike himself was the man before him. Then, it got worse.

"I consider him to be my son," his Alium-self continued, speaking firmly, and Snape felt positively nauseated at the thought. He opened his mouth to ask the man whether he'd lost his bloody mind; taking in a virtual clone of Potter, of all people, but his alternate self raised a hand, as if to stem the tide of the vitriol Snape wished to direct his way.

"I know what you think of him," the man in the Alium said, a note of steel in his voice further compelling Snape to keep his silence, "and why you think that, but the boy is not arrogant, Severus. He has been a victim of Petunia Evans and her oaf of a husband and son since he was too young to form memories. I recognised the signs because he was one of my snakes, and I was able to act upon them because he was under my jurisdiction. He was abused. As your version of him still is, when he goes home."

A moment of silence followed this pronouncement as Snape briefly considered, and then disregarded, the possibility.

"Ridiculous," he sneered, shaking his head dismissively. "The brat is worshipped and adored by his relatives. You have no idea of the breathtaking extent of his arrogance and sense of entitlement. Perhaps your version of Potter may be a victim of abuse, but the one I have had the misfortune to share my reality with could not be farther from it."

The man in the Alium raised an eyebrow, staring incredulously at his counterpart. "You are either confunded or being intentionally blind, Severus. Look at the boy!"

Snape rolled his eyes. "I have seen him."

The Alium-Snape's eyes darkened still further. "It seems to me," he hissed, "that no adult in your entire accursed universe has truly seen that child since Lily died!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deliberately.

"Just… look." With this, the man deliberately locked eyes with Snape, a question in his gaze. Snape recognised the invitation, and nodded. Immediately, his mind was confronted with a conversation from earlier today. He recognised the Harry Potter he had taught for five years, perched on the edge of the desk currently behind Snape, muttering softly.

"Someone should have taken me from there." He said, quietly, eyes on his shoes. "They know how I'm treated. They know.." he paused for a moment to gather himself, continuing in an almost-whisper, "My Hogwarts letter was addressed to the cupboard under the stairs… the Weasleys had to pull iron bars off my windows, and I know they told Mrs Weasley about them. They always send me food for my birthday because they know I don't get enough... In third year, I blew up my aunt and ran away from home. I asked Dumbledore not to send me home for the summer too, back in first year." He took a breath, slightly unevenly. "No one ever did anything. Someone… someone should have done something."

Snape shook his head to clear the image. "Potter may have fooled you with his little sob story," he scoffed, "but such tactics will not work on me." He straightened, staring derisively at the man before him. "You've gone soft, Snape, since the Dark Lord's defeat."

The man in the Alium let out a snort, nodding as he did so. "I'll agree with you there," he said wryly. " Or at least, I've gone soft, as you put it, since I became Harry's guardian. But I can't say I believe it to be an altogether terrible thing."

"Oh really?" asked Snape sardonically. "How very nice for you."

Silence reigned once for a moment, before the Alium-Snape spoke up again. "If you can trust no one else, Severus, trust yourself," implored the other man, quietly.

"Analyse your own memories of the boy, but look for an abused child, rather than a spoilt Potter brat. You know the signs. He is not arrogant, believe me. And he needs your help with occlumency, especially now he knows about the horcruxes."

"I will never again teach that boy occlumency!" snarled Snape, relieved to be on more familiar footing in the conversation. "The brat deliberately went into my pensieve!"

"And that is inexcusable," interjected his counterpart, calmly, "but so is a master of mind arts using a pensieve to protect his own privacy, without offering the same courtesy to the untrained fifteen year old he is teaching. You'd been in his pensieve since the first lesson."

To this, Snape could say nothing in his own defence.

"Harry is talented at mind-magics, Severus," offered his alter-self. "All that is needed is trust between student and teacher, and the correct approach. I have told him what worked for his Slytherin counterpart. I have also," he continued, unapologetically, "helped you to gain his trust, by telling him about the vow, and about your part in the prophecy."

Snape felt the colour drain from his face. "You had no right!" he hissed, livid.

"I did what was necessary," snarled his counterpart, equally wrathful in his response, "I refuse to see a version of my child adrift in a sea of grief and misplaced guilt without a single reliable adult or the capacity to defend his own mind!"

"I cannot be a 'reliable adult' for Potter!" sneered Snape, vehemently. "It is an idiotic idea. I am a spy for the Dark Lord- being around me is dangerous for us both. Quite apart from that, we despise each other!"

The man in the Alium took a step forwards, nostrils flaring as he spoke, "You made a vow, Severus! You are well placed to help the boy, and you will be able to tell him about Dumbledore once he's mastered occlumency." The man raised his hand, cutting off any protest Snape might have made. He resumed his speech once more, after a moment, both men breathing ever so slightly heavier than they had been, his voice lower and more calm.

"I see we are not likely to reach an accord," the man said, a note of resignation in his tone. "Now, as time draws short, legilimency seems to me the best way to share with you my research into horcruxes, if you would wish to?"

Against his better judgement, Severus met the other man's eyes and plunged into his mind, gathering information as it was offered to him. A spell to identify horcruxes, ancient tomes, the titles of books that may be useful, memories of destroying horcruxes, experiments on transferring them- Severus stored it all.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but spanned only a few moments, the information was exhausted. Severus was ready to pull back, but found his alternate self offering up other, unrelated memories. He hesitantly accepted them, and felt himself immediately drawn in, fully and inextricably immersed with a strength to which he was as wholly unaccustomed.

He was sitting in the Great Hall, his carefully-laid plans crashing around his ears as his newest snake stumbled off the stool into the silence, looking incredibly frightened and impossibly small. Seated in his office, he was frowning at a medical report, requisitioned for one H. J. Potter, the words malnutrition and restricted growth staring out at him from the page. He was flicking through the record of letters sent to Hogwarts first years- Harry Potter, Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He was in Dumbledore's office, arguing vociferously, "He can go back for two weeks to renew the wards, Albus, but I will be monitoring him and he'll not be left there a second longer than necessary!" He was sitting on the bed beside Potter in his own spare room in Spinner's End, waiting for the clock to switch to midnight on the 31st of July. Heart pounding, he was running across his Hogwarts quarters to a room he'd never seen before, which contained a whimpering Potter, crying out in his sleep- "Please let me out, Aunt Petunia! Please!" Beside his own simmering cauldron, he observed as Potter carefully added powdered bicorn horn to a silver solution, saw the boy's eyes light up as it turned a brilliant blue. An older Potter cast his patronus for the first time. "A doe!" Potter exclaimed, delightedly.

Suddenly, the memories stopped and he found himself staring once more into his alternate self's obsidian orbs.

"Promise me that you will look after that boy, Severus. Promise on Lily's memory. " His alternate self's voice was quiet, barely a whisper, but imbued with significance, his tone the one he reserved for the most serious declarations, the most menacing threats. "He deserves more than mere survival."

Snape, his mouth dry, mind still whirling, simply nodded. A moment later, he blinked in surprise at the agreement he had just made, but the man in the Alium smiled at him, satisfied. The promise had been made. On Lily's memory. And Snape knew he would attempt to keep it.

As the Snapes began their conversation, Harry wondered briefly if he could make out what they were saying, but lip reading had never been his forte, and after a moment, his attention was caught by the sight of some movement behind Alium-Snape. Harry's doppelganger had recommenced sorting his box of books, and seemed to be rather intent upon his task. Casting his eyes about, Harry wondered if the same box existed in his world. It was difficult to tell; all were covered in dust, and the scene was half-obscured by Alium-Snape, who seemed to be having a rather heated discussion with his own counterpart. Just as Harry was starting to get slightly frustrated with trying to locate the correct box, Alium-Harry's gaze flickered up to the mirror, and Harry waved to catch his alternate self's eye. The boy saw him staring and raised an eyebrow in question, whereupon Harry gestured at the boxes around himself in enquiry.

The boy in the Alium nodded his comprehension and raised a hand to wipe the dust off the box he was currently delving through. Under the layer of dirt and grime, the box was apparently a dull red colour. This narrowed the field somewhat, and a short search yielded the box in question. As he gripped the edges of the box with his fingertips, prising the unwilling lid up and off, the scent of mildew and ancient pages launched into the air. It was absolutely brimming with books, and Harry gestured helplessly to his alternate self, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and picked one off the pile beside him to hold aloft so Harry could see the title. Harry thought it was the one he'd seen given to Alium-Snape earlier. He couldn't make out the title, but the cover was black, with a golden sheen of cursive lettering emblazoned across the front.

He rifled through his own box until he found what he thought was the right book and held it up for inspection. His alternate self nodded, and Harry gripped it tightly, looking down at the cover as he did so. "Pessimus magicae," he muttered. His Latin wasn't brilliant- Hermione insisted that a study of Latin was incredibly helpful but he'd never found the need. With a sinking heart, he flicked through the tome and confirmed his first instinct that it was, indeed, written entirely in the dead language. He looked up to his counterpart impatiently, frustrated beyond belief. From the dawning look of understanding on the face of the boy in the Alium, he thought his message had been received. Clearly, his counterpart had no such difficulty reading Latin.

The boy in the Alium pursed his lips and flicked through the book, straight to the back, where his expression brightened. He then glanced across at his- well, his guardian, Harry supposed- and, seeing that both Snapes were now engaged in a bizarre staring match, he raised his wand and wrote lettering in the air. Harry shivered- it was too reminiscent of Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. The lettering read, 'Tap Anglicus'.

Curious, Harry immediately imitated the other boy, flicking to the back of the book, where there were two words on the inside cover- Gallico and Anglicus. Harry tapped the latter, shrugging at his counterpart when he opened the book to a random page in the middle to find that the book was still in Latin, only to see the other boy raise his eyebrows and point to his wand, a look of complete incredulity on his face. Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly; he could almost hear the words,- Are you a wizard or what?

Harry tapped the word again, with his wand this time, and then the book warmed briefly in his hands. When he flicked back through it, he was pleased to find that the book was now in English. He smiled his gratitude rather sheepishly at the boy across from him, who smirked.

He was just checking for an index (he had found, to his irritation, that older wizarding texts often lacked these) when he realised he could once again hear movement from Snape. It appeared that the two professors had finished their conversation.

"Thank you for waiting, Mr Potter," said Alium-Snape, with an unmistakable air of satisfaction. "I'm content in the knowledge that you will have support in your own world going forwards."

Harry surreptitiously tucked his book underneath his jumper (not the first time his baggy attire had come in useful) before rising from his knees and turning his head to look towards his potions teacher doubtfully- Support? Snape?- but said nothing. He crossed the room carefully to stand beside his potions master, looking into the Alium, watching as his counterpart mirrored his actions. Alium-Snape continued to talk. "Now, are there any other questions you still have, Mr Potter? Once your curiosity is fully satisfied, the Alium should release us all to go our separate ways. I shall be destroying this version as soon as our door unlocks, and I've advised your professor to destroy your version too, once the connection ends."

"Hang on," said Harry, furrowing his brow, "Why does it depend on me?"

"Because, Mr Potter" explained Alium-Snape, shooting what looked like a warning glance at his own counterpart, who had opened his mouth as if to respond, "The Alium was awoken by you. Only when you feel ready to leave will it release the rest of us."

Harry looked at the people in the mirror, feeling a sense of embarrassment, "I'm very sorry to have kept you," he said sincerely. I didn't mean to."

"Harry!" interjected his Slytherin self, kindly. "It's fine. I'm actually very glad that we met you. Hopefully, you know enough now to get old Voldyshorts defeated sooner rather than later. But if you have any other questions, now's the time."

Harry grinned. Voldyshorts was definitely his new go-to. He thought for a moment- questions, questions... Oh! He turned curiously to the window Harry. "Why did you listen to the sorting hat, anyway?"

Alium-Harry shrugged. "It was pretty persuasive. What did it say to you?"

Harry had no difficulty remembering; he'd thought about it many times over the years. "It told me I could be great and that Slytherin would help me on the way to greatness."

Harry's other self looked surprised by this. "That's it? I'm not surprised you weren't convinced by that!" he exclaimed. "It definitely tried harder with me. It told me off, if you'd believe that!" He shook his head, the corners of his mouth betraying amusement as he reminisced. "I was repeating, 'Not Slytherin, not Slytherin' and it said, "Not Slytherin, eh? I'm disappointed in you, young Potter. I'd have thought you knew better than to put so much stock in the prejudices of others, given your own upbringing." Alium-Harry smiled ruefully.

"But," Harry protested, "it wasn't about prejudice!"

"Wasn't it?" queried his alternate self, mildly.

"No!" insisted Harry, "It's a fact that there are more dark wizards from Slytherin!"

"True to an extent," conceded Alium-Harry, "but did you know that at the time?"

"Of course- Hagrid told me!"

"I don't know what your Hagrid told you," the boy facing him said, plainly, "but mine told me there isn't t a wizard or witch who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. Which is clearly a load of old rubbish."

"Voldemort was a Slytherin!" argued Harry.

"As was Merlin," countered Alium-Harry, a deliberate note of boredom in his voice suggesting that he'd had to defend his house on numerous occasions, and was well-used to it. "It's prejudiced to use one bad example to judge the rest of a group and you know it."

"Well," Harry said, thinking back to the reasons he'd had for not wanting to go into Slytherin house, "Malfoy was a git in Madam Malkin's and when I met him again on the train he was awful to Ron. And he kept going on about Slytherin. I didn't want to be in his house." Harry noticed that the man beside him had raised an eyebrow at this, and he fought down a flush of embarrassment.

"Again, one bad example," noted Alium-Harry, a hint of kindness in his voice this time. "That's essentially the conversation I had with the sorting hat. It pointed out that no school house is inherently evil. Then it said it had been sorting wizards and witches for a thousand years and it felt that I would be better off in Slytherin than anywhere else, though it would put me elsewhere if I wanted. It asked me to trust it." He shrugged. "In the end, I said OK."

"So basically," said Harry, in disbelief, "It's the hat's fault. The Hat just accepted my request! I only got that thing about Slytherin helping me on my way to greatness and an, 'Oh well, if you're sure, better be Gryffindor!'"

Alium-Harry frowned. "Worst luck, Harry, sorry."

Harry shook his head. "It's OK. Nothing to be done about it now, at any rate, and I've been happy in Gryffindor." He stalled for a moment- he wasn't quite willing to let them go just yet. "Oh, another question, how did you find out about the horcruxes?"

Alium-Harry responded, "I don't think I knew about them until last year, when Severus told me."

"Correct," Alium-Snape confirmed, "But I was informed, as Harry's guardian, shortly after the headmaster discovered the diary in Harry's second year. I've been working with him to identify and track down horcruxes since. Having a functional one to experiment with was invaluable. That's how we created the identification spell I just taught your professor, which is what led to the identification of Harry's scar as a horcrux." He turned to Snape, his expression pensive, "Has the headmaster confided the knowledge of horcruxes to you?"

Snape shook his head in denial. His alternate self's eyes seemed to darken in thought. "It seems to me that your headmaster is more determined to keep his machinations to himself than ours. I wonder if it's possible he interfered with the hat in some way."

Harry shook his head in denial, studiously ignoring the ice that trickled down his spine at the thought. He could think of nothing else to ask and, after a moment, admitted as much. The alternate pair wasted no time in bidding them farewell.

"If that's truly all you have to ask, Harry, the door should open for you and your professor now. I imagine that the connection will end when Harry leaves the room, Professor Snape, if you'd like to take the opportunity to destroy the window." said Alium-Snape, to which his counterpart nodded.

"Wait, wait!" objected Harry, suddenly feeling a sense of impending loss, "You can't destroy it! It's mine, and it's been really useful- what if another version of us knows how to get rid of this?" He pointed to his scar.

"And that," Alium-Snape commented, gently, "is why the Alium is dangerous, Harry. It will never show the answers you consciously seek, just drive you mad in search of them, showing you worlds where you are happier, safer, better cared for." He smiled sadly at Harry. "It would only serve to increase your dissatisfaction with your own life, cause you to feel a sense of failure and self-recrimination, as indeed this encounter with it has done. You are lucky that I happened to be close enough to Harry when this started, as it meant that I was able to call your professor and explain to him. This was not a typical experience with the Alium, Harry- it is not safe to use as a tool for intelligence gathering."

"But, sir," countered Harry, desperately, "What about Dumbledore? Won't he want to try it?"

"Professor Dumbledore," his own Snape responded, snidely, "has recently proven himself less capable of self-restraint in the presence of a magical artefact than one might hope him to be."

Alium-Snape shot a look of exasperation at his counterpart before adding, in a softer tone, "The headmaster has some… intense regrets that I am not at liberty to disclose to you, but I agree with your professor when he suggests that the Alium might well prove problematic for Professor Dumbledore."

Harry crossed his arms stubbornly. 'It's mine and I still think we should keep it. It might be useful, like the Mirror of Erised was."

"And, as our resident expert in the Dark Arts and their artefacts, your word is, of course, law," drawled Snape, sardonically.

Harry threw a scathing look at the man beside him. "As owner of this house and everything in it, my word is law, yes!" he snarled, temper mounting rapidly.

Remembering his other self suddenly, he turned to face the boy. "What about you?" he demanded. "Are you going to let him," he gestured at Snape's counterpart, "destroy your stuff? He didn't even ask!"

Alium-Harry smiled ruefully at this. "Oh, I didn't expect him to," he said lightly. "He only ever asks me if he's willing to accept my answer. He doesn't believe in offering an illusion of choice," he continued, putting on a deeper tone of voice for the last, making it clear that he was parroting his guardian. The boy shrugged.

Harry was somewhat dismayed by the way in which his alternate self capitulated so quickly to Alium-Snape's unreasonable demands. Something must have shown in his expression, because, after a glance at his face, Alium-Harry directed his attention to Snape standing beside Harry.

"Do you think you could give us a minute?" Snape huffed an impatient breath, before grabbing Harry's shoulder and yanking him back a pace or so from the Alium.

"Do not touch that unless you wish to be trapped in there for eternity, Potter," he snarled, before whirling around and stalking to the other side of the room. Alium-Harry watched him go with a roll of his eyes, before directing his attention to Harry once more.

"I know it's a strange idea, but generally I've found that Severus knows what he's talking about, even when we disagree." He smirked at Harry's raised eyebrows and pointedly ignored Alium-Snape's smug expression. "It's different for me," he continued, "because he's my guardian, so he's got the right to do what's best for me whether I agree or not. One of the downsides of having a guardian who both knows and cares what's going on in my life," he added, dryly, "But, even though your Snape seems a pretty nasty piece of work," here, Harry nodded in firm agreement, "from what I can see, I reckon he's still intelligent, and he probably has good enough instincts that you can take his advice as fairly sound. Usually, if he thinks something's a good idea, it probably is, assuming he's got all the relevant information. I think you can trust him. I'm trusting mine on this, so, even though the Alium is technically my property, if Severus thinks it'd better be destroyed, than I guess that's what we'll do." Harry frowned at this, but said nothing. After a moment, Snape was beckoned back to join them. Harry was surprised when the man limited his ire at being banished to the side of the room to a sneering expression. Harry had been expecting a small tirade about arrogance and not considering the time of others to be important, or at least a snide comment about precious Potter's privacy. Maybe the man was tired. He grudgingly informed Snape that he could destroy the Alium, and saw the other Snape nod in approval.

"Well then, it's been an honour to have met you both," said the Alium-Snape, once they were all together once more. Best of luck!"

"And to you, also," nodded Snape, almost cordially, shocking Harry, whose eyes he met as he turned.

"Off with you then, Potter," he dismissed Harry, who gave his final parting wishes and thanks to his alternate self and the boy's father, before heading to the exit.

"Wait," he paused suddenly, his door on the cool brass of its handle, as he turned back to Alium-Harry, "One more question; do you ever worry that Mum and Dad would be disappointed that you sorted the way you did?"

In the Alium, Harry shook his head. Alium-Snape elaborated for him. "Harry asked me that question once, when he was just 11 years old, and I will tell you now what I told him then. 'You underestimate how much your parents loved you if you believe they'd have thought badly of you for something as inconsequential as sorting. The sorting hat's choice may have an impact on how you are perceived by others, but it does not alter who you are.'"

Harry nodded in acknowledgement before turning the handle of the door, which opened into the hall, where half of the Order was waiting for him.

"HARRY! Are you alright?" He found himself swept up into Mrs Weasley's arms and anxiously surveyed for injury. "I don't know what you were thinking, going in there by yourself! Didn't you remember what we said about the uncleaned rooms? Anything could have been in there! You gave me such a fright!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Weasley," Harry managed, struggling to draw air through a smothering hug, "I didn't even realise I was locked in until Professor Snape arrived."

"And where is Professor Snape, Harry?" came Dumbledore's voice from somewhere around his left shoulder. Harry fought to pull away from Mrs Weasley enough to look over at him.

"He said he'd be out in a minute sir, that he had to destroy a dark artefact first."

"Ah," replied the headmaster, seemingly unconcerned. "In that case, why don't you return to the kitchens with Mrs Weasley and the rest- I'll see if I can assist Professor Snape and we'll be down momentarily, I'm sure."

Suddenly, a large shattering sound came from behind the door Harry had just left through, before it opened to reveal Professor Snape.

"Headmaster," he said, by way of greeting, "would you like to step in here for a moment? There is no rush, nor any cause for alarm, but I believe a conversation is in order."

"Certainly, Severus," smiled Dumbledore, "Molly was just about to take young Harry back down to the kitchens."

"Professor," protested Harry, urgently, "I really wanted to speak to you."

Dumbledore looked set to give a gentle refusal, and Harry's temper at being perpetually treated like a child was beginning to stir, when, to his surprise, Snape responded, "Yes, I agree. It would be prudent to have Mr Potter be a part of this conversation."

Mrs Weasley's grip tightened around Harry, "Absolutely not!" she declared, stridently. "I want you in the kitchen where we can look you over, you've been trapped in the thrall of a dark object for goodness knows how long and now you expect us to let you go back in there?"

Snape inhaled slowly and deliberately. "While I understand your concern, Molly," he drawled, sounding utterly disinterested, "the room is safe enough now. I have destroyed the artefact that caused the problem, and aside from that artefact the room is more or less benign."

"Albus!" Mrs Weasley turned to the headmaster beseechingly, "You cannot allow this!"

Dumbledore considered her for a moment, before turning to Harry, "Harry, my boy, are you injured in any way?"

Harry was shaking his head before the question was even fully out. "No, professor."

"Well then, Molly," returned the man, in serious tones that were entirely undermined by the twinkle in his eye, "While I usually defer to you in all matters concerning the wellbeing of our young people, I'm afraid that on this occasion, I think the benefit of getting the ordeal out of the way in one sitting outweighs the harm of not immediately checking him over. If you would be so kind as to prepare Harry something suitable to eat, we'll be down shortly."

Mrs Weasley looked as if she had a mind to protest but ultimately made her way downstairs, her movement punctuated by muttering that bemoaned the lack of concern towards safety and wellbeing in this organisation.

"Well then, Severus," smiled Dumbledore, when the last of the order had disappeared in search of a cup of tea, "I do hope this discussion is worth incurring the wrath of Molly Weasley."

Snape stepped to one side, pushing the door wider to allow Harry and the headmaster into the room. He gestured to the artefact's empty frame and the glass piled in front of it, the sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the curtains causing it to glint like forgotten treasure.

Dumbledore gasped. "My word; is that the Allium?"

"Indeed," intoned Snape. "Mr Potter here managed to activate it with a scenario based on his sorting."

Dumbledore turned to Harry, a look of understanding sweeping across his face, "You wanted to know how your life would be different if you'd let the hat sort you into Slytherin?"

Harry nodded, hesitantly. "That's what they said, but it confuses me, professor. I've been dwelling a lot on what happened at the ministry and I'd have thought the Allium would have chosen something around that. The sorting was years ago. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Ah, these objects are notoriously difficult to direct, Harry," said Dumbledore, sagely, moving forward to inspect the frame as he did so, "And this is why it is considered a dark object. Each scenario withdraws energy from the user, and the user keeps returning to see new scenarios, but rarely are they given the specific answers they seek. Though, I must say," the elderly wizard turned rather cool blue eyes on his potions master, "I find myself rather disappointed to have not had the opportunity to utilise it myself."

Snape raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and made no move to apologise for his destruction of the Alium. Harry wondered if they'd be speaking about it later. At length, Dumbledore once again turned to face the shattered device. "I take it that you believe you have discovered some information of use?" he asked.

"We may have," responded Snape. "Now you've seen the Allium, perhaps we could retire to somewhere else to talk."

"Splendid idea, Severus!" exclaimed Dumbledore, "These old bones struggle to cope with too much standing around, you know." He winked at Harry.

They adjourned to the study where Harry had been informed of his impending occlumency lessons the previous year, and Snape allowed him to tell the story, filling in gaps where necessary, and answering questions when asked. Dumbledore seemed rather disgruntled at their knowledge of horcruxes, but his eyes gleamed when they told him the possible locations of the cup, locket and diadem.

"Well! You certainly have been busy," he smiled brightly. "If this information is even partly accurate, I believe that you may have turned the tide in this war. Kreacher!"

With a pop, the ancient house-elf appeared, muttering about filthy blood traitors who dared to call upon his noble master's elf.

"Kreacher," said Dumbledore, in a kind voice that belied the hint of steel behind his eyes, "Do you happen to have a locket in your possession?"

Kreacher glared at the headmaster, suspicion written plainly on his face. "Kreacher has nothing to say about lockets."

"Answer the question, Kreacher," said Harry, sternly, glaring down at the loathsome elf before him. "Truthfully. That's an order."

The elf's eyes narrowed in fury, seemingly fighting against the compulsion to speak, inevitably losing the battle. "The blood traitor wizard speaks of Master Regulus's locket. Kreacher has it, Kreacher must destroy it. Kreacher promised Master Regulus, and Kreacher has failed! He has tried and tried, but it will not be destroyed!"

Kreacher was clearly very distressed, twisting his hands in his pillowcase distractedly.

"Bring me the locket, Kreacher," said Dumbledore, softly, "I shall see that it is destroyed."

Kreacher eyed him suspiciously, "Blood traitor wizard promises?"

"I do," said Dumbledore firmly, without a hint of his usual mirth.

Kreacher popped away, only to return an instant later carrying one of the ugliest necklaces that Harry had ever seen.

"Allow me, headmaster," said Snape, softly, "My alternate self taught me a spell to confirm the identity of such objects." At Dumbledore's nod, Snape instructed Kreacher to put the locket onto the desk. He moved forward a few steps, his back to Harry, and flicked his wand in an exceedingly long and complicated pattern (Harry marveled at his having learned it during the short conversation he'd had with his alternate self- he'd not even seen the movement demonstrated), softly incanting, "

Ostendium anima!" A silver mist poured out of the end of his wand and encased the locket. It flashed red once, then dissipated. Snape nodded.

"Kreacher," began Dumbledore. "You have my word that I will see this destroyed. I will summon you to watch when it happens. Harry, you must now forbid Kreacher to speak of the locket in any fashion to anyone not currently in this room."

This, Harry did. He then listened while the headmaster interrogated Kreacher, more gently than he himself likely would have done, with the sting of the elf's betrayal still fresh. They learned about Sirius's brother and his defection to the side of the light, and of the story of his death. Harry reflected, somberly, that Sirius had never known his brother had died for the light; that he had thought the worst of his brother until the end. At length, an openly weeping Kreacher was dismissed, having once again been sworn to secrecy.

"A most productive day, my boys!" said Dumbledore, a light dancing in his eyes. "I would like to see your memory of the event when we return to school, Severus, but for now.."

"I'm afraid there is something else, headmaster." Snape's grave tone stopped Dumbledore short.

"Severus?" he queried, but it was Harry who answered, his mouth dry and his heart in his throat.

"Professor, the alternate me, he said my scar is a horcrux."

Any hope that Harry had had of Dumbledore refuting this horrific idea vanished as the elderly wizard seemed to deflate in front of them, all jollity removed as he visibly shrank and his jovial countenance was replaced with a sombre air. "Harry, my boy," he said, his tone grave, "I had hoped to spare you this until your knowledge of it became essential."

He paused as if weighing up his next words, but Snape interjected, "If I may, headmaster?"

Dumbledore looked surprised at the interruption, but gestured with a sweeping motion of his hand that the potions master may continue. Snape did so with a nod of thanks. "My alternate self was convinced that, given the unintentional element of the scar horcrux, it would be less tightly bound than a ritual horcrux and thus simpler to unbind. He told me of a few avenues of investigation that they are following. I would suggest that Potter and I follow these avenues to research the matter of the scar. I have at my disposal a good foundation in the Dark Arts, and with a little direction from yourself I am reasonably optimistic that we may find a solution. We will, of course, share all we learn with you as we learn it."

The barest twinkle began anew in Dumbledore's eyes as he regarded the pair, and Harry, who would have been skeptical of his professor's intended aid prior to his conversation with alternate-Snape, was once again confronted with potential evidence of his teacher's vow. It seemed that, bizarrely enough, Snape may truly be on his side. "That sounds perfectly reasonable to me," Dumbledore replied, his voice still gentle as he looked at Harry. "If that is amenable to you as well, my boy?"

Harry considered this. He wanted to ask about the vow, to see if it applied to this Snape as well, but something told him that doing so now might well put an end to the cordiality with which they were currently conversing, and he had other plans for this conversation and no desire to deal with the potential wrath of his potions professor. Besides, the Alium was right about the locket, why would it be wrong about this? He decided he would trust Snape for now, at least as far as believing the man was not intentionally working to kill him. Ron would think him a total nutter when he found out. In response to the question, Harry nodded slowly. And then, figuring he may as well, he murmured a thank you to the younger of his two professors. Snape did not deign to acknowledge it, but nor did he make a cutting comment. Harry guessed this was the best he could hope for. He still had one more thing to do- something he was dreading, but something that he deemed necessary.

"Um, if that's all Professor Dumbledore," began Harry, tentatively, "I'd like to have a word with Professor Snape, before we go back downstairs, if that's alright?"

The potions master locked eyes with Harry, impassive black orbs meeting wary green, but merely nodded.

Dumbledore looked at Harry, eyes soft. "Of course my boy. I regret that I must ask you to keep all information that was discussed today pertaining to horcruxes completely private until we have time to discuss it further. Share it with no one at this point, until I determine how much is safe to share with your friends, please, Harry. Do you think you will be able to achieve that?"

Harry simply nodded his agreement- he had no desire to see the looks on their faces once they found out.

Dumbledore locked eyes with Harry over his half-moon spectacles, his expression conveying a great deal of sympathy. "I have no doubt it will be difficult and it is an unfair request for me to make of you- what you have learned would be upsetting to anyone and ideally you would be able to confide in your friends. Hopefully we will find a way for you to do so soon. In the meantime, please remember that the horcrux has no bearing on you as a person." Harry nodded again, not trusting himself to discuss it further with.any semblance of rationality.

"Very well," Dumbledore said, nodding to himself,."In that case, I shall see you both downstairs. I believe Molly has one of her delicious lemon tarts hidden away somewhere." And, with that, he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with the finality of a warden leaving a cell.

Harry took a deep breath and turned to face Snape. "Sir?"

Snape's eyes hardened almost imperceptibly, but Harry swallowed bravely- he was not a Gryffindor for nothing!- and kept on, beginning with the apology that he had felt was warranted since last year, but had not yet had the courage to give. He took a prepatory breath, and began.

"I am very sorry for looking in your pensieve last year. It was wrong of me, a complete invasion of your privacy and a betrayal of whatever little trust in me you had managed to muster up." He swallowed and continued, now staring resolutely at his shoes, yet encouraged by his professor's silence and continued presence in the room. "I really think I need occlumency going forward, sir. I know Professor Dumbledore said that Vol- I mean, You-Know-Who," Harry grimaced at the near slip, "wouldn't try to enter my mind again anytime soon, but we can't risk him learning of our knowledge of his horcruxes before we find them, and I can't risk what happened with Sirius shuddering again." He took a slightly shuddering breath as his grief sliced at him once more, "I would be very grateful for your help in protecting my mind and my secrets. Will you teach me again?"

At this, he chanced a glance up at Snape. The man's face betrayed nothing - a blank mask, with no emotion whatsoever behind those dark eyes.

"Please, sir" Harry added on for good measure, hating to grovel to greasy git but knowing if he didn't try this properly he'd always wonder. Snape remained unmoved.

"If that is all, Mr Potter," said the man, coldly, as he stalked towards the door.

Harry was disappointed, but hadn't really expected anything better, despite what Alium-Snape had said. He told himself he didn't care; the less time spent with Snape the better, and maybe Dumbledore would give him some pointers on occlumency once he'd managed to complete his mental landscape. He felt a surge of irritation though; why did he get this taciturn, cruel version of Snape? He could really have done with having the man from the Alium on his side.

Harry watched, resigned, as Snape swept indifferently towards the door before coming to an abrupt halt, his hand on the handle, before, almost reluctantly, turning again to face Harry. After a beat, he spoke. "If I am to, once again, have the highly dubious honour of spending my very limited free time teaching you occlumency, may I trust that, on this occasion, you will put your full effort into your study of the subject?"

Harry nodded, eyes widening in shock at the man's apparent willingness to do him this favour, "Yes, sir."

Snape fixed him with a disbelieving stare of his own, but simply said, "Do not make me regret it, Potter." And with no further ado, he opened the door and strode out.

When Harry entered the kitchen, lunch was in full swing. Mrs Weasley had somehow managed to put together a spread fit for the entire order, though many had already departed, and the large wooden table was already teeming with sandwiches, vegetable crudités, sausage rolls and the like. First to spot him were Ron and Hermione.

"Harry!" Hermione managed to quell her natural urge to shriek his name across the table, so only those in the immediate vicinity noticed and turned to listen.

"Alright, mate?" asked Ron, thankfully between mouthfuls.

"Harry!" demanded Hermione again, "What happened? They said you'd been locked in a room by a dark artefact!"

Harry shrugged. He'd anticipated this reaction, and used the time walking from the study to the kitchen to prepare his response. He directed his answer to Ron. "Remember the Mirror of Erised, first year?"

"Oh eh," managed Ron, through a mouthful of sausage roll this time. Hermione grimaced, and Ron swallowed, glancing at her somewhat apologetically. "Yeah, giant mirror, shows your heart's desire, sometimes contains the Philosopher's Stone?"

"That's the one," confirmed Harry. "It was like that, no danger in it unless you spend days in front of it and forget to eat. They found me before then, Snape managed to get the door open and smashed the mirror. No harm done."

"Well honestly, I don't understand why you even went in there in the first place, Harry!" admonished Hermione, "You know we're not allowed!"

Harry felt his temper rise again but managed to force it down. "Look, let's just leave it for now, yeah?" He said. "No one got hurt and I won't be wandering around on my own again." He leaned forward and grabbed a tuna sandwich, endeavoring to move the topic on. "Did you hear anything from the meeting?"

As he chewed, letting Hermione's chatter wash over him, the food became ash in his mouth and his stomach twisted. He had a piece of Voldemort stuck in his head. It was really starting to sink in. He felt dirty and just wanted to go and lie down, ignoring the world. To pretend it wasn't true. He really couldn't deal with anyone's pity right now though, even if he hadn't been sworn to secrecy, so soldiered on, making the effort to respond as normally as he could, even forcing out a laugh at a bad joke. He did not notice the black eyes watching him from the corner of the room.

Harry retired to his and Ron's bedroom, after submitting to a once-over by Mrs Weasley, who declared he looked a bit peaky and threatened pepper-up before ultimately allowing him to go to bed, accepting his excuses of a poor night's sleep, and his apology for losing his temper that morning. When he got to bed, he shoved the book from the Alium's room under his pillow and fell into a restless slumber.

When Snape and Dumbledore returned to the headmaster's office via floo, Snape took the opportunity to pose some questions he'd been unwilling to ask in front of Potter. The headmaster having floo'd first, Snape arrived in a flash of green to find the older wizard already seated behind his desk. With an enigmatic smile, the man gestured towards the seat opposite him in invitation rather than a command. Snape swept over to the chair, taking his seat and staring at the man with a hint of challenge.

"I believe, Severus," Dumbledore began, seriously, "that there is something you wish to discuss."

"To put it mildly. I find myself curious as to the nature of the plan you have for dealing with the boy's horcrux. I presume there is one, aside from simply letting the boy be murdered?"

The grave expression on the older man's face gave the double-agent all the information he needed. "I see," he said, flatly. "I find myself rather… irritated, Albus, to discover, after all the discussions we've had pertaining to ensuring the boy's safety and protection, that your concern was merely ensuring that he not die before the opportune time." His voice was level in volume, but the venom with which he spoke rose towards the end of the sentence.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Could it be, Severus, after all this time, that you have begun to care for the boy?"

"Him?" Snape scoffed. "I care only that my mission over the last fifteen years has been a complete waste of time!" Severus was thankful that he had been told of this earlier, and that his alter-self had taken the brunt of his ire. He was able to respond in a more measured way than he could have hoped to do if he had been surprised with it by Dumbledore himself.

"Something of an overstatement, don't you think?" parried Dumbledore. "How can it have been a complete waste of time to give Harry the chance to live through his Hogwarts education, as your actions helped ensure? Were he to die tomorrow, would his life to this point have been a mere waste of effort? Is the value of a life to you determined merely by its length?"

"Do not be facetious," Snape scowled. "This is no debate on the intrinsic value of life. I fail to believe that there is no way short of death to rid the boy of the horcrux."

"Would that there were another way," the older man responded solemnly. "It is an unfortunate inevitability, and believe me I have conducted research into the matter, but I have been unable to devise an alternative solution and the longer we spend looking for one, the more murders are committed in Voldemort's name. This is the only practicable solution, I promise you."

"So that's it then?" returned Snape, his voice scathing. "There is no time to search for alternatives, so the boy must die?"

"Indeed he must. And, for it to work, Voldemort must be the one to cast the killing curse. Harry must not try to defend himself, must walk knowingly to his own death."

Snape stared at him. "Are you insane, old man?" he finally hissed in response. "You cannot ask Lily's son to do that!"

"Indeed, I shall not ask it of him," said Dumbledore, sadly. "I'm afraid, Severus, that that singularly unpleasant task must fall to you, after the rest of the horcruxes have been destroyed, as I am unlikely to live to see that happy day."

"Me?" Snape responded, incredulously. "Even if I were willing to undertake such a reprehensible task, the boy would never believe me!"

"Oh, I think he would, Severus, but regardless, I believe the best way would be to show him the memory of this conversation. I did not plan to tell you of this until it became necessary to do so, you realise. I felt you may be somewhat resistant to the idea."

"Well," sneered Snape, rising from his chair. "You'll forgive me for not being so eager to condemn the boy to signing his own death warrant."

"What would you suggest as an alternative?"

Snape began to pace the office. "My Alium-self has had time to study the situation and has given me some avenues that you might be able to explore. I can show you, if I might borrow your pensieve?"

Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "I would certainly like to see the entire memory of the encounter. However, I am afraid to say that I must focus my energies on extracting the horcruxes as quickly as possible, now that we have information on their probable locations. With that, running Hogwarts and leading the Order, I will not be able to devote myself to the matter of the horcrux, particularly given that a workable solution exists already, unpalatable though it might be."

Severus scowled. "Then is there another who may lead the research? I too, am a busy man."

"Unfortunately, the sharing of this information with anyone whose occlumency shields are less formidable than my own is untenable."

"So you will not even allow the research to take place, even though it may save Potter's life?" spat Snape. "You're happy to see him condemned to death!"

Dumbledore's face darkened in anger. "Careful, Severus," the man warned, his voice like the crackle of electricity before a storm; eerie and warning of a violence yet to be unleashed.

Snape did not visibly respond to this display, but did take the point. "Very well," the potions master said, in a voice less sneering than it would otherwise have been. "As no one else can apparently be bothered with the inconsequential matter of Potter's continued presence amongst the living after the Dark Lord's defeat, I will find the time to conduct the research myself. From where, I do not know."

Dumbledore looked at him thoughtfully, and his eyes began to contain the barest twinkle.

"I may be able to free you from some of your duties to give more time for research," he offered. "If it will help."

Snape nodded his acquiescence to this plan and muttered his gratitude. Not that the old coot deserved any- it was for his golden boy after all! As if Snape didn't have enough to do.

The old man returned the nod. "I wish you the best of luck in your research, my boy. And I am proud of you for putting your animosity towards Harry aside for this. I would die a happy man if I could do so in the knowledge that Harry might be spared such an ordeal. However, I must have your word that you will not keep the knowledge of the manner in which the horcrux must be destroyed from the boy, if there is still no other solution available by the time the rest of the horcruxes have met their fate."

Snape thought about this for a moment. The old man was correct of course; the war was worth more than any one individual, even Lily's son. But still…

"I give you my word. I shall tell him. However, I shall not endeavour to talk him into it."

"Ah, Severus, here your misunderstanding of Harry's nature becomes obvious. He will need no convincing."

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

The next day, Harry awoke and lay in bed, listening to the steady drone of Ron's snoring and the creaking of the pipes as the house began to awaken for the day. Unable to sleep further, he stared at the spotted ceiling for a few minutes before deciding to head down to the kitchen in hopes of breakfast.

Changed and bleary-eyed, with his book tucked into his jumper once more, Harry seated himself at the knotted wooden table, smiling in gratitude when Mrs Weasley pressed a cup of tea into his hands. Sipping it slowly, he was just coming back to life when a pop at his elbow heralded the arrival of a house-elf.

"Master Harry Potter, sir!" came a high-pitched squeal of excitement, and Harry nearly fell out of his chair as a small yet sturdy elf barreled his way into Harry's midriff, flinging his bony arms around Harry's waist as he did so.

"Dobby!' exclaimed Harry, his morning suddenly so much brighter. "What are you doing here?"

Dobby puffed up his chest with pride, causing the badges on his chest to gleam in the lamplight. "Dobby is being Professor Dumbleydore's special messenger, sir. Dobby is hearing that a message is needed to be taken to Master Harry Potter sir, without interception and with utmost secrecy. Dobby volunteered straight away as soon as he heard, and Professor Dumbleydore is giving Dobby the job right away, for being such a good friend to Master Harry Potter." He held out a parcel wrapped in brown paper, with a letter fastened to the top.

"Thanks Dobby!" Harry said, giving the elf a warm smile, "You've been a big help. If I want to write a reply, can you come back and pick it up?"

Dobby's eyes watered with pride. "Master Harry Potter is so great and good to thank Dobby! Dobby loves to serve Harry Potter; nothing brings him greater joy! Dobby will be delighted to deliver a return letter, whenever Harry Potter wishes. Harry Potter need only call on Dobby, and Dobby will come. But now, Dobby must return to Hogwarts, for Dobby has other work to do. Goodbye, Harry Potter!" And with that, Dobby popped out of sight.

Eager to open his letter and parcel, Harry excused himself to the study with a plate of toast and the excuse of homework. Once inside, he closed the door and opened the parcel. A book fell out of the brown paper, and Harry turned the thick, red, leather-bound tome over in his hands to read the title, but found nothing. He opened the front page and found that the book began, 'Occlumency is the study of obscuring one's mind.' And Harry immediately knew who had sent this book. He turned to the letter. The envelope was blank on the outside, and the letter had no salutation, launching straight into the message. The handwriting was unfamiliar– looped and swirling. Harry supposed, if it was Snape, that he must have charmed it.

I have been reliably informed by a mutual acquaintance that you have been provided with a suggestion as to how you may proceed with the subject of our lessons. I am unfortunately rather pressed for time over the coming days and will be unable to tutor you for the moment. In the meantime, I have provided you with a guide that I found useful in my own study of the field. I expect you to have read it, thoroughly, before I come to meet you. Practise what our acquaintance told you nightly at the very least- if we are to recommence your study, we shall do so with improved dedication, on both our parts. I expect to see significant progress when we meet again.

On a different note, I am aware that you may be struggling with the revelations of yesterday. Our mutual acquaintance was very concerned about your wellbeing, and, having seen you yesterday at lunch, I can see why. It would not do for the saviour of the wizarding world to lapse into melancholy. Therefore, I will put to you two salient points. First, that you are not fundamentally any different now than you were two days ago. You remain unchanged as a person. This new knowledge alters nothing, except by providing the potential to remedy the situation. Second, that I share our acquaintance's confidence that a solution exists, and that we will find it.

Burn this note.

There was no signature.

Harry read through the note twice. His load felt a little bit lighter; Snape made some good points, and Harry tried, just for now, to trust that the Snapes— both of them— were right. However, he frowned somewhat as he regarded the paper; it was far more polite than he'd ever imagined Severus Snape could be towards him, and probably the closest to cordial the pair would ever get again. What had the alternate Snape said to him, to cause such a response?

Harry grabbed a piece of parchment, scribbled three words and summoned Dobby, to return it to the headmaster.

The next few days passed quickly for Harry. Thankfully, after a few failed attempts at conversation, Ron and Hermione seemed to presume Harry needed space, leaving him free to to peruse his horcrux book and his occlumency text without any awkward questions. Ginny sometimes tried to seek him out, but Harry couldn't bear the thought of her in particular spending time with him; after all that had happened with the diary horcrux in her first year, he couldn't let her unknowingly spend yet more time with a fragment of Voldemort's soul. In spite of the words of Snape's letter, and Alternate-Harry's insistence that the scar, not Harry himself, was the horcrux, Harry felt like he wasn't fit to be around normal people. He felt like his very soul was tainted, that it would be irresponsible to spend more time with other people than necessary, so he kept himself to his books as much as possible. The horcrux book was difficult to understand, but did contain a chapter about failed horcruxes, which Harry thought he may be able to understand with the aid of the library at Hogwarts. He could, of course, have passed the book on to Hermione, who'd undoubtedly have fully comprehended it immediately, but he simply couldn't bear the thought of anyone else knowing what he was. Not yet.

In the meantime, Severus was intolerably busy. Both his masters had demanded a long list of potions, and he consequently put in long hours in the lab, surrounded by steam, smoke and vapour in various colours. In his limited free time, however, when the mixtures needed an hour or so to simmer and the next stage's ingredients were already adequately prepped, he found himself doing as he had been advised by his Alium-self.

He brought out his memories of Potter and watched them, forcing himself to see the child, not his father. And he was shocked, and rather ashamed, at how badly he had misjudged the situation. The tiny first year, smaller than his peers, shovelling food away at the opening feast like he'd never seen it before. The boy eagerly taking notes in potions class before being admonished for it. The crestfallen expression as he failed to answer questions on topics that he couldn't really be expected to know about. His tendency.to carefully stay just out of reach of Severus's arm. The fact he could not recall Potter recieving a single owl from anyone other than Hagrid before Black's escape in Harry's third year. That he always seemed thinner in September. The look on his face when leaving Hogwarts for the summer. His tendency to charge into danger in defense of others, never seeming to consider that adults might help. That, in the aftermath of these events, the boy neither thought to request or mention his relatives. The fact Snape rarely saw him out of uniform, and when he did it was always in a Weasley jumper.

And then, there were the flashes he'd seen last year during the ill-fated occlumency lessons; the dog chasing the boy up a tree, his family laughing, among them. He found himself retracing his alter-self's steps, searching the record of Hogwarts letters from Harry's first year. And there it was, the very first one- The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

Snape sat back in the chair in his office, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had thought the boy needed taking down a peg, had felt no guilt about his treatment of the brat- none of the hits would knock the child back, surely, given his confidence, his arrogance? He shook his head at his own ignorance. How could he have been so blind? He knew Petunia Evans. He knew how spiteful, how vindictive she could be, particularly towards freakish little boys. How had he ever deluded himself into thinking Potter lived in the lap of luxury?

With all that said, the boy- Potter- was too much like his father for Severus to ever feel any form of fondness for him; of that, Severus was certain; but he'd spent the last year grovelling in front of the bastard who'd murdered Lily without anyone being the wiser. If he had to pretend to tolerate Potter, then he could. He had promised to protect the boy, after all, and that surely included ensuring he didn't lose himself in despair. Severus himself, as a man with an unusual degree of control over his emotions, would find it hard to cope with the knowledge that his body contained a portion of the Dark Lord's soul. The boy would undoubtedly struggle, would need support from somewhere, and, as at Hogwarts it seemed no other adults were willing to supply it (and even if they were, he was one of only two who actually knew the truth of the boy's situation), he could do as his alter-self had asked. He'd made far greater sacrifices for the cause than this. His mind now resolved to the task, he turned his attention to the conundrum that was successfully teaching Potter to occlude.

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

During the next order meeting, Harry waited on the landing with the other Weasleys and Hermione, trying to overhear what was going on, as was their custom. Harry's heart wasn't really in it- he was quite preoccupied with occlumency and his horcrux- but he wanted to be nearby when the meeting finished, as he anticipated Snape wanting to speak with him, though he had no idea what his friends' reactions to this would be.

After an hour or two, the door opened and the hallway was suddenly filled with chatter as the silencing charms were abruptly cancelled. The extendable ears that Ginny had been determinedly trying to convince to work around the new warding flew back to her ears and Ron's, making a painful slapping sound as they did so. Dumbledore strode out and locked eyes with Harry, as if he instantly knew he'd be there. He immediately walked purposefully towards him, blue eyes twinkling. "Harry!" He called, jovially, when he got close enough to do so, "Would you join me on a walk to the study? I'd quite like to have a chat."

Harry nodded his assent, "Of course, Professor," and fell into step with the man, whose robes today were a cerulean blue and covered with silver stars- quite understated, as far as Albus Dumbledore went, Harry thought. He led them on a meandering path which took far longer than the direct route would have taken; Harry was inclined to think this intentional on Dumbledore's part.

"Now, how have you been, my dear boy?" began his headmaster, once they were out of earshot of the others.

Harry thought about this, "About as well as can be expected, sir," he replied, truthfully, "given the circumstances."

Dumbledore nodded seriously at this, and with his eyes, bade Harry continue.

"I've been reading a lot," Harry admitted. "Mainly research, partly about this new… area of study, partly for more familiar reasons. Professor Snape sent me a letter and a book, and they helped."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "I have heard that you have had your nose uncharacteristically close to the academic grindstone recently. I deemed it prudent to give you time to come to terms with what must have been a dreadful shock. However, while it may be wiser, as you said, not to share your knowledge of horcruxes with your friends at this moment, I do not wish you to shut them out, Harry. It is my belief that you will need them a great deal in the upcoming trials, and to hide yourself and your worries from them now would be the utmost folly, though entirely understandable."

He waited for a moment, but Harry did not feel inclined to reply as they swept through corridors at a sedate pace. Eventually, he offered, "I'll think about it, sir."

"Good." said Dumbledore, stopping just outside the study before turning to Harry. "What did Professor Snape's letter say?"

Harry shrugged. "He said that I'm the same person I was before, and that we'll figure out how to solve this."

"Wise words indeed," mused Dumbledore, as he reached out a hand to open the study door.

They found Snape leaning against the desk in the centre of the far wall, watching them. A hum in Harry's ears alerted him that someone had cast a silencing charm of some sort once he'd entered the room.

"Now, I believe you already know why Professor Snape is here, Harry?" Dumbledore enquired, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes.
"I left our last little meeting with my head full of plans and contingencies, and not least among them was how to convince you both to resume occlumency lessons, and to make far more rapid progress than last time. With you now knowing about the horcruxes, and especially about his unintentional one, we absolutely cannot risk Voldemort accessing your mind."

Harry frowned at this. How was it possible that Dumbledore did not know the effect of that word on those branded with the Dark Mark? He spoke up, "Sir, perhaps we should call him something else? Maybe Tom, or Riddle?" Or Voldyshorts, his subconscious supplied.

Dumbledore looked at Harry with a puzzled expression. "You've never minded before, Harry. Remember, fear of the name,"

"Increases the fear of the thing itself," completed Harry, "Yes, I know. But considering the taboo that was put on his name last time, and, if not that, considering the effect that using his chosen name has on those with dark marks, I wondered if we could find a suitable alternative. Besides, Riddle doesn't deserve any respect from me. I won't be calling him by the name he chose."

"Well reasoned, my boy," said Dumbledore, softly, while Snape simply stared at him. "Riddle it is then. We cannot allow Riddle to know what you know. And so I came to Professor Snape to ask him to teach you once more. Imagine my surprise when he informed me that the pair of you had not only already come to that agreement yourselves, but had begun arranging lessons!" He smiled brightly at both of them.

"Now, Harry, I think we can all agree that last year's lessons were an abject failure, and I put much of the blame for that upon myself." He chuckled at Harry's look of disbelief. "Oh, yes," he smiled, "You see, Professor Snape, when he first learned of my request that he teach you, did warn me that you did not share the requisite relationship for lessons to be a success. I, rather naively, thought that this could be overcome with time and the desire for my scheme to work, but this was folly which, in the end, cost us greatly. For that, I apologise."

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Dumbledore waved his objections away before he could give them voice, "I am aware, Harry, that blame does not rest solely with me; your professor and I have spoken at length about last year, in order to devise a better way forward, and I believe you both are aware of your own shortcomings. It does us no good to hash these out now. To err is human, as the muggles say. But we will not repeat these errors.

"To that end, Professor Snape and I are here to propose another path forwards with your occlumency. It may sound a little… disconcerting, at first, but there are a number of advantages to our scheme, and I beg you to hear me out before voicing any objections.

"What we need for this to work is to build trust between you and Professor Snape, so that he may approach occlumency lessons from a different angle. This will not happen overnight, and Professor Snape's challenging summer schedule means that the time he will be able to spare to devote to your occlumency will only rarely come in plannable chunks of time that are large enough for him to meet you here at Grimmauld Place. We have less than one month of summer left, and we need to maximise our available time.

"I once told you that students cannot stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays. This is indeed the case- common rooms and dormitories are closed for repair and re-warding. However, it is possible for guests to stay in the quarters of professors who reside at Hogwarts during the summer."

At this, Harry's eyes widened, and Dumbledore smiled gently. "I see that you begin to comprehend our plan. Simply put, by staying with Professor Snape, you will be able to spend what free time he has together, which will aid in building the trust that will be vital if we are to keep yourself and young Riddle out of each other's minds this year. It will also enable Professor Snape to schedule occlumency lessons far more frequently, with much less planning involved. The wards at Hogwarts are sufficient to protect you, and I will be able to borrow you as necessary for my own lessons, which I had planned to begin this term. Finally, proximity to you without onlookers may enable Professor Snape and I to make faster progress on the matter of the unintentional horcrux "

Harry was simply stunned. Taking advantage of his silence, Snape stepped forwards. "Mr Potter, please allow me to say my own piece before you decide on this matter. I have not been a trustworthy adult to you, though I'm aware you now realise that I have worked to keep you safe since I have known you, albeit from a distance. You do not trust me, and for that I cannot blame you. However, I can promise you that, should you come to Hogwarts this summer to learn from me, I will never use any information I may glean in the process to taunt, humiliate or belittle you. I will try my level best to help you learn. I will put our past aside and strive to begin anew. Know that even if you choose not to come to Hogwarts, those promises will still stand.

"I cannot suddenly be cordial, or even respectful to you in class without jeopardising my position as a spy, but I will not weaponise anything that I may learn in our occlumency lessons. Indeed, I would not have last year either, but I never made that clear, and in failing to do so made progress more or less impossible. I taught you the way in which I was taught, and I ought to have realised sooner that this was ineffective and changed tactic. I was, at many times, vicious and cruel. I apologise for my failings in lessons last year. I hope we will be able to move past them.

"I also," he said, "Wish to explain something to you, which I would not have expected you to deduce on your own. I do not now, nor have I ever, hated you. From the beginning, my intention has been for you to hate me, and to aid in this, I have intentionally tried to see your father in you, in order to act in a way that would engender your hatred of me. I am not so unbalanced, Mr Potter, as an adult teacher of ten years experience, as to hate an eleven year-old boy on sight, and I am a spy who spends an inordinately large amount of his time kissing the robes of the man who killed my only friend. Even if I did hate you, I would be able to hide it in lessons if I wanted to, for the sake of decorum and professionalism. My persona at school is a mask, Mr Potter. My behaviour towards you in class, at the beginning at least, was planned in order to keep you safe. I needed you unable to trust me, so that I would never be ordered to lure you out of Hogwarts and so that, if such an order was given to me, I could show the memory of you defying me, getting another teacher, refusing to leave your friends or whatever it was you would have done in order to avoid doing as I requested.

"With that said, had I known…" Here he paused, as if considering how to best word the following statement, then tried again, "With that said, some of my behaviour over the last five years has been truly reprehensible. The best lies have a grain of truth, and in order to act as I saw necessary towards you, I intentionally tried to see not you, but James Potter who, as you know, was my childhood enemy. The disadvantage of this technique was that I was a child myself when I knew James Potter, and in forcing my own mind back to that state, I would sometimes fail to maintain my adult sense of rationality. I believe that, as you aged, I stopped even seeing a difference between you- in my mind you simply became James Potter, and of course, when James Potter was your age, I was a truly nasty, vindictive young man, and I believe that came out in our occlumency lessons of last year. I apologise for failing to keep a distinction between you and your father; he was a spoilt, pampered and unpleasant young man at that age, but since having been made aware of the extent to which your childhood was… dissimilar to his, I believe I can keep the distinction clear moving forwards. If you feel I have begun to fail in this, I ask you to inform the headmaster, so that I can take the appropriate measures."

Harry continued to stare, but this time at Snape. What he had said made sense, but… it couldn't happen just like that, could it? Five years of mutual hatred and he was expected to believe that Snape could turn it off, just like that? He was doubtful, very doubtful, but nodded.

"I am aware, Mr Potter," his professor said, looking directly into his eyes. Harry immediately felt in panic for the telltale brush of another mind against his, but found nothing, "That you cannot trust me now, nor do I expect it of you. The purpose of this month is to see if there is any possibility at all for trust to develop between us, moving forwards."

"And," began Harry, wetting his dry lips in his nervousness, "If there isn't?"

Snape looked to Dumbledore, who fixed his eyes on Harry, gravely, before responding. "In that case, Harry, I'm afraid that we must simply trust to Voldemort's predilection against pain- that he will not risk entering your mind again in order to avoid the potential for it, now you know that love burns him- and that you, in turn, will treat everything he shows you with more caution than last year, rather than trusting to it because it feels real. It would be a pity; learning to occlude would help you distinguish truth from falsehood, and we could potentially use that as a method of gathering information; if you were masterful enough to keep up your own shields when drawn into his mind, he would not even be aware that you are watching." He could sense Harry's next question, and raised his hand to head it off at the pass, "While I would love to take you under my wing as my occlumency pupil this summer, I am afraid I simply do not have time, particularly with this horcrux hunt, to oversee your studies now; even less so than I did last summer, in fact. I will be in the castle only rarely, though there will always be other staff members in attendance, such as Professor Trelawney and Argus Filch, who live on-site year round. I will be contactable by house-elf in the event of an absolute emergency."

Harry nodded in understanding. By doing this, he would be putting himself entirely at Professor Snape's mercy; there would be no adults to defend him in the school. How much did he truly trust the professor? How sure was he that the man was, in fact, on the Order's side?

In an act of Gryffindor bravery, or perhaps Gryffindor foolishness, he locked eyes with Snape. "Sir," he began, his voice determinedly not betraying the anxiety he felt at asking this question which he felt sure would make the man angry, "When I was in the Alium, the Professor Snape there told me some things about his earlier life. I'd like to know if those things are also true of you, if I'm to work out whether I can trust you or not."

Snape's face paled somewhat, but he nodded. "You may ask, Mr Potter," he said after a moment.

Harry steeled himself and he had the impression, however fleeting, of his professor doing the same. "Did you," he began, deciding to begin with the worst and work from there, "Did you overhear the prophecy concerning Riddle and I?"

"I did," Snape answered immediately, yet quietly.

Harry took a deep breath. "Did you repeat that prophecy to Lord Voldemort?" He winced slightly at his unintentional use of the trigger name, but Snape didn't miss a beat.

"I did," he nodded slowly, his eyes seemingly almost… apologetic?

"When you found out the prophecy pertained to Lily's son, did you then go to Professor Dumbledore and ask him to protect my mother, and my mother alone?"

"I did," Snape maintained eye contact, steadily, but Harry felt in his bones that the man was finding this incredibly difficult. He pressed on.

"Did you offer to be his spy, and take up that role, keeping it ever since?"

"I did."

"And have you been faithful to that role ever since, never wavering?"

"I have."

"Did you," Harry drew in a shaky breath, "Did you make an unbreakable vow to protect me?"

"I did."

Harry nodded once more and, seemingly sensing that his interrogation was at an end, Snape stepped back, returning to his original position, arms folded and eyes on Harry, seemingly unrattled, yet Harry knew that, from start to finish, this conversation had been incredibly difficult for the man, who was usually such a private person. Once more, Harry found it impossible to speak.

After a moment, Harry felt a hand on his arm. "Harry," said Dumbledore, gently, "We do not expect your answer now. There is a lot to sort through, I expect, and,"

"I'll do it," said Harry, abruptly.
Both professors looked startled at his outburst.

"You are certain?" asked Dumbledore, staring intently at Harry, who nodded at once.

"It'll help us with our goals, sir, and save me from scrutiny by other Order members here. I know what you said about my friends, and I am going to think about it, but I need time first. Time to sort through it on my own, before having to help them sort through it themselves."

Here, Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, my boy. Give us three days to make preparations. You may tell your friends that I wish for you to receive special tuition this year over summer, and that Hogwarts is the most convenient place for that. We will travel to Hogwarts via floo."

"I thought," said Harry, "That the floo network was being watched, and that's why I couldn't floo from the Dursley's?"

"Ah, I can explain that," said Dumbledore. "Muggle fireplaces are not permitted to be connected to the floo network ordinarily. Mr Weasley managed it once before, with help from one of his friends, but they're being watched too closely now for that to be managed. As Grimmauld Place is connected to the network anyway, travelling to my office at Hogwarts will be fine on this occasion. Now, unless there are any questions?"

Harry shook his head. "Marvellous. We shall see you, and your belongings, in three days' time, Harry."

And, with that, his professors left the study, leaving Harry in their wake.

"What did Dumbledore want?" asked Ron. Harry had found them ensconced in Hermione and Ginny's room, textbooks spread between them. He joined them on the floor, leaning against one of the beds. It had a floral pattern on the duvet.

"He wants to give me extra lessons this summer," said Harry, "He didn't tell me what they'd be about. He also wants me to start occlumency with Snape again."

Ron stared. "Is he mad? All he did last time was make you miserable, the bloody bat."

It was a mark of Hermione's strength of feeling on the matter that she didn't protest name-calling, or dispute Ron's opinion, other than to say, mildly, "Well, I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has his reasons. And," she added this last part gently, "I think Harry might be a bit more determined to work on it this time around."

"Hermione!" hissed Ginny, but Harry shook his head.

"No, she's right. I didn't try my hardest last year. I thought it could be useful to see what Riddle was up to, especially after the incident with your dad and the snake."

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, softly, "You weren't to know he'd send a false vision."

"You knew," said Harry morosely. "But regardless, you're right to say that I'm very invested in not letting Riddle into my head again."

"Wait," said Ron, "Are we calling You-Know-Who Riddle now?"

Harry nodded. "I didn't know before about the taboo from the first war. Suddenly, the whole You-Know-Who thing makes more sense, but it's a bit of a mouthful."

"Taboo?" queried Hermione. Harry let Ron explain. When he was finished, Hermione looked horrified.

"So we could have been calling his followers to us every time we said his name for the last year? Why on Earth would no one tell us that? Why wouldn't the headmaster?"

Harry shrugged, and offered the explanation Alium-Harry had given when he'd asked, "He's Dumbledore. He probably doesn't care about Riddle's followers."

Hermione frowned, but said nothing.
Harry pulled his legs up and rested his hands and head on top of his knees. "He had another reason for speaking to me, Dumbledore, I mean." He took a deep breath. "He wants me to move to Hogwarts for the remainder of the summer, so I'm more available for lessons."

"What?!" Ron exclaimed, alongside Hermione's exclamation of surprise and Ginny's narrowed eyes.

Harry shrugged. "He says he's very busy and doesn't always know ahead of time when he'll be free and what time he'll have, so it makes more sense to have me there. The wards are stronger too, so I'll be safe, and I can help him with some stuff he'll get me working on."

"I suppose that makes sense," said Hermione, slowly. "And I am a bit jealous, Harry, truly. The whole month with the library to yourself!"

"What do you mean, to himself?" asked Ron, indignantly. "We'll be there, won't we?"

Hermione responded before Harry could. "Honestly, Ron, one of these days you'll read that copy of Hogwarts: A History! The dorms are all closed off over the summer for repairs and re-warding. If Harry's going to be there over that time, he'll have to stay in the professor's quarters, won't you, Harry?"

Harry simply nodded. "You are brilliant, Hermione," he said, slightly in awe. Not only had that been an impressive deduction, she'd also unintentionally saved him from having to lie about precisely which professor he'd be staying with.

Hermione blushed and she grinned at him, clearly pleased with the praise. "I daresay," she said, directing her next words at Ron again, "That the professor won't want all of us living in his quarters." Harry nodded again, incredibly thankful for the way in which Hermione was making it so easy for him by her use of 'the professor'.

"When'd you leave?" asked Ginny, seeming a little put-out, but Harry couldn't fathom the reason for that.

"Professor Dumbledore is coming to get me in three days," he said. "He said to bring everything with me; I don't think I'm coming back this summer." There was a general exclamation of dismay around the room.

"Well then," said Ron, slamming the textbook in front of him shut with aplomb, "if we've only got three days, I'd say we should make the most of them!"

"You've only just started!" lamented Hermione, but she followed suit, and soon they were all engrossed in a game of Exploding Snap, which Ron still called Exploding Snape. Harry smirked to himself, imagining Ron's expression when he found out who Harry had really spent his last month of summer with.

Three days later, Harry was alerted to the arrival of the headmaster by the distinctive sound of the fireplace floo, followed by the cheerful tones of Dumbledore. Harry, who'd enlisted Ron's help to get his trunk and Hedwig's cage downstairs in preparation, stepped into the kitchen, where his trunk was waiting for him, interrupting the beginnings of what promised to be a rather spirited debate between Mrs Weasley and the headmaster.

When she'd asked what on Earth Harry was doing when he appeared, trunk and cage in tow, at breakfast this morning, he had learned that the headmaster had not yet seen fit to mention his plans to the order at large. Mrs Weasley had been open in her disapproval of the headmaster's plans to separate Harry from his friends all summer, when they'd only just gotten together again. She'd banged pots and pans around the kitchen, muttering to herself, occasionally interspersing her tirades against the headmaster with, 'Now, I don't blame you, Harry, dear, but really!" and "Give that man a piece of my mind!"

Knowing this, Harry had loitered near to the kitchen all morning, awaiting the headmaster's arrival, and Mrs Weasley had only gotten as far as, "...when poor Harry came trundling down here this morning, trunk in tow, and told me that he was being banished back to school all summer! Really, Albus!" when he came striding up to Dumbledore, speaking loudly, and with as much cheer as he could muster.

"I'm ready to go, Professor!" he said, cutting Mrs Weasley off mid-stride.

"Ah, splendid, Harry!" said Dumbledore, looking relieved. "Have you said your goodbyes?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry assured him, before stepping up to Mrs Weasley and throwing his arms around her.

"Thanks for everything, Mrs Weasley. I'm sorry I've been in such a mood. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I want to go, really."

"Oh, well, I…" Mrs Weasley struggled for a moment, before the weight of expectation won the day and she returned the hug. "It's been no bother at all, Harry. I hope you'll be back before school starts- I feel like I've hardly seen you this summer! Are you absolutely sure you won't stay another few days? Albus could collect you after the order meeting."

For a moment, Harry was tempted. The last three days had been the best he'd had all summer- he had a goal, a plan and a direction in which to move, and he'd been happy, relaxed even, waiting for everything to begin, just spending a brief window of time as a teenager. But now? Harry was ready, and he didn't want to waste any more time. He shook his head.

"I'd like to, Mrs Weasley, but I just have to move. Do you understand what I mean?"

Mrs Weasley smiled, sadly. "I do, Harry. Just remember that anytime you need a break or a friendly ear, I'm here for you. Alright?" She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, like he imagined a mother would, and for a moment he just relaxed in her hold, soaking it in. But then, he forced himself to let go, to step back, to grin cheerfully, and thank her again. He nodded as Dumbledore told him to go on ahead, that the address was 'Headmaster's office, Hogwarts' and that he would bring Harry's luggage for him. He stepped into the floo, threw the powder, shouted the address and, in a whirl of green, he was gone.

As usual, Harry felt like the floo had thrown him bodily from it, and he pitched headfirst into the headmaster's office, only to be caught by a long-fingered hand, which steadily helped him back upright before releasing him. He looked up in surprise, to find Snape's black eyes staring down at him neutrally. "Thank you, sir," Harry muttered, his face aflame. Snape inclined his head briefly, acknowledging the gratitude, and stepped back, releasing Harry's shoulder.

"The headmaster will be along presently, I presume?" Snape said, eyes flicking back to the fireplace.

"I… I think so, sir," Harry replied, still rather rattled. Oh, how he hated floo travel. "He had a spot of trouble, sir, with Mrs Weasley, about my moving here for the rest of the summer."

The movement was so small that Harry was half-convinced he'd imagined it, but he thought he saw the corner of Snape's mouth twitch. "I can imagine," was all he said though, and Harry concluded that it couldn't have been anything related to a smile. Maybe his face itched. "How have you fared with the text I provided you?" Snape asked, holding his body unnaturally still as he spoke, as was his way.

"I've read through it a couple of times, sir," replied Harry, "But I've struggled to understand some of the concepts."

"That is to be expected," responded Snape, his voice still eerily neutral, "Occlumency is typically pursued by wizards and witches of far greater age and experience than yourself. I will attempt to elucidate the more challenging principles in our lessons together. I trust you brought the book with you?"

"Yes, sir," responded Harry, drawing out the book from beneath his jumper. Snape raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing about his unusual means of transporting his books. He held out his hand to Harry, who passed it over. It was still pristine, but tucked inside various pages were pieces of parchment- a question noted carefully on each.

"These indicate points you are experiencing difficulty with?" asked Snape, as he flicked quickly through them.

"Yes, sir," confirmed Harry. Snape nodded, unable to voice his approval- this was, after all, Potter- but the boy seemed to pick up on his approbation regardless, and gave a hesitant smile in return.

Just then, the fire flamed green once more, and Dumbledore stepped gracefully out. He smiled at Harry and Snape. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting- Molly still wanted a word with me about your abrupt departure, but thank you for your intervention, Harry. Without it, I'm sure we'd still be there now! It was, dare I say it, quite Slytherin of you!" Harry flushed, looking guilty.

"Now, my boy," admonished Dumbledore, looking at Harry with just a hint of disapproval. "You need not react as if that is an insult. I blame myself in no small part for this prejudice against all things Slytherin- if to be Slytherin were to be evil, then why would we have a Slytherin house at all? I have had the pleasure of watching Professor Snape's memories from the Alium and it is clear to me that I have been short-sighted in a number of respects, but particularly those involving house unity.

"You behaved in a decidedly Slytherin manner- you were cunning and spoke carefully in order to soothe ruffled feathers and expedite our exit from the house with minimal fuss. It was eminently sensible, very well-done and you'd do well to hone that cunning over the coming year. A well-rounded person should, after all, use traits from each of the houses in day-to-day life, including the resourcefulness and cunning of Slytherin. You will be under the guardianship of the head of Slytherin house for the next month, and it would be a pity indeed not to take advantage of all that he can teach you. And now," here he removed a smaller version of Hedwig's cage and Harry's trunk from his pockets and enlarged them, "I'm afraid I must leave you, as I have a rather pressing engagement at the ministry. Severus, could you get Harry settled?" Snape nodded.

"Then I shall see you later today, my boys," smiled Dumbledore, as he stepped back into the floo, shouted, "Ministry of Magic!" and was gone.

Without a word, Snape levitated the trunk with his right hand, and picked up Hedwig's cage with the other.

"Oh," said Harry, awkwardly, "I can do that, sir." Snape fixed him with an inscrutable stare but handed over the cage, continuing to levitate the trunk as he headed for the staircase that would lead to the stone gargoyle on the corridor outside the headmaster's office.

"I thought," explained Snape, as they descended the staircase, "That you may prefer to walk to the dungeons, rather than floo down."

"Yes, sir, thank you," said Harry, suppressing an internal shudder at the thought of flooing again so soon.

They lapsed into silence as Harry lengthened his strides in an effort to keep pace with Snape's longer legs, footsteps echoing in the deserted corridors. Harry chanced a question.

"Sir," he asked, tentatively, "do teachers usually live at Hogwarts during the summer?"

"No," replied Snape, shortly, and an awkward silence filled the gap. Harry had just resolved to not question the man any further, when Snape spoke again, his words drawn out slowly, as if extracted against his will.

"I have a house. In the West Midlands. A dismal, run-down factory town." His voice developed a sneer. "Nothing, I'm sure, compared to," the man stopped abruptly, seeming to bite back his next words, before swallowing harshly and, after a beat, continuing in a more neutral tone. "Nothing to boast of, but it's where I usually return to. It's where I was until this week, in fact. The headmaster has devised a believable reason that requires me to reside here for the next month, and the less said about that reason, the better."

Harry kept his gaze carefully forward, trying not to break whatever spell Snape was under. That was by far the most Snape had ever said to him without anger or insult. And then, to Harry's immense surprise, he continued. With a deep breath in preparation, Snape added, as though every word cost him effort, "You already know your mother and I were… friends, growing up?"

Harry nodded.

"We grew up in the same town. That is where I reside when not at Hogwarts. I met your mother there when we were eight. I… was the first person who told her she was a witch." And with that, Snape's mouth closed again, and Harry knew that he would not say anything else now until they reached his quarters. He didn't need to, really. This was more information than he had ever dreamed he would be offered, voluntarily, by Snape.

As they reached the dungeons, Harry spoke, his voice soft. "Thank you, sir, for telling me about how you knew my mother."

Snape said nothing, but when, after a minute or two, they reached a blank expanse of wall, he stopped and turned to Harry. "The purpose of this exercise," he said, deliberately locking eyes with Harry, "is partly to engender trust between us, in order for you to more effectively study occlumency. As a spy, I do not share personal information readily. However, as trust requires reciprocity, I shall endeavour to make an exception for you. My alternate self assures me that you are a capable occlumens with proper tuition; I am trusting to that in sharing so much about myself. If the Dark Lord were to pluck it from your mind, my eventual death would be a mercy." Harry nodded, gravely.

With that, Snape placed his hand flat on the wall in front of him and the bricks melted away, revealing a dark wooden door.

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

When they entered his quarters, there was a small entrance hall, containing a dark mahogany coat stand for outer robes and a low rack for shoes. Snape gestured to the rack- two pairs of slippers waited there, his own a black velvet, Harry's a deep green; standard issue for Slytherins. Snape performed a silent switching spell, replacing his pitch-black work boots with his comfortable slippers, and sighed internally. This was coming home. He was a man of few creature comforts- he largely felt that he did not deserve them- but slippers were a weakness he allowed himself. The flagstone floors in the dungeons were always cold, in spite of the thick rugs that covered many of the floors in Snape's quarters, and he was not the only Slytherin graduate with an abiding love of warm slippers and dressing gowns.

Leaving Potter to make his own arrangements, Snape strode ahead into the room beyond. His entrance hall had three doors; the one ahead; the only one Potter would be using unaccompanied; led to the living space, while his private potions lab lay through the leftmost door. The one to the right led to a short corridor which would bring him to his office.

As Snape entered his living space, his eyes flew past the soothing, dark tones of the comfortable interior to the door situated directly opposite the entrance. It had not been there last week. The main body of the living space consisted of a sitting room, with tall bookcases and a deep desk intricately carved from black walnut, a merry little fire crackling and popping in the hearth, a comfortable, deep brown chesterfield and a single high-backed armchair in emerald green leather. A small kitchen was situated to the right, complete with a circular wooden table. His own bedroom was off to the left, with the entrance to the bathroom on the left-hand side of the back wall.

Yesterday, a door had appeared to the side of the bathroom, in anticipation of Harry's arrival. Snape had noticed it as he sipped on his morning coffee, and done a double-take. Ice had crawled up his back and lodged itself in his throat because, despite having never seen it before, he remembered that door.

Severus hurtled through the darkness of his sitting room, not bothering to light the lamps as he headed for Harry's bedroom, from which anguished cries and screams were pouring, disturbing the silence of the dungeon room in the early morning. He crashed through the doorway, heart pounding, fear like a blade in his throat, to find the twelve year old alone, not under attack or torture by assailants unknown, as Severus had feared, but trapped in his own bedsheets, screaming out his misery and terror as if his heart would rend in two. Occasionally, a recognisable word slipped through the agonising wails.

"Let me out! Please! Please! Don't leave me here! Please! Is anybody there? I'll be good, I promise! I'll stop being a freak, I'm sorry! Just let me out! PLEASE!"

Snape swallowed, eyes wide as he approached the boy slowly, uncertain. A nightmare then- it must be. After a moment, unable to stand the sound of the boy's pain any longer, he reached out nervous hands, gently grabbing the boy by the shoulders and lightly shaking him.

"Harry? Harry!"

With a gasp, the boy startled awake, dark eyes awash with silvery tears in the artificial moonlight streaming through the window. He stared, uncomprehending, at the man standing beside his bed. The child still shook with the aftermath of the nightmare, his breaths still heaving in his chest like he'd run a marathon.

"It's alright, Harry," murmured Severus, voice low. "It was just a nightmare. You're safe here. You're safe."

The boy's breathing hitched and juddered, and some newly-awakened instinct had Severus perching himself on the edge of Harry's bed, using his hands, which were still grasping Harry's shoulders, to pull the child closer, against Severus's nightshirt. Desperately, Harry's arms came up, wrapping themselves tightly around Severus. One of Severus's hands found its way, unbidden to Harry's back, while the other climbed to the back of Harry's head, where it carded gently through the boy's hair, smoothing the unruly locks back in a gesture of comfort as Severus made shushing sounds, spoke nonsense words of reassurance as the boy's shudders and sobs wracked his body.

Severus had blinked, coming back to his breakfast, surprised and overwhelmed by the intensity of the recollection. Of course, none of that had really happened; not in this world. No, they were the alternate Snape's memories, echoes of a life he'd not lived, but it chilled Snape to see the same room in his quarters, prepared for this world's version of Harry Potter.

It was a totally different situation, he reasoned. This was temporary, for a month only, and for a very specific purpose. He was not adopting Harry Potter -perish the thought!- and this was a sixteen year old, very nearly an adult, not a twelve year old who might need soothing back to sleep after a bad dream. It was only the memories that were disconcerting, he'd reassured himself.

He'd gone into the room, and, sure enough, it was different from the one in his, no, Alium-Snape's, memory. The dimensions and the furniture tallied with his recollection, but the furnishings were fairly neutral, with green accents as a nod to Slytherin. In his memory, though light was limited owing to the time of night, the room had been very obviously the boy's, with a quidditch theme. He vaguely remembered a snitch that flew around the room. But then, that was the boy's permanent bedroom, in his guardian's quarters. Potter wouldn't need any such adjustments for a month. The room as it was would do for Potter, he decided.

That settled, he had whirled around to leave, when something gave him pause. He considered. It wouldn't do to make too many concessions for Potter, of course, but if, by expending a small amount of effort now, he could help Potter feel more comfortable and therefore focus better on his studies, it would be worth the investment of time overall. He was satisfied with that rationale. It was nothing to do with the sense of lingering unease he'd had about his past treatment of the boy since learning of Potter's upbringing, of course not. Potter would simply feel more comfortable, and more focussed in familiar surroundings. He'd probably attribute the décor to overzealous house-elves. Severus certainly would not claim the credit.

He called up the mental image of a Gryffindor dormitory- he'd been in occasionally, over the years, most recently after Black's attack in Potter's third year. The wood was already a suitably dark shade- it was something that all the houses shared- and, after a few flicks of his wand, the curtains and rug became the appropriate red for Gryffindor. He called for a house elf and requested that the bed hangings and bedding be changed to a set of those from Gryffindor Tower. The walls were stone, as in the tower, but the carpeting of the dormitory could not be easily replicated, and Snape decided that the red rug would do. In all, it had taken only a couple of minutes, and Snape was content that he had made something of an effort. With a self-satisfied nod, he had turned sharply and swept out of the room, heading back to his potions.

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

Now, looking across his rooms at the intruding door, Snape frowned. Harry followed him into the sitting room, surprised at the comfortable surroundings. He was, if he were honest with himself, expecting a great deal of black and a dark, gloomy feel. The slippers, too, were unexpected, and he wondered briefly if his Slytherin counterpart had slippers like these. He moved to stand beside the potions master, who, snapping out of his reverie, abruptly began to speak.

"The doors off the entrance hall, aside from this one, lead to my office and my private lab, which you will never enter without me present. These doors," he pointed to them in turn, "Lead to my bedroom, which is off-limits to you except in the most dire of emergencies, the bathroom and your bedroom. You may take the next two hours to unpack, before lunch at one, which we will be sharing with Professor Dumbledore in his quarters. I will meet you there, as I have business to attend to just beforehand and will not have time to walk you up. Floo powder is on the mantelpiece- you may either walk up to the headmaster's office or take the floo. I shall be in my lab if you need me. If there are no questions?"

Harry shook his head, "No, sir." With that, the man turned on his heel and disappeared through the door they'd just entered by.

Harry immediately made his way towards 'his bedroom'. An odd turn of phrase, from Professor Snape- he'd expected a qualifier, such as 'while you are here', or for him to designate it, 'the room where you will be staying'. Harry shrugged; he was overthinking it. Snape was just using a common turn of phrase. Harry pushed it from his mind as he reached the bedroom door.

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

Severus felt unwell. He'd called it Potter's bedroom. Not the guest bedroom, or the room where Potter would be staying, or even Potter's bedroom for the next month. Just Potter's bedroom. He shuddered. The reason was obvious; it was the bloody memories from the Alium. There, it was the boy's bedroom, and so his subconscious, unable to distinguish his memories from those of his alternate self without conscious effort, he really should consider writing a book; how many people could honestly say they'd legilimised themselves? had applied the epithet here. He simply hoped that Potter hadn't noticed. He groaned - it would look even worse in light of the changes he'd made to the room. He wondered if his alternate self had known that this would happen- that legilimising one's alternate self in effect produced false memories, and false emotions connected with them. He hoped not; if he'd had any inkling, he wouldn't have allowed the transfer to happen at all. He couldn't have been tricked by his alternate self, could he? He shook his head at the thought; there was no way his alternate self could have known. Though, admittedly, his Alium-self had had longer to consider it than he himself had. An the man had looked rather smug after he'd given Snape the memories.

He scowled in frustration, and allowed himself a moment, hunched over with his head in his hands for a full minute before sitting up, dusting himself off and beginning his next experimental brew for the Dark Lord. He was attempting to cultivate Potter's trust in him. This was a work assignment, nothing more.

Harry stepped across the threshold of the room and stopped. And stared. Someone had decorated it like a Gryffindor dormitory, down to the hangings on the bed. Who? Snape? Harry shook his head; couldn't be. A house elf? Possibly even Dobby? That made more sense. He grinned at the thought of Dobby sneaking into Snape's chambers to leave a little Gryffindor haven. It was the most logical explanation, unless the castle decided the decorations for itself based on the intended occupant of the guest room. Really, thought Harry, he should get around to reading Hogwarts: A History. Still, it was a nice touch, for all the carpet was different and the room not circular. It felt comfortable; safe. Harry walked to the bed and stroked the duvet, before flinging himself onto it as he did every September the first, feeling like he'd come home.

Quarter to one found Harry lying on his stomach on his bed, frowning at his occlumency textbook. What did it mean by sacrificial memories? He marked it with another piece of parchment and set the book aside. He'd practised clearing his mind for the first half hour, and managed to successfully stay awake, but beyond that he wasn't sure if he was doing it correctly. He followed the visualisation that Alium-Snape had suggested and hoped it would be enough. He'd been doing it as often as possible, at minimum every night before bed and at least three times a day when awake, like during lunch. The daytime practice was much harder, but he felt that it was getting easier over time. He grabbed a piece of parchment and wrote out a to-do list for his afternoon, then noted the time and headed out of Snape's rooms, deciding to walk to the headmaster's office, not yet ready to chance the floo. He'd likely be a couple of minutes early, but hoped the headmaster wouldn't mind. He also hoped Snape would be returning with him, as it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how to find the man's quarters again, much less how to make the door to them appear.

It also occurred to him, as he stood outside the stone gargoyle some five minutes later, that he didn't know the password to the headmaster's rooms. He considered trying all manner of sweets, but decided first to ask the gargoyle to let the headmaster know he was there. A few seconds later, the gargoyle moved to one side and Harry found himself travelling up the familiar staircase to the headmaster's office.

"Ah, Harry!" Dumbledore smiled genially, as Harry emerged from the staircase at the top. "Come on in, my boy." He set his quill down on the blotting paper to his right. "How are you settling in? No problems, I trust?"

"No, sir," said Harry immediately, "No problems at all."

"Excellent, excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "I'm glad you came by early- I wanted to seek your assistance on a little errand I'll be running tonight. I find myself in need of a teacher for the upcoming academic year, but the candidate I have in mind may need some persuasion."

"And you think I can be of assistance, sir?"

"Oh yes, Harry. I think you may be the key to my success in this matter." The clock on the mantle above the fireplace struck one, and suddenly, the fire in the grate roared green.

"Ah, Severus!" Dumbledore turned to the potions master, who had just stepped, with a grace Harry envied, from the wall of flames. "Exactly on time, as always, thank you. Shall we proceed?"

The elderly wizard rose and proceeded to lead them through a doorway at the back of his office, which led down a long corridor. He stopped outside the second door on the left, which opened up into a large window-lined room with a view out onto the grounds. Harry could see the lake beyond, where the squid stretched a lazy tentacle up, breaking the surface of the water as if to wave.

The room was lit by a gigantic crystal chandelier, suspended from the high ceiling and filled with tall, thin candles in red, green, blue and yellow. The floor was covered in a sparkling mosaic of the Hogwarts crest, and a fire roared away merrily at the far end of the room, in a fireplace big enough to house a thestral. In the centre of the room, however, was a lavishly decorated, but relatively small, circular dining table, surrounded by three chairs, each as opulent as a king's throne. "Wow," breathed Harry, reverently.

Dumbledore let out an amused chuckle. "Rather ostentatious, I've always thought, though there have been occasions on which it has come in handy." At his gesture, the trio made their way over to the table and seated themselves, while Dumbledore continued. "The table resizes itself to cater for the number of guests- generally advantageous but somewhat problematic when diners arrive late. I remember one occasion on which the late arrival of the department head of Magical Games and Sports had the unfortunate effect of pitching Minister Fudge headfirst into his duck confit."

Harry tried to hide his smile at the thought. "Oh dear," he commented mildly, thinking of Ludovic Bagman. "The poor duck."

"Indeed," smiled the headmaster, before turning his attention to Professor Snape. "How goes the brewing for Poppy?"

The rest of the lunch passed quickly as they exchanged pleasantries. Harry found out that Professor Snape was responsible for stocking the hospital wing with potions, that he was also capable of administering them, as part of a potion master's study required basic medical training, and that Dumbledore would be leaving the country tomorrow for a political conference with the Wizengamot, and would be back in three days. He learned that Dumbledore's next target was the potential horcrux in the Lestrange vault. He'd already, apparently, located the diadem in the Room of Requirement and the Gaunt ring, leaving only the cup, snake and Harry to go. Harry noticed that the professor wore a pair of rather loud gloves, which he found odd for lunch, but knowing the man's penchant for eccentric sartorial choices, decided not to comment.

After Harry and Snape had bidden the headmaster goodbye, they headed towards the dungeons. Harry, this time, carefully watched for landmarks, as he would need to know this route for the remainder of the summer. This time, when they reached the door, Snape paused and gestured to Harry.

"Come here please, Mr Potter," he said, and Harry stepped forwards to stand beside the man, close to a blank expanse of wall that Harry was relatively sure was the same one they had entered through earlier, though he wouldn't stake any money on it.

"Raise your hand," instructed Snape, "and touch it to the wall, right here."

He indicated a brick between them, slightly smoother on the surface than its neighbours, Harry noticed, but nothing obvious at first glance. Harry resisted the temptation to ask why, as he did as he was asked.

Snape surprised him by explaining without being asked to do so. "I am going to key you to the wards that guard my quarters. This entrance is not often used within term-time, as I do not relish the thought of students knowing how I access it, but as it is closer to the main body of the school, it is far more convenient, and I do use it when time is of the essence. In the holidays, with no students about, I tend to use it as my main access point. It is also only from here that someone may be keyed into the wards. The other entrance is in my office, but I would rather you not be in there unattended. Through this entrance point you may come and go as you please."

Harry nodded, "I understand, sir" and at that, Snape laid his own hand over Harry's, the long fingers easily outreaching Harry's own, as he closed his eyes and murmured something under his breath. Harry felt a warmth run through him, beginning with the palm of his hand and travelling up his arm and then outwards, until it reached the top of his head and the tips of his toes. There was a flash of white light, and Snape removed his hand. Harry followed suit.

"Try it now, Mr Potter," instructed Snape, and Harry hesitantly laid his hand over what he thought was the right spot. There was a pleasant hum of warmth and the door revealed itself just to the left of Harry's hand. Snape nodded, satisfied. "I trust you can find your way to and from this point?"

Harry cast his eyes around, noting the particular wall sconce mounted opposite, the shape of the stone still under his hand, the curve of the corridor. He nodded.

"Good," said Snape. "After you, then. I will be returning to my lab." Once inside the entrance hall, Snape turned to go down the corridor that led to the lab, and then paused, turning back thoughtfully. "If you would like," he said, haltingly, "you may help me brew some of the potions for the hospital wing."

Harry didn't have to consider this for long. He recognised it as the olive branch it was and, while brewing potions was by no means his favourite way to pass the time, a break from his books would be welcome.

"Thank you, sir. I'd like that," he responded.

Snape inclined his head. "You will need a set of your school robes," he told Harry, "They have numerous protective charms to help lessen the impact of potion-related mishaps. Come and join me when you are ready." With that he pivoted on his heel and disappeared off down the passage to the left of the entrance hall. As Harry suspected they would, the slippers remained on the rack.

A few minutes later, clothed in some embarrassingly crinkled, and noticeably undersized, school robes, Harry emerged into a small but well-stocked dungeon laboratory. On the walls were a vast array of different caldrons, stirrers, knives and chopping boards. Harry caught sight of a gold cauldron, like the one he'd admired in the apothecary as a first year when he'd gone shopping with Hagrid for his first school supplies, a glass caldron, and he even saw one carved from a purple stone that looked like amethyst.

As he turned to stare at the rest of the equipment on the walls, he caught sight of Snape regarding him and flushed with embarrassment at being caught staring like a first year. Snape, however, did not comment, apart from to say, "As one becomes more adept at brewing, moving towards mastery, understanding and application of concepts such as magical resonance and material and magical interactions becomes necessary. The stirrer or cauldron one uses for a specific brew can alter the potency or even the properties of the potion. Some potions, especially darker brews, need cauldrons with a specific magical energy or resonance. For instance, I once brewed a potion that required a hollowed-out skull for a cauldron."

Snape did not volunteer the species that the skull came from. Harry did not ask.

"Why do we always brew in pewter then?" asked Harry, continuing to admire the impressive display of implements on the wall.

"Pewter is sufficient for most household and medicinal potions," commented Snape, lightly. "It is only in the higher echelons of potions mastery that one need concern oneself with the material of the cauldron used. Wolfsbane, for example, requires a gold cauldron."
Harry nodded, impressed.

"Today, however," continued Snape, "we will be brewing for the hospital wing. I'm nearly finished with the potions that Madam Pomfrey has asked for, but with your help we shall go faster, and have more time for occlumency instruction and horcrux research. This will serve as an introduction for you to the science of batch brewing."

Snape drew Harry's attention to large cauldrons currently situated on the bench directly in front of him. There were two benches in the room, positioned close together, so, Harry surmised, one potions master standing in the middle could monitor both benches simultaneously. "You will be brewing four batches worth of Wiggenweld potion. As a potion you brewed in first and second year, you should be very familiar with it."

Harry nodded, "A powerful healing potion that can be used to heal injuries and reverse the sleeping draught," he said promptly. "The primary ingredient is salamander blood."

"Correct," Snape nodded. "This is a relatively stable potion, so responds well to scaling up for batch purposes. Others need to be brewed in standard amounts and the only way to produce them in large quantities is to have many cauldrons going at once. Even with Wiggenweld, however, there is a limitation as to the size of the scaling- too large a cauldron will render effective stirring extremely difficult. For your first attempt, I suggest you quadruple the quantities in a standard brew. Remember that this lengthens the time needed to heat the mixture, though the number of stirs should be the same, provided you perform them adequately. I have provided instructions here," he indicated a piece of parchment on the desk. "I advise that you take the time to familiarise yourself with the alterations in the method- we do not have the constraints of a school timetable here, so you may take all the time you need. Once you have completed the potion correctly with one cauldron, you may attempt to brew with two at once. Ask if you have any questions. I will be working on some blood replenisher in the meantime; it requires little of my concentration, so I shall be able to supervise you adequately." With that, he turned and began collecting ingredients for his own potion.

Harry looked down at the parchment and read through it all carefully. "Sir," he called out, "I've forgotten something, may I go and get it?"

Snape looked up at him in surprise. "This is not a classroom, Mr Potter," he stated, "You may come and go as you please without permission from me, provided it is not dangerous to leave your potion unattended at that point in brewing, in which case I do expect that you ask me to monitor it for you if it is urgent that you leave."

"Oh," said Harry, "Sorry, I didn't realise." Snape simply waved his hand in dismissal and continued with slicing his flobberworms.

Harry hurried off to his bedroom to gather parchment and paper, and caught sight of the Pessimus Magicae book on his bed. He picked that up too, and returned to the lab.

Once there, he proceeded to his bench, placing the book on it for later discussion with Snape, and settled down to make his own notes on the procedure, identifying when there was a difference between the standard formula and the scaled-up one. It was helpful to feel that he was not under scrutiny; Snape seemed engrossed in his own work, and did not appear to be watching Harry.

Once he was satisfied, Harry began to prepare his ingredients. He never noticed Snape look up from his own work, and they worked in companionable silence. Harry was surprised to find the work relaxing. When Harry began to brew, Snape came across and Harry tensed unconsciously, but the man refrained from commenting, other than to advise he widen the sweep of his stirring rod, owing to the increased volume of potion, in order to agitate it effectively. Harry complied and Snape returned to his own brews (he was monitoring four cauldrons himself). Before he knew it, Harry was looking at a full cauldron of a vivid turquoise liquid that looked, from Harry's memory, exactly like it should. He removed his stirring rod and reduced the heat to allow it to simmer for the final thirty minutes as he cleared up around his workstation. He watched Snape for a few minutes- he seemed to have reached a particularly involved point in his blood replenisher, with four cauldrons on the go, slightly staggered in timings, Harry noticed.

Snape seemed to reach a stopping point in his own potions after ten minutes or so, as he left his cauldrons and came over to check on Harry's.

"Adequate," he commented. "Tomorrow, we shall see how you do with two cauldrons on the go at once."
He looked over at Harry's workbench. "Pessimus magicae?"

"Yes, sir," confirmed Harry, "I wanted to show it to you. The alternate Harry pointed it out to me; he thought it might be useful." He picked it up and handed it to Snape, who immediately opened it and started to glance through.

"It's a good find, Mr Potter," he commented after a moment, "And rather suggests that we ought to investigate the Alium room at Grimmauld Place further, but this is a helpful place to start. Would you mind if I kept it to read through?"

"No, sir," came the response. "I didn't understand much of it anyway."

Snape closed the book. "Well then, do you feel like you're in a reasonable frame of mind for some occlumency?"

Harry, quite frankly, was horrified at the mere thought. However, he had requested this training, and knew it was necessary.

"Yes, sir," he said, feeling slightly ill.
Snape looked at him thoughtfully. "A cup of tea first, perhaps?"

Harry nodded gratefully at the stay of execution and, once the potions had been taken off the flames and left to cool, trailed Snape out of the lab towards the living quarters.

Snape proceeded to surprise Harry by heading to the kitchen and filling a kettle with water, waiting for it to boil on what looked like a gas stove, (though Harry was sure it was really powered by magic, like the cauldrons in the labs) rather than summoning a house-elf with a tea service or boiling the water with a tap of his wand. Harry leant against the wooden countertop to wait. "Sometimes," Snape explained without being asked, as he retrieved a tea tray and teapot (silver, and emblazoned with the Slytherin crest) from the cupboard, "I find the ritual of making tea this way to be grounding, particularly so before a task that is likely to be arduous."

"Is this how you did it growing up, sir?" Harry ventured. "Alium-Harry said you're a half-blood,"

"I am," the man confirmed, "My father was a muggle, though I find myself wondering how that fact came up in conversation." He fetched a milk jug from a cabinet that Harry presumed was charmed to stay cool.

"We were talking about his life in Slytherin- the other me's life. He said I was wrong to think all Slytherins are blood purists. He used another example too- Tracy Davis?"

The other man nodded. "Miss Davis's blood status is common knowledge, in Slytherin at least. Nevertheless, I will ask that you not share the information with other people, without Miss Davis's expressed permission."

"Of course," promised Harry, watching as Snape made the final preparations to the tea tray- biscuits, cups and saucers, sugar bowl and tongs- before the kettle boiled. Snape added water to the tea leaves in the pot, topped the pot with the lid, and proceeded to levitate the whole lot into the living room, where he landed it neatly on the coffee table.

"What else did the other Mr Potter have to say?"

"Well," Harry thought for a moment, "not much really. Just that Malfoy isn't that bad really and they have individual passwords and individual bedrooms. How is that fair, by the way? Why would Slytherins get their own rooms?"

"They don't until second year," corrected Snape, "too much homesickness in the first years otherwise. Some of the older students also choose to share. As to why it's an option, there is simply more space in the dungeons than in Gryffindor tower."

"Alium-Harry said something about not relying on others," Harry said.

"Indeed. It is far simpler from a security perspective to have every person responsible for their own password and bedroom. The value of privacy is another important consideration. But the main reason Gryffindor doesn't have the facility is a lack of space. What was that about Mr Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "He said he's not that bad really, that he feels sorry for him because he feels compassion and pity and he's a good person really deep down, but he's had to learn to hide it since he was small because of his father. Apparently, Harry was a good influence on him."

"I can imagine," said Snape, thoughtfully, as he stared at the fire. Harry blinked- was that a compliment?- but let it pass without comment. They lapsed into silence for a moment, before Snape poured the tea, offering a cup to Harry.

This felt surreal, decided Harry, as he added milk and sugar and sat back to nurse his cup of tea. Sitting in Snape's quarters, drinking tea poured by Snape from a Slytherin-crested mug while wearing Slytherin-green slippers. He wondered if this was at all akin to how his Alium-self had felt the first summer with Snape as his guardian. Probably not, he reasoned- as far as he could tell, the other Snape had never been anywhere near as vile to the Slytherin Harry, precisely because he was Slytherin. This was undoubtedly weirder, to be sitting with Snape, drinking tea, pretending as if they hadn't hated each other for half a decade.

"Thanks for letting me help with the Wiggenweld potion today," said Harry, to break the silence that had fallen between them.

This seemed to snap Snape out of his reverie. "It was a marked improvement on your usual concentration and attention to detail in class," Snape commented.

This stung a bit. "Yeah, well it turns out it's easier when you've not got Malfoy lobbing things at your cauldron, and your teacher throwing snide insults at you!" Harry froze internally as he realised what he had just said, and mentally prepared for the backlash.

Snape however, just nodded, saying mildly, "Yes, I can imagine it would be. Hopefully, you will have a better time of it next year."

"Oh, I doubt I'll be in potions next year," Harry said, glumly. "I can't imagine I'll get an O- you don't accept potions students below an O, do you?"

"I do not," Snape returned his cup to his saucer, "but, if you are successful on your mission with the headmaster tonight, your new potions master will be my old potions master, and he has always accepted NEWT students who attain an E or above. I am familiar with both your assignments and your brewing, Mr Potter, and would be very surprised if you did not attain an E at least."

"You won't be our potions master this year, sir?" Harry asked, astonished at the thought of someone other than Snape laying claim to the dungeon labs.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in an expression of suppressed irritation that was becoming somewhat familiar to Harry. "My apologies for ruining the surprise; I had presumed that the headmaster had told you this already, given that he has roped you into recruiting the man."

"He doesn't tell me much, sir," said Harry, honestly.

"No, I don't suppose he does," returned Snape, returning his gaze the flickering fire. "If it is any consolation, I do not believe he divulges information to anyone unless he deems it absolutely essential for him to do so."

Harry thought about this, remembering one of the parting comments from the alternate Snape. "Sir, do you think the other you was right? About Professor Dumbledore interfering with the sorting hat, when I was sorted?"

Snape's face remained relaxed, but his eyes darkened considerably as he pondered the question. His voice, however, was unchanged as he asked what exactly the sorting hat had said, and what Harry's response had been.
"It is entirely possible," said Snape, after a moment's consideration. "It is unheard-of for the hat to change its mind once a verdict has been reached. I find it difficult to believe that hat could have been dissuaded if it truly intended to place you in Slytherin. With that said, however, in cases where students could well fit in multiple houses, it's possible that it would let the student choose."

"Did…." Harry wasn't sure if he dared.

"Ask your question, Mr Potter," Snape said, eyes hidden behind a hand that rubbed his brow.

"Sir, did the sorting hat give you a choice?" Harry asked, quietly, feeling like he was contradicting Hogwart's motto in poking a sleeping dragon.

"No," Snape said, shortly. "I did ask, but it denied me the opportunity."

Harry didn't ask where he had wanted to be sorted; it was obvious. Lily Evans would have been sorted first, after all. He suddenly felt very sorry for the eleven year old Snape, sorted away from his only friend and into a house where he'd be doomed to share a dormitory with future death eaters.

"Well, I think I have the answer to my question then," Harry remarked, quietly. "Sometimes the hat has an off-day."

Daring and nerve, thought Harry, cunning and ambition. Snape had characteristics of both houses. So did Harry, when he thought about it. Maybe it wasn't surprising that it'd made a different choice for Harry in two different worlds. Maybe there were worlds out there with a Gryffindor Snape. It was amazing how the fate of so much rested on the whim of a talking hat.

Neither wizard spoke again until the cups were empty. Snape was the first to break the silence.

"The headmaster and I have endeavoured to forge a new way forward with regard to your occlumency tuition," he began, his voice taking on a silky quality that Harry associated with the lectures that preceded potions practicals. "As I told you when we began lessons last year, occlumency is an obscure branch of magic, so there is no established best practice when it comes to teaching the art. The 'trial by fire' approach that my own instructor favoured did not work with you; therefore, we must find another path."

"Who taught you, sir?" Harry queried.

Snape fixed an assessing gaze on Harry for a moment before answering. "Bellatrix Lestrange," he replied.

"That," stated Harry, dryly, "explains a lot."

Snape did not deign to comment on Harry's assessment. "I believe," he intoned, "that you have recently obtained some simple instruction in occlumency from one of our mutual acquaintances?"

Harry nodded, "He said to visualise myself flying above the Forbidden Forest."

"You have been practising, as I instructed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we shall begin there. I shall assess how much progress you have made, and then we shall plot our course forwards." The taller man rose and returned the tea tray to the kitchen, then swept his way towards one of the bookcases, reaching up with long arms to retrieve a polished wooden box. He carried this over to the table and set it gently down.

"As you have no doubt surmised," he began, opening the box and removing from it a stone bowl that Harry recognised immediately as a pensieve, "Miss Lestrange's preferred method of teaching occlumency relied on the pupil's fear and desperation to keep her from their darkest secrets as motivation to force her from their minds. It is a brutal method, yet, for me, was highly effective. Professor Dumbledore's tuition, he assures me, was similar in methodology." He set the bowl gently on the table.

"However, we have established that this technique will not work with you. I would have, indeed had already, given you up as a lost cause, if not for the fact that another version of myself claims to have successfully taught you to occlude, albeit with a rather unique approach. I can only surmise that, being more intimately acquainted with your personality and thought processes, he was able to devise a path where I could not."

He withdrew his wand, and Harry tensed. Snape, noticing this, lowered it again, before speaking. "We will begin this, and every occlumency lesson from now on, by storing in a pensieve those memories which you most wish to hide from me. This will prevent me from accessing them, as it disconnects them from related memories in your mind. I will, therefore, be unable to find a route to them. You will restore them to yourself at the end of our lesson. Thus, the first order of business this lesson will be to teach you to use a pensieve. The incantation is wordless, but absolute concentration is required. Simply draw the memory to the forefront of your mind, touch your wand to your temple and mentally incant the word recedere. Draw your wand slowly and evenly from your temple, like so." He demonstrated, raising his wand smoothly to his temples and withdrawing it again a moment later. Harry had seen this procedure enacted before, but it was still fascinating to watch the memory pulled forth; silvery and sinewy, clinging to the wand like wet tissue. Snape replaced the memory. "Once you have the memory out, simply lower it into the pensieve, where it should release itself. I suggest you start with a memory that is unimportant to you, in case it suffers damage during the transfer," he instructed.

Harry swallowed his nerves and sat forward slowly, casting around for a suitable memory. Identifying one, he brought his wand to his temple as instructed. He thought as hard as he could of the first time he had detention with Umbridge- he wouldn't miss that memory if it were damaged!- and then the word recedere. He withdrew his wand and, to his amazement, saw the silver strand withdraw, stretching and clinging to the wand, from where it dropped gracefully into the pensieve, and swirled around like tendrils of smoke.

"Good," commented Snape. "Before repeating the process, you should enter the pensieve and watch the memory, to ensure it is the correct memory, that it is undamaged and that it is complete. I will wait here."

Harry eyed the pensieve with some trepidation. It was not a memory that he wanted to relive. But at least he was going in alone, and it was not one of the worst memories he had, not by a long way. Harry leaned forward and lowered his face to the shimmering pool.

He fell, down, down, down, before landing gently in the memory.

"Good evening, Mr Potter"

Harry looked around. It was exactly as he remembered it; the lacy cloths covering the surfaces, the vases of dried flowers sitting on their hideous doilies and, worst of all, the vile kittens.

"Evening, Professor Umbridge," he heard his voice say. He looked over at himself- he was slightly shorter, albeit not by much, he thought morosely. Clearly three months of near-starvation each summer could not be corrected through eating well the rest of the time.

He saw Umbridge telling him to sit down, watched himself approach the lace-draped table with parchment resting upon it but no sign yet of the awful quill. He observed himself as he, rather naively, asked Umbridge to move his detention for him to attend quidditch tryouts.

"Oh, no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter," she rambled on, her voice making him shudder in revulsion even in his own memory. She was truly an awful human being. He watched in repulsed fascination as her toadlike face moved when she spoke, like she was swallowing a particularly juicy fly. He tuned back into the conversation, remembering he was supposed to be looking for discrepancies.

"You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are." She handed him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point. "I want you to write, 'I must not tell lies'," she told him, softly.

"How many times?" the younger Harry asked, and Harry was impressed with his younger self for feigning civility so well.

"Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in," said Umbridge in that cloyingly sweet voice of hers. "Off you go."

"You haven't given me any ink," Harry mouthed along with his counterpart.

"Oh, you won't need ink."

Harry forced himself to watch as his memory self cut into his own arm as he wrote with the black quill. And then the room flickered, like a lightbulb on its way out. Harry frowned, looking around the room.

"Yes?" Harry whirled around to stare, horrified, at Umbridge, before realising after a split-second that she was not talking to him.

"Nothing," he heard his own response.

He turned again to watch his memory-self carve into his own arm and, again, the room flickered. And again, on the next carving. After the fourth, however, the room went fuzzy, as if he'd suddenly taken off his glasses- in fact, he did take them off, clean them and replace them just in case that was the problem, but to no avail. At this point, he realised he didn't know how to get out of the pensieve on his own- he'd always been pulled out before. He stood around, in the blurry room, surrounded by the sound of a scratching quill, for what seemed an age. Then, all of a sudden, the room coalesced again, into the clarity of before.

"Come here," he heard Umbridge command, and watched his younger self stand and cross the room, now with a hand that was red raw and painful-looking.

"Hand," she demanded.

He watched Umbridge examine his hand, shuddering anew at the memory of her stubby, ring-covered fingers touching his skin.

"Tut, tut, I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet. Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? You may go."

And, with that, the pensieve threw him out and he found himself once more on the armchair in Snape's living room.

Snape looked up from the book he'd had his nose in- Pessimus Magicae, Harry noted. "Well?" the man inquired.

"I'm not sure, sir," Harry said. "The start and end points were correct, but there was flickering in the middle, and a large fuzzy bit."

"Flickering?" Snape frowned, "Were you in pain, in the memory?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, "Is it normal for memories with pain in?"

"The human memory has trouble recalling pain," explained Snape, "so moments of acute pain within a memory often show a flickering quality, if they are recalled by the one who experienced the pain."

"Oh, that's good then," said Harry, relieved that the flickering, at least, was not the result of damage. Not that he minded damaging the memory, but he didn't want to accidentally damage any of the other memories he might want to put in the pensieve. He'd prefer to know he'd done it properly.

Snape hummed noncommittally. "Describe the blurring to me."

Harry thought about it. "It was like my glasses had come off, " he said. "I actually had to check that they hadn't. I could only make out shapes; no movement, but I could hear the scratching of a quill."

The potions master pondered this for a moment. "I believe," Snape said, slowly, "that it may be a simple matter of poorly remembering a longer span of time."

"Could the memory be damaged?" Harry asked.

"It could," the man confirmed. "The only way to check would be for me to view it myself- I know what to look for. Alternatively, I suppose you could withdraw another memory and see if the same thing happens."

"What if it is damaged though, sir? I might get the next one right, but if I'm not being consistent, I'd rather not risk it. I might damage a memory I actually want to keep."

"That is your decision to make, Mr Potter. We could see if Professor Dumbledore is free to check the memory over for you?"

Harry considered this. Dumbledore's reaction to this particular memory would be pity, and he didn't think he could stand any pity right now. He didn't want to see the sorrow shining in those blue eyes, the twinkle extinguished. No, if he had to show someone, better Snape. Snape wouldn't show him pity. If anything, Snape might enjoy watching Harry's detention, he thought to himself.

"I think I'd rather you watch it, sir," he said, decidedly.

Snape's eyebrows raised slightly, but he said nothing other than, "Very well. Shall I go alone or would you prefer to accompany me?"

"I've already seen it once," shrugged Harry; he had no desire to revisit that office again.

Snape nodded an acknowledgment and, with that, lowered his face to the bowl and froze there like a statue. Harry stared. He had thought that entering the pensieve was like entering a room; he'd had no idea that a person's physical body remained behind when they viewed a pensieve. It was a very vulnerable position, he realised, and shuddered at the thought of how it must have looked to Snape and Dumbledore when they'd caught him in their pensieves. He felt his face grow hot with shame, and went to fetch more tea. He had just returned with the tea service when, with a jolt, Snape emerged from the pensieve.

"What do you think, Professor?" Harry asked, somewhat anxiously.

"I think," said Snape, his voice level and his face calm, "that there is no spell damage. It appears to me that the flickering was, as we discussed, the result of the remembered pain and the blurring was simply the effect of a long memory in which the same task was repeated continuously with no distinctive features. I imagine you were there for several hours?"

"Yes, sir."

"In all, the blurring only lasted about thirty minutes. The mind has trouble recalling spans of time in which nothing notable happened with accuracy."

Harry stared, curiously, "How long was I in there for, Professor?"

"About forty minutes."

"Then how were you out so quickly, sir?"

"There are ways to manipulate memories in a pensieve. Think of it as a fast forward button on a muggle video," said Snape. "Once it became clear that nothing of note was happening, I sped up the playback, as it were." He paused a moment.

"Mr Potter," he continued, his voice still calm, as if he were discussing the weather, "might I see the hand that was damaged?"

Harry fought off the instinctual urge to hide the old injury; Snape already knew, he told himself. It couldn't possibly make the situation any worse to show him now. He held his hand out, and Snape took it gently, his fingers cool as he turned it this way and that, carefully examining the scar on the back of Harry's hand. I must not tell lies.

"It's a curse scar," Snape said. "Created with a blood quill, which is a dark object, as you no doubt have surmised. They are, in fact, illegal, under normal circumstances. One of Umbridge's educational decrees put it in her power to determine what constituted appropriate punishment, but she never did go after those with families that would be able to defend them legally."

His manner was professional, as he manipulated the scar tissue on the back of the hand once more before releasing it again to Harry. "Usually, curse scars are irreversible, but given the size of this one and the thin lines it comprises of, I have something that should reduce its appearance, if not clear it entirely. Wait here; I shall return in a moment." With that, he stood and strode off in the direction of the entrance hallway.

Harry poured himself a cup of tea while he waited, positioning the strainer carefully, as he had seen Snape do, to catch the leaves and stop them entering his cup. He didn't know what he had been expecting from Snape, but it was not this. He was not cold or mocking, albeit not concerned exactly either, but he was at least offering help without scorn or pity. Harry could cope with that.

After a few moments, Snape returned with a jar of a greenish salve, which he handed to Harry. "Rub that in across the whole of the scar using small, clockwise circles morning and night," he instructed. "Use it sparingly- a thin and even coat will suffice. Expect tingling, but if there is any pain or redness report it to me immediately."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said quietly, as he unscrewed the jar, but Snape waved a dismissal of his thanks. "I developed it when I noticed that students were beginning to show signs of blood quill damage," he explained, reaching for the teapot, "I was not permitted to intervene to prevent it, but I ensured Madam Pomfrey had the means to treat it. I wonder that you did not go to her."

"I thought," said Harry, as he began working the salve in small circles into his scar, "that the adults wouldn't have the power to stop her, and I didn't want them getting sacked for trying."

Snape huffed out a breath, and, chancing a glance up at him, Harry was surprised to see that it appeared to be an expression of amusement rather than displeasure, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. "A little-known fact about Madam Pomfrey," Snape said, as he lifted his cup, "is that she was a Slytherin too, in her day. I assure you, she is far too cunning to fall prey to the likes of that toad."

Harry felt his lips move into a small grin of his own. "I'll try to remember that in future, Professor."

"See that you do," Snape said. "Now that we are satisfied that you have managed to successfully withdraw your memories, please add any that you do not wish me to see, and then we should just have time to test your shields before dinner." Snape took his tea black, with no milk, and he sat back and took a sip, scalding though it must have been, and nodded in approval. "Thank you for preparing the tea."

"No problem, Professor," returned Harry, and got to work with the pensieve as the scar on the back of his hand began to tingle.

Around half an hour later, Snape was engrossed once more in Pessimus Magicae when Harry announced, with some trepidation, that he was finished. It was a quicker task than it ought to have been, given that Snape had already seen most of Harry's more embarrassing and upsetting memories.

"Then we will begin," Snape intoned, marking his page with a quickly conjured bookmark and setting the tome aside, as he leaned forward. "Clear your mind as you have been practising. When you are ready, nod and we shall commence."

Harry fought down his panic and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and drawing up his mental image of flying. Once he felt fully immersed in it, he opened his eyes to meet Snape's black ones and nodded.

Snape raised his wand, "Legilimens>"

At first, Harry felt no difference, flying high above the forest, but then there was a strange pushing sensation. There was another presence on the outskirts of his mind. It wasn't forcing its way through into the landscape, but it didn't appear to be trying to. It seemed to be testing, appraisingly pushing in different places with differing amounts of strength. It was distracting, and Harry fought to maintain his focus on the landscape, his head beginning to pound. And then, there was a sensation of force, almost a ripping, and Harry let out a pained gasp as his mental imagery was pulled bodily away from him to be replaced by memories. Brewing potions this morning with Snape, approaching the Alium, laughing with Ron and Hermione… and then it stopped. The presence withdrew from his mind, and Harry was left panting from the exertion of trying to maintain his shields. His head was pounding, and he closed his eyes against the light of the room.

He heard the rich baritone of his professor's voice as ihr incanted, "Leniens," and the pain in his head disappeared.

"Thank you," said Harry, feeling his expression relax in relief as his eyes opened.

"That was a marked improvement from our last session, Mr Potter," observed Snape.

"I still couldn't keep you out," said Harry, feeling rather frustrated with himself, as he sat back in his chair.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "At this stage, I had no expectation of you keeping me out. I simply wished to check the strength of your shields and I found myself, quite unwillingly, impressed. I actually had to exert a modicum of effort in order to get past them. You have improved, Mr Potter. I am not in the habit of handing out compliments; be assured that when I have given one, it is well-earned."

Harry felt a bit better. "So, what's your verdict? How much more work do we need to do?"

"We still have a long way to go, but you have given yourself a solid foundation and, more importantly, convinced me that it is possible for you to learn. What remains for us now, is to chart a course forward. For the moment, however, restore your memories- simply lower your wand into the liquid, mentally incant and then return your memories to your temple. Do this until the pensieve is empty.

"You should then consider a short rest before dinner; I believe you and Professor Dumbledore have an errand to run tonight. You are unlikely to see me again today, so the headmaster has suggested that you have dinner with him before your excursion. He is expecting you at 7 p.m. promptly. Remember to occlude before you sleep." With that, Snape took his leave, heading out the front door of his quarters.

So, at five to seven, Harry once more found himself travelling up the moving staircase into the headmaster's office.

"Harry, my boy! Come through, come through," the headmaster led the way through to his private dining room, unchanged since this morning except for one fewer chair. Harry joined the headmaster at the small table, and some steak and kidney pie popped into existence in front of him, along with mashed potatoes, roast vegetables and a jug full of gravy. As he tucked in at the headmaster's insistence, he wondered if the house elves took note of students' particular preferences. Professor Dumbledore himself, was starting on a bowl of some sort of soup.

"I hope you don't mind skipping straight to the main course?" enquired the headmaster. "I'm not terribly hungry after such a large lunch."

"Not at all, sir," Harry assured him, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice from the pitcher on the table.

"I'm relieved to hear it," replied the Professor, genially. "How have you been finding summer at Hogwarts so far?"

Harry paused for a moment to finish off his mouthful. "It's very quiet, sir, but so far it beats Grimmauld Place."

Dumbledore looked surprised at this. "Oh? What makes you say that, my boy? I'd have thought that, without the attraction of friends here, Hogwarts would be but a pale second place."

Harry thought about this. The answer largely involved Sirius, but he didn't feel like discussing that over dinner, so went with his second motivation. "I think that I just need some time. They mean well, but they don't know about this," he pointed at his scar, "and I don't want them to, not yet. Hermione will panic and coddle me and be suffocating and then throw herself into research, getting more and more stressed and I'll end up consoling her. Ron will be terrified and either dismissively cheerful about it or pale and panicked. I just… I can't right now. I'd rather not talk about it yet."

"That's understandable, Harry," said the older man, "However, I would caution you not to shut out your friends for too long. I agree that it may be wise, for now, to keep the knowledge of your scar's true nature to yourself. It is too volatile a piece of information to be in the hands of anyone not thoroughly versed in occlumency, and you are perhaps correct that it would harm more than help at this point. But do stay in touch with your friends, Harry. It is not wise to exclude the good in order to ruminate on the ill. Besides which, we face dark and difficult times ahead and your friends will be the most important asset you have, if I'm not much mistaken. Young Miss Weasley's birthday party is in a week's time. I hope you will accompany me there?"

"Of course, sir," replied Harry, with a small, albeit slightly forced, smile.

"I'm glad to hear it, my boy," Dumbledore said.
"And what of your stay with Professor Snape so far? He informed me via floo that your occlumency shields have improved magnificently."

Harry looked at him sceptically and Dumbledore chuckled. "I believe his exact words were, 'improved beyond all recognition,' which is the most effusive praise I've seen him bestow upon anyone in well over a decade, I assure you."

"Oh," said Harry, with a more genuine smile this time. "Well, he's been much better, actually." He smirked. "I'd perhaps go as far as to say he's improved beyond all recognition."

Dumbledore smiled warmly. "Splendid," he said. "Now, about our errand this evening…"

Much later that night, Harry flooed his way down to Snape's quarters, far too exhausted to even contemplate trying to find the specific brick he needed to get in. He imagined himself stumbling around the corridors, putting his hand on bricks at random, for hours. Their mission had been a success, with Slughorn eventually persuaded to return to Hogwarts as potions master.

The living room was dark when he got in, and cold. He lit his wand with a quick lumos after it became clear that the lamps weren't going to light themselves, and headed straight to his bedroom, where he plunged headfirst into a deep and dreamless sleep as soon as he hit the mattress.

Harry was fully dressed before he left his room the next morning, very grateful for the adjoining bathroom which meant he wouldn't need to risk facing his potions professor in his pyjamas. He had reapplied the green salve, and his hand was tingling. He examined it; the mark did look noticeably fainter than yesterday. He found the professor reading The Daily Prophet in the kitchen, a cup of tea on the table in front of him. Two black eyes flicked up to Harry when he entered, returning to his paper after a moment with the words, "Good morning, Mr Potter. Help yourself to breakfast."

"Good morning, Professor," returned Harry, feeling incredibly awkward "Thank you." He seated himself at the table, grateful for the newspaper currently separating him from his potions master- this was surreal enough without looking at the man across the kitchen table as he buttered his toast. After a few minutes though, Snape folded his paper and addressed Harry.

"I spoke to the headmaster last night to discuss our likely route forward with occlumency. After our session yesterday, I am confident of our next steps. It is my hope that you will be competent in basic occlumency within two weeks, and proficient in its simplest form in time for September. It may well be sooner, depending on the speed of your progress and your dedication to your practice."

"That sounds good," said Harry. "So, I'll be able to keep you out?"

"Before September? It is unlikely. However, the headmaster and I are not of the opinion that you need to, in order to prevent passive visions by the Dark Lord over distance and through dreams. Even active visions he sends, you should be able to push back against by the end of the month."

Harry nodded at this. "When will I be able to keep you out then, sir?"

"If we were to continue lessons beyond September, I'm certain that you would be able to employ occlumency competently by the end of the school year. However, you should bear in mind that I have been practicing occlumency for longer than you have been alive, Mr Potter. It would be foolishness to expect to attain my prowess with the skill in such a small fraction of the time. With study though, and dedication over years , I believe it would be possible for you to attain my level of skill if you wished it. You have already overcome the highest hurdle."

"How so, Professor?"

Snape took a sip of tea as he regarded Harry, before lowering his cup and continuing to speak.

"Occlumency," he began, "is, as I have told you before, an obscure branch of magic. The reasons for this are twofold. The first, is that not many people possess the predisposition for it. The second is that it is only useful if you happen to be exposed to legilimency, so most wizards do not cultivate the skill. The Dark Lord knows that the headmaster is a legilimens, and so, shortly after initiation, he tests his death eaters to determine their aptitude for occlumency. Those with a natural inclination for it are provided training."

"Is that how you ended up being trained by Bellatrix?" Harry asked.

Snape inclined his head in an affirmative, before continuing. "The conventional wisdom is that those unsuited for occlumency will only ever achieve something approaching proficiency in the art through such rigorous application to it that it is, in the vast majority of cases, simply not worth the investment of time. Until I met my alternate self in the Alium, I had cast you into the ranks of the unsuited. Being able to resist me as you did yesterday shows that you do, in fact, possess the attributes necessary for the art. I spent some time studying and testing your shields before I attacked in earnest. You have, in fact, progressed beyond the initial clearing of the mind and have produced a mindscape- a mental battleground, if you will, on which the battle for your memories and control of your mind will be fought."

"But," protested Harry, "I was just flying above a forest."

"Indeed," agreed Snape. "And that is in itself an achievement; you have successfully hidden yourself within your mindscape. An invading force must break in, and then locate you."

"What comes next, then?" asked Harry.

"Occlumency is a discipline of many layers," said Snape. "At present, an invading legilimens must only locate and penetrate your mindscape to find you, flying openly above the forest. What we must now do is hide you and your memories within the scene, somewhere less obvious than the young man flying above it. Once we have achieved that, we shall work on keeping the sacrificial decoy in place, and reinforcing your layers; putting some nonessential memories within reach of an intruder, hopefully convincingly enough that we can persuade the Dark Lord that he has passed your defences and found all there is to find. In doing all of the above, and frequently visiting your mindscape, you will strengthen it and the walls that surround it. Finally, we shall place some protections around your memories, so that, in a worst-case scenario, they will attempt to help you fight off the intruder."

"And that's all we can do?" asked Harry.

Snape looked at him for a moment. "That," he said softly, trailing his finger around the rim of his empty teacup, "is all you will attempt to do. Any further protections are unnecessary in your case."

Harry stilled. With a sense of foreboding, he asked, "What other protections are possible?"

Snape locked eyes with Harry. "I will tell you, because my alternate self assures me that ensuring you are aware of the whole truth is key to curbing your more Gryffindor tendencies. The only further protection, beyond that, is what I like to call a failsafe."

Harry was curious, "A failsafe, sir?"

"Dead men tell no tales, Mr Potter," intoned Snape, wryly. "It is possible for the accomplished occlumens to build in a failsafe that will cause brain death if triggered. But this will be unnecessary in your case, and we shall not be attempting it- one wrong move can render a person as effectively and permanently incapacitated as can a dementor's kiss.

"As to your lessons," he continued,"we will have them twice a day when possible; morning and evening. The evening sessions will be more taxing- we will test your defenses during those sessions. In the morning, we will work on theory and I shall demonstrate the technique we are focusing on. Between the two sessions you will spend at least one hour practising what we have covered so far. We will begin today in the sitting room at 10. Until then, I shall be in my office. Unless you have any questions?"

When Harry responded in the negative, the dark-robed man rose gracefully to a stand, gathering his paper and waving his wand at the assembled crockery, which flew to the sink to wash itself, before twirling around to leave.

"Do you have a failsafe in place, sir?" Harry asked as Snape headed towards the door, the question tumbling out before he had chance to call it back.

Snape paused for a moment with his back to Harry, standing in the doorway to the sitting room, and turned his head briefly back towards Harry. He merely inclined his head, and then continued along his way.

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

At the appointed time, Harry emerged once more from his bedroom, where he'd been practising his occlumency shields, to the sitting room, where, sure enough, Snape was waiting. Harry clutched his note-filled textbook and sat down with no small amount of trepidation on the soft brown leather armchair facing the one Snape currently occupied. The chairs were closer than usual; at right angles to one another around the coffee table, rather than directly opposite.

"You've brought your questions?" prompted Snape, and Harry opened the book to retrieve the parchment pertaining to the chapter on hiding oneself, as Snape had intimated that they'd be working on that today. Snape gave it a cursory glance and nodded. "We'll be covering these points today," he handed the parchment back to Harry. "If you still have questions at the end of the session, do not hesitate to ask them.

"Today we will be focussing, as you have correctly predicted, on hiding oneself, or more precisely, one's memories. The process is sometimes referred to as compartmentalisation, and involves storing memories in separate locations. This makes them simpler for you to access, and more challenging for those who wish to infiltrate your mind. I will show you my own method, then we will discuss yours and I shall leave you to put it into practice at some point before our session this evening."

Snape retrieved a phial of a cream-coloured pearlescent liquid from his robes. "This," he said, handing it to Harry, "Will allow you to join me in my mind when I invite you in. I shall take its counterpart." Here, he produced a second phial for himself, this one looking remarkably like molten silver. Harry uncorked his own, bringing it to his lips and, with a questioning glance at Snape, who nodded as he mirrored Harry's actions, he downed the concoction. It tasted bitter, and after a few seconds he felt as if his head had lightened, no longer fully connected to his body. He carefully placed the phial on the coffee table.

"Look at me, Mr Potter," he heard from across from him. He looked up to see Snape locking eyes with him and watched as Snape leaned forward, deliberately laying his hand on top of Harry's, which was resting on the arm of Harry's chair. As soon as their skin made contact, Harry gasped as he felt himself being pulled across the intervening space, and into what looked like Snape's private potions lab, stocked much as it had been yesterday when Harry had worked on the Wiggenweld potion for the hospital wing. Harry felt himself drawn further in, until he was in the ingredients store. He looked closely at the bottles on the shelves, and felt himself urged to take one. He grabbed the one nearest to him, and opened it. Suddenly, he was inside a memory.

He was watching two children sitting on a tree branch some twenty feet above the ground. It was a hot summer's day, judging by the weather and their attire, though Harry couldn't feel the heat himself. He looked more closely at the children; one obviously a much younger, and more shabbily dressed, Snape, attired in Muggle clothing, and the other a little redheaded girl that seemed vaguely familiar, dressed in a blue gingham dress of the sort little girls had worn to Harry's primary school in the summer months. They were swinging their legs back and forth as the boy spoke.

"And there's Ravenclaw, for those with a love of learning, and then you've got Slytherin, which Mum was in, and is about cunning and ambition."

"Which one do you reckon you'll be in, Sev?"

"Slytherin," he answered promptly. "Mum's always said it would suit me. Plus, she says it's the best house."

"You could be in any of them, Sev," the girl said, "You've got brains, loyalty, bravery and cunning. I don't know how they can boil all of you down into one characteristic like that."

Snape snorted at this, but the sound was a fond one- he rolled his eyes at the girl with a slight smile.

There was silence for a moment. "What if I don't get a letter?" the girl fretted, twisting her red plaits through her fingers.

The boy, young Snape, turned to look at her, his eyes bright and cheerful in a way that Harry had never seen them in real life. "Lily," he said seriously, "you have more magic in your little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. You will definitely get a letter."

Lily. This was Harry's mother as a girl. He'd suspected it from the first, but to know was something else. Harry leaned forward to take more of her in, the way she wrapped her long red plaits around her fingertips, chewed her lip when she was worried about something, alternated her legs when kicking in midair- one then the other, in time with Snape.

Lily grinned back at Snape. "Thanks, Sev. You're a good friend, you know."

The boy's lips quirked up slightly at the compliment and he refocused his gaze onto something in the middle distance. "How are things with Tuney?" he asked.

"Not very good," said Lily, looking downcast. "She doesn't like me being friends with you, you know; says awful things."

Snape scoffed, "Oh, I think I can imagine." He put on a high-pitched affected tone that brought Harry's aunt to his mind immediately. "I don't want you hanging around with the likes of that freakish boy, Lily!"

Lily let out a mirthless laugh. "She thinks I'm a freak too."

"She's just jealous, you know," Snape looked around carefully and then held out a hand to the girl. "Want to get down?"

Lily grinned and placed her hand immediately into Snape's, who wrapped his fingers, already long for his age, around hers, and then they jumped. Down they fell, sinking slowly through the air, as if falling through water, landing with a laugh on the ground beneath the tree.

Harry came back to himself holding the phial, and he put the lid back on it and returned it to its shelf. He noticed a label on the shelf, which read, 'Lily Evans, before Hogwarts'. Each of these phials and bottles and jars, he mused, must be a different memory related to his mother. He badly wanted to look through another, but didn't think Snape had brought him here for a trip down memory lane, and so resisted.

Each shelf appeared to have a different subject line, and Harry was reading them, when he felt a presence again guide him away, towards a blank stretch of wall at the back of the cupboard. He noticed the similarities between this wall and the one that led to Snape's quarters, and examined it curiously. One was ever so slightly more worn than the rest, and he laid his hand against it, watching it melt away to reveal a door. He rested his hand on the handle, turning it, to find a room like the one he had just left. He looked at some of the labels, "Tobias", "Death Eater meetings", "Prophecy".

Again, Harry itched to investigate further, but he did not plan to invade the man's privacy again; not after the pensieve last year, and so he allowed himself to be led back, out of Snape's mind, and into a waiting blackness.

Harry felt a phial against his lips, felt a trickle of liquid pour into his mouth, a cool hand massaging his throat to make him swallow, and a sense of swimming up through a mental fog. He managed to open his eyes. Snape was looking down at Harry, who was slumped back in his seat. "You are unusually susceptible to this potion," Snape commented, flatly. "I shall brew a less potent version for future lessons. Are you feeling alright?"

Harry sat up and assessed himself. He didn't feel injured and his mind was once more in his own head. "I'm fine, sir," he responded.

Snape nodded. "In that case, let us discuss what you saw."

Harry considered this. "There were memories, but organised by category and stored individually from one another- compartmentalised, like the book said. It was set up like a potions store. But they weren't all in one place; there was a hidden layer, for other memories. Ones you like to hide, I'd guess?"

"Almost," said Snape, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers. "I showed you the first two levels of my memory store. The Dark Lord knows of the existence of both- on my second level, I place anything I imagine he thinks I want to hide, so he feels like he has gotten past my defences by accessing it. I have to give up some things I really would rather keep private by storing them there; it stops him looking further. Anything that I really must keep hidden, such as your residing in my quarters, is stored beneath that, on levels he has not yet accessed.

"Your task now is to identify a place in your mindscape in which to store your memories; somewhere very familiar is usually best, but a powerful and well-practiced imagined scene can work as well. Once you've done this, you should identify two layers for now, both of which will ultimately be sacrificial. You will need to place the majority of your memories in the first sacrificial layer so that there will be sufficient memories to draw upon if you are attacked, hopefully ensuring that the Dark Lord does not feel the need to look further. We will attempt to make him believe that you have no occlumency shields beyond your mindscape, at first. In case he does not fall for that and penetrates deeper, we will create a second sacrificial layer that he may break into without accessing any truly dangerous information. We will ensure that the shields beyond that point are formidable, and attempt to form an additional guardian of sorts. But the first step is to identify a location and fill it with your more mundane memories. Do you have any suggestions?"

Harry paused for a moment, thinking furiously. Hadn't alternate Snape said something about the lake? Would that work? But then, where in the lake could Harry store memories? He thought back to the second task of the Triwizard tournament. Merpeople had homes down there. Or perhaps Snape had a better suggestion.

"Would the lake work?" Harry offered, somewhat hesitantly, waiting to be called a dunderhead.

Snape seemed to be considering the suggestion seriously, though.

"It certainly has potential," he mused, causing Harry's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise at the lack of venom. He wasn't used to fair consideration from this teacher, and, though Snape had been doing well for the last two days, Harry was waiting for the shoe to drop. He trusted Snape not to intentionally kill or harm him (knowledge of the vow made that much simpler) but that was the extent of it.

Snape continued, "Where did you envision using for your memory storage?"

"The merpeople have homes on the lakebed; I saw them in the second task. I thought maybe I could hide my memories there?"

"With the giant squid to protect them?" Snape wondered aloud. "Yes, that would do admirably. And then, of course, there's a prebuilt hidden layer."

At this, Harry paused, confused. "There is?"

Snape nodded; "Multiple, in fact. We can give the homes hidden pantries, cellars or attics. And then, we can keep everything that must be kept safe here."

"Where?" asked Harry, not following.

Snape gestured around the room. "Here. I'll show you– follow me,"
He rose gracefully, sweeping over to Harry's bedroom. He paused before entry to glance at Harry questioningly. "May I?" he asked. Harry merely nodded, and Snape continued on.

Snape, much to Harry's surprise, did not seem at all shocked or aggrieved by the little slice of Gryffindor that was Harry's bedroom, but Harry soon forgot to wonder about this when Snape made part of Harry's bedroom wall disappear, replacing it with a view out into the depths of the lake.

"Wow," breathed Harry in awe, moving forward to touch the missing wall, feeling but not seeing the cool, rough texture of the stones under his fingers.

Snape looked on in veiled amusement. "I can leave it like this if you wish. The dormitories in Slytherin tend to be windowless, but some enjoy watching the antics of the aquatic environs beyond the dungeon walls. One wall of the common room is taken up by a window such as this. Not all of the Slytherin dormitories have the option, of course; some of them face into the rocks of the hill on which Hogwarts stands. Artificial windows can be placed to give the impression of being above ground, but they require the headmaster's involvement. Would you like the window to the lake to remain?"

Harry considered. He didn't much like the view, but there may be a reason to leave it other than aesthetic appeal. "Would it help with preparing my memory store if I had the window like this?"

"Potentially," said Snape, "but if it unnerves you too much to have all the time, may I make a suggestion?"

Harry nodded, and Snape called out a name, and a small, wrinkled house elf popped into existence in front of Harry, bat-like ears twitching inquisitively.

"Yes sir?' enquired the house elf.

"Could you please acquire a curtain rail and some of curtains in the style of those from Gryffindor tower to hang about this wall?" Snape asked.

"Tippy will be happy to help sir!" The elf squeaked out, bowing low before vanishing.

Snape turned to Harry. "You will let me know how you feel about this addition. If you do not like it, it will be simple enough to remove."

Harry offered his gratitude, which Snape waved away.

"Would you prefer I show you how I create a contained memory, or would you prefer to try yourself so I can assess your progress at dinner?"

"I'd like to have a go myself please, sir." Harry felt he'd had enough experiences involving mind visitation for one day.

Snape nodded his head decisively.
"Very well. I shall see you for lunch at one." And, without further ado, he turned sharply and disappeared through Harry's door.

Harry was just turning towards his bed when the house-elf reappeared with a pop, along with a pair of perfectly-sized red curtains with gold lion embroidery. A curved brass curtain rail with scrolling edges mounted itself to the stone wall above the window while the curtains levitated themselves into position, then hooked onto the metal hoops threaded onto the pole.

"Wait," said Harry, as he felt sure the elf was about to disappear. "Did you decorate this room?"

"Yes sir," came the squeaky response, "Is young master Potter happy with the room? Can Tippy be getting anything else for the young master?"

"Yes, thank you Tippy," said Harry, "and no, I don't need anything else. I just wanted to thank you. It was a lovely idea."

"There is being no need to thank Tippy. Tippy is only doing as ordered by Master Snape. May Tippy be excused now?"

Harry nodded, surprised, and, with a pop, he was once more alone.

Snape had ordered the room be decorated in Gryffindor colours for him. And hadn't he referred to the place as Harry's room? Harry felt a rush of gratitude; the man may still be taciturn and cold, but he was clearly trying to make Harry feel comfortable, for all he'd only be staying a month. He would never have suspected Snape to be capable of such a thing; it looked suspiciously like kindness. He imagined that was why Snape hadn't mentioned it- he hadn't wanted the action associated with him. Harry shook his head in bemusement, but then lay down face up on the bed as he attempted to sort through his memories and bottle them. He really should have asked Snape to show him how, he thought after a few fruitless minutes, returning to the now deserted living room to retrieve his occlumency textbook.

By lunchtime, Harry was thoroughly frustrated. He didn't know what vessel to use for his memories, or how to portion them up and categorise them. He knew that he would have to ask, and so he found himself doing so at lunchtime, preparing to be scolded for his incapability to comprehend simple texts. No scolding was forthcoming, however.

"I certainly can do as you request," Snape said, calmly, as he helped himself to a sandwich from the platter the house elves had brought up, "but I'm afraid it would require a small show of faith on your part. You would need to let me into your mind, as you were in mine earlier today."

Harry felt a little bit sick at the thought of Snape so fully in his head. "Will we need the potions again?" he queried, but Snape responded in the negative.

"I can enter your mind without the aid of potions. We needed them earlier because I had to draw you into mine. If you would like, we can begin after lunch." Feeling somewhat queasy, Harry agreed.

And so, in due course he found himself seated beside Snape on the comfortable brown sofa, turned to face the man in order to meet his eyes.

"Try to occlude," said Snape, his voice very quiet, almost like a whisper. He reached out and placed his hand once more over Harry's. Harry looked up into the dark eyes that glittered in the firelight, and felt a sudden pressure against his mind, reminiscent of the disasterous occlumency lessons of last year. However, before Harry could panic too much, the potion took effect and the pressure gently eased off, to be replaced by a mental presence Harry recognised as Snape.

Harry tried to envision his mental landscape, the Forbidden Forest below him, as he had been instructed. It was difficult at first, nervous as he was, but the presence in his mind seemed to help, directing Harry's attention back to the task whenever it wandered, adding detail to the scene. Soon, Harry was flying in his mind's eye.

"Now," said Snape's voice, echoing through him, though not a word had been spoken out loud, "leave this version of you flying here, and follow me."

Harry felt a pull, and his consciousness left the sky, flying down, down, towards a lake in the centre of the forest.

"Your mindscape does not have to be an accurate representation of the landscape," reminded Snape, as they neared the lake.

After a moment, they plunged into the depths of the lake, but Harry felt totally calm as they sank to the bottom, past the giant squid and grindylows, towards the quaint houses on the lakebed.

Once there, they stopped. There were no merpeople, and their houses were barren shells. They entered one of the houses and Harry felt Snape direct his consciousness, installing hammocks for sleeping, kitchens and living areas. Then, Snape opened a cupboard in the kitchen, and a glass bottle, like the sort messages are sometimes left in, popped into existence within the cupboard.

"Now, select a memory. A good or mundane one."

Harry recalled his conversation with the sorting hat.

"Envision the memory pouring like sand into the bottle."

Harry had no idea how to accomplish this and just stared, at a total loss. How was he expected to turn that particular memory into anything corporeal? He didn't even have a body! Until, suddenly, he did. He looked down at his school robes, saw his hands in front of him. Then he saw Snape's disembodied hand, wrapped around his, directing. He gently used Harry's hand to put his wand, which had suddenly appeared, to his temple, extract the swirling memory and hold it out towards the bottle, where it coalesced into so much sand, falling straight to the bottom. With Snape's help, Harry wrote out a label for it, and it appeared on the bottle.

"What do you want to call the shelf?" asked Snape's voice.

Harry wrote, "Settling in at Hogwarts", and the label appeared on the shelf. He felt a sense of approval from Snape. Another bottle then appeared, and this time Harry filled it on his own. He felt Snape withdraw and followed him up, out of the lake and out of his mind's eye to Snape's sitting room, where Snape was already downing a blue phial of potion. Harry looked at it curiously.

"Pain reliever," intoned Snape in explanation. "More effective than pain-relieving spells cast on oneself. I trust you found that useful?"

"Really useful, Professor, thank you," said Harry, feeling rather guilty that his professor had suffered pain on his account.

"How are you faring?" asked Snape. "Any pain?"

"A bit," Harry shrugged. "It's fine."

Snape placed another phial of the same potion he'd just consumed on the table in front of Harry without another word. "I will see you at seven for dinner," he said, "Excuse me," and he departed in the direction of his bedroom.

Harry looked at the potion and questioned for a moment the wisdom of taking it. His head twinged painfully and he decided that he was being silly. He drunk a number of potions so far and the man was under an unbreakable vow - he would not harm Harry. And, with that, Harry uncorked the phial, downed it in one and went to have a rest himself.

Several days after showing Harry how to bottle memories, Severus was awoken by the sound of anguished screaming. His eyes shot open, pupils dilated in the near total-darkness. Potter.

Quicker than thought, he was across the room. He sped through the living area, beginning to make out words as he drew closer to the boy's bedroom.

"Sirius!"

Snape froze, hand on the doorknob, listening intently.

"No, Sirius, please! I'm sorry- I didn't know it was a trap!"

Just a nightmare then. His heartrate gradually slowing down, Snape tightened his hand once more on the doorknob, before hesitating. Was he really going to go to the boy for a nightmare? The memory from his Alium-self was giving him an uncanny sense of déjà vu. This was too similar to his memory of that night. The one he hadn't lived.

Snape let go of the doorknob as if he'd been burned. No. He would not go to Potter. This was a sixteen year old wizard, not some snivelling twelve year old child. Snape was here as an instructor, not as a parent. Potter was here as a guest, as a student, to learn. This was not the boy's home. Snape turned to leave, but another tortured cry emanating from the closed door forced him to pause, somewhat uncharacteristically for a man who had no patience with dithering about. He frowned. To leave the boy felt wrong somehow, but why?

Really, he supposed, after a moment's thought, he should visually check that the boy was alone. He could be facing a boggart, or some other threat. It would surely be irresponsible to leave without even checking. Yes, that was why the thought left him feeling uneasy.

Decision made. Gently, without making a sound, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was dark, there being no artificial window in this reality to shine moonlight into the space. The only light came from the wall sconces behind Severus, which had lit themselves as he passed. By design, their light was weak at this time of night, and it took a moment for Severus's eyes to adjust to the dim half-light they cast into the room beyond. The boy was thrashing about in the middle of the bed, muttering to himself rapidly. His bedding was wrapped around him like a shroud, his face contorted with fear and pain. Severus felt an almost overwhelming impulse to go to him, but if Severus was anything, he was self-controlled. He stood determinedly in the doorway, ignoring the visceral urge to do something.

It was brought on by the Alium memories, Severus knew. It wasn't him. He didn't care about Potter, not at all. There was obviously no real threat here. He ought to silence the boy and go back to bed.

But while Severus had stood idly by and watched brutal horrors be inflicted on innocents, had developed truly foul and evil potions that he had known would cause harm to others, had even carried out a few hideous crimes himself of which his soul would never be cleansed, he had never been one to delight in the suffering of others. Oh, he played the role well, but he had never quite managed to eliminate his distaste for suffering. He did intervene when he could. Nowadays, the only people he saw die were those he could not save. He tried his best to step in whenever he could prevent, ease or end someone's suffering. And this particular someone was under his protection. And he had promised. He had sworn he would support Potter. And he kept his promises. Where he could, at any rate.

But how to do that, without becoming the dunderheaded Hufflepuff he'd seen in the thrice-damned Alium? He didn't even coddle his Slytherins…

He paused. His Slytherins. Yes, he knew how to support the Slytherins. He wasn't a cuddly head of house by a long stretch, not like Pomona, but he knew his students. He was involved, where necessary, and supportive, to a point. He could spot abuse and knew how to intervene. Years ago, he'd drawn up a list of obligations he felt he had towards his Slytherins and he'd followed it since. He could fulfill that list here, for Potter. Treat Potter as a Slytherin for the next month. He nodded to himself. Surely that would count as support.

He was interrupted in his musing by yet another shout. Decision made, Snape lifted his wand and fired a non-verbal tickling jinx at his charge. It built in intensity, taking a good ten seconds to wake the boy. He had been deeply enmeshed in his nightmare.

The boy startled awake and proceeded to attempt to fight off his bedsheets, in danger of falling off the bed. With a flick of his wand, Severus, still standing in the doorway, untangled them and cancelled the jinx. The boy looked at him, uncomprehending and more than a little fearful, before scrabbling for his glasses. Snape whirled around without a word and stalked off to the kitchen.

Using a charm to heat some milk, Severus pondered his response to this. He'd prefer to simply ignore Potter's bad dream. As a rule, he did not deal with the nightmares of his Slytherins. He chose his perfects well, taught them the ways in which they could soothe the younger ones after a bad dream, and monitored from a distance through charms and wards. He only intervened further if the nightmares proved to be a persistent issue. He poured the heated milk into a cup.

Severus could have summoned a house elf for this, of course, but he was loathe to wake them for something he could easily accomplish himself. As he stirred chocolate into the mug, waiting for it to dissolve, he considered further. No, he would not discuss it more at present. He would follow his own advice, given to the Slytherin prefects every year. Hot chocolate, something to read, and back to bed. Refer to Professor Snape if nightmares occur more than twice a week or are significantly impacting the rest and health of the student.

As he strode through the living room, he spotted one of the few fiction texts he'd kept from his childhood, hidden away on the bottom shelf of a bookcase, under a notice-me-not charm. He stared at it for a moment. Severus had progressed far enough in occlumency that he didn't really have nightmares anymore, but it had taken him the better part of half a decade to reach that point, and Potter likely never would. Before that, Severus had had this book. It'd be a wrench, he thought, to give it to Potter, and the brat would probably not treat it with the respect it was due. It would likely engender trust though, and the boy's occlumency was now vital to maintaining Snape's cover as a spy. Besides which, it would be a miracle if Snape survived this war. Better it go to someone who would live through it, and the boy would live through it, he assured himself. Gritting his teeth somewhat, Severus grabbed the book, removed the charm, and continued to Potter's still-open doorway.

As Severus had suspected he would, Potter had retreated to his attached bathroom. Good. Severus stole into the room, footsteps whispering across the stone floor and maroon rug. He deposited the hot chocolate and the book on Potter's bedside table, conjuring a simple cork coaster underneath it as he did so. He straightened Potter's duvet and blankets using a flick of his wand and made his way gratefully back to his own bed; conscience appeased and duty discharged.

When Harry made it back to his bedroom, he was surprised to find a gently steaming mug of something sweet-smelling upon his bedside table, alongside a copy of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. His bed had been made. Who had done that? When Harry had awoken, he had thought he'd seen a dark shape over by his door, but it had been impossible to tell in the dim light without his glasses, and when he'd looked again there had been nothing there. He hesitantly picked up the mug and sniffed it. Hot chocolate? Had a house elf left it? He gingerly took a sip. It tasted fine. Most potions were nasty things, he knew, comprised as they tended to be of the most vile of substances. They were, therefore, difficult to hide in drinks successfully, and most curdled milk. An exception was veritaserum, but no one here would need to dose him with that. Snape already knew practically everything there was to know about him.

Harry shrugged, and took another, larger, mouthful. It was good; sweet and soothing. He put the mug down and clambered back into bed, grateful for the residual warmth in the chill of the dungeons. The lamps had lit themselves as he'd walked to his bathroom and had grown steadily brighter over time. He could now see fairly well.

Reaching across for Robinson Crusoe, Harry frowned. The book was well-loved and slightly dog-eared. Maybe the elves gave it to Hogwarts students who had nightmares? It didn't make much sense though, for them to give a muggle text. And why had he never seen it before? He'd spent many a night at Hogwarts in the grip of imaginary terrors.

He opened the front cover. There was an inscription, carefully written in a swirling cursive.

Sev,

I thought you'd better have this one, since you like it so much more than I do.

Love,

Lily

Harry's eyes widened as he reverently stroked a finger across the name, daintily penned in blue biro a quarter of a century ago. Lily. His mother had touched this, once. His mother had given it to Snape. He shook his head. It was still very difficult to believe that she had ever voluntarily spent time with the man, even if he hadn't been so bad, really, since Harry had arrived two days ago.

Still more difficult to believe was that Snape had woken him from a nightmare and brought him hot chocolate and a book. Had made his bed. For that must be what had happened. Occam's razor, Hermione had called it once. The simplest explanation is usually correct. If you hear hooves in Hogsmeade, it's probably not a zebra.

But still. Harry shook his head in disbelief at the man's actions. What would Ron say if he knew? Harry sat there for a long moment, before once more taking up his mug and flicking past the prologue to the first page of the story.

Breakfast the next morning was awkward for Harry, despite proceeding entirely as usual, with Snape outlining their occlumency plans for the day and the pair otherwise eating in near-silence. The man seemed perfectly content to ignore the nightmare incident, and had not said anything about it, for which Harry was grateful. It was embarrassing enough, in the cold light of day, to know his screams must have awoken Snape, without having to face a discussion about it. A large part of Harry wanted to let it lie, but at the same time, he felt he ought to offer some expression of thanks. The professor had gone above and beyond anything Harry could ever have expected of him, coming to Harry after a nightmare with hot chocolate and a book, let alone a book that had once been his mother's. No one had ever done that sort of thing for Harry before, and it felt wrong to just ignore it. However, by the time Snape drained the last of his cup of tea, folded his copy of the Prophet and rose to a stand, Harry still hadn't found a good way to bring it up.

"Sir!" Harry blurted out as Snape made to leave the room. The man paused, turning back to Harry with an expectant expression.

Harry's mouth went dry. "I just," he swallowed his nerves and tried again. "I just wanted to thank you, sir, for, you know, last night." He winced at the bumbling sentence construction, but pressed on regardless. "For waking me, I mean, and the hot chocolate, and the… book," he faltered at the man's impassive expression. "That was you, wasn't it, sir?"

For a moment Snape didn't move, his inscrutable gaze fixed on the young man seated before him. Then, relenting, he inclined his head minutely.

"Oh," breathed Harry, relieved. "Well, thanks. Especially for the book. It was really nice to hold something that was Mum's once." Hesitantly, he withdrew the book from his robes and made to hand it back to Snape.

Snape looked for a moment as if he were about to say something, but then abruptly stopped himself, instead merely nodding an acknowledgement. Harry suspected the man was uncomfortable with receiving gratitude.

"You may keep the book," Snape said, the coldness of his voice contrasting oddly with the kindness of the message. And, in a whirl of black fabric, he was gone.

Snape had told Harry, during breakfast, that he had a potion brewing that would prevent occlumency practise until after lunch. He had suggested Harry join him again if he had wished to continue his study in batch brewing, but only after ten. Harry cleared away his breakfast things and used the intervening time to finish off his transfiguration homework.

When Harry eventually joined the professor in his private laboratory at five minutes past ten, it was to the sight of six cauldrons bubbling away, a thin silver vapour rising from three of them, a shimmering violet mist from two of the other three. Five of the six appeared to be stirring themselves, noted Harry, surprised that Snape would allow himself such a thing, as he certainly never permitted his students to entertain thoughts of stirring magically. Over the sixth cauldron, Snape was meticulously adding flakes of some ingredient or other, one at a time with one hand, stirring the mixture gently with the other and muttering under his breath all the while.

Knowing better than to disturb the professor, Harry quietly closed the door behind him and made his way over to the bench he'd been working at previously. Sitting atop it, along with two pewter cauldrons of the size he'd been working with last time, was a list of handwritten instructions entitled, 'Staggered Batch Brewing- Wiggenweld Potion'. Harry pulled out a tall, wooden stool from beneath the counter and perched himself upon it as he settled down to read. He knew there was no rush here, and, while he was confident that the professor knew he was in the room, he felt it may be prudent to cause as little disruption as possible.

The instructions were the same as yesterday, with the difference that they appeared in duplicate, with one set written down each side of the parchment and the second set staggered to take place five minutes later. Harry read them through twice and went to fetch and prepare his ingredients.

It was a bit hectic, brewing with multiple cauldrons. Forty-five minutes into the potion found Harry, fringe plastered to his forehead with sweat, frantically trying to locate his last phial of salamander blood before his second potion became unstable. He was already a minute late to add the ingredient. He shifted his pestle and mortar to the left and moved his shrivelfig slices to one side.

"Come on, come on," he muttered fretfully, one eye on the timer floating beside his second cauldron. "Where's the ruddy salamander blood?!" He tried to move a small bowl of powdered blood extract but found it stuck to the counter and unwilling to budge. The cauldron was hissing alarmingly.

"Get out of it!" he snarled to the bowl under his breath, before giving it a particularly hard shove. The bond between bowl and table unexpectedly gave way and the bowl shot backwards into the crumpled instructions. The instructions fell and the sound of shattering glass drove a spike of fear through Harry. He crouched down to look under the table, and sure enough there was the lost phial, shattered on the floor like Harry's dreams of successfully completing the potion.

Coming back to a stand, Harry saw with some trepidation that his cauldron had begun to boil violently. He backed away as the rioting bubbles rose angrily to the surface, sensing an imminent explosion, when, suddenly, the potion vanished.

Harry grimaced; he was in for it now. However, no snarl of fury erupted from the man working at the bench across from Harry. Swallowing his nerves, Harry chanced a glance at Snape, but to his surprise, the man was seemingly engrossed in his own work, completely ignoring Harry as he stirred one of his six potions.

Harry stared in utter confusion. Snape must have vanished the potion, mustn't he? Where was the tirade about mess in the lab, wasted time and ingredients, and dunderheaded celebrities that somehow managed to botch a first-year potion?

"Potion, Potter, unless you intend to lose the other batch into the bargain," Snape intoned without looking up or breaking the rhythm of his stirring, startling Harry out of his confused reverie. His voice was surprisingly calm. Harry shook himself.

"Sorry, sir," muttered Harry, refocusing on the leftmost cauldron, just in time to begin the anti-clockwise stirring that would thicken the brew.

Harry felt rather foolish. His workstation had become disordered with two potion’s worth of ingredients to keep track of and he'd lost sight of the salamander blood. It was an embarrassingly basic error. How many times had Snape (and Hermione) attempted to drill into him the importance of a well-ordered potions bench?

Once the potion's stirring phase had been completed, there was a twenty minute period of simmering, and Harry used that to clean the spilled blood from the floor and tidy his workstation. The rest of his brewing went as expected, and he silently resolved to keep his workstation clear from now on.

When his wiggenweld had finished, he set about cleaning the cauldron that the vanished potion had been in. He then waited for the potion to cool enough to be decanted into phials for the hospital wing. The instructions for this were on the bottom of the parchment Snape had left, and Harry dutifully set about the task; filling, stoppering and labeling before carefully placing them into boxes. He hoped the potion was good enough for use, or the phials would need to be emptied and cleaned.

By the time the last phial was filled, Snape had finally extinguished his last burner. Harry looked up from his box, somewhat hesitantly. Perhaps the man was simply too busy to launch into his customary diatribe during brewing, and had saved his ire for this moment. Snape's black eyes minutely examined Harry's bench, before he strode across, neatly plucking the final phial from between Harry's fingers. He carefully tilted the phial to the side, watching the flow of the liquid within- checking for viscosity, Harry knew. He removed the stopper and inhaled the scent, large nostrils flaring, while Harry waited with bated breath. Had the last two hours been a complete waste of time?

To his relief, Snape corked the phial and added it to the box. "Satisfactory," he declared. He met Harry's eyes. "I trust that you appreciate the nature of the error you made earlier and will not repeat it?"

"Yes, sir," affirmed Harry, seriously. "It won't happen again."

"Then I see no need to address it further," Snape said, simply. Harry was shocked. Was he really going to get away with such a ridiculous error without insult? He was so focused on his disbelief that he failed to hear the next words out of his professor's mouth, only being jerked back into awareness by the expectant look on Snape's face, and the beginnings of irritation appearing around his eyes.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said sheepishly. "Could you repeat that, please?"

Snape shook his head, the irritation clear. "You are too easily distracted," he declared, but without malice. "I said I shall join you for lunch in an hour. I need to clear my counter and bottle the potions."

Harry doubted clearing up would take long; Snape kept an immaculate workspace, even with six potions on the go.

Harry hesitated. He must be mad to even consider it, but the man was clearly trying very hard not to be an absolute git, and he had been helpful last night, and given him his mum's book…

"Would you like some help, sir?" he asked, scarcely able to believe he was voluntarily offering to spend even more time with the bat of the dungeons. If Ron knew, he'd have him checked into the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo's.

Snape looked slightly taken aback by the offer for a second, before narrowing his eyes and considering Harry.

"It would go faster with two," he drawled, after a moment's consideration. "You will clean your second cauldron first, and you will not touch, nor enquire about, that potion." He indicated the final cauldron, now filled with a pure black substance that seemed to absorb light. He'd spent more time bending over that cauldron than he had the other five combined, Harry had noted, and had never left it to stir itself.

"Of course, sir," responded Harry, though he was itching to ask. "What are in the other five?"

Snape raised an eyebrow, looking singularly unimpressed. "Potions that you ought to be familiar with," he stated, flatly. "I suggest you reacquaint yourself with your second and third year textbooks."

Harry flushed. He hadn't done particularly well today. Feeling a little despondent, he carried out his tasks as instructed, stopping short of labelling the potions beyond their date of brewing.

Once everything was boxed and dated, with the exception of Snape's mystery brew, Harry moved to wipe down the counter, only to have Snape intercept him.

"That will do, Mr Potter, thank you."

Harry merely nodded and turned to leave the room. He had his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob when he heard Snape's quiet baritone fill the room behind him once more.

"Staggered batch brewing is more difficult than it appears, Mr Potter. You are not the first to experience difficulty, nor will you be the last."

Harry froze. Was that an attempt at consolation? From Snape? He didn't dare turn around, for fear of breaking whatever spell the professor must be under.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, before carefully turning the handle and slipping out into the room beyond.

At lunch, Snape presented Harry with a phial of each of the two potions Harry hadn't been able to identify.

"When you know what is in these, let me know. If you are correct, you may label the phials. I need them brought up to the hospital wing by this evening. I would also like you to present me with your plan to prevent today's error in future brews before you ignite your cauldron tomorrow." There was no venom in his tone whatsoever, but it was clear that the man would tolerate no argument.

"Yes, sir," agreed Harry at once. It was somewhat reassuring to have Snape the taskmaster back. The man's patience this morning had been somewhat unnerving.

Days in the dungeon mostly followed a similar pattern; breakfast with Snape– often quiet, with a brief discussion of the coming day– an occlumency session and time to practise, and then a second occlumency session in the evening after dinner. Sometimes, Harry would help Snape in the lab in the intervening hours, and with his new determination to focus and keep a clear work space, Harry found a new appreciation for the quiet, calm, methodical pursuit of brewing. It was worlds away from the tense, high-pressure environment that lessons with Snape and the Slytherins provided. Snape seemed satisfied with Harry's work, too, which further added to Harry's enjoyment. It was nice to be getting things right in potions for once. Snape never said anything as effusive as, "Well done," but, "Adequate, Mr Potter," or, "Where have you been hiding this latent ability thus far, Mr Potter?" and, "I think I may make a decent brewer of you, yet," were somehow worth much more.

There were one or two days in which Harry barely saw Snape, who'd leave shortly after a discussion on occlumency theory at breakfast and would not return until late in the evening. On these days, Harry completed reading and schoolwork- he suspected that Snape spent these days with Voldemort.

One one such day, Snape didn't return for dinner, and Harry found himself unaccountably concerned. After an hour or two, the floo flared green and the mediwitch's authoritative voice called out, "Mr Potter!"

Harry knelt by the fire, "Madam Pomfrey? What's the matter?"

The matron looked at him, gravely. "I understand that you are staying with Professor Snape?"

Harry nodded, his throat tightening somewhat; this did not bode well for the professor. The nurse pursed her lips, but said nothing. "He has requested that you be informed when his injuries render him unable to return to his quarters. I'm afraid that he will be staying in the hospital wing tonight, and likely tomorrow as well, if not longer."

"Is he OK?" asked Harry, surprised to feel himself flooding with genuine concern for the dour man.

"As long as he does as he's told and stays in bed," Madam Pomfrey sniffed, "He should be fine. I've had to dose him with a sedative; he will not wake again tonight. Do not concern yourself, he is in good hands. Goodnight, Mr Potter." And the fire flared once more before returning to its normal colour.

Harry glanced at the clock. Nine p.m. Hospital wing visiting hours ended at eight. But tomorrow at ten they would open again- he could visit. In theory. Harry shook his head at himself; visit Snape in the hospital wing? Absurd. Nevertheless, Harry found it difficult to fall asleep that night, and asked himself when he had become so concerned with the welfare of the man who had spent the last five years humiliating him at least once a week.

By two a.m. Harry was officially fed up. He couldn't sleep. He trusted Madam Pomfrey when she said Snape would be OK, but he was still uneasy, picturing the spy lying injured. Sighing, he got up and grabbed his invisibility cloak out of his trunk, swinging it around his shoulders. He would go for a walk, and if he happened to pop by the hospital wing on his travels, no one needed to know anything about it.

Harry was used to traversing the halls at night; the soft fall of his shoes against the stone floors, the whisper of the wind as it travelled through the corridors from one open window to another. He was used to the way the moonlight gently touched the flagstones and illuminated the suits of armour and occasional statue. Tonight he had no need to listen for Filch or Mrs Norris, nor any patrolling teachers. The castle was still and silent as the grave.

As he reached the hospital wing, Harry slowed his footsteps. Any sound at all would be obvious, and he didn't want to risk Madam Pomfrey awakening.

Gently, he pushed the door to the hospital wing slightly ajar, grimacing at the slight squeal the hinges emitted, before slipping in. Shafts of moonlight filtered through the tall, domed windows, bathing the darkened hospital wing in a silver light that was occasionally broken by a cloud drifting across the moon. Harry breathed a sigh of relief; no Pomfrey. He made his way over to the only occupied bed, which was largely in shadow.

Madam Pomfrey had mentioned a sedative, likely a sleeping potion, and, reassured that it would not wake the professor, Harry poked his wand out of the cloak, and cast a gentle lumos.

The man looked awful. Despite his slumber, his face still bore the hallmarks of pain, and a sheen of sweat covered his pale skin. His limbs were trembling; the aftermath of cruciatus, Harry presumed. The sheets looked oddly flat on one side, where his leg should have been, and for a horrible moment Harry thought Riddle had taken it, but then he noticed a familiar flatness in the man's pyjama sleeve. His bones had been vanished. Harry winced at the implications of that. When Harry had had his arm bones removed by Lockhart, he had wondered aloud why such a spell even existed- had Lockhart knowingly used a dark hex or curse on him? Hermione had explained that the spell was indeed a medical one, albeit used incorrectly in his case. It was utilised for cases of shattered or severely damaged bones, when it was considered safer to remove the whole lot and regrow from scratch with skelegrow than to try and mend them. Most likely, Snape's bones had been damaged beyond simple repair by Death Eaters, or Riddle himself.

Snape's face took on an agonised expression in his sleep, and Harry sympathised. How well he remembered the stabbing pains in his arm from his own experience with the foul potion! Snape would have them in his arm and leg, as well as the aftermath of the cruciatus and whatever injuries were hidden from Harry's eyes by the man's pyjamas and sheets.

"Good evening, Harry. Or, should I say, good morning?" The familiar voice came from somewhere to the left of Harry.

Harry jerked around, alarmed, at the sound. "Professor Dumbledore? Is that you?"

Dumbledore chuckled as he moved forward into a shaft of light. Harry could just make out the shape of a tall armchair, cloaked in shadow, at the foot of Professor Snape's bed. Harry must have walked straight past him. "I am sorry, my boy. I did not mean to frighten you."

Harry shook his head. "You surprised me, sir, that's all. I didn't think anyone would be here."

Dumbledore moved to stand beside Harry, joining him in returning his gaze to the man in the bed.

"Professor Snape is an intensely private person, Harry, as I believe you know," Harry felt his face heat as he was reminded of the pensieve incident. He was grateful that the darkness would prevent it from showing, but Dumbledore seemed to detect his embarrassment anyway. "I do not mean to dredge up past transgressions, Harry. I merely intended to explain that, as Professor Snape values his privacy, he does not allow hospital visitors when he is awake. I come merely to ascertain his wellbeing for myself. And, on this occasion, it appears that I am not the only one to do so." He smiled at Harry, his eyes twinkling in the reflected light from Harry's wand.

"What happened to him, sir?" Harry whispered, his voice nonetheless seeming disgracefully loud in the silence of the hospital wing.

"I am sure you can surmise that his injuries were sustained in the course of his duties as a spy. Beyond that, I do not feel at liberty to say. He would be most displeased with me if he knew I had given you any details."

Harry nodded in understanding. "Privacy, I know."

Dumbledore looked down at him with a thoughtful expression. "To an extent," he said, softly, "but that is far from the end of it. Believe it or not, Professor Snape has always tried to protect you from the realities of war. He objects rather strongly to the idea of underage wizards fighting adult battles, and would not have you privy to the harsh realities of his situation needlessly. I have seen it necessary to allow you to try your strength over the years, but Professor Snape has always fought me every step of the way."

Harry thought about this. "He was the only one who really objected to my entry into the Tri-Wizard tournament," he said.

"That he was," sighed Dumbledore. "I'm afraid I have failed rather miserably when it comes to being an advocate for you. I am sorry, my boy."

Harry shrugged. "I don't think your objection would have made much difference, sir."

"Perhaps not," Dumbledore allowed. "It would not, however, have hurt me to try. Rather naively, I thought competing would be good for you." He shook his head regretfully. "If I had known…"

"He'd have come back another way, sir," said Harry, with certainty.

"Indeed," agreed Dumbledore.

Silence fell between them for a moment, as a particularly potent spasm wracked Professor Snape's body, resulting in a noise that was horrifyingly like a whimper. Professor Dumbledore moved forwards and grasped the hand that was clenched into a fist atop the bedding, murmuring quiet reassurances until the spasm passed.

"Can't Madam Pomfrey do anything about the pain?" Harry asked, feeling powerless. It was deeply unsettling to see anyone in such obvious agony, but beyond that, he'd never seen Snape look so… human, before.

Dumbledore shook his head, still stroking Snape's hand. "You remember, I'm sure, from your own experiences, that painkilling potions cannot be taken with skelegrow?"

Harry nodded, and though the professor could not have seen the motion, he continued as if he had done. "The best that Madam Pomfrey has been able to do is to put him into an enchanted sleep, that will protect his mind from the pain."

"So he won't feel it?"

"Oh no," Dumbledore shook his head solemnly, "He feels everything, but the potion will protect his brain, preventing him from forming memories of it. Too much pain can affect one's sanity and cause irreparable mental harm, and the curses Professor Snape was hit with..." his voice tailed off.

After a sombre moment, Dumbledore, releasing Snape's hand, turned to clap Harry on the shoulder. "He will be alright," he said, kindly. "He has endured worse in his time. And now, I think it's time you were getting off to bed, don't you?"

Harry nodded. "Are you heading out too, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled at him, but it seemed a little worn. "I think I'll linger here a little longer. What Professor Snape doesn't know won't hurt him." Harry returned the smile and turned to leave. At the door to the hospital wing he turned and looked back, to see that the headmaster had settled himself down once more in the armchair beside the bed. A lamp had appeared beside him and the professor appeared to be preparing to read aloud. As Harry disappeared out the doorway, he could hear the calming tones of the headmaster as they filled the hospital wing.

Snape was absent for most of the next day, but appeared in the evening, as Harry sat curled in one of the armchairs, Robinson Crusoe in his hands. He was enjoying the book, though progress was relatively slow. He'd never been much of a reader, at any rate, and the language was quite old -fashioned, so it was taking him even longer than it usually would have to make his way through it. 

As the door swung open, Harry looked up, startled to see the man. Given how terrible he'd looked the previous night, Harry had been convinced that Snape would remain in the hospital wing for a few days at least. Harry had resisted the temptation to visit during the day, mindful of Professor Dumbledore's warning that Professor Snape hated visitors. It had been difficult though, with the memory of the man's injuries so fresh in his mind. Snape always seemed so indomitable, and it had shaken Harry more than he would care to admit to see him weakened like that. 

When Harry looked over at the figure in the doorway, however, Snape was clearly much recovered. All four limbs appeared to have regained their bones. There were no visible wounds or bruises. However, Snape was still exceptionally pale, even by his usual standards, and looked exhausted. Harry was surprised Pomfrey had let him leave, and wondered if he had bothered to ask permission. Snape lowered himself carefully into his customary armchair, a flicker of relief across his face betraying an element of the discomfort he must be in, which caused Harry some concern; it was unlike Snape to show weakness like that. Feeling like something of an intruder upon the man's privacy, Harry moved to retrieve the tea service from the kitchen, staying long enough to ensure the tea leaves had mashed sufficiently in the teapot.

"How are you feeling, sir?" he asked, when he returned, busying himself with preparing tea for them both. He knew how Snape liked his tea, Harry realised with something of a jolt. Harry was continually surprised by how quickly he had settled into the routine of life in the dungeons. It mostly went unnoticed, busy as they both were, but occasionally something revealed how much had already changed between Harry and his second most-hated professor (Umbridge had claimed the top spot for all-time) and the shock of these moments felt like the sudden application of an electric current.

"Well enough," was the curt response, though Snape's voice lacked its usual power. 

Harry looked over at him doubtfully but held his tongue. He knew better than to openly question Snape. He handed the man his tea, answering the resulting nod of thanks with the briefest of smiles. 

Snape stared at him a moment, eyes narrowed, before refocusing his gaze on the tea.

Silence swelled to fill the room, punctuated by the occasional crackle and pop of the logs in the fireplace as the flame licked its way over them, heating the wood until it cracked. They did not speak further, each lost in his own thoughts, warmed by the flickering glow of the fire and the gentle warmth of the fragrant tea in their cups.

Over the next few days, Snape continued to ignore his injuries, which obligated Harry to do so as well. Much as he disliked watching the stubborn man force himself to stand, pale and sweating, over a bubbling cauldron for hours, Harry had first-hand experience in preferring to ignore injuries and opted not to draw attention to the elephant in the room. He did, however, make numerous cups of tea in an attempt to draw the man away from his work. Food and drink were, of course, forbidden in the potions lab. 

Sometimes Harry's ploy worked, but there was an urgency in the way Snape worked that suggested he needed to make up for lost time, and often- too often, in Harry's opinion- the man could not be drawn from his lab for tea, or even for a meal. Harry was convinced that more than one of Snape's recent nights had been spent with his potions rather than his bed. Occasionally, Snape would ban Harry from the lab altogether, claiming a need to be free of distractions, but more usually Harry would be permitted to work- in utter silence, of course.

For his part, Harry voluntarily spent more time in the potions lab than he would ever have thought possible. In the beginning it was in no small part owing to Harry's genuine concern that Snape might collapse into his cauldron, but the behaviour continued even when that fear waned. Harry discovered that Snape, when allowed to brew potions himself rather than being confined to watching students butcher them, was actually at his most agreeable in the potions lab. Very occasionally, he found Snape offering tips in a way that could almost be described as helpful, and at times almost thought he caught glimpses of the other version of Snape, the man in the mirror who could offer suggestions without being snide and was capable of actually being supportive. Harry would then mentally tell himself off for being ridiculous before determinedly refocusing on his potion. However, he found that it was increasingly difficult not to look for the person Snape could have been, if the hat had made a different choice.

One morning, at breakfast, Harry's attention was drawn to a large cream-coloured envelope sitting in front of the chair that Harry tended to occupy at mealtimes, the words Harry James Potter neatly written across it in uniform black script. Harry glanced up at Snape in question.

"Your OWL results," clarified the professor, nursing a cup of tea, and Harry froze, eyes wide. In the wake of the Alium, and worry about the horcrux and occlumency, he'd forgotten all about them. He stared at the envelope with some trepidation.

Snape's low drawl pulled Harry's attention to him. "I tend to find that the most efficacious response to receiving a letter is to open it," he advised wryly, before draining what was left of his cup, setting it down and waving his wand at it. The cup proceeded to float away to the sink, and Snape rose to leave.

"Where are you going?" croaked Harry, his throat dry as he contemplated the envelope. Snape paused, turning back to him.

"I presumed," he said, his voice slow, dragging over the words like robes over cobblestones, "that you would wish for some privacy. Is that not the case?"

Harry's response surprised them both. 

"I don't mind it if you stay, sir." There was a pause, before he swiftly added, "I mean, you probably already know how I did, don't you?"

Snape shook his head, lank hair moving sluggishly, weighed down by the oil that seemed to accumulate faster the more Snape brewed. "I do not. The results go first to the students. Teachers will receive a copy of the results for their individual subjects next week, and heads of houses will receive full accountings of results for their houses at the same time. I will not be informed of your results, except in Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts." 

"Oh." Harry looked down at the envelope. "Well, I still don't mind if you stay, sir." He didn't know why he wanted someone there when he opened them anyway, even if it was Snape. It was daft, really, but…

Snape stared at Harry assessingly for a long moment, before silently leaning himself against the wall of the kitchen and raising an eyebrow as if to tell Harry to get on with it. With the dour man looking on, Harry steeled himself before slitting open the envelope with shaking fingers. 

Harry James Potter has received the following:

Astronomy- A

Care of Magical Creatures- E

Charms- E

Defence Against the Dark Arts- O

Divination- P

Herbology- E

History of Magic- D

Potions- E

Transfiguration- E

Harry felt rather numb as he looked the letter over. Seven OWLs. He knew, on some level, that he should be pleased. However, he couldn't help but think that, owing to the horcrux in his head, none of it really mattered. He had expected to feel something at the revelation of his exam results, but he still felt somewhat hollow, as he had done since he found out about the horcrux and, even before that, really, since Sirius's death and the prophecy.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, he woodenly held the letter out to the man still hovering in the doorway, watching the proceedings with a critical eye. 

If he had looked up, he'd have seen the look of incredulity on Snape's face at Harry's actions. Why would the boy give the letter to him? Why would he even want his potions professor nearby when he opened them in the first place? Severus mentally shook himself. Any port in a storm, after all, and Potter wasn't exactly overrun with people to share his news with.

There was a slight pause as Snape perused the contents of the letter. He cleared his throat. "You have acquitted yourself decently, Mr Potter. A respectable set of results overall." Severus was lying, of course; the boy could clearly have done much better— Potter had some talent, not that Snape would ever admit to it— but he supposed there were extenuating circumstances. "However, you do not look pleased."

Potter shrugged and Snape winced internally. How he hated that gesture. "Out with it, Mr Potter," he demanded. 

Harry considered for a moment. To his surprise, he realised he had begun to trust Snape. And not just to refrain from intentionally poisoning him, either. He was beginning to trust the man's advice, and his intentions. And whether it was that burgeoning trust, an appreciation that the man already knew essentially everything that Harry could ever wish to hide or the fact that Harry was aware, now more than before, that Snape would likely be joining Harry in eventually sacrificing his life for this war, Harry answered the question.

"It just seems a bit pointless," he shrugged, swirling his spoon around his untouched bowl of porridge. "All that time revising, all this time in school and for what? I've got to die anyway."

There was silence in the kitchen for a full minute. Eventually, Harry raised his head to see if Snape was even still in the room, to see his professor staring at him thoughtfully, as one might inspect an unknown potion.

"Have you ever read a poem called Do not go gentle into that good night?" Snape queried. Harry was so taken aback by the abrupt non-sequitur that he merely blinked at him for a moment, before shaking his head in the negative.

Snape glanced at the door to his potions lab ruefully, but nonetheless walked himself back over to the kitchen table and resumed his prior position, summoning another teacup (somehow without breaking it— a trick Harry hadn't yet dared to try) and refilling it once more and pouring himself another cup. He surveyed Harry contemplatively before speaking, his voice sliding into a familiar lecturing drawl. 

"Written by a Welshman called Dylan Thomas, some forty years ago, its main premise is that we should not passively accept the grave, however inevitable it may be."

With a flick of Snape's wand that Harry managed not to jump at (he'd been growing used to it) a book came flying from the living room. Snape caught it with his left hand, the right wrapped lightly around his teacup. His wand had, as always, seemed to disappear almost immediately after use. Harry rarely even saw him draw it; it was just there, then gone a moment later. The wand seemed like an extension of Snape, constantly present, even if not visible, and Harry had often internally debated asking him how he drew it and stowed it away again so rapidly. Snape didn't look in the direction of the book, and, as it thudded satisfyingly into his hand, Harry did wonder if the professor would have made a good Quidditch player.

Harry watched as Snape flicked through the text, before stopping at a dog-eared page. He then turned the book around, carefully pushing it towards Harry, who looked down at the poem and read.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Harry finished the poem no wiser than he had been upon starting it, but fascinated nonetheless. Literary analysis was not something taught at Hogwarts, and the poetry had not captured Harry's attention, nor had the notes scrawled in black ink around the margins, the handwriting spidery and familiar from Harry's potions homework. No, what captivated Harry were the notes written in another hand, which Harry thought might be the same as his mother's from Robinson Crusoe. On this page, however, the ink was multicoloured, so that words began red and progressed through the rainbow with the letters. Harry gently caressed the lettering, resolving to check if the handwriting matched later, but was saved the trouble by Snape's slow drawl. "That is your mother's writing. This book was once hers. By rights I suppose it ought now be yours; I rescued this copy from the wreckage of Godric's Hollow.'

Harry glanced up to see that the man across from him was no longer looking at him at all, eyes fixed on some distant past. "Your mother always felt that Hogwarts did its students a disservice, by not including muggle subjects in the curriculum- literature, art and music, in particular. She used to borrow her sister's course books to read through them." He huffed something that might pass for Snape's impression of a laugh at the recollection. "She tended not to ask first, of course; Petunia was always somewhat less than obliging. She never had much generosity of spirit."

"You can say that again," murmured Harry, darkly, regretting it as Snape's eyes snapped back to him, as if recollecting suddenly that he was in the room. To his surprise, however, after a moment, Snape continued his tale, though his voice was quiet and Harry sensed an element of discomfort as he did so.

"I gave her that book for her fifteenth birthday. We passed it back and forth that year, adding our annotations. It was the last thing I ever bought for her. I was surprised to learn that she kept it."

Harry could think of nothing to say to this, and so kept his silence, instead casting his eyes down once more at the book, gently touching his mother's handwriting once more; indelible proof that she had existed, that she had opinions and friends and a life of her own, beyond being James Potter's wife and Harry Potter's mother, beyond simply being the clever witch with red hair and green eyes.

When Harry met his gaze, Snape began to speak, his voice once more strong and confident in a way that Harry couldn't help feeling slightly reassured by.

"Read the poem, Mr Potter," he instructed. "Death is inevitable for us all. But we must fight against it nevertheless."

Over the course of his time spent in the dungeons, Harry had grown used to a certain level of domesticity in his interactions with Snape, owing to cups of tea, plates of toast and the routine of brewing. There are only so many mealtimes you can spend in the company of one other person before some familiarity begins to form, after all. And, while Harry found it mildly disturbing if he contemplated the fact that he knew Snape preferred marmalade over jam, mostly he could just ignore it. Snape hadn't been particularly solicitous towards Harry (if he ignored the nightmare incident, which Harry had firmly sequestered away in the most secure corner of his mindscape) and he was still very much Harry's professor, albeit a more tolerable version of the one he'd suffered potions with for five years.

Which is why, when Snape announced his intention to take Harry shopping in Hogsmeade, in disguise of course, Harry's brain stalled for a moment. His toast paused in the air halfway to his mouth, crumbs falling onto the glinting white porcelain plate below.

"Shopping?"

"Yes, Potter. Shopping. An activity in which one exchanges something of value that one has, typically money, for something of value which one needs. In this case, clothing."

This did not help Harry at all. "Clothing, sir?"

Snape pinched his nose and closed his eyes as he took a breath. He then returned his attention to his cup of tea. Harry figured he wasn't going to get an answer to that one.

"Where are we going, sir?" he tried.

"First, to a tailor, as you might have guessed, had you bothered to attempt to consider the matter yourself. Afterwards, we have some errands to run."

"But why do I need to come?"

Snape stared at him incredulously. "You need clothing for the year ahead, Potter, do you not?"

"But Mrs Weasley is getting my robes, sir," protested Harry, feeling slightly warm under his collar.

"And how does she intend to do that without your measurements?" Snape asked, the smallest hint of disdain in his voice. "Tailor's tools are enchanted- they can accurately predict how much you will grow over the coming year, and the growth charms can then compensate for this. Given the current appearance of your robes," he cast a disapproving eye at the school robes Harry had been habitually wearing since he arrived, "I would hazard a guess that they do not have growth charms at all, which does not surprise me as tailors will not provide them without tailor-taken measurements. You will need new ones, for which you shall be properly measured. Besides which, you have a party to attend tomorrow, do you not? You will need some suitable clothing."

Harry paused, distracted. He'd not forgotten about Ginny's party, of course, but he did have mixed feelings about attending. There was a great deal of guilt at the idea of taking Voldemort's horcrux to a birthday party- Ginny's in particular, given what had happened in Harry's second year at Hogwarts. He knew it couldn't be avoided though, so pushed past it. "Can I get Ginny a present while we're there?"

"I should think there will be ample opportunity, provided we depart promptly," replied Snape pointedly, leaving Harry to hastily swallow the remnants of his toast and rush to his trunk in order to retrieve his coin pouch. When Harry returned, Snape pointed his wand at Harry, who promptly flinched back and cast a protego. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," muttered Harry, "Force of habit." He pocketed his wand and stood still while Snape raised his wand once more, muttering to himself. After a minute, he pronounced himself finished and conjured a mirror for Harry, who beheld a stranger with short, neatly-kept muddy blonde hair, hazel eyes and a pointed nose.

When he turned his attention back to Snape, he found the man holding a palette containing lots of different blocks of colour. It looked like something he might have seen in Aunt Petunia's bedroom, except they were all different skin tones. "Hold still," instructed Snape, as he began applying something to Harry's scar. "Magical means will not, generally speaking, disguise or alter cursed scars," he explained as he brushed something over Harry's forehead. "Muggle makeup however…" his voice tailed off as he worked, and when he gestured to Harry to check again a few minutes later, his scar had disappeared.

The day was bright and the early morning summer sun shone brightly onto the grass, catching the dew drops hanging pendulously from each blade as student and teacher strode across the lawn on their way to Hogsmeade.

"When we get there," said Snape, as he checked his pocketwatch, "You will need to adopt an assumed name. The tailor we will visit is very discrete- I have completed this journey with several students who have been, for one reason or another, unable to purchase their own clothing during the summer. With that said, even the most discrete won't hold out under torture. Choose a name thoroughly unaligned with the wizarding world, and of no connection to yourself. He will not ask questions."

"Would John Doe work?" asked Harry.

If Harry had been looking at the man alongside him at that moment, instead relishing the feel of the cool early-morning air as it whispered softly through his hair, he might have noticed the corner of Snape's mouth twitch against his will at Harry's comment. It looked almost like the beginnings of an extremely unwilling smile, but was gone in an instant.

The man's voice betrayed nothing of the momentary lapse as he answered. "If you're asking whether he will know of its common usage in the Muggle world, I would deem it unlikely," Snape said. "Besides which, he is accustomed to facial transfigurations and false identities in the students I bring to him. However, you may wish to alter the forename at least, for the sake of decorum if nothing else."

Harry felt a bit better at the revelation that he was not the first student Snape had done this for. He tried to think of something particularly intelligent, but in the end settled for Dudley.

As they cleared the slight fog surrounding the lake, Harry took note of the little pointed roofs in the distance that signified Hogsmeade. "Have you ever looked after students during the summer before, Professor?"

"No," Snape replied, "I have taken temporary guardianship of a student twice previously, but always during the academic year, and permanent arrangements were made in time for the summer on both occasions." An owl fluttered overhead, probably on its way back to the owlery after a hunt.
For the rest of the way they walked in silence, but it didn't feel awkward, so much as peaceful.

"Come along, Mr Doe," said Snape, authoritatively, as they entered Hogsmeade. The tailor, it appeared, was situated between the row of shops frequented by students and the Hogs Head, on the long road out of Hogsmeade. It was an old-fashioned establishment, with mannequins in the windows showcasing elaborate and well-made robes in velvet and silk, bowing and gesturing at their robes when people walked by. They were the sort out outfits that Harry could imagine being worn by the elder Malfoys.

"Sir," Harry said under his breath as he approached, "I don't know if I have enough money with me for this place."

"Not to worry, Mr Doe," said Snape. "Hogwarts has a fund to deal with unexpected expenditure such as this. We will simply invoice your family vaults at the end of term. I would recommend that you keep whatever money you have with you for your own expenditure this year and let the fund handle this for today."

Harry nodded his understanding. He didn't like it, but at least he would be paying for it himself. "That makes sense, thank you sir."

As they entered the shop, a bell above the door jingled cheerfully. The shop was smaller than Madam Malkin's, with a two-seater, moss-green antique Chesterfield for waiting on behind a low walnut coffee table. There was an area surrounded by mirrors, with a short wooden stool in the centre and velvet curtains tied back at the edges, for privacy from the waiting area, Harry presumed. The place had the feel of an old bookshop; the atmosphere was quiet and rarified, yet the room was bright and airy. Detailed arabesque patterns adorned the wooden panelling that covered the walls, while extravagant silks, velvets and satins lined one wall by the roll.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" boomed a rich, jolly voice, "Right on time, as always! And who do we have here?"

"This is Mr Doe," introduced Snape. "He is in need of a full complement of clothing, including Hogwarts school robes."

"Well hello, Mr Doe," the man said, cheerfully. "I am Aurelius Whisper; welcome to my humble establishment. We are delighted to have your patronage and will get you set up in no time- Professor Snape and I have this down to a fine art! Now, we'll start by getting your measurements; if you'll step behind the curtain and disrobe, I'll send the tape measure in after you, and, once you're all done and dressed again, you can come out and look at some fabric for your casual wear. You'll be wanting shirts, waistcoats and trousers as well, I presume?"

"Yes, please," said Harry. He wasn't sure that he'd ever wear a waistcoat, but figured it wouldn't do any harm. It also pleased him that, for the first time ever, he'd have well-fitting clothes that could pass for muggle. He knew he wouldn't be wearing his new robes to Ginny's party, and it'd be nice to wear something that was bought new for him, and (hopefully) looked good on him, for a change, rather than hand-me-downs. He stepped behind the curtain and shrugged his old school robes off.

The tape measure flew in, hovered for a moment, and flew out again.
"Mr Doe?" came the proprietor's voice, "You'll need to remove your next layer of clothing too, I'm afraid. The tape measure reports that it can't get close enough to you to measure accurately- I presume your clothes are rather… loose fitting?"

"You could say that," murmured Harry, as he began to take off Dudley's cast-offs.

When Harry came out, fully dressed once more, his teacher was waiting on the chesterfield with a clothing catalogue. With no one else in sight, Harry made his way over to the professor. "The next step, Mr Doe," Snape explained, "is to choose styles and colours. This book is most helpful- point to the components you'd like to see and it displays complete outfits, so you can see how the individual pieces might fit together. Once you have selected a few, we will go over there and I will use a simple charm the catalogue is imbued with to spell an illusion of the selected outfit onto you, so that we may adjust fabrics and colours accordingly. Once you are happy with an outfit, the house elf will make notes and deliver them to Mr Whisper."

"Shouldn't the tailor be present for this?" asked Harry, not sure at all if he trusted himself (or Snape) to know what passed for fashionable in the wizarding world.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I take it that you do not trust my sartorial advice," he said, and Harry was about to give a denial when Snape made a huffing sound that may have expressed exasperation and stopped him. "I am not offended. I admit, I have never had much of an eye for fashion." Harry stifled the urge to smile at this gross understatement.

To Harry's utter surprise, rather than snarling at him for his impertinence— he was sure his reaction hadn't been well-hidden enough to shield him from the spy's keen observations— Snape quirked an eyebrow in an expression that could be mistaken for something vaguely akin to mild amusement, before he gestured at his own robes. "These are practical for a potions master, but rest assured that, as Mr Whisper has mentioned already, I fulfill this role for a number of students and have therefore had a reason to become aware of the fashions of the young. I am also highly observant, and I do know what I am talking about."

"A number of students?" Harry asked.

"You are quite fortunate, Mr Doe," said Snape, "in that this is the first time you have had need of this service. Many come here with me in their first or second year, and subsequent visits are needed until they graduate. Not many only visit once."

Harry wanted to ask why these children were left in such a situation for years upon years, but knew better than to do so in mixed company. He simply nodded.

And so, after two (exceedingly) long hours, Harry had successfully ordered a heavy winter cloak and a lighter one for transitional seasons, five casual robes and two more formal dress robes (Snape assured him, after casting a muffling charm that Harry now knew was called muffiliato, that he was likely to find a need for them, thanks to his new potions master), along with various waistcoats, shirts and trousers. They would be spelled to grow with him until adulthood, as he was apparently nearing his full height (and wasn't that knowledge more than a bit depressing?)

Snape had actually been brilliant, Harry reflected. He'd paid full attention to proceedings, offering opinions when asked and pointing out where Harry was unintentionally signalling something he didn't intend by his choices (apparently one could signal everything from political affiliation to marriageability through clothing alone) and generally been invaluable. The last robe Harry had chosen had been a replica of that worn by his mirror-self in the Alium. He was sure Snape had noticed, but he did not comment on it.

Harry then sat through a fitting for shoes (formal, school, casual, quidditch, athletic and even slippers)- apparently Mr Whisper had a standing arrangement with a local cobbler. At the end of the appointment, Snape handed Harry a booklet, telling him to record on a piece of parchment from the table the numbers of the items he wanted, and then disappeared to enquire about belts, handkerchiefs, cravats and and other miscellany.

Harry flicked through and made his selections, grateful that Snape had understood that Harry would prefer him to make himself scarce as Harry selected his pyjamas and underwear. Actually, Harry thought, as he walked over to hand the parchment with his selections to Mr Whisper, who'd come out to speak to Snape about something presumably related to the handkerchiefs, every care had been taken to make this trip as comfortable as possible for Harry. They really had gotten it, as Mr Whisper had said, down to a fine art.

Having handed his final selections to Mr Whisper, Harry and Snape were offered refreshments, and seated back on the chesterfield to await final adjustments.

"What do you do with students whose parents can't afford this place?" Harry asked, while stirring sugar into his tea.

"There are a number of price points," said Snape conversationally, as he sat back with his tea. "I inform Mr Whisper which of these is appropriate during measuring, and he selects the appropriate catalogue. For those who cannot, or will not, meet any price point, the lowest is used and the fund pays for the items in their entirety."

Harry was struck, once again, by the level of thought that had gone into these proceedings to protect the sensibilities of students.

"Do students of other houses come here," he enquired, "or just Slytherins?"

"I made the arrangement with Mr Whisper on behalf of the school when I was a relatively new teacher," Snape replied. "Any head of house may make use of it. To my knowledge, Professors Sprout and Flitwick have utilised it on a number of occasions over the years, though nowhere near as frequently as I have."

Harry frowned at this. "Are there never any… eligible students in Gryffindor?"

Snape's dark eyes met his seriously. "I am certain that there are. However, identification of such cases is the province of the head of house. Professor McGonagall cares about her students deeply, but her time is constrained due to her position as deputy headmistress, and as such she has long left much of the pastoral work to perfects, who are largely ill-equipped to identify students in your situation. Thus, I suspect that any cases in Gryffindor tend to fly under the radar."

Like me, Harry thought.

"What do you do with the girls?" he asked, after a short while.

"The girls?" Snape asked, quizzically.

"I presume you don't do all this," Harry gestured around himself and the shop, "with them."

"Ah," Snape said, understanding, "Madam Pomfrey fills that role where there are male heads of houses. Likewise, I step in for any male Hufflepuffs, and, in theory, Professor Flitwick for any male Gryffindors."

Harry looked up confusedly at this, but knew better than to ask the obvious question and reveal his house affiliation, so simply nodded. Just then, Mr Whisper came around the corner and invited Harry back for fittings. This next section took another hour, as Harry tried on each item (aside from the underwear, thankfully) for adjustments to be made. By the end, it was nearing 1 o'clock and Harry was nearing the end of his tether. At length, however, the items were all packed, shrunk and pocketed by Snape, who paid for the lot with an impression of a key, and they were finally free.

They stopped for lunch at the Three Broomsticks before heading briefly to the apothecary, where Snape picked up various ingredients he'd been running low on, and then Harry was faced with the conundrum of buying a present for Ginny.

"We'll want to be finished in the next hour," commented Snape. "We have an appointment at four; I took the liberty of arranging for a healer to have a look at your eyes. I imagine it's been some time since you've had them examined for your prescription?"

Harry gaped at him. It did seem odd, now Snape mentioned it, that no one else had ever spotted that particular need before. Harry supposed he didn't know many people that needed glasses; was it possible that they'd simply overlooked it?

"Do healers look at eyes?" asked Harry. "Don't I need to see an optician?"

"In the Muggle world you would," Snape agreed, "However, in the magical one, most families have a healer that covers all routine healthcare, including eyesight, innoculations, hearing and dentistry."

"Innoculations?" asked Harry.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I suspect that we may require a lengthier appointment than anticipated."

By four o'clock, with a newly purchased pair of Quidditch gloves for Ginny— made to grip onto both broom and quaffle (or snitch)— shrunken and in his robe pockets, Harry arrived with Snape at a door in an alleyway that Harry had walked past without paying any attention to countless times over the years. The sign next to it read, 'Hardgrieve and Sons: Family Healers Since 1452'

"Ordinarily," said Snape, casting a quick muffling charm around them as he did so, "We would need parental consent to seek medical care from anyone other than Madam Pomfrey. However, Healer Hardgrieve is very discrete, provided I help him with potions from time to time. Simply tell him your name, as you have today, that you are a sixth year and that I have temporary guardianship of you. If he asks, confirm that you are in Slytherin."

By 5 p.m., when the healer's closed, Harry had chosen a new pair of glasses, which allowed him to see much more clearly, had his hearing and teeth checked (both were fine), and been innoculated against mumblemumps, dragon pox, and spattergroit, in addition to black cat flu– apparently, innoculation in the magical world was performed via potion. Choosing his glasses had been very difficult; he was rather attached to his old pair, having never seen his reflection without them, but they weren't compatible with the lenses the healer insisted he needed. He was having trouble envisioning a pair that flattered his face, especially as he didn't have his face at the moment, thanks to Snape's transfiguration.

Just as Harry was considering simply grabbing the nearest pair and calling it a day, Snape handed him a black rectangular pair that looked familiar, his eyebrows raised in question.

Harry frowned at them in thought, and realised where he'd seen them before. This, Harry deduced, was likely the healer that alternate Harry had been taken to for glasses. He felt like he was stepping into the other Harry's life, and wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"Mr Doe," Snape interrupted his reverie, "It's a pair of glasses, not your future spouse. If you decide you do not like them, we can order you a different pair at a later date and use these for a spare pair."

Harry nodded slowly. "I guess I'll have these then," he said, and that was that.

The final stop in their long outing was apparently to be the lake, and so, on their return journey, Harry stood on the dock beside Snape, trying not to relive memories of this place from the second task of the Triwizard Tournament two years ago. Snape had cast disillusionment charms on them a short time before they had arrived at the lake, so no one would see anything by the lake except a slight distortion.

Harry heard a whisper, then felt a strange warmth drape itself over him, like he was lying in the sun on a hot day. His breath sounded odd to his ears, echoing almost. He then felt a hand firmly grasping his shoulder. A buzzing sound told him of the presence of a muffiliato, before Snape's voice sounded, somewhere to his left. "I intend to show you something which I believe will aid you in the next stages of your occlumency. I will need to maintain physical contact with you at all times. We will be walking to the bottom of the lake, and for some distance beneath, but we will remain dry and able to breathe throughout. Remain calm, and stay with me." And with that, Snape proceeded to guide Harry into the water. As promised, Harry did not feel the cool water of the lake seeping into his trainers or his school robes, and, though it took the burning of his lungs to force him to take a breath once fully submerged, he found he could breathe without issue. It was as if a bubblehead charm had been expanded to contain the both of them, and if that were the case, Harry mused, he should be able to speak to Snape, and the ever-present hand on his shoulder made perfect sense; if Harry were to stretch the bubble too much, it would pop.

"How are you doing this, sir?" asked Harry.

"It's a charm specific to the head of Slytherin; I am expressly forbidden to teach it to anyone aside from my own family or the next head of Slytherin. If I did have a family to teach it to, they would need to swear an unbreakable vow not to pass the knowledge of how to perform it on."

Harry hesitated to ask his next question, and he doubted whether he would have done under ordinary circumstances, but it felt somehow easier to be candid when they were both almost invisible. "Do you think the other version of me knows it?"

Snape's grip on Harry's shoulder tightened by the tiniest fraction, before Snape responded, his voice low, "I'm certain he does."

They walked in silence for a quarter of an hour or so, along the bottom of the lakebed, skirting the edges of the Merpeople's houses as they reached a jagged stone marker at the deepest part of the lake. Progress was slow; the bubble's movement hampered by the weight of the water. The light filtering through was weaker at these depths, and occasionally Harry caught sight of merman or mermaid, eyeing them suspiciously through the dark green tendrils of aquatic plantlife, or behind a large mossy stone.

Snape abruptly turned left, following the direction pointed by the marker, and they continued on an upwards trajectory, towards the castle. Eventually, Harry gave in to the urge to speak once more.

"How'd you know, sir?" asked Harry. "That my alternate self knows the charm, I mean."

There was a long pause, and Harry had given up on hope of an answer, when Snape's voice reached his ears once more, the charm giving it an otherworldly quality that left Harry feeling slightly chilled. "Our eldest mutual acquaintance shared with me some of his memories, while we were speaking under the muffling charm."

"And he shared the memory of the charm?" said Harry, sceptically.

"No," drawled Snape, "He selected memories designed to show me his connection with your alternate self."

Now, it was Harry's turn to lapse into silence, but he recovered much faster than Snape had earlier. "Why?" He asked, his voice so quiet he doubted even Snape's bat-like hearing would be able to detect it over the sounds of the lake around them. Sure enough, no answer came.

There was no more conversation as they headed uphill, and eventually, they came to a stone wall. "This," said Snape, "is the wall of the dungeons. One must be careful when approaching the castle this way; the Slytherin common room is further up that way," he indicated the left of where they were standing, "and should be avoided lest one be spotted through the windows. Turning left at the deepest point of the lake is the best way to find this exact location, provided you are able to walk in a straight line. Now, raise your hand to the castle wall and draw a letter S on the fourth brick from the bottom of the wall."

Harry did this. "Now what?" he asked.

"Walk through the wall," instructed Snape, the tone of voice strongly implying the added, 'obviously'. Harry took a deep breath and stepped forwards.

To his very great surprise, Harry found himself standing in his bedroom in Snape's quarters. He patted himself down, looking for wetness or injury, and found nothing, but he was still disillusioned. He then withdrew his wand and uttered a, "Finite incantem<em>" pointing his wand at himself. He saw the disillusionment end and felt his hair lengthening once more, his features returning to their natural shapes. There was then a knock on his bedroom door.

"Come in," Harry called, still investigating his reflection for changes.

Snape entered the room and Harry turned to look at him quizzically.

"I have my own entrance," Snape explained.

"What is that, sir?" Harry asked, gesturing at the wall.

"An emergency exit that is only ever known to Slytherin heads of house," said Snape, slipping into lecture mode. "Salazar Slytherin was a great man, albeit a paranoid one. He devised numerous exits from his quarters at Hogwarts, and knowledge of them has been passed down through generations of heads of house. I hope you see why knowing this one will help you to hide yourself in your mindscape more effectively."

As he spoke, he proceeded to empty his pockets, resizing the packages as he did so, until the desk in Harry's room was laden with wrapped up clothing and boxes of shoes. Finally, he handed a glasses case to Harry, who took it and opened it.

"Thank you, sir," he said, turning back to the mirror and taking his old glasses off, placing them on his bedside table and replacing them with his new pair. He regarded himself in the mirror a moment, shocked by how much more mature it made him look, as it had with the boy in the Alium. He shifted his eyes away from his own reflection, to that of Snape, a pace or two behind him. He was staring at Harry like he'd seen a ghost.

Harry allowed a beat to pass. "Why did the alternate me wear his hair long, do you think?" he asked, running his hand through his own, trying to ignore the way the expression on the face of the man behind him was unnerving him.

Snape took a deep breath before responding, his voice strong in spite of the shock that had been on his face moments before. "He is the last of the Potters. The head of the family customarily wears his hair long."

Harry thought about this. "Is that why Professor Dumbledore, you, Lucius Malfoy… all wear your hair long?

"Indeed," said Snape. "We are all the eldest of our particular family trees."

"Why doesn't Mr Weasley?" asked Harry. "And Bill wears his hair long. Yet Minister Fudge has short hair. And Professor Slughorn."

"Mr Weasley, Minister Fudge and Professor Slughorn all have elder relatives of some description. They are not the heads of their family lines. William Weasley is a non-comformist and doesn't hold with traditional ideals in wizarding culture," Snape explained.

"So, should I be growing my hair?" asked Harry, "If I'm not going to be seen as a non-comformist, I mean?"

"You have time," said Snape softly, still regarding the reflection of the young man before him, "but generally, when a wizard turns seventeen, the expectation is that he begins to follow convention. Particularly if that wizard is the head of an ancient and noble house, like the Potters. It is seen as an act of wilful disrespect to his family if he does not."

"Oh," Harry frowned, looking at his short hair in consternation.

"I feel," said Snape, surprisingly gently, "that I should inform you that your father did not care one jot for convention, and surely would not mind if you choose to wear your hair short until your old age. Do not lose any sleep over this, Mr Potter. You are the head of your family and may choose its direction. The Potters have sufficient standing that society at large will forgive any small impropriety. You have enough wealth to be considered eccentric, rather than vulgar."

Harry nodded into the mirror, and then turned to face his professor.

"How many… conventions are there," he asked, "that I have never heard of? I don't know if I mind being non-conformist, but I don't want to be ignorant."

Snape slowly dipped his head in understanding. "There are books," he said, his voice low. "I keep them in my office, for Slytherins who don't have the prerequisite knowledge upon beginning their Hogwarts careers. I shall retrieve them for you after dinner. For now, I suggest you put all of those," he gestured at the mound of boxes and packages on the desk, "away."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry, braving a glance at the man's obsidian eyes, then gesturing to the pile Snape had indicated a few seconds before, "For doing all of this. I'm not one of your Slytherins, you didn't have to do this for me, but I am grateful."

Snape shook his head. "There is no need to thank me, Mr Potter. I am certain that any teacher here would have done the same, had they known to do so."

Harry said nothing to this. It was becoming clear to him that, somewhat bizarrely, Snape was the only one who was truly able to identify what people like Harry needed, let alone see to those needs.

"Well, thank you anyway, sir," he said.
Snape shook his head again and turned to leave, but paused before he left the room, whirling around to face Harry, his expression utterly inscrutable.

"My Alium-self," he said, as if he were continuing a conversation they were in the midst of having, rather than one that had ended a full half hour earlier, "gave me those memories because he felt strongly that the vow I made to protect you should extend beyond merely keeping you alive. He wanted me to help and support you and I…" he paused. "I promised him that I would do just that." And then, he whirled around, his robes billowing, and departed.

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

Snape retired swiftly to his bedroom, sitting down rather heavily on his bed, and hunched over, head in his hands, struggling in the onslaught of emotion. He stood again and paced, grabbing a glass from the desk and hurling it at the wall as he barely contained a shout of aggression. Damn his alternate bloody self! And damn himself for his imbecility! Legilimising one's alternate self was an utterly moronic idea, worthy of only the most idiotic dunderhead.

When he'd caught sight of Harry in those glasses, he'd seen his son. No, not his son; his alternate self's son, but his memories of the boy and the emotions attached to those memories were becoming overwhelming over time. For a moment, just a moment, there'd been a rush of affection unlike anything he'd felt for decades. He'd been right in what he'd said to Harry. His alternate self would know about Slytherin's charm, of course he would. Severus knew, not because of the memories, but because he felt it. Because he, his alternate self, loved the boy. The thought that he, Severus Snape, could ever even care about Potter, beyond the fact that he was his mother's son, that he had a duty to protect the boy whose life he had ruined, to ensure his mother's sacrifice was not in vain, was ludicrous. He could barely tolerate Potter, let alone love him. And yet… and yet.

He'd promised, yet again, to protect the boy. And, Merlin help him, no matter how much he rationalised, he wanted to do it. To see the boy safe and… happy.

Severus needed a drink. Damn his blasted father and his, likely hereditary, alcohol issues. Damn it all.

After dinner that night, Snape had retrieved Harry's books for him from his office. The complete guide to etiquette for young wizards of noble birth and It means what?! British mores and social customs were typically lent out to Slytherin muggleborns and less affluent half-bloods to ensure that they avoid unintentional faux pas. Snape knew such things were less important in other houses, but it still seemed a rather uncharacteristic oversight on Minerva's part, to have left her lions so uninformed.

"These," he said, "are the copies I lend out to Slytherins. Borrow them until the start of term if you wish and, if you think they are useful, we can owl order you your own copies. Regrettably, I shall need these back by September for the first years."

"Of course, sir," replied Harry, picking one up to look at the back cover.

"Now," said Snape after a few minutes, drawing the young man's attention back to him. "Mr Potter, tell me, why did we take our stroll across the lakebed this afternoon?"

Harry had been thinking about this, and had an answer prepared. "I could hide myself in here, away from the merpeople's houses. Riddle wouldn't know to look here because he's never been a Slytherin head of house."

"Correct," affirmed Snape. "The warding around these quarters will also offer some protection- Riddle will not know how to enter even if he does seek these rooms, and he is not keyed into the wards, so they will not let him pass them easily, providing you imbue your mental version with similar protections."

"You can do that?" Harry asked, eyes wide. "Apply wards in your own head?"

*Whyever not?" asked Snape. "Your magic is able to have an effect upon yourself, more so than anyone else."

Harry nodded, then brought something up that had been troubling him since the lake.

"Sir, if the entrance under the lake is supposed to be restricted to the head of house, won't you upset the warding or something by telling me? Do I need to make a vow not to say anything to anyone?"

"The warding of the head of Slytherin house's quarters has always been unusually stringent," Snape replied, "This is not restricted to the passage under the lake, but extends to the inclusion of other people on the wards. Professor Dumbledore, though not aware, as far as I know, of all the entrances and exits from my quarters, is aware of the nature of the wards. It is his belief that your residing in my quarters will be enough to satisfy them. Some heads of houses have had families live with them, and these have been included on the wards. However, I would advise you to say nothing to anyone about the entrances or exits regardless; even if the castle accepts your knowledge of them, she is unlikely to tolerate your sharing that knowledge. I am likely to experience any consequences alongside you."

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

The rest of the evening had passed uneventfully enough, and Potter had arrived at breakfast the next morning dressed in a new shirt— Gryffindor red, of course— and a pair of casual beige trousers. With his new glasses, he looked dramatically different, and yet painfully familiar at the same time. Snape had barely spoken to the boy, had watched him floo up to the headmaster's office to be taken to Grimmauld for the Weasley chit's birthday. Severus was glad to see him gone for a short while, had even encouraged him to think about staying overnight when they'd had dinner after their shopping trip the day before, but unfortunately, Potter had felt that he'd be having sleepovers with Ron every night for the rest of the year, and as such he could afford to miss this one. He could not, however, afford to miss any of his occlumency training. It was typical of Severus's luck, he mused, that Potter would choose this moment to become a diligent student.

Severus had been spending all his free time busily researching horcruxes in hopes of finding something of use. Pessimus magicae had been very helpful, theorising that excessive horcrux creation (Severus would argue that creating even one counted as 'excessive horcrux creation', but the author clearly had a different definition) would potentially cause an instability in one's soul, which may result in creation of an unintentional horcrux on application of the killing curse. It suggested that this level of horcrux creation would have a discernible impact on the sanity of the remaining soul shards, and confirmed the assessment the Alium Potter had shared, that an unintentional horcrux would be less tightly bound and that horcruxes split the soul in two, so that each successive horcrux would contain a smaller proportion of the original soul. It explained why Riddle's diary had been so much more powerful than the locket, and also offered some hope for Potter's survival.

Pessimus magicae went on to suggest that it should be possible to transfer the accidental soul shard to a more stable container, or to bind it properly to the container it was already housed in. The book cautioned that care must be taken to avoid destruction of the shard, as this would be irreversible and result in the permanent loss of the fragment. Moving to the chapter on proper horcrux creation and care (Severus suppressed a shudder), he recommenced his notemaking.

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

Something had clearly happened at the female Weasley's birthday. The boy had returned with the box of books from Grimmauld that Albus had promised for their horcrux research, but he was rather obviously subdued. He went through the usual motions; breakfast, lunch, potions, dinner, occlumency, but Potter seemed listless, like ship caught in the doldrums, and the headmaster was out of the castle for the next week on some research trip or other, leaving Potter squarely under Severus's purview. He considered leaving the boy to come out of it on his own, but after three days there was no improvement, and Potter was clearly miserable, though trying to hide it. He may need help, and hadn't Severus promised his alter-self that he'd at least attempt to provide it?

So, the next morning he set Potter off on a potion that wouldn't explode if anything untoward happened in its brewing, and took his opportunity.

"Mr Potter?" he queried, keeping his voice level.

"Yes, Professor," came the response; polite but somewhat absentminded.

"You have been moping around my quarters continuously since you returned from the Weasleys. What is the problem?"

For a moment, Harry froze with his hand above his potion, about to add the shrivelfig root.

"Add the root, Mr Potter."

Harry did so, beginning to stir. "I'm fine, sir."

"Do not take me for a fool, Potter," Snape responded, barely containing a sneer. "I've been a spy for much of my life; I can read body language like a book and yours tells me that something is amiss." It tells me that you're in the grip of some teenage angst or other, and for Merlin knows what reason it falls to me to unpick whatever it is. Snape ignored the urge to belittle the boy's problem and instead busied himself with adjusting the flame beneath his cauldron.

Potter's eyes looked a bit panicked, and Snape almost sympathised. If he'd known this time last year that he'd soon be having this conversation with Potter of all people, he'd have checked himself into the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's. Still, it was too late to back out now– he wasn't in the habit of letting students leave questions unanswered.

"It's nothing, sir, really," began Potter, but Snape quelled him with a warning look and he hesitated before adding, "It's just difficult when no one knows about…." he gestured to his forehead.

"I see," mused Snape. He did see: Potter was unlikely to be comfortable with keeping secrets from his friends; he had never really had to before, to Snape's knowledge. The trio did everything together. "Would you like to tell them?"

Harry looked down as he stirred. "I don't know. How do you tell your friends that you're a vessel for a soul shard from one of the most evil wizards of all time? And after Ginny's experience with the diary horcrux, how could I expect her to want to spend time around another?"

"Ah, of course," Snape replied, knowingly. "I'd almost forgotten about your developing… attachment, to Miss Weasley."

Harry blushed, and for a moment Snape expected him to deny it, but then, "You know about that?" Potter asked, tentatively.

Snape threw him a look that said, 'Don't be an utter dunderhead, Potter!' and shook his head. "Obviously. I've been watching over you since your first year–I know a great deal about you and your habits, from your fondness for treacle tart to the way you bite your lip when you're thinking. But," he continued, ignoring the somewhat horrified look on Potter's face at this revelation, "even if I hadn't made something of a study of you over the past five years, I would know. Matters of the heart," he sneered slightly at the phrase, "are always of interest to certain staff members, and I am forced to sit near these people at most mealtimes. They do, of course, have a particular interest in the love life of the Boy Who Lived, but I doubt that's any surprise to you, given the events of your fourth year. Certain staff members have been watching your interactions with Miss Weasley since her first year." He switched the direction of the stirring on the skelegro he was brewing as his mental count hit fifty.

All was silent for a long moment, before Harry, somewhat incredulously, chimed in with, "You know my favourite dessert?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Potion, Potter."

Harry looked down with some alarm to notice that it was just beginning to move past the stage at which he should add the flobberworm mucus. He hastily corrected the error, and Snape waited until the potion was again stable and the boy's strokes with the spoon both consistent and precise, before answering his question.

"Of course, Potter. How do you expect I planned to fulfill my vow to protect you without watching you? Merlin knows you made it difficult enough even with that precaution. However, it was nonetheless a worthwhile investment of my time, and enabled me to signpost people to your aid on occasion."

Potter looked up, curiously. "Like when? Sir?" tacking the last word on as an afterthought.

"In your first year," intoned Snape, changing his stirring to a figure eight pattern for two strokes out of every ten, "I noted that you seemed very tired over Christmas and tracked you to the Mirror of Erised before alerting the headmaster and having him deal with you. I've often pointed out when you'd been off your food due to anxiety, or exhausted. Or when you seemed to have lost weight over the summer." This last bit, he uttered in rather dark tones, "Of course, whether my concerns were acted upon or not is another matter. It was not within my remit to intervene directly. I was assured help was unnecessary."

"What if it had been?" asked Harry, quietly. "Within your remit, I mean– if I had been in Slytherin?"

"I think," returned Snape, dryly, "That the Alium already established the answer to that in some depth."

"But you would have?" the boy persisted, "You'd have done what the other Snape did?"

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and took a deep breath. Honestly, if there was one thing he detested, it was being forced to repeat himself. "Yes," he said, quietly, forcing any anger out of his voice and adopting a tone of neutrality. "If you had been one of my Slytherins, I would have looked more closely and identified the reasons for what I observed. I would have intervened and I would have had you removed from the Dursley's care, even if that meant placing you in mine. However, this conversation is irrelevant, as you were not sorted into Slytherin and this is not the topic under discussion, though I applaud your attempt to deflect from the original conversation. You were talking about Miss Weasley?"

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "We just had a bit of a falling out; it's not important."

Snape levelled a stare at him that was designed to convey that the boy was trying his patience, but responded in the same tone of careful neutrality as before, "Clearly, it is important enough to you that it has occupied most of your brainpower," he mentally patted himself on the back for resisting the impulse to point out the likely miniscule available amount of said brainpower, "and therefore warrants discussion."

"I've been keeping my distance a bit," the boy began, before visibly balking and changing tack, "She just wanted to spend some time with me and I kept avoiding her and she got annoyed," he shrugged and ran his hand through his hair, in a frustrated gesture that he shared with Potter Senior and which resulted in Snape having to exert considerable mental effort in order to see the son, rather than the father.

"I see," murmured Snape, keeping his eyes on his potion, partly because experience had taught him that children were more receptive to sharing problems with him when he made himself as unobtrusive as possible and partly, if he was honest, because he didn't want to see that gesture again, "You retreated from her, largely because of the horcrux and your fear that it contaminates you." He didn't chance a look up, but he'd have bet money on the boy being bright scarlet. He almost pitied the child- he couldn't imagine being forced to confide such things in Slughorn when he was a similar age. Thankfully, the old man had kept his nose firmly out of his students' business. What a pity it was that Severus could not afford himself the same luxury!

There was a long silence. Snape continued with his potion, unconcerned; the boy was too well-mannered to leave the conversation unresolved entirely, and he would allow time for Potter to order his thoughts.

Then it came, very, very quietly. "Yes," the boy said, and out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw the boy focussing very hard on his potion, which would obviously be a total waste of ingredients. Snape didn't mind; he'd anticipated this at the start of the discussion. Potions, he had found, were useful for getting adolescents talking, but not if you wanted a usable brew at the end of it.

The boy continued in the same quiet tone, "I was a bit too obvious, and she was hurt, and when Ron found out, he said I was being a bad friend on her birthday, and Hermione thought I should hear her out, that I'm just being a coward, but I'm not. I just know what I am now, and things can't be the same."

Snape hummed noncommittally. Teenage angst, yes, but with an undercurrent of real fear that needed to be addressed.

"Why not?" he queried, mildly, glancing up at Potter.

The boy looked at him incredulously, "I'm a horcrux!" he spat, angry at the feigned incomprehension. "Like the diary that possessed her! I've been… contaminated, by the most foul evil and it's stuck in my head!" The boy carried on, warming to his theme while Snape watched impassively, prepared to intervene if the anger began to manifest as a dangerous level of violence, but otherwise deeming it better to let the rage wear itself out.

"It's disgusting! I hate Voldemort! HATE him! And he's in my head, all the time, and I'm stuck here this summer to stop him HEARING MY THOUGHTS and getting into my DREAMS. I thought all this time that it was just a weird connection between us, and that was bad enough, but he's really here!" The boy jabbed at his forehead as he locked eyes with Snape, the desperation and anxiety warring with the anger in the green pools. "A part of him is INSIDE ME. In my head, all the time, and has been since before I can even remember. I feel so, so unclean.

"And you! You stand there, so calm, so collected, when I feel like I'm drowning, like I don't even know who I am anymore and you stand there asking about my feelings like you care! Like you've not spent the last five years making my life a misery! Like we've not both hated each other almost from the moment I stepped foot in this school! I LIKE potions, you know! Brewing this summer has been BRILLIANT and even before I came to Hogwarts I was looking forward to potions and you ruined it! You! And you stand there with your explanations and your apologies and I'm expected to just accept it and move past it? Like I'm expected to just deal with being a vessel for Voldemort's evil soul?"

His voice had slowed and quieted down, developing a catch. Tears that had accumulated during the shouting had started to fall. It was nearly time to intervene, judged Severus, but not quite yet.

"It's just not fair," added Harry. "I don't even know who I am without this piece of Voldemort in me." His voice was quieter now, and Snape felt that the boy was talking mostly to himself at this point. "What if I'm not who I think I am? How can I risk being near anyone, risk contaminating them too?"

The boy was breathing heavily, and his voice had developed a breathy, uneven quality to it and a catch that betrayed how hard the child was fighting off tears. Snape had been right to force this into the open; it was clearly weighing heavily on the boy. The vulnerability Harry had shown in his tirade was an encouraging sign that they had successfully built the modicum of trust needed to move further with occlumency, but such trust did need to be acknowledged and returned.

With that in mind, Snape proceeded to put the cauldrons into stasis (thankfully both brews were at a relatively stable point; he would vanish the boy's later) and walk around his own bench to the struggling child, placing a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder as he did so. He half expected a shrug to knock the offending hand off, but to his surprise it was permitted to remain.

"Come," said Snape, leading the boy towards his quarters, wordlessly switching their slippers and robes in the entrance hall. By the time he had the boy seated on the sofa, himself alongside, Potter had gathered himself sufficiently that his breathing had calmed somewhat, but was still punctuated with the occasional catch of a sob trying to tear its way loose. Snape handed him a handkerchief and forced himself to move his hand from the boy's shoulder to his back, rubbing in soothing circles and trying to dispel the memory of his alternate self doing this very thing to another Potter, in another world.

When Potter's breathing had at last evened out fully, Snape removed his hand from the boy's back and prepared to speak.

"Harry," he said, and the boy looked around at him in shock at his use of his given name. It had been an intentional usage, of course, designed to both shock the boy out of his remaining despair and capture his attention, "Your soul is your own. I have watched you for five years, and I also have the deep misfortune of being better acquainted with the Dark Lord than almost anyone else still living. I know you both— your characters and your actions— and I can categorically tell you that you are Harry Potter. There is nothing of the Dark Lord in you. There is a connection between you, no doubt, owing to the horcrux, and yet, you are your own person. Feel free to associate with whomever you wish to; you will not contaminate anyone. You could not."

The boy looked at him doubtfully. "I'm not so sure, sir. Lately I get so angry all the time, and at the end of last year every time I looked Dumbledore in the eyes I wanted to attack him! And Riddle tried to possess me at the Ministry of Magic earlier this year."

"Your recent spates of anger are easily explained; you are a sixteen year old boy to whom life has dealt a very difficult hand. It is not unreasonable to feel angry. The possession and the desire to attack the headmaster likely are the horcrux, rather than you, but your occlumency will solve this problem. I have extensive experience with the Dark Lord, Harry, as I have already stated, and you are not him." The boy nodded, slowly.

Snape called his house elf, Tibby, and ordered some tea. With a bow and a pop, she disappeared, returning with a full tea-service, complete with scones and jam. A silence fell as they busied themselves with the scones and, with an internal sigh of resignation, Snape committed himself to a course of action he had considered as a potential distraction for the boy from his worries.

"If you would like," he, after a moment, steeling himself for what was to come, "I can tell you about the pranks your mother played on your godfather when we were in school."

Harry's eyes were as round as dinner plates. "Mum," he breathed, wonderingly, "pranked Sirius?"

Snape's lips tugged themselves into a wry smirk. "Yes, indeed," he said. "In fact, most of the more successful pranks played on the Marauders were planned and carried out by Lily, though of course they blamed me for them." In answer to Potter's questioning look, he continued, leaning forward to check the strength of the brew in the teapot as he said, quietly and seriously, "Your mother abhorred bullies. From the very beginning she was intensely disapproving of their actions towards me, but after both public admonition and complaining to teachers achieved no results, she changed tact. I can't say that her pranking them helped the situation much; in hindsight, it probably escalated matters, but I appreciated it all the same; both the thought and the deed."

"What did she do?" asked the younger man, eagerly, "Did they blame you? Did you get in trouble? Did they ever catch her?"

"Yes, they blamed me— I believe I already said as much. No, I did not get in trouble; Lily always ensured I had an iron-clad alibi. No, they never caught her. Her involvement is a secret I've kept since my own school days. I imagine that she did tell your father in her later time at Hogwarts, if not afterwards, so Black and Lupin were probably told likewise."

Snape decided he was finished waiting for tea, and poured himself a cup, offering to do the same for Harry with a gesture, which the boy accepted thankfully.

"Why are you telling me now, sir?" asked Harry.

Snape paused for a moment to collect himself before turning to face the boy fully, locking eyes with him, his voice low and serious. "I have a great deal of experience with loss," he said, simply. "It is my understanding that speaking about those who have passed, telling positive stories about those we miss, can be helpful in the process of healing. As you might imagine, I have few such memories of your godfather, but I do have some amusing anecdotes. It is my hope that by sharing them, I might afford you the opportunity to do the same." He took a sip of his scalding beverage before continuing. "Much as I disliked the man, I realise that he is important to you and wonder how much opportunity you have had to work through your grief at his passing." Harry looked down at his hands, and Snape began his tale.

"The first prank Lily played on them was wonderful, simple, and astoundingly long-lived; it took them most of their Hogwarts careers to realise something was amiss…"

An hour later the teapot had been emptied, but Harry's mind had been filled with images of Sirius proudly declaring his passionate love for Professor Slughorn in the middle of the Great Hall, being hexed into only being able to say, 'I love Slytherin,' in various tones of incredulity and outrage, and involuntarily missing the middle syllable in all the spells he tried to cast. He'd also failed to notice that using the appellation 'Snivellus' brought on a runny nose, thanks to an ingenious time delay of five minutes and the frequency with which he uttered it, and believed he had allergies to one of the familiars in Gryffindor common room for most of his school career.

Though most would struggle to believe it, Severus was actually rather skilled at telling a comical stor— his dry wit and ability to keep a straight face were particularly helpful— and he had Potter grinning, chuckling and outright laughing by the end, all trace of his earlier misery and anger banished for the moment.

As Severus got up to wash the tea service, the boy met his eyes, gratitude mixed with recent mirth in their green depths. "Thank you, sir," he said, sincerely.

"You are welcome, Mr Potter," nodded Snape, and hustled off to the kitchen, pretending not to care that the boy looked slightly put-out by the renewed use of his surname.

During their next occlumency practice, Snape introduced a new topic.

"I believe," he began, settling into his favourite chair after breakfast, "that we are ready to progress to the next stage of occlumency. This is not strictly necessary to prevent the Dark Lord from entering your mind, as the mindscape was, and you will continue to work to reinforce and further strengthen your shields and sacrificial memories over the remaining weeks of summer and the coming academic year. I am satisfied that you are proficient enough to prevent the visions from the Dark Lord that have plagued you since he returned— have you had any more recently?"

"No, sir," Harry confirmed, pleased and somewhat surprised by the realisation.

"Excellent," Snape replied, crisply. "Then we shall now move on to the occlusion of emotion. This is the ability to suppress your emotions at will, ensuring that your body does not give away your unease or do anything to contradict the impression you are trying to convey. I am certain you can think of many situations in which such a skill would be useful."

Harry nodded. "Like not mentioning my scar being a horcrux without my friends knowing I'm hiding anything."

"Just so," Snape confirmed. "If you wish the truth to remain hidden from your rather astute friends, then this can only aid you. It may also assist in any future confrontation where lying undetected would be an advantage to you, as well as help you on a personal level to deal with emotions that are... unproductive.

"So far, we have been dealing exclusively with memory. Hiding memories hides enough of your consciousness to prevent possession, and does not allow the Dark Lord entry in order to create new memories, be that via dreams or visions. It may not, however, prevent his enhancing your emotional state to negative effect, such as magnifying anger or distress, and will not enable you to lie to him undetected- he will know of the deception, even if he is unable to determine the truth through examination of your memory. Therefore, it is also necessary to acquire this skill if you wish to occlude without the Dark Lord realising that you are doing so.

"Furthermore, manipulation of your emotions is needed to form the basis of your mental defence; a guardian you will put in place so that, if the invader threatens to move past your decoys, they will be attacked and, hopefully, driven out of your mind."

"The giant squid," supplied Harry, remembering what he had been told by Alium-Snape.

"Indeed," Snape agreed. "The ability to hide your emotions at depth, to make them undetectable and project only that which you wish to is true occlumency, and that is what I am willing to teach you over the next two weeks, if you wish it. However," he warned, seeing the boy about to agree, "the process of learning this skill from another is far more intimate than even the tuition we have undergone thus far. Trust between us is essential, and I only bring the idea up to you now, because I feel, in light of our conversation yesterday, that we have progressed far enough in that regard to make success a possibility."

Harry's eyes were wide with trepidation. "What exactly would we be doing in these lessons?" he asked, sounding somewhat uneasy.

"I taught myself this skill, using the very book I have given to you," said Snape, "Neither the Dark Lord, nor Bellatrix, believe I am anything better than a good liar, capable of tricking the gullible headmaster. They know I can occlude, but the Dark Lord believes he knows the extent of my skill in the area. He is mistaken. As I have mentioned before, there is no agreed method for teaching occlumency, as it is such an obscure branch of magic. As I am self-taught, teaching you will require some innovation. The only way I have determined is to allow you to view the process which I undergo to occlude an emotion. This will mean that you are immersed in my mind during the process and will feel as I do for the duration of the exercise. I will then attempt to help you to do the same, but to do so will require me to form a very secure link with your mind, such that you will be unable to hide any emotion whatsoever, and in all likelihood I would be able to determine the origin of those feelings. We will be working to direct your emotions, and to do so will require exploration and utilisation of them.

"You will need to trust that I mean you no harm and will not use any discoveries I may make against you, for any attempt to shield yourself from me, even if due to embarrassment or shame, may cause damage to both of our minds, owing to the strength of the connection. Once you are relaxed, I will aim to guide you through the process. In our subsequent sessions, I will monitor your success from outside your mind, unless you require further assistance."

Harry looked horrified at the very thought, and Snape did not blame him at all. He was feeling rather uneasy about the process himself. Though the larger part of him expected Potter not to take him up on the offer, he felt he had to at least provide the opportunity.

"If you taught yourself," the boy began, "couldn't I do the same?"

"You could certainly try," agreed Snape, with a slight nod. "Except?"

"Except… I don't do well with this stuff on my own," Harry completed, resigned. "And it's incredibly difficult and obscure and I've already read the text you used and most of it makes no sense to me."

Snape inclined his head.

"Can I think about it?" Harry asked.

"Of course," said Snape. "When you are ready, simply let me know of your decision. If you wish to try to occlude emotion, I will show you how I do it. If you decide you would rather not, then we will work on your shields further. Bear in mind, however, that we have only two weeks remaining before term, and it is very much a case of now or never- I do not anticipate having sufficient time to attempt this with you at another point this year."

The following evening found Harry nervously seated opposite Snape around the coffee table, asking a question to which he believed he may already know the answer.

"Sir, the other me, the Alium one, did he learn to do emotional occlusion?"

"He did," confirmed Snape, his voice level, "but you must bear in mind that he and my counterpart had a much closer relationship than you and I do. For that reason, it would be a far more onerous task for you."

Harry nodded, thinking hard for a moment. He'd been doing little else since their conversation the previous day, and as he allowed himself a minute now, realised that his answer had not changed. The benefits outweighed the costs, however dear. He croaked out a syllable, swallowed and tried again. "I think I should try, sir."

"You are certain?" asked Snape, meeting Harry's eyes assessingly.

At Potter's confirmation, Snape felt a jolt of surprise. He had not truly thought that the boy would wish to go down this road, had been asking mainly from a sense of duty. But, perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised, he mused. Potter had consistently shown a willingness to put himself in uncomfortable or dangerous situations in order to gain advantages in the upcoming conflict, and Snape felt a grudging respect for that. He flicked his wand and the seat of the settee deepened, making it twice its usual depth. He then moved to seat himself on it sideways, facing the centre of the seat, legs folded under his robes. He gestured to Harry to imitate him, and they were soon facing each other.

"To begin with," intoned Snape," you will be entering my mind, as you did before. To that end..." Here, he handed Harry a phial of the pearlescent potion he'd taken when observing Snape's mindscape. This, Harry swallowed without hesitation, while Snape took its silver counterpart. Snape then handed him a further phial- the potion this time a soft purple colour. Harry's eyes showed recognition of the calming draught, which immediately went the way of the mind-opening potion.

"Hold out your hands," instructed Snape, and Harry slowly reached the out to his professor, who gently clasped his hands around Harry's wrists and waited for Harry to reciprocate the interaction. Then, with a whispered, "Ready?" and an answering nod, their eyes met.

It felt like being on the Knight Bus during an emergency stop. Harry felt himself flung violently forwards, and then he fell, down, down, through a black pit. He flailed, trying to find purchase, when his descent came to a sudden stop as someone caught him. He opened his eyes to find Snape setting him onto his feet. Harry looked around.

"Where are we, sir?" he asked, his voice echoing around him.

"This is an illusion," replied Snape, and his voice had the same echoing quality as Harry's. "I created it in a pocket of my mind as a place to confer before we move on with today's exercise. When we leave this area, you will share my mental space. It is an experience akin to that of possession, and it is only due to my superior control of mind magic that I will remain in overall control. It is important that, once the state is reached, you do not fight it. I will show you my occluded mental state, then allow my control to drop. You will feel my emotional state as if it were your own, and then I will show you the manner in which I direct my emotions. I will suppress those that are unhelpful, aiming only to project that which I use to add credence to my conversations with the Dark Lord. In a later lesson, I will show you how to choose a strong emotion to form a means by which to attack invaders. For now, however, we will need to leave here in order to deepen our connection further, if you are prepared?"

"What do we need to do?" Harry asked, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.

"Simply remain calm," the other man responded, holding out a hand. Harry approached and extended his own, tentatively clasping the older man's palm in his, fingers bending to secure the link. Immediately, a sensation of drowning enveloped him, cold water everywhere, like the bubble charm Snape had cast under the lake had ruptured, sending tonnes of cold water cascading down over him. Harry gasped and the feeling of water rushed into his mouth, down his throat, filling his lungs. He couldn't breathe and he began to panic. Snape, seeing this, used their linked hands to pull the boy closer, enveloping him in his robes, arms pulling the boy tightly against his chest. The world went dark as Harry was pressed into Snape's black robes.

"You need to relax, Harry," he heard the man say, his low, calming tones surrounding Harry like a blanket. "Trust me. Breathe."

His lungs on fire, Harry forced himself to inhale once, twice, three times. His panic settled somewhat with the realisation that he was, in fact, still breathing, and he realised he could no longer feel Snape's arms on his back. His presence was still there, but no longer tangible. He opened his eyes.

He was seated on the sofa, opposite himself. He could see his own head lolled forwards, his hands still clasping… Harry looked down in horror. His hands were just like Snape's! He examined the robes he was wearing, the long, limp hair hanging in his field of vision: he was Snape.

He felt his mouth move without his direction, heard Snape's voice issue from it. "Disconcerting, isn't it?" He heard the man say. "When I tried this with the headmaster, he felt similarly."

Harry knew rather than felt that he was, to use Snape's term, disconcerted. He knew he should be absolutely paralysed with horror and fear and desire to get back to his own body, but all he felt was a rather determined and all-encompassing sense of calm. He presumed this must come from Snape's occlusion of his emotions.

"Just so, Mr Potter," came Snape's voice. "I am about to lower my occlumency shields entirely. Close your mind's eye and you will experience this as I do."

Harry had no idea how to close his mind's eye, but he gave it a go. It felt like he was adrift, in a pool of still, blue water, calm and at rest. He couldn't see the water, yet he knew it was blue, and cool to the touch. Then, he felt a change. His stillness was broken by a disturbance. Bubbles were rising from the depths, and, with them, pockets of emotion.

Then, suddenly, as if a flood gate had been opened, Harry began to be buffeted about by the water's currents– first one way, and then the other, as he felt the liquid swirl around himself, rushing in from below him, the colours beginning to change. He felt the worry first– a sense of anxiety that tied him in knots. Other emotions followed then, thick and fast and overwhelming, and soon, he was in a raging torrent of emotion, the amber anxiety warring with a scarlet, swirling, implacable anger, an indigo grief that stole his very breath and a black sense of hopelessness and despair. Harry was caught between them all, unable to keep still, like a ragdoll flung about by a recalcitrant toddler in a fit of temper. It was frightening, to feel so out of control, and then came the fear itself; an all-encompassing, breathtaking terror. He tried to call out, for help, for Snape stop this, but he couldn't make a sound.

Suddenly, however, the colour and temperature of the water changed as he felt something new bubble up from the depths– a sense of… protectiveness? Yes, protectiveness. How odd. He tried to swim in that direction, towards the protectiveness, and felt himself overcome by a warmth. Care, maybe, and regard, and an undercurrent of something else, something pale yellow that he could not identify. Breaking the temporary respite, however, there was a sudden sense of impatience and then Harry felt a surge of cold from above, pushing away the fear first. It went down, down, below Harry's consciousness and he felt the calm settle. Next, the red anger followed it, and the orange anxiety, the grief and despair, and finally the impatience. This left the milder-coloured soft, accepting warmth, a pale yellow that Harry struggled to identify, even as he felt it. He wondered if Snape struggled to identify it too. Then the pale yellow followed the rest of the emotions, replaced by the feeling of calm nothingness that Harry had first experienced.

There was then an upswell of water from below, imbuing Harry with a sense of deep loyalty and excitement. He felt like he wanted to pass on good news. This must be the state in which Snape met Voldemort, Harry realised. There was again the sensation of cold from above pushing down the emotion, and Harry existed in calm occlusion. He then felt the cold withdrawing from him, leaving him in total blackness.

The blackness unfolded and stepped away, and Harry found himself looking up at Snape, in the void he had created in the pocket of his mind. Snape let go of his hand.

There was a sensation of being moved upwards rapidly, up and out, like Roald Dahl's Great Glass Elevator, which Harry remembered reading about in primary school. Then, with a sudden stop, Harry came back to himself. Snape was no longer holding his wrists, but proffering a pain reliever with an expression that looked oddly like… concern? Harry took it wordlessly, raising a hand to his temple with a groan; his head was pounding.

"Yes, it is a bit much," agreed Snape, somewhat more quietly than usual, but otherwise showing no sign of the pain he must be in, other than quaffing his own phial of pain reliever, and the fact that he had handed Harry a potion, rather than using a spell.

"I rather think," Snape continued, "that we shall discuss this tomorrow. I wish to retire this evening, and imagine you feel the same."

Harry nodded; the potion had removed almost all pain, but he was thoroughly exhausted.

The next morning after breakfast, the pair sat down to compare notes on the previous evening's experiment.

The table was set as it always was at breakfast, and the familiar scent of thickly-buttered toast mingled with the subtle aroma of tea. "How did you find last night's experience, overall?" enquired Snape.

Harry thought about this as he added spoons of sugar to his porridge. He watched Snape out of the corner of his eye as he did so; convinced that, somehow, it annoyed Snape when he did this. As he heaped his third spoonful on, he thought he detected a mild tightening around the man's eyes, swiftly replaced by a blank and impassive expression shortly afterwards. It amused and bewildered Harry in equal measure. When Harry had first arrived, Snape hadn't said anything about the habit. And why should he? What difference did it make to him? Over time, however, Snape's irritation seemed to have increased. Maybe he just had strong opinions about breakfast.

"It was intense," Harry said, returning his thoughts to the question as he stirred. "Is that what you meant last year by clearing my mind?"

"No. You essentially bypassed that step, moving straight to a mindscape, which forms a far stronger barrier, but is more difficult to learn for most."

"But then, sir," began Harry, a frown creasing his brow, "How am I supposed to do the water thing and the mindscape at the same time?"

"You won't need to," Snape reassured him, "The mindscape, once constructed, will hold without conscious thought, which is why it can protect you while you sleep. You must continue to reinforce your mental shields daily for as long as you wish to have use of them, which is why having a set time, such as just before sleep, to do so will aid you in developing robust shields. If you are ever being directly legilimised in earnest by the Dark Lord, it may be safer to abandon your emotions and retreat to your mindscape. At any other time though, you may safely use both. I take it you have continued to categorise and compartmentalise your memories?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, sir."

"Good," said Snape, approvingly. "You should soon, if you have not already, begin to notice an improvement in the ease with which you can recall events and conversations, as well as in knowledge retention. Keep going— the more of your memories stored in this manner, the better.

"Tonight, however," he continued, "if you are willing, we shall delve once more into the realm of emotional occlumency, this time to see if you can replicate some of what I showed you yesterday. In preparation, I would like you to spend some time today identifying and reflecting on the emotions you feel during any given moment. Consider how you experience them– you will need to identify an analogy that will enable you to deal with them. It is impossible to push something without form away. I use water, which you may also utilise, but you may find yourself more suited to another."

"Like what?" asked Harry, warming his hands with his mug of tea against the chill of the dungeons. Since moving into Snape's quarters, Harry had found that Snape always seemed to have a cup of tea on hand when at home, and nowadays he tended to make them for Harry as well. It was a rather unique blend; earthy, warm and soothing. Harry had become quite attached to it.

"Usually an element," intoned Snape. Lecture mode, thought Harry, suppressing a small quirk of his lip at the thought, "Earth, fire, wind or water. There is no need, however, to make an active decision on the matter. Provided that you have considered the matter, you will likely find that, when you begin the process, the form your emotions take will reveal itself without any conscious input from you. It's somewhat similar to casting a patronus– its form is decided by your subconscious mind and your magic. All you have to do is be in the correct frame of mind to allow it to coalesce. Once you can achieve this feat competently, it will take comparatively little effort on your part.

"I," continued Snape, as he set his empty cup down, "will be out for much of the day today. You are unlikely to see me again until dinner. In the meantime, your task for today is to identify any and all emotions you feel within your hour of focus on the task. Record the emotion, its strength and the probable reasons for it."

Harry's curiosity must have shown itself on his face, because, after a glance at him, Snape elaborated. "The reason for this is that, in order to successfully occlude emotion, pushing it away to the point it is not detectable by either yourself or others, one must first confront the emotion. You must acknowledge and understand it before you can safely suppress it."

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

Harry felt distinctly uneasy. Snape was absent, presumably with Riddle, and it preyed on Harry's mind somewhat, not knowing if today was the day that the professor would be discovered as a spy, and knowing that, even if he wasn't, he could still be gravely injured thanks to Voldemort's temper. It left him unsettled, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the task he had been set. He was unsure of whether he wanted to.

Every time he went to put quill to parchment, he stopped almost immediately, because he had a suspicion that Snape would ask to see it. If Harry could barely stand to admit to himself how he felt, how would he be able to admit them to Snape?

He didn't have to do this, he reminded himself. He could do without emotional occlusion. Snape had said as much, and Harry was already far beyond his wildest expectations for what he had thought he would achieve with occlumency this summer. Addressing his feelings was hard, and admitting them on paper was even more so. The prospect did nothing to quell his restlessness. Harry found himself on his feet, full of energy and the need to move.

Harry abruptly realised that, aside from one or two visits with Dumbledore, the trip to Hogsmeade and the ill-fated excursion for Ginny's birthday, he had not left the dungeons since he had arrived. He had not been forbidden, exactly, but he had been so focussed on occlumency and the horcrux that it had eclipsed everything else.

Now, however, Harry felt stifled by the dungeon, and the need to get out felt visceral. He retrieved his invisibility cloak and broomstick from his trunk and headed immediately out of the door.

The silence of the castle without its students still weighed upon Harry. It was not the emptiness, for Harry had wandered silent halls in darkness enough to be somewhat accustomed to the eerie stillness. No, Harry had realised, the castle felt different without the magic of its students within it. Hollow, somehow. Harry scolded himself mentally for his flight of fancy and deliberately slowed his pace as he made his way out of Snape's quarters through the door nearest the entrance hall and up towards the castle doors.

Harry paused at the doors that would lead him out of the castle. He had never been explicitly told not to wander, just that it was vitally important that he not be seen. He remembered, with a slight tightening of his throat, what would happen if Voldemort learned of Harry's presence here, and of Snape keeping it from him. His hand tightened on his broomstick. Considerations such as these would not have bothered him a month ago when he believed Snape to be the cause of Sirius's death and had serious questions about which side he was as on, but now Harry understood him better. Snape was not his enemy. Since the Alium, Snape had made an effort to actually be decent. Time would tell whether or not that continued once term began once more, but for now, with Snape's behaviour and Alium Snape's justifications, Harry would take it on faith that Snape was on his side.

As Harry stood, contemplating his next move, the entrance hall door opened to reveal none other than the headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry exclaimed, "I thought you were out on an errand for the Wizengamot."

Dumbledore smiled genially. "It is good to see you too, my boy."

Harry felt his face heat slightly. "Thanks, sir."

Dumbledore simply smiled again, and moved forward into the hall. "A simple case of a ministry witch who fell foul of the rules protecting Britain's centaur population. As a matter of fact, the situation drew to a close rather rapidly once the laws were pointed out to her. Older legislation, still in the original Latin, but still— to be so uninformed! I'm afraid the witch in question was rather embarrassed." He shook his head sorrowfully, but Harry detected a twinkle in his eyes as he did so.

"A terrible shame, sir," Harry agreed, with a slight grin.

"I was just off to my rooms, Harry. If you'd like to join me for a spot of tea, you'd be very welcome. Unless, of course, you're busy?"

"Oh, no, sir," Harry replied cheerfully, "I've got time."

"Wonderful!" Dumbledore gestured for them to continue onwards, and Harry fell in beside him as he made his way through the hall. On the way, Dumbledore and Harry went through the usual pleasantries regarding the weather (frightfully draughty for August, but excellent for the thestrals, who suffer so in the heat), and Harry asked Dumbledore his opinions on the latest news in the Prophet, which Snape passed to Harry every morning once he'd finished with it. By the time they got up to Dumbledore's staircase, Harry felt more than equal to a couple of cups of tea, with the exertion of their rapid ascent through the castle, for Dumbledore was extremely sprightly for his age, and the amount of talking he'd done.

"So, Harry, how has life in the dungeons been treating you?"

Harry was seated in Dumbledore's office, a cup of tea gently steaming in his hands. It had been poured from an ornate gold-embellished teapot with the Hogwarts crest proudly emblazoned on the side. The tea service had been prepared with an aguamenti and a heating charm, and Harry fancied that it didn't taste as good as the blend Snape favoured.

"Well, sir, thank you."

"I am pleased to hear that, my boy. How have you been spending your time?"

As Harry began to answer, he felt something tap at his occlumency shields. The gentlest pressure, barely perceptible; if Harry hadn't had so much experience under legilimency, he thought he likely would not have noticed at all. He frowned, and chose to occupy the position of his flying decoy, high above the landscape below. He observed the veritable wall of tiny pine trees far beneath, allowing the trees of his mental forest to grow thicker where he sensed the intrusion, He made their needles sharper, more vicious. The presence retreated.

"Very good, Harry," beamed Dumbledore, the pride in his voice making Harry's cheeks glow. "You even managed to answer my question, albeit somewhat distractedly. I take it that your lessons are going well?"

"Yes, sir, very," confirmed Harry, though his confidence in that assertion faltered as he recalled his failure in that day's task.

Dumbledore looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles, the pale blue piercing. "Forgive me, Harry, but it seems as if something is troubling you. Might I be of assistance?"

Harry debated this for a moment before beginning, tentatively. "Professor Snape has said that he will teach me to occlude my emotions sir, but I'm finding the first task very difficult."

A slight frown danced gracefully across Dumbledore's brow at this before retreating once more. "Why would you need to occlude emotion, Harry? It is not necessary to do so in order to prevent Lord Voldemort accessing your thoughts."

Harry kept his answer vague; he was certain that Dumbledore would not welcome Harry's plan of continuing to leave his friends uninformed. "I just thought it would be useful, sir."

The headmaster's eyes grew very serious at this, and Harry began to occlude actively again, just in case.

Dumbledore sighed, running a hand absently down his long silver beard as he did so. He then leaned forward, his expression earnest.

"Harry, I will not fail to believe in you now. If Professor Snape and yourself believe it to be beneficial for you to learn emotional occlusion, then I shall not attempt to prevent it."

"Thank you, sir," replied Harry, relieved.

"However," Dumbledore continued gently,"I will implore you to decide against it. Your ability to love has always been one of your greatest strengths, Harry. To wall yourself off from your emotions may well bring forth new weaknesses, rather than new strength."

Harry nodded. "I'll think about it carefully, sir," he said.

"That is all I can ask, my boy," replied Dumbledore. "Now," he added, after a long sip of tea, "what seems to be the problem?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. "I'm supposed to write down what I feel today and why," he said, slowly. "And I can't."

"And why is that?" asked Dumbledore.

"I don't know how I feel!" Harry said, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "And even if I did, I wouldn't—" he cut himself off.

"Want to share it with Professor Snape?" inquired Dumbledore, knowingly.

Harry nodded.

"Ah, I'm sure Professor Snape would not blame you there!" chuckled Dumbledore merrily. "But I do think you're not being terribly honest with yourself."

"What do you mean, sir?"

Dumbledore met Harry's eyes carefully. "You know how you feel. But, for whatever reason, you do not wish to admit it to yourself. I would advise that you do so, if only for better understanding of yourself. Whether you feel comfortable sharing that information with Professor Snape is a matter for your judgement alone." He leant back in his chair to take another sip of tea, the picture of contentment. "However," he continued after a moment, "I will say that Professor Snape is one of the most uncommonly perceptive men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I would be very much mistaken if anything you are feeling is a surprise to him."

That evening, half an hour after dinner, Harry emerged from his bedroom to find that the settee had been widened once again. Snape was sitting on one of the two armchairs; the one he seemed to prefer, all brown suede and plush softness. Harry had found it amusing the first time he encountered it— it contrasted so perfectly with Harry's impression of Snape as a person. But then, Harry mused, he hadn't really known Snape at the time. He doubted that many people really did. Sometimes, he wondered if he did. There were flashes, sometimes, of a different person. Reminiscent of someone he'd only met once, in the Alium. But then, at other times it seemed that Snape went out of his way to distance himself. He was never rude though, or snide or cutting. Not anymore. Harry would take that as a win any day.

"Mr Potter," the professor said, by way of greeting. "Please retrieve the notes you made during your exercise today."

Harry sighed; a sinking feeling told him where this was going, but summoned the notes through his still-open door, regardless. Snape looked at him approvingly and Harry realised that he'd expected Harry to argue, or at least question why the request had been made of him. Feeling quite smug at having subverted Snape's expectations, Harry seated himself on the other armchair (not quite as plush or soft, but still comfortable, and a beige sort of colour).

"Tea?" was all Snape said, however, indicating the teapot on the walnut coffee table before them. Harry nodded, and Snape poured him a cup, adding the milk and sugar exactly as Harry preferred.

"You completed your reflections as I asked this morning?" queried Snape, stating it as fact more than phrasing it as a question.

"Yes, sir," replied Harry, with some trepidation. After his chat with Dumbledore, Harry had gone to fly, with Dumbledore's permission and some well-placed disillusionment charms. As he'd hovered there, he'd come to the grim realisation that he was more comfortable with taking this step–with trusting Snape– than he was with informing his friends about the horcrux.

And so, he'd spent the afternoon with parchment and quill, scratching away in his dungeon bedroom with a sense of impending doom.

"Good," nodded Snape. "As I mentioned this morning, acknowledging and accepting emotions is the first step towards being able to occlude them. You must also be able to share that information with me if I am to help you with this process."

Harry felt his mouth go dry at this. It was as he had feared.

Obvious to the blood thundering loudly through Harry's ears, Snape continued, "As I said previously, any attempt to suddenly shut off the connection between us suddenly once it has formed may be damaging. I do not want you to attempt this unless I am certain that you will not, even subconsciously, try to eject me from your mind due to a burst of embarrassment. For this reason, I will now require you to describe and explain everything you wrote for the session this morning. If you cannot, I will not be in any way disappointed; it would be a difficult task for anyone, but particularly so given your age and our history. However, we will not be able to proceed unless you are able to complete the task."

Harry swallowed. Talking through his emotions with Snape of all people sounded completely cracked, as Ron would say, but he had already done just that with his feelings about the horcrux, he reasoned. And talking about Sirius a bit had helped, he told himself; Harry was having fewer nightmares and feeling his grief less acutely. He reminded himself of what Dumbledore had said— Snape was also incredibly perceptive; in all likelihood, he would know what Harry was feeling without being told. And, he strongly reminded himself, he really did want to know how to occlude his emotions. He'd have no hope of avoiding Hermione's interrogations otherwise.

This was going to be difficult, Harry knew. Incredibly so, and he could not believe, even with all the arguments he'd already presented himself with, that he was even considering it. But then, as he had written this all down, knowing on some level that he was likely to have to share it, one thought had kept him from balking, from just walking away from the exercise and refusing to look back.

His mother had been a prankster.

Harry had been reveling in this newfound knowledge for two days and even now could hardly articulate even to himself why it mattered so much.

It just did.

His mother had always been some mythical figure, deified or vilified in turns. She was perfection personified (or a misguided fool, if you asked Aunt Petunia), a talented witch, a devoted mother, but she wasn't real. Snape had begun to make her real for Harry, with his memories and his stories, and Harry felt that was a gift far beyond anything else Snape could have given him. Harry would be willing to bet Snape had not opened himself up to anyone like that since before Harry was born, and Harry was filled with gratitude that Snape had chosen to share what he had with him. And, perhaps he was foolish to do so, but Harry had begun to trust Snape in turn. Besides which, if this worked…

"I'll try," he murmured, his voice coming out so quiet as to be almost imperceptible, and less steady than he'd have liked. "I'll try," he repeated again, his voice stronger now.

"Very good, Mr Potter," said Snape softly, his eyes unreadable.

"Harry," came the reply. Snape met his gaze, questioning. "Only," Harry swallowed, "if we're going to do this, could you call me Harry?"

Snape looked for a moment as if he were struggling with something, but after a deep breath, he merely said, voice impassive, "Of course, Harry."

"Harry," came the reply. Severus met his gaze, questioning. "Only," Harry swallowed, "if we're going to do this, could you call me Harry?"

Severus froze. He'd heard that before, or, rather, his Alium self had. When Harry was just a twelve year old, and asked if he would like to make their hitherto temporary guardianship permanent. If he would like a home with Severus.

They were seated in the living room of his quarters, on the settee side by side, and he'd just finished explaining about his involvement in the deaths of the boy's parents.

He could hear his own deep rumbling in his memory as he asked the question. "Now you are aware of everything pertinent, Mr Potter, you have a decision to make. I will completely understand if you wish to look for another permanent guardian in light of what you have just learned. I would not hold it against you; on the contrary, I would fully understand your reasoning."

The boy in front of him looked up, and there was something bright and determined shining in his eyes. "Harry," he said, his voice strong. He continued, in response to Severus levelling a confused stare at him, "Only, if we're going to do this," he said, his voice a little less certain now, "can you call me Harry?"

"You'd still like me to be your permanent guardian?" asked Severus, feeling somewhat incredulous, though his face and voice betrayed nothing of this.

Harry's face reddened and he ducked his head. "Unless you don't want…"

"Harry," interrupted Severus, reaching out to cup the boy's chin gently in his hand, tilting it up so that he could see the child's face, "I would like nothing more than to take on permanent guardianship of you," he said sincerely. The child's eyes shined still brighter, this time glistening with unshed water. "I am merely shocked… no, astounded, that you would wish me to, given what you have just learned."

"I don't care," Harry declared defiantly, his eyes widening as he jumped to stand, seeming to realise what he had said. His words tumbled over each other in his haste to get them out. "That's not what I...I mean, I do care, they're my parents, of course I care, but, I mean," he swallowed and locked eyes with Severus, "I mean, in terms of the guardianship, I don't care. I've had you in my life for almost a year, sir, and you've been brilliant. You're the only adult I can remember who's ever… well… and I won't… I don't want to lose you, Professor, because of something that happened over a decade ago. Hating you wouldn't bring them back, and I won't let the past ruin my future," he finally finished, his face redder than the hair of any Weasley, but his expression was genuine and his voice was strong.

Severus nodded, his throat unaccountably tight. He cleared his throat before answering, his eyes still fixed upon Harry's. "Severus," he said, seriously, a hand coming out unbidden to rest on the boy's shoulder. "If we are going to do this," he felt the corner of his own mouth lift slightly as he repeated the child's own phrasing, "you should call me Severus."

Harry paused for a moment, as if weighing his words, then broke into a tentative smile and inched a little closer to his new guardian, cautiously, almost imperceptibly, as if asking for permission to approach while still fearing rejection. Severus raised one arm as he released the boy's shoulder with the hand of the other, holding them both open in a gesture of invitation, and Harry flung himself forwards, wrapping his arms around Severus in as tight a hug as he could muster, which Snape returned, the feeling quite foreign, but undoubtedly pleasant.

"Thank you… Severus," the boy said against his shoulder, testing the name out.

"Thank you, Harry," returned Severus, his voice low, blinking away a suspicious moisture that seemed to have accumulated in his own eyes.

Coming back to himself, Severus fought off the urge to repeat the offer of his alternate self by breathing carefully. The memories and emotions he'd gained from his Alium self were unusually resistant to occlusion, though Severus had no idea why. However, with a deep breath and a hefty downpour of calming blue waters, he managed it.

"Of course, Harry," he contented himself.

"Are you alright, sir?" Harry questioned, looking a bit concerned.

Severus waved it off. "I am fine. You remember I unwisely traded some memories with my Alium self?" Harry nodded, still with the same expression of concern. "Sometimes they rise at inopportune moments, and they are proving harder to occlude than my own memories. The problem is decreasing in severity over time and there is no cause for alarm."

"What if Vol- Riddle can read them, though?" Harry queried, voice betraying his anxiety. "Won't he be able to see the memories if they're harder to occlude?"

"I can keep them hidden," replied Severus, confidently. "It is only you that triggers their rise to the surface, as the memories are of your Alium-self. Now," he stated, effectively closing the topic, "What did you find during your session?"

Harry stalled for a moment, and Severus could see the uncertainty written plainly across the boy's face. For a long moment there was silence.

"This is not a requirement, Harry," Severus reminded him, his voice a smooth drawl. "We can leave this here."

Harry shook his head. His expression hardened, taking on a steely determination that was too reminiscent of Alium-Harry at twelve, before he took a deep breath. He looked down at his parchment, and Severus got the impression that it was more to avoid his gaze than to remind himself of what he had written.

"At, first," he said, "I wrote bored. And frustrated and irritated. And I thought I was angry. But I don't think I really was."

The boy lapsed into silence and Severus waited, patiently, cataloguing the twitch of the boy's finger as it rested on the parchment, the rhythmic up and down motion of his left knee, the deliberate but shaky exhale. He waited.

"I was scared," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I am<em> scared. I'm scared of dying to destroy this horcrux and I'm scared of living long enough to see my friends hurt, of losing anyone else. I'm scared that you're going to be killed or hurt by Riddle. I'm scared of people finding out that I'm scared. And I'm embarrassed because," he let out a huff of humourless laughter, "I'm supposed to be a ruddy Gryffindor, aren't I? I'm Harry bloody Potter! I'm supposed to know what needs to be done and just do it. But I don't know this time and I feel helpless. And alone. And guilty, because my stupidity killed Sirius, and because I should be better than this. And miserable, because he's gone, like Mum and Dad."

Severus listened quietly until the boy stopped speaking. It was sometimes better, he knew, to be allowed to forget there was anyone else there. He was surprised to find himself wanting to offer something, some form of comfort, but that was not the purpose of this exercise. Harry had not invited Severus's input, and so Severus would not supply it.

When Harry looked up, Severus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the gravity of the subject matter. "Anything else?" he said, his voice very carefully level. Harry nodded, rattling the rest off with the air of someone ripping off a muggle plaster.

"Disgust and, and shame at the thought of his soul inside me. Hatred for Riddle for putting it there and for everything else." He took a breath and immediately continued, looking determinedly back at his paper, away from Severus. "Anxiety at the thought that we don't know how to get rid of it yet. Impatience due to wanting it gone immediately. Gratitude because of all you're doing to help me get rid of it. I think that's it, sir."

Severus was, despite himself, impressed. "That was well done, Harry. There are many adults who would struggle to be so brutally honest with themselves, much less with another."

Harry's cheeks pinked slightly at the praise, and after a few more questions, Severus was satisfied that Harry was not shying away from any emotion and deemed him ready to try.

"There is a potion element to this exercise," said Severus, offering a phial of a light amber coloured liquid. "It makes the mind of the drinker more accommodating to the presence of the other. It must be imbibed voluntarily, which is why we know that Professor Quirrel was a willing host to the Dark Lord. In the absence of a link such as that which you share with him, willingness is necessary for any form of inhabitation of the mind or body. This will be very similar to what you experienced yesterday, with the difference that we will be in your mind and body, rather than in mine.

"Because I am the stronger in mind magic, I will be in control. This will allow me to direct your mind in the same manner as I directed my own yesterday, but the difference is that, because this is your mind, the mental pathways I used to direct my magic during the occlusion have not yet been constructed. My aim will be to locate them for you. You will then be able to find and recognise them by yourself in future, having already done so once. It may take a little time, as I suspect we are cognitively quite dissimilar from one another, and the pathways will not be the same in every individual. Because I know what to look for, I should be able to unearth the pathways eventually, however."

"So it's like a shortcut to learning how to do something?" Harry asked.

"That is correct," confirmed Severus, "But to answer your likely next question, it is not often utilised because both participants need to have strong and functional occlumency shields in place to prevent their minds become inextricably merged during the process, and, as we have discussed, occlumency is a very rare skill."

"But," said Harry, considering, "does this mean you could essentially teach me any form of magic really quickly?"

"Essentially," nodded Severus. "I could control your body while performing the magic, you would feel your body, mind and magic respond and would be able to replicate the process yourself with relatively little effort. However, it is quite an involved process, requiring a high degree of mental stamina, and so should be utilised only when there is insufficient time to master the magic oneself." He paused to drain the last of his tea before continuing. "One more circumstance I think you should be aware of; because you have no emotional control as yet, I am likely to be able to discern the cause of your emotions, rather than just identifying them as you did yesterday."

He cast an assessing gaze over his student. "Are you well?" he asked, noting the clammy quality to the young man's brow.

Harry nodded. "Just a bit nervous," he admitted.

Severus nodded, "That is to be expected. I would ordinarily offer a calming draught, but the blunting of your emotions would render our exercise today more difficult. Nerves should not pose a problem, provided that they do not prompt you to try and force me from your mind."

Harry nodded once more, his face set.

Seeing that the boy was ready, Severus gestured to the settee and they resumed their positions from last time, with one key difference.

"For me to occupy your mind so thoroughly," Severus began, "We will need closer physical proximity. Consequently, we will place our fingers at each other's temples, unless you have any objections?" Harry's reaction to this pronouncement was somewhat amusing, yet he once again seemed to steel himself and nodded his agreement to the plan.

The boy's fingertips were warm on Severus's head, and Severus could feel the slightly clammy skin of Harry's temples under his own. He locked eyes with his student and incanted the long stream of Latin that would be needed to begin the exercise. He felt the jolt and the fall, and found himself looking at his own countenance, his eyes unsettlingly empty. He closed Harry's eyes, and felt an upswell of panic from the boy at the realisation that Severus was in control of his body. He stepped into Harry's mind, wearing it like a glove, and embraced the emotions of the boy, trying to find the pathway that would allow visualisation. After a very short moment, he was immediately surrounded by a fire, hot and high and violet. This was the boy's fear— present in the form of acute panic. Severus was surprised he'd found it so quickly— it had been quite intuitive, despite the difference in element.

There were other colours of flame too, but these were, at present, overwhelmed by the violet. The fire needed to be controlled, pushed back. Severus directed Harry's magic as it surrounded the flames, as if cutting off their supply of oxygen, and forced them to diminish, lower and lower and lower until they were but embers, barely discernible. He then turned Harry's attention to the other flames. A new one, sage green; intrigue about what was happening in his mind. A bright gold; awe at the effectiveness of the occlusion of his panic. Yellow; excitement at the idea of being able to achieve this himself. Blue; a latent sadness about Black, likely ever-present at the moment, Severus thought. A tarnished silver; guilt at having to lie to his friends. Severus focussed Harry's magic on the silver next, and repeated the motion from before, slowly diminishing the fire to embers, before noticing a new one. A pure white; hope that he will be able to achieve this himself. Severus showed Harry's magic how to fan this flame, to grow it ever larger, until Harry's mind was awash with the sense of hope. New flames emerged; a deep blue of gratitude for Severus's help, a pale gold admiration for his skill with mind magic and a soft lavender longing for the family he had seen in the Alium, then a hot pink embarrassment at the knowledge that Severus had identified that. Severus used Harry's magic to diminish the embarrassment, and then took his leave of Harry's mind, flying up and out, back to his own body. It was with a great sense of relief that he opened his eyes to discover he was once more looking out of his own.

Across from him, Harry's eyes flickered open, the relief Severus felt mirrored upon the boy's face, followed immediately by a wince. Severus wordlessly passed him a painkiller from one of the folds of his robes, also withdrawing one for himself. Both swallowed the potions immediately, and Severus felt a sense of satisfaction as the pain cleared from Harry's face.

"How are you feeling?" Severus asked, his voice soft so as not to exacerbate any lingering headache. Possession, he knew, really took a toll.

"Tired," Harry answered honestly, "but well enough. I think I feel the same as I did before."

"Good," Severus nodded with satisfaction. "Your occlumency shields?"

Harry focussed his attention inward for a moment. "Unchanged, sir."

"As expected, but good to hear," said Severus, with a sense of relief. He would not have undertaken the exercise had he not been certain of his ability to see to it safely, but it was one thing to come to a conclusion oneself and another to see that it was true. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Harry, I think it would be prudent to retire for the evening. I advise that you yourself do the same."

With that he rose gracefully and pivoted in the direction of his bedroom. He had reached the door when he heard Harry call him, and turned to look at the boy.

"Professor? Thank you. If I can do that on my own, I think it'll be one of the most useful things I learn this year."

Severus inclined his head, acknowledging the gratitude. "You are welcome. Now, as tempting as it may be, Harry, I caution you not to attempt what you have just seen on your own until we have discussed it further tomorrow. You are exhausted, your mind and magic have been heavily taxed and both need rest before any further exertion. Failure to provide that rest is likely to result in a setback." He waited long enough to secure Harry's nod of acknowledgement before sweeping from the room, shutting his bedroom door firmly behind him and lowering himself gratefully onto his bed.

The next morning, after a peaceful breakfast, the pair once more returned to the living room. They began the ritualistic tea pouring that preceded all of their more lengthy conversations, and Snape began. "There are three main aspects to emotional occlusion," he began in a slow, lecturing tone. "I demonstrated two for you last night. Can you tell me what they were?"

Harry had been thinking of this since he woke up— last night he was too tired even to brush his teeth— and so had an answer ready. "You showed me how to weaken an emotion and how to make one stronger."

"Exactly," approved Snape, and noted a slight flush on the boy's cheeks at the praise. "The third technique is simulating an emotion, which is to say, causing yourself to feel an emotion that you do not currently feel. To do that, one must recall a memory of that emotion, similarly to recalling happiness when casting a patronus, and then strengthen the emotion that results. I could not demonstrate it for you because, during the possession, it would have been dangerous for me to access your memories- the mingling of the emotions and thoughts of two people can be irreversible. You will need to practice that on your own, after you have mastered the first two techniques. Describe for me the process of dampening emotions- which emotions did I quell for you, and how?"

"First the panic," remembered Harry, "then guilt and then," he flushed, "the embarrassment."

"Correct," praised Snape, choosing to overlook the clear discomfort of his student at the recollection. "How did I achieve the dampening?"

There was a pause while Harry thought about this. "Well," he ventured after a moment, "First the magic surrounded it and then," he frowned. "I can't put it into words."

"And that," put in Snape, "is why I could not simply tell you how, and why the book is singularly unhelpful. It is not possible to adequately describe the process. With that in mind, I'd like to take the conversation back to the embarrassment I quelled for you yesterday. You remember the reason for it?"

Harry nodded, face once more aflame.

"I believe you feel it again now," Snape said, gently. "I'd like you to try and quell it as we did yesterday. Close your eyes, as it will likely help, and attempt to locate the flames. Once you have done so, try to repeat the process from yesterday."

He watched as Harry closed his eyes, his face tight with concentration. He was still flushed with embarrassment. After a few moments, however, his countenance relaxed and his colour returned to normal. He opened his eyes and stared at Snape in wonder.

"I did it!" He whispered, delight in his voice, and Snape felt a burst of pride, bringing to mind the memory of the other Harry's first patronus.

Harry's eyes widened as his gaze met that of his teacher. "You're proud of me," he said, conviction in his voice.

"I am," confirmed Snape, surprise uncharacteristically evident in his voice. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

"I can see it. It's like looking past your eyes— I can see the colour."

Snape blinked. "The Alium version of myself did say you were talented, given competent tuition," he murmured, almost to himself. "That, Harry, is the beginning of legilimency. It's likely that your familiarity with my own emotional occlusion is aiding you, along with lingering effects of the potion you ingested yesterday evening, but it is still quite impressive."

"Wow," breathed Harry. "Could I learn it? The other Harry is, in the Alium."

Snape thought about this for a moment and frowned, fixing a shrewd and assessing gaze upon Harry. "What you must understand," he began, his voice a slow drawl, annunciating each word clearly, "Is that legilimency is an offensive tool, not a defensive one like occlumency. For this reason, many consider it a Dark Art."

Shock spread itself across Harry's face. "But," he argued, "Professor Dumbledore uses it!"

"Professor Dumbledore," intoned Snape, still examining Harry carefully as he spoke, watching for comprehension as he tried to evaluate how much Harry understood, "is no stranger to the Dark Arts, Harry. He is a good man, but he is not an infallible one, and made mistakes in his youth that led him to gain many abilities that are considered rather unsavoury. He is as cunning as any Slytherin and will use any tools he has at his disposal for the greater good, including those tools that are considered Dark."

"So, he asked you to use it on me for the greater good? So I'd be able to fight it?"

Snape looked at him askance. How much did the boy fail to understand? "Harry," he said, very slowly now, gentling his voice as much as he was able, "you do realise that Professor Dumbledore has frequently used legilimency on you himself?"

The boy in front of him shook his head. "He's never used legilimency on me before," Harry omitted the meeting yesterday, as that was clearly done for a specific purpose, and he didn't particularly feel like discussing the conversation they'd had with Snape. "I've never heard the command or felt him… moving in there, not like last year's lessons." Snape supressed a pang of guilt at the involuntary shudder that ran through the boy at the memory.

"I suppose I should have explained this previously," said Snape, "Last year, I was being deliberately clumsy, using the incantation and making my presence extremely obvious so that you would be able to shut me out. I can, if I choose, sneak in, giving the uninitiated very little indication that I am there. Now you are quite proficient as an occlumens, you would likely still notice, but before the proficiency was gained, you would not have. The words are not necessary for legilimency. Simple eye contact will suffice, unless the intended victim is an occlumens and more force is required. Professor Dumbledore favours a surface look with students, just skimming active thoughts and emotions rather than delving deeper. It's similar to what you achieved with me just a moment ago."

"Oh," was all the boy replied, looking slightly troubled by this revelation.

Snape felt he'd better try to clarify somewhat. "The headmaster," he said, softly, "uses the skill almost without thought. After a while, it becomes second-nature, a force of habit. I myself apply legilimency in much the same way. If you seek the ability, you may one day find yourself in the same position. It is for this reason that I caution you against it. Though it may be utilised relatively benignly, legilimency is a Dark Art and for many, particularly young men struggling with feelings of grief and anger, the Dark Arts can be addictive. Though, given the strength with which I know you hold onto your moral convictions of right and wrong, I struggle to imagine a world in which you stumble down the unfortunate path I once trod, I cannot think it wise for you to embark upon the study of legilimency at this time."

Harry looked vaguely disappointed, but nodded, showing that he understood and accepted Snape's reasoning. "Why then," he asked, returning his eyes to Snape's face, "Did Alium-Snape let the other me learn it?"

Snape thought for a moment, eyes on the flickering fire ever-present in the cool dungeons, even in summer. "I cannot accurately conjecture as to the motivations behind my alternate self's parenting decisions," he began, thinking aloud. "And, as I have already stated, I already struggle to envision a world in which Harry Potter could ever become addicted to the Dark Arts. Moreover," he mused, "in a world in which you had not recently witnessed the murder of one of your loved one, in which you had not spent part of every Hogwarts year afraid for your own life and in which you were not suffering from an active connection to the mind of a resurrected Dark Lord, I imagine I would be less concerned about exposing you to the Dark Arts, particularly if I were assured that I could monitor you closely and if you possessed a natural aptitude for it."

"I suppose I can understand that, sir," Harry admitted.

"It is irrelevant, regardless," Snape said, abruptly changing topic. "I intend to spend the rest of the day in the lab. For your self-study I would like you to practice weakening specific emotions. The rest of your time is your own."

With that, Snape banished the remains of the tea tray, with its now-empty teapot, and began to rise. He stopped at the sound of Harry's hesitant, "Professor?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Do you need any help today?"

Snape considered him. As it was, he did not need any assistance; his planned potion for today was highly experimental, intricately nuanced and rather easily ruined. However, if he wasn't mistaken, the boy was actively seeking out his company. He'd do better to say no, of course, but…

"Not particularly," he found himself saying, "although, if you would like to join me, you may practice one of your sixth year potions until lunch. After that, I am afraid I really must brew in solitude for the remainder of the afternoon. The potion I am working with is extremely temperamental and I cannot afford any distractions whatsoever during brewing."

He wondered if the boy would be offended at being classed as a distraction, but Harry simply nodded, before hesitating. "Thank you, sir, it's just that," Snape mentally pushed away the impatient urge to snap at the boy to spit it out, "I don't have a copy of the textbook yet, sir. I think Mrs Weasley is sending them on with Ron."

The disorganisation of that woman! How she managed to keep any of her brood in check was beyond Severus. Rumour had it that they were habitually late to the platform each year too, despite the train having left at the same time every year since their eldest started, some fifteen years ago. How on Earth she expected the boy to do any pre-reading when he would only acquire the books on the first day of term…

"There are some spare textbooks in a cupboard in the potions classroom," he said, hiding his irritation behind a mental influx of cold water. "I suggest you collect one and then meet me in the lab."

"Thank you, sir," came the response, as the boy headed for the door.

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

Harry headed out of Snape's quarters and along the corridor that led to the potions classroom. It was difficult to believe that he'd only been staying in the dungeons a few short weeks— it felt like it had been much longer, and surprisingly, he had been comfortable here. It didn't have the cacophony of cheer and hum of activity of the Burrow, or the riotous exuberance of Gryffindor common room, but his stay in the dungeons had been a welcome break. It was quiet and peaceful, and Harry had found solace here, under Snape's guidance. It was a little spot of calm, the eye of the storm that was Harry's day-to-day life, and Harry knew he would miss it.

He reached the potions classroom and opened the door.

"Ah, Mr Potter!" called a jocular voice, as soon as he poked his head through the doorway. "I'm surprised to see a student at this time of year! But then, it's the second time I've had the pleasure of your company this summer."

"It's good to see you again, Professor Slughorn," agreed Harry, taken aback but trying his best to push down the flames of surprise and nervousness at the unexpected encounter. Snape would kill him for going out without his cloak this close to the start of term— they couldn't afford for it to be discovered that Professor Snape had been living in the same castle as Harry Potter without informing Voldemort. "An unexpected day trip, sir. Professor Dumbledore stopped by to have me visit with him, he does sometimes during summer," Harry lied through his teeth, furiously subduing the guilt he felt at the lie and reminding himself to tip Dumbledore off. He was only partially successful; it was much more difficult with his eyes open.

"Ah," said the Slughorn, a knowing smile on his face, "It seems that I'm not the only staff member who will go the extra mile for an extraordinary student! Come in, my boy, come in!"

Harry entered the room to see the man he'd been told to expect as his potions teacher this year, looking far less dishevelled than the last time he'd seen him, surrounded by boxes on benches, clearly unpacking for the new year.

"I'm sorry for coming in without knocking, Professor," began Harry, "only I didn't know anyone would be here and I'm looking for a spare potions book. Mine won't arrive until next week, and I wanted to look ahead at this year's potions. Professor Dumbledore said it would be OK, as long as I head straight back to him afterwards."

"Of course, Mr Potter," chuckled Slughorn genially, "A passion for potions just like your mother, I see! Excellent, excellent. I look forward to seeing your work in class. I'm afraid you've caught me at rather a bad time— I've a meeting with Professor McGonagall shortly, you see, all about policies and procedures, just in case they've changed since I was last here. I'll leave in just a minute, but you're welcome to grab a spare book. There used to be a stash in a cupboard around here somewhere… There!" As he spoke he had quickly opened several cupboards with a jab of his wand, before indicating one to Harry with a flourish. "Quick as you can, my boy," he said, consulting a golden pocket watch, "I'm in danger of running late, and if you've ever had an appointment with Professor McGonagall, you'll know that's to be avoided at all costs!"

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry, quickly moving over to the cupboard and grabbing a book blindly before heading out of the door in the professor's wake.

He fell into step beside Slughorn as the two moved towards the Entrance Hall. Slughorn would be expecting Harry to head back to the headmaster, so Harry decided to walk past the entrance to Snape's quarters and kept pace with the man until their paths diverged. Harry let the older man natter on, about crystallised pineapple and various famous wizards and witches. He was just beginning a tale about Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies, as a girl, when they reached a junction in the corridor and Harry was able to, gratefully, yet feigning disappointment, beg off in the direction of the Headmaster's office.

"Will you be joining us in the Great Hall for lunch, Harry?' asked Slughorn, a gleam in his eyes. Harry smiled. Snape had warned Harry, during one of their own lunches, that Slughorn would be likely to attempt to 'collect' Harry, owing to his fame, and that it might benefit him to allow it, provided he was able to work it to his advantage.

"I'm afraid not, sir," said Harry. "I'll be heading back before then. I should probably get going; I wouldn't want to make you late for your appointment. Have a good day, sir."

"Good day, Mr Potter!" called Slughorn, moving towards a staircase, "Any time you would like to practice brewing, let me know. I, like our esteemed headmaster, never mind handing out favours to those with enthusiasm and potential." With that, he turned and headed up the staircase.

Harry waited until the professor was out of sight before doubling back in the direction of the dungeons. As he did so, he glanced down at the book in his hands, somewhat dismayed by the state of it. Battered, bent and defaced, so heavily annotated that the actual instructions were difficult to read in places. He considered going back to check for a different one, but couldn't justify it now he knew that the room belonged to another professor, so instead headed straight to Snape's quarters.

Once there, he had a short floo conversation with Dumbledore, who thankfully was in the building, and who praised him for his quick thinking, promising to uphold Harry's story in a way that could not prove detrimental to the new defense professor.

Snape had begun his own brewing by the time Harry arrived, dressed in a set of the school robes that Snape had helped him purchase, so he entered the lab silently and made his way over to his customary bench. He looked down at the book with some distaste as he gingerly grabbed a corner less stained than the rest and eased it open, gently, so as not to force the front cover to part company with the book.

He turned to A— Aging Potion, Alihotsy Draught, Amortentia… he flicked through until he found one that sparked his interest; 'Potion for a Dreamless Sleep'. Though his nightmares had decreased in frequency dramatically since Harry'd started to practise occlumency in earnest, there were still nights during which this would be very useful, Harry thought. Particularly in Gryffindor tower.

The notes written in the margins seemed to contradict much of the given recipe, with tips on how to improve potency or reduce time spent brewing or preparing ingredients. The handwriting looked quite familiar, Harry thought, and checked the front of the book for a name. 'Property of the Half-Blood Prince'. He frowned; no help there. Whoever it had been was certainly confident in their own directions— enough to entirely black out some of the original instructions. Harry decided to give it a go regardless and collected the ingredients, preparing them as instructed by the Prince— crushing the lavender to release the oils, rather than mincing it as the book suggested, and carefully separating the wormwood leaves from the stems before grinding with the pestle and mortar.

To his surprise, the brew worked perfectly. As he waited for it to simmer for the required twenty minutes, turning the flame down halfway through, Harry contemplated the mystery of the Half Blood Prince as he flicked through the suggestions in the book. Whoever the Prince was, he was clearly brilliant with potions. Harry froze for a moment, his eyes wide. Half-blood. Potions expert. He looked at the writing— it was familiar, a spiky scrawl. Had he seen it before on his potions essays? He was filled with an impatient desire to know, and the two minutes that were needed before he could turn down the heat and leave the potion to simmer seemed to last an age.

Once it was finally simmering, he grabbed his book and hurried out of the room, calling out that he'd be back in a moment. The potion just needed to simmer for fifteen more minutes. He shut the lab door behind him carefully and hurried down the corridor to Snape's quarters and straight through to his bedroom, pausing only to switch his shoes for his slippers in the entrance hall. He yanked open his trunk and dug through for the letter Snape had sent him during the summer, laying it alongside the book to compare the handwriting.

There were slight differences, but they looked similar. Very similar. Almost similar enough to be conclusive, but not quite.

He'd need to ask to be sure, but he felt very nearly certain this was Snape's old potions book. Leaving the letter in his trunk, he noted the time and had a glass of water, managing to make it back just in time to calmly enter the lab, for all the world as if he had not been rushing. He gave the brew its final three stirs and removed it from the heat.

Harry carefully covered his book with a spare bit of parchment when he noted that Snape was coming over to inspect his potion.

"Perfectly brewed," he commented. Snape did not praise like others did, in a cheerful tone or with a smile. He stated it as a fact, indisputable, in the way that one might state that it was raining outside. Still, that did not bother Harry- the praise seemed more genuine somehow, and he couldn't help the beaming smile that lit up his face. At least until Snape followed it up with, "Might I please see the book you've been using?"

"Sir?" asked Harry, trying his best to appear bewildered by the question.

Snape stared impassively at him. "My powers of observation far exceed the level with which you apparently credit me. Now hand it over."

Reluctantly, Harry uncovered his new favourite textbook and handed it to his professor, who promptly glanced at the inside cover before tucking it away in his robes and turning back to his own workstation. Feeling a little hard-done-by, Harry didn't speak as he cleared away his own.

That evening, Harry showed Snape his new prowess in occluding emotion, which he seemed to have taken to like he had flying. Alium-Snape had been correct; he definitely had a talent for mind magic.

What was more, with no draining possession or legilimency to perform or be subjected to, both of them felt equal to staying up after the session. This was one of the few times this had happened since Harry had moved in over three weeks ago; typically occlumency took so much time and effort that one or both were ready for bed by the time it ended, though sometimes it had needed to end early owing to meetings that Snape needed to attend.

So, on this night, post-occlumency, both Snape and Harry found themselves in the same living room, in the middle of the evening, with something that looked like free time on their hands. For a while, they sat in companionable silence, a book and a cup of tea apiece, Snape in his favoured armchair and Harry curled up on the settee.

To Harry's surprise, it was Snape who broke the silence first. "Do you play chess?" he asked, putting down his book to look at Harry.

"Sometimes," said Harry, putting a bookmark in his own (a novel he'd borrowed from one of Snape's bookshelves; the main character had just found a body, apparently savaged by a rogue Hippogriff, but Harry was sceptical of the hippogriff's guilt) before closing it and laying it to one side. "I'm not very good; Ron and I just see how long I can hold out against him. My personal best is forty-two minutes."

"Would you like me to teach you?" asked Snape, before he could stop himself.

Harry looked taken aback by the offer (as, indeed, Snape himself was) but readily acquiesced. "I'd like that. If that's not too much trouble, sir," he said, adding the last bit on in a rush of air, a note of disbelief evident in his voice.

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

Well, thought Snape, in for a penny, in for a pound. "Not at all," he said, keeping his tone light. "Though you'll have to tell me about Mr Weasley's expression when you finally best him at his own game."

Harry smiled slightly at this. "I don't think we've got that much time, sir," he said, humour in his voice, but he nodded his agreement to the plan regardless, so Severus flicked his wand to summon across the chessboard.

Internally, he assessed his own motivations. He should not want to teach Potter anything— housing the boy was chore enough, surely? But he couldn't blame the Alium for this one. This was no memory-driven freefall into the mind of a softer version of himself. This was a desire to help, born of– he magnified his own emotions, searching– fondness. He had grown fond of the boy. He frowned to himself, internally.

Attachments were troubling things to a spy. Attachments made spies less effective.

People would get hurt.

Harry could get hurt.

With a sense of shock, Snape identified another emotion— fear.

He was afraid to see Harry hurt. Perhaps it was time to ask for Dumbledore's opinion on the matter. He mentally shook himself; there would be time for navel-gazing later. What was done was done and, right now, there was chess to be taught.

The only remaining aspect of occlumency that Severus intended to teach him before term commenced was finally, briefly, covered three nights before September the first.

"You want me," Harry said, flatly, "to mentally conjure a giant squid made of love?"

Severus exhaled deliberately, pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing, patiently. "I want you to mentally conjure a giant squid using memories that inspire in you the emotion of love. The giant squid is an obvious guardian in your mental mindscape, capable of drifting benignly until needed to attack if the intruder attempts to enter your hidden room in the dungeons. Love is, according to the headmaster, the best weapon against the Dark Lord, and a particular strength of your own."

"A giant squid," repeated Harry, dubiously, "made of love."

"That is not what I said," insisted Severus.

"A giant squid," repeated Harry once more, "made of love." He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, I can't see how that would work."

"That," said Severus, tersely, "is what I am attempting to elucidate for you. A memory guardian is essentially a mental patronus, with some key differences. The guardian will always be present, though not always obvious, and it is semi-sentient, growing itself, selecting those memories containing your target emotion to fuel itself. It can be commanded to attack consciously or subconsciously, when certain conditions are met."

"Are you sure you can't show me, like before?" asked Harry.

"As I have already stated," growled Severus. "Memories and emotions must never intersect when inhabiting the mind of another, unless you wish to be inextricably bound to one another. Now, kindly stop forcing me to repeat myself!"

"Sorry," Harry muttered sheepishly, directing his eyes downwards. Severus thought he detected a little impatience in the boy too.

Severus sighed and rubbed his temples. "Harry," he said, as patiently as he could, waiting until the boy's eyes were once more on him before continuing. "You are a competent occlumens. You can protect your memories to the extent that the Dark Lord himself should struggle to access them for a time. You can consciously control your emotions and can deceive in such a way that it will be undetectable to most. You do not need a guardian; do not fret about it so."

"I know I don't need one," said Harry, adding under his breath, in a voice that would have been inaudible to someone without Severus's keen sense of hearing, "It'd be nice to have one though."

Later that night, Severus remembered this comment and frowned as he considered it and its potential alternate meaning. After a moment, he shrugged it off. The boy had been speaking of mental patroni, nothing more.

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

"Your hair is growing," Snape commented.

Harry looked up, distracted from his book. They were seated in the living room, in a short lull between their morning occlumency tutorial and the beginning of the day's true work. "What?"

"Your hair," Snape repeated. "Since I have known you, your magic has been maintaining its length. It is usually the case with wizards. Have you never thought it odd that you and your friends will board at school for over ten months of the year without a noticeable change in hair length? That you yourself have never needed it cut?”

Harry shrugged. "I went to the barbers a lot growing up but it never made a difference. Aunt Petunia tried to cut it herself once; she did an awful job of it, too. It all grew back by the next day."

"I am not surprised," replied Snape. "I imagine your aunt was displeased?"

Harry let out a mirthless chuckle. "You could say that. Earned me a month in my cupboard."

Snape did not comment on this, for which Harry was thankful, choosing instead to lead Harry to the bathroom, where he stood him in front of the sink. Harry stared into the mirror. Now he stopped to look at it, his hair was definitely longer than it had been. He reached up to run his fingers through it, noting the difference in length from the last time. It was growing, and fairly rapidly at that.

"Why has it started now?" Harry asked, continuing to run the strands between his fingers to the tapered ends.

"You know yourself better than I do, Harry," answered Snape. "Your magic has been directed by your subconscious. Only you can know why it has started to grow. You are also showing the beginnings of facial hair, you realise?"

Harry ran his fingers along his upper lip and chin, feeling a slight sandpaper quality to them, rough under his fingertips. This was a slower growth than the hair on his head. "So, my magic stopped this too?" he questioned.

"It is not uncommon in wizarding adolescents, particularly those with limited control over their own lives," drawled Snape, stepping back to lean against the wall, his eyes on Harry. “It is not the norm, however.”

"Regardless of the reason for the onset of your hair growth, you will need to know two charms in order to manage it; the Hogwarts dress code does not permit facial hair on students." At Harry's incredulous look, he elaborated, “It's an old rule, dating back to the Dragon Pox outbreak of 1258. The rash on several students' faces was obscured by beards, allowing the infection to spread further than it otherwise would have done, and sneezing of sparks proved exceedingly problematic for those endowed with facial hair. What began as precaution, became fashion, then custom, and finally tradition, so that the rule remained in place.”

"Alright," Harry shrugged. "So I need to know a charm. Is there a book I could read?"

Snape's upper lip twitched at this, "I imagine there is," he said, lightly. "Or I could simply teach you now?"

Harry finally turned away from the mirror to look at Snape, eyes wide. "You want to teach me to shave?" he said, incredulously.

Snape’s lip twitched again, in something that might have been suppressed amusement, unlikely though that seemed to Harry.

"To say I want to would be overstating the matter somewhat," Snape said, still keeping his tone light. "However, Hogwarts would not employ Professor Flitwick if charms could be learnt quite so easily from books alone. I am offering to teach you, if you wish it."

Harry felt a rising heat in his cheeks and focused on trying to quell the embarrassment he felt at the situation. After a moment, he thought he had succeeded in diminishing it, if only a little. "If it's not too much trouble, sir," he finally answered, his voice uncharacteristically calm and collected.

Snape kept his own voice level and Harry found it surprisingly reassuring, "If it were too much trouble, Harry, I would not have offered. Now," his wand appeared in his hand. Harry blinked; he had seen it happen numerous times at this point, and presumed a wrist holster of some sort was involved, but the speed at which Snape withdrew the wand from it was incredible.

Silence fell and Harry looked back up at Snape, who was staring at him, eyebrow raised. "As I said,” he continued, pointedly, “there are two charms. The first will remove the hair already grown, while the second will prevent further hair growth for a year or so, depending on the strength of the charm. Keep on top of the second charm, and you will not need the first again."

Harry nodded his understanding, and directed his attention to the mirror.

“We begin by removing all pre-existing facial hair, which is accomplished by means of a carefully-modified vanishing charm. The incantation is evanescet capillus, but the intent is very important, as is the amount of power that one puts into it, and the precision with which you target the incantation. You can imagine the results of imprecision, I am sure.”

Harry nodded, mouth rather too dry to speak.

“In terms of intent, one must focus completely on the section of hair one wishes to vanish. For your first attempt, it would be prudent to focus on a specific area, such as the chin, rather than attempting to remove all unwanted facial hair at once.”

He stopped here, eyes on the reflection of Harry, checking he was following the explanation. Upon securing Harry's nod, he continued.

“The wand movement is somewhat intricate.” He demonstrated a sweeping downwards back and forth movement that Harry recognised from evanesco, but continued it in a gentle arch, followed by a swift movement of the wrist, causing it to end in a sharp twist.

“How am I supposed to do that while aiming it at myself?” Harry asked, sceptically.

“There is no need to aim it physically,” Snape explained. “It is simply a matter of your intent as you identify the target and of delineating the limits of the spell mentally. You could do the incantation with your eyes closed and it would not matter.”

Harry narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Much of magic is based on intent,” came the explanation, slow and drawling. “It is why wandless and worldless magic is possible, the premise behind accidental magic and even the way in which Platform Nine and Three Quarters is accessed. Occlumency should support you in identifying, strengthening and projecting your intent.”

So Harry began the process of learning the spell. Snape was far more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him in a classroom, and did not insult or belittle Harry once, not even when Harry got distracted trying not to think of his eyebrows and, to his horror, made them vanish entirely. No, instead, Snape regrew his eyebrows for him, and actually offered constructive criticism.

After half an hour, Harry had successfully removed all the stubble from his face, leaving Snape to teach the spell that would prevent regrowth for up to a year, which turned out to be frigore folliculis.

"What about my hair, sir?" Harry asked, when both spells had finally been applied and Snape turned to leave the room.

Snape turned back and raised an eyebrow in question.

"I mean," said Harry, turning back to the mirror, "What happens if I let it grow?"

"Hair that has had its growth magically restricted does grow apace when finally permitted to do so," Snape informed him, "However, it will slow to a near-halt once it reaches whatever limit you have subconsciously decided on. You may cut it, and the act of doing so should slow it somewhat, though you will likely need to keep maintaining the style. There is a barber in Hogsmeade."

Harry swallowed nervously. "Any way of knowing what length it will stop at?" He asked, without much hope of a favourable answer.

"Unfortunately not.”

Harry nodded at himself in the mirror, not turning to look at Snape as he spoke. "You said before that by keeping it short, I make a statement."

"Correct," agreed Snape. "Some will infer that you are an intentional non-conformist, some will presume ignorance, some may even see it as a failure to honour your father's passing, though as I have said, no one who knew your father would have that thought, as he never grew his own hair. You likewise make a statement if you choose to grow it out."

"That I'm growing up," said Harry, casting a glance at Snape, who nodded in confirmation.

"You may also be perceived as intentionally mourning or remembering your father, or as showing respect for the traditions of the ancient and noble houses, which may not be what you would wish to imply, given traditional attitudes towards, for instance, werewolves."

Harry groaned in frustration. "Why can't it just be a fashion choice?"

Snape sniffed in disdain. "Wizarding society, Harry. In many ways, the muggles have surpassed us."

Harry nodded, then turned his head to look at Snape. "What do you think I should do, sir?"

"I am hardly the best-suited person for the head of an ancient and noble house to look to for advice on such things," Snape said, somewhat dismissively.

"I know that," said Harry, with a shrug, "but you're the one I'm asking. Could you share your opinion anyway? With Harry? Just Harry— not the head of the Potter household, or the Boy-Who-Lived?"

There was a pause, then Snape briefly closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and fixed his gaze upon the young man with consideration.

"Grow it out," he said decisively. "It means nothing definitive politically until you come of age, and at least you will know whether you like the way it looks. There will be time to cut it again before you reach seventeen, and in the interim few people of any importance will see you. Furthermore, growing it could be considered the less controversial option; you are unlikely to attract anything more than a snide comment from Mr Malfoy. In short, if you wish to experiment, now is the safest time to do so, politically."

Harry nodded. "Sir," he said again, having just thought of something. "Why didn't Riddle have long hair? You know, before he was bald? His hair was short in the diary, and he was of age, I think."

"Ah," said Snape, "That would likely be because he was muggle-raised and, quite simply, no one told him of its significance. People are unlikely to openly share such things outside of family; it is considered unbecoming to do so, and the majority, especially at that time, will have assumed he was deliberately spurning his father, whose identity was not known to his classmates, or that he simply did not know, owing to being Muggle-raised.

"Generally, these societal norms are passed on and taught by parents to children in their pre-Hogwarts years. To Slytherins, particularly, there is no reason to speak of such conventions aloud, and a disdain generally for the practice of doing so."

"Oh," said Harry. Then, after a moment, "So, why are you telling me, sir?"

Snape let the corners of his mouth drift up slightly, forming a wry half-smirk. "When given the choice, I have never been one for convention, Harry. In fact, I told your mother, too."

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

The rest of the week flew by quickly. Too quickly, for Harry's tastes. He found himself actively enjoying his time in the dungeons. He spent some time with Professor Dumbledore while Snape worked on his more complex potions, completed his murder mystery book in the evenings (Harry was right, it wasn't the hippogriff) as Snape completed the remainder of his lesson plans, played another few rounds of chess where Snape taught him some more complicated traps and plays he could use to try and snare Ron, as well as how to identify some of the manoeuvres Ron was likely to employ. All too soon, it was the final night of his stay.

Harry was in his room, trunk open and filled with the carefully folded new clothes Snape had taken him to get this summer, while searching for errant socks and the like underneath his bed, when there was a knock at the open door. He looked around, surprised, to see Snape leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, the picture of relaxed ease.

"Nearly packed?" he asked, casting his eyes around the room.

"Nearly," agreed Harry. "Just doing a final sweep for things that I might have missed."

At that, Snape made a complicated wand motion and a sock flew out from the gap between the mattress and the bedframe, while a missing piece of parchment emerged from behind the desk and a spare quill zoomed out from under the dresser.

"Thanks, sir," said Harry, throwing him a slight smile. "How am I getting to the platform tomorrow?"

Snape had informed Harry at dinner that the decision had been made that he ought to arrive at the station as usual, to avoid suspicion that he had been spending his summer at the castle, where Snape was known to be residing. The other teachers had been told that Harry had been working on a project for the headmaster, visiting for a day here and there under the Headmaster's direct supervision. Harry imagined that Snape had passed that on to Voldemort too, but didn't ask.

"The headmaster will floo with you from his office to Grimmauld Place at half past eight, giving you plenty of time to catch up with your friends before leaving for the train," Snape replied. "Unless you'd prefer to leave earlier?"

Harry shook his head. "No, sir, that's OK. Half eight will work."

"Very well," said Snape, withdrawing something from his robes and walking over to hand it to Harry. As he drew closer, Harry saw it was a potions text. Not the one he had taken–Snape's old one— this one looked new.

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, giving a small smile of acknowledgement.

"Open it," came the reply.

Harry did so, and on the first page noted the inscription, 'This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince'.

"I added a new cover," explained Snape, "and removed the more unsavoury spells. I was rather… troubled in sixth year, and would not like to see you cast some of the more untoward spells I invented at that time. Those that remain are safe for you to attempt."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, the wide smile spreading across his face truly genuine now. "You invented your own spells, sir?" Harry added, remembering the latter half of Snape's speech.

Snape simply nodded, his lips quirking up in the merest suggestion of a smile. "I hope my annotations are of use to you," was all he said, before he turned to leave.

"Sir," called out Harry. Snape stopped, pivoting on his heel to look at Harry once more. Harry steeled himself to make the request— he hadn't been going to, but since the book, maybe…

"Sir," he began again, "If…," he swallowed nervously, "if I wanted to speak to you after term starts, would I…would it be possible?"

Snape raised one eyebrow. "You are aware that I will be teaching you Defence against the Dark Arts?"

"Yes, it's just…" Harry let out a frustrated breath, shaking his head.
"Never mind, sir, ignore me. I'm just being daft."

His defence professor studied him for a moment, curiosity painted across his face, before slowly nodding. "Very well, then. Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, sir," Harry responded, feeling a little disappointed. Honestly, he scolded himself, what was he expecting? Weekly meetings like those his Alium self had described? Why would he even want to spend more time than necessary with the man? He shook his head to clear it, and proceeded to lay out his clothes for the next day.

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

Morning came, and with it came Harry's departure from the dungeons. He would be flooing up to the headmaster's office, a house elf bringing his belongings.

At twenty-five minutes past eight, Harry put down his final cup of tea in the dungeons and headed over to the floo. Snape joined him in regarding the glowing amber flames flickering in the grate.

"You have everything?" he asked, after a moment.

"Yes, sir," Harry confirmed. "All packed. I suppose I'd better be going."
He turned to his professor. "Thank you sir, for everything. This month has been much better than I thought it would be and I've learned a lot, so… thank you."

"There is no need, Harry," said Snape shaking his head as he did so. "In truth, I have found your presence here rather… tolerable. It pleases me to hear that the same has been true for you. Remember to practise your occlumency nightly."

"I will, sir," said Harry, reaching for the floo powder on the mantlepiece and grabbing a handful.

"Harry," Snape said suddenly, causing Harry to pause, the powder clutched in his hand.

"Yes sir?" answered Harry, turning once more to face his teacher.

"You are aware that, outside of these dungeons, you are once again Mr Potter?"

"Yes, sir," nodded Harry.

"Good," said Snape. "However… with that said," the man continued, slowly, as if weighing each word carefully, "you will remain keyed to the wards of my quarters throughout the year. If you have need of me, you may wait for me here. Using the utmost discretion, of course," he commanded, a note of warning entering his tone.

"Of course, sir," Harry responded, unable to quell the rising smile that lit up his face. He felt a warmth spread through him, almost like that which had enveloped him when he had first been keyed into the wards. He wasn't sure why, he probably wouldn't ever take Snape up on the offer, but the fact he had made it left Harry feeling like he had options if necessary, an adult he could go to, and he felt a strong sense of relief.

"I shall leave a teacup on the coffee table if I am with the Dark Lord." Snape continued. "If you wish to speak to me, but find the teacup out, I would ask that you invert the cup and I will find an excuse to keep you after class— I am often not in a fit state for conversation after such a meeting, and would not be of much use to you."

Noting the time, Snape, with only a small amount of hesitation, invisible to the naked eye, lowered a hand to Harry's shoulder and squeezed lightly. If Harry was surprised by the gesture, he didn't show it, but his smile, if possible, widened.

"Farewell, Harry," Snape said, his voice deep and level, but somehow slightly softer than usual. "I will see you at the feast."

"See you at the feast, sir," replied Harry, and with that, Snape released Harry, who cast his powder, stepping forwards into the emerald flames before whirling away out of sight.