A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

* * *

16th of May, Saturday. Potter Manor

Harry woke up later than usual, still feeling out of sorts after yesterday’s ‘meeting’ with Snape. His initial curiosity about the professor that he felt when he came to the blasted school all those years ago had long worn off and got replaced by reality, so he knew that the man was a right bastard. To be surprised by that fact one needed to be worse than the dumbest idiot on the planet. That Snape was such an ungrateful bastard was debatable until yesterday. Now, though, Harry wondered what on bleeding earth made him believe that after so many years of mutual hatred (from Snape’s side, quite genuine) one instance of goodwill and one conversation might turn them from enemies to allies. Maybe he really was the aforementioned dumbest idiot on the planet.

No matter, though. Once upon a time, Harry promised to himself that he’d try, he did try, the rest of it — not important. At least that’s what Harry thought while making his way down to the kitchen for a spot of late breakfast. Sun shone through the large windows, leaving rectangular-shaped bright patches on the white marble floor with shadows of leaves dancing inside them merrily. Harry watched them all the way down, not for the first time glad that all those years ago found and renovated this place. With his penchant for gloominess, he needed a home like this: light, airy, and cheery — otherwise he'll drive himself into a deeper and deeper depression, and they would have a new Dark Lord on hands. This time truly unstoppable.

The kitchen was spacious and bright. It was one hundred percent muggle with all the appropriate household appliances present, with a birch kitchen set, and a square white table with four elegant chairs besides the furthest window. It looked like one of the perfect pictures from a household magazine and had everything a chef could dream of, sans house-elves, because this room — it was Harry's paradise. No one other than him was allowed to touch anything in the room. If somebody asked him if he loved anything in the world, he'd name cooking. It was his outlet, his happy place where he could escape no matter what. Dumbledore once again demanded the impossible? Make a Shepherd's pie. Weasley had been sucking Harry's brain out through a narrow tube all day with endless talk about Quidditch? Time for a Sticky Toffee Pudding. Bloody shoulder was burning worse than usual? How about making a Welsh Cawl? And so on, and so forth. In other words, cooking was what kept him sane all these years. 

Therefore when Harry made it to the kitchen, his mood improved somewhat already. Snape turned out to be Snape… So what? It wasn't important all that much really. What was then, you'd ask? Pancakes, naturally. 

Harry pulled eggs and milk out of the fridge, then took the flour and other necessary things from the cabinets, preparing to start on the batter, when he was interrupted by a loud 'pop'. 

"Master Harold," drawled a raspy voice.

"Hello, Kreature," Harry replied, glancing at the old elf for a moment. "Is something the matter at the house?" 

"Everything in order, master." 

"Is. Everything is in order, Kreacher. Don't forget your lessons."

"Kreacher is old, master," the elf bowed, "Tis hard for the old elf…" 

Harry frowned and stopped stirring for a moment, staring the elf down. "We discussed this, Kreacher. Stop whining about your age, you have a good fifty years ahead of you if not more. You're a Potter elf now, you represent my family. And as such, I demand you improve your education as best as you can. At the very least speak proper English and remember to use your manners as any decent sentient being should."

"Of course, master," Kreacher bowed low. "Kreacher—" Harry cleared his throat loudly. "Sorry. I will remember." 

"Good," Harry replied and resumed whisking the batter. "Now, did you want something?"

"Yes, master. There's this Granger-girl, she comed… came to the house and asked to be brought here."

"Bring her then," Harry sighed. "Straight here."

Kreacher bowed once again and vanished.

Harry didn't have to wait long. 

"Hi," Hermione said hesitantly behind his back, and Harry turned around. She stood a couple of paces away from him fidgeting and fiddling with the lowest button of her simple plaid shirt. 

"I hope you don't mind that I'm here. I just… Last time we left things in a bad state and I… Well… At the end of the day, you're still my best friend, no matter what Ron says. I don't care what he does anymore, nor do I care that you're different. We went through hell together. I don't want to lose you, Harry." 

Harry sighed. "At the end of the day, Hermione, I don't want to lose you too."

What a mess… He crossed the remaining distance between them and pulled her into a bear-hug. They stayed like that for a long moment, just enjoying the peace it brought. 

"Care for some pancakes?" Harry asked, finally pulling away. Hermione smiled and nodded. "Take a seat then."

While he cooked, the two of them remained silent, though Harry was acutely aware of Hermione's gaze that tracked his every move. 

"Where did you learn to cook?" she finally asked from her seat at the dining table. 

"From Petunia mostly. I did a lot of things around her house," Harry replied, not even looking up from the frying pan that he was quickly cleaning up the muggle way. "Though I spent many years improving my skills just because I like the process, so…" he turned around, drying his hands with a towel. "Tea?" 

"Yes, please." 

Harry nodded and got his favourite small tea set out of the cupboard. 

"My skills are rudimentary…" Hermione said after a while. "But, you, of course, already know that, sorry." 

"I can help you if you want," Harry replied, ignoring her obvious discomfort, and placed a silver tray with a tea-kettle and two cups on the table. "It's not hard, especially if you cook something that you really like."

"I'll think about it. Thanks, though." Hermione smiled, but Harry noticed that it didn't really reach her eyes. He found himself upset over that fact, which was not all that surprising. Hermione was probably the only person who he'd miss if he lost everyone. Or if everyone lost him, same difference. And then something just clicked in his mind. He sat down at the table opposite her and leaned on his elbows. 

"I'm gonna be honest, Hermione. You're okay with that?" She seemed nervous, but nodded nonetheless. "When we met, I was entirely different from what you saw, more so, I may or may not have changed further since that day in every way you could imagine, but one thing stayed the same all this time: from the moment I set one foot on that train, the only person I truly liked was you." Harry paused. "When I said that I don't want to lose you, I meant it. This whole situation is hard for you, I can see it, it's not easy for me too, therefore I have an obvious, nauseatingly banal suggestion: let's start over. As if we only met five minutes ago. Hello," he held out his hand. "My name is Harold James Potter, but I prefer just Harry." 

Hermione's smile widened as she took the offered hand. "Hi. I'm Hermione Granger, and I hate it when people shorten my name. It's nice to meet you, Harry." 

Harry also smiled the best he could with half of his face not working, which must’ve looked creepy, but Hermione just soldiered on. 

"So… How about that tea and pancakes? And afterwards I can give you a tour of the house and the grounds." 

"Sounds great."

Harry poured them both tea, put a plate with pancakes along with jam, honey, and sour cream onto the table, and they ate, chatting about nothing in particular, and it was great.

For about an hour or so after they finished, Harry showed Hermione around his home and the flower garden nearby, then they returned to the house and made themselves comfortable on one of the benches that stood around a small fountain in the backyard. 

"The house is lovely, Harry. And the garden… I absolutely adore it. If I could stay there forever, I would. When did you buy it?" 

Harry shrugged. "I didn't. We're on the Potter Manor grounds. This was a dowager house, until I remodelled it to suit my needs. It's called the Sun Cottage. The dawns here are magnificent. You should see it. Remember that day when we met the dawn in the forest last winter? It's like that, only better."

"Wow… How long have you been living here?"

"Around a decade, more or less." 

Hermione nodded, absentmindedly looking at the greenery surrounding them, but as Harry's words permeated her mind properly, her eyes snapped to him.

"What about the Dursleys then?" 

"I showed up there from time to time to keep up the ruse and to keep my wards around the property." 

"So there were no blood wards?" 

"They crumbled as soon as I moved out permanently."

"And you put around new wards despite how those awful people treated you?" 

Harry looked at Hermione long and hard. He never told her anything about the way he was treated at that household. He never told anyone… But of course she knew. "Don't tell me that you would've acted differently," he said at last, which made her squirm uncomfortably on her seat.

“I’m not being hypocritical, if that’s what you mean…”

“I know,” Harry smiled a little. “Sorry. You’re an all-around great person. I’m not, though… So it was a valid question. I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart, I did it because otherwise it would’ve broken the ruse and complicated the game, that’s all.”

“Would you ever tell me about it?” Hermione asked and Harry opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment he felt a certain someone approaching his house from the other side.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, perplexed a little. He never expected him to return. “I would, of course. Not now, though, it seems someone decided to join our merry party."

Hermione looked around herself, but upon seeing no one, turned back to Harry questioningly. 

"How do you know? Who is it? Is it Ronald?" 

"Oh, so much more interesting… It's none other than our esteemed Severus Snape."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and she stood, turning to face the same direction where Harry was looking.

"How can you tell?" she whispered. 

"Firstly, I need you to understand, everything I share with you in regards to my way of doing magic is strictly between us. To do what I'm doing is highly illegal. This art was forgotten like centuries ago, but technically is still illegal." Hermione's eyes widened, but she nodded nonetheless, so Harry continued. "I can feel the source of Snape's magic, ergo — Snape himself, getting closer." 

"How?" 

"I just can, Hermione, sorry, but I can't really explain it without downright teaching you the art, and it won't happen. Like I said, it's illegal, and in your case — unnecessary. You do great the conventional way," he made an attempt at smiling. "Penelope," he called. 

The elf appeared in front of them, dusting off her long tunic-like dress. "Yes, Master Harold." Hermione made some incoherent noise, but thankfully kept her mouth shot. 

"Penelope, would you please escort our new guest here?" 

"Of course, Master. Right away." And she promptly vanished from sight. 

Anticipating a small explosion, Harry turned to his friend. Hermione looked at him, expectantly raising one eyebrow. 

"Do not look at me this way, Hermione. Yes, I employ house elves. Seven of them, to be exact, including Kreacher. But before you trouble yourself with indignation, talk to them . I have no time for this now."

And indeed, the moment he finished the sentence, a black-clad figure of Severus Snape appeared around the corner. Harry relaxed in his seat on the bench, — not that he was particularly  stressed to begin with — and looked at his former teacher (who was looking anywhere but at him). 

Snape stopped just a few steps shy of the circle of the benches and visibly forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. Nobody said a word. 

"Excuse me for the intrusion. Mr Potter, Miss Granger," he inclined his head slightly.

"No worries, sir," Harry replied, standing up, but not moving any closer, nor inviting Snape to do it. "Has something happened? You see, I'm a little busy at the moment."

"Are you?" Snape glanced at Hermione, and Harry saw her stiffen. "Terribly sorry. I'm on a tight schedule myself today, and I was hoping to steal several minutes of your time. In private," he added after a moment of silence, looking meaningfully at Hermione.

She loudly cleared her throat. "Right. Of course. Sorry. Harry, you wouldn't mind if I took a closer look at your library, would you?" 

She turned to him with a silent plea in her eyes. Harry smiled. 

"Sure thing. You're welcome to it any time. Penelope," he called once again, "Hermione would like a tour of the library, if you please." 

The elf bowed. "Of course, miss. I'd be happy to help. Can I take your hand or would you like to walk there?" 

"Er, walk… I guess."

Penelope beamed and the two of them moved towards the back entrance behind the benches.

"So…" Harry drawled as the door closed.

"Are we going to talk here?"

“I’m afraid a portrait of my great-great-great-about-five-more-times-great uncle Frederic is too… um, offended, shall we say. He was most unimpressed with your… unflattering characterisations of his descendants. He told me that back during his days, if a person invited to the Manor allowed themselves to speak of the family using such foul language, they would instantly be kicked out from the grounds by the wards around the property literally without their tongue. Permanently. He advised me strongly to put those wards back.”

A muscle on Snape’s face twitched.

“An unnecessary cruelty, surely…”

Harry strode forward, maintaining eye-contact.

“You think so?”

“I came with peace,” he said forcefully. 

Ugly red blotches began to spread on Snape’s face. Harry knew that the man stopped occluding and, judging by the look of things, was having a hard time dealing with the aftereffects. He obviously tried badly to keep himself in check now, and Harry, despite his initial decision to make Snape squirm, took pity on the man. Besides, they were at it for a couple of minutes at most, but it was Snape, and Harry couldn’t imagine any possible reason for him to still be here. How badly did he want that peace? Or maybe it wasn't the peace that he wanted?

“Follow me then.”

And he led the way to the same door that Hermione and Penelope used what seems like a lifetime ago.

* * *

Potter led him to the kitchen and took a seat at a dining table, inviting Severus to do the same. The table was small and square and stood pushed to the furthest wall under a large window. Potter sat down on the nearest of three chairs around it with his back to the entrance, which allowed Severus to pick the one on the boy’s left and be able to see most of the room. 

Severus sat ramrod straight, carefully stapled his fingers on the table and looked at them, gathering his thoughts. Silence stretched. After several moments, he raised his eyes at the boy and took a deep breath, determined. This strange new Potter with his strangely blank face and a new-found remarkable ability to use what most called a “slytherin-speak” sat a bit too close for comfort, but Severus ignored it too. He would make it through, he had to, no matter how terrified he was (and the fact that he couldn’t even get angry at the brat for his earlier performance was speaking about that so loud, it was deafening).

"Tea?" 

"No, thank you." 

"Alright. Sir—"

"And what, pray tell, happened with 'Severus'?" he shot sharply, defiantly raising an eyebrow. Severus attempted to turn the table and gain the upper hand, compensating for his discomfort, falling back on this usual ironclad tactic of his which was second — although, maybe it had already become first — nature by this point. The fact that Potter dared to call him by his given name once during the battle did annoy him somewhat, but definitely not at the time. Back then he felt too much altogether to discern anything particular, therefore all of it was so repressed by Occlumency, Severus remembered it all as if it was someone else's feelings, not his. And now it was too late to start feeling so wholly wronged by something that happened almost two weeks prior.

Potter fell silent, leaning back, and just watched him calmly. It was unnerving. He felt his face getting hotter again and tried to calm down.

"I’m sorry, sir. It was not said out of lack of respect. There was no time for lengthy explanations or for talking you into things, I needed to shock you enough so you’d snap out of your stupor and do what needed to be done, that’s all. I’m sure you understand."

Severus certainly did. At the time, it was probably the only thing that could quickly reach the intended effect and break through to him. And looking back now, Severus couldn't really find fault with the boy's… or the man’s… Oh, blast it all, his actions.

"Yes, I do, in fact, understand, Mr. Potter. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, however.” Severus took two deep breaths. “I won’t take up much of your time. First and foremost I would like to… apologise for my behaviour yesterday. If I need to also make amends to any portraits, I'm ready. You caught me off guard, and…” He wanted to add a few words about a general mayhem that the lack of Occlumency wrought inside his already fragile psyche, but stopped himself in time. “It will not happen again.” Severus finished instead, looking Potter in the eyes.

“All forgotten,” Potter replied. To his credit, he did not look shocked by the apology (an unheard of thing in and of itself), or indignant, or in any other way Gryffindorishly emotional.

“Secondly, I wanted to thank you for your help during my trial. Without your testimony and the memories you provided, I most likely would’ve spent the rest of my existence as another soulless ornament on an Azkaban wall.”

Silence stretched heavily.

“That’s all I came here to say.” Severus rose from his chair. “Have a good day.” He wanted to know the answers to his real questions, he truly did, but he also played this game many times. Potter acted more like a Slytherin than a Gryffindor, which required small steps, roundabout ways, and a lot of patience. Luckily, Severus was none other than patience personified. In some ways it was even better — it allowed him to return to familiar territory. 

“What a fucked-up sorry-ass bastard you are…” Potter whispered, as if toppling a bucket of ice-cold water on Severus’ head. He froze mid-motion.

“Excuse me?..”

Here goes familiar territory… He started getting nervous all over again and with rapid speed. 

Potter turned his head to look at Severus and sighed.

“You heard me.” He stood up. “Simple tea won’t do it." Potter glanced at Severus. "Sit," he deadpanned, walking into an inconspicuous door on his right. To say that Severus was shocked was… no, he was not shocked, he was… How could a person feel so many things at the same time? It was not normal. All his senses became so highlighted, it made his head spin. 

"I won't offer you alcohol, it wouldn't do any good," Potter's voice continued from the other room as the boy himself rummaged around what sounded like shelves and drawers. "But I have a recipe of a special blend from China." 

Potter fell silent and a couple of moments later emerged, holding a big-ish jar, clearly made of clay. 

"Pottery, Potter?" Severus smirked despite the black spots that danced across his vision. "At long last, something fitting."

"I think I told you to sit down…" the brat said, wandlessly heating up a kettle on a stove. 

Severus didn’t know what had gotten into him at that moment, and doubted sincerely that he ever would, but he did sit back down without a word. Don't get him wrong, he did have several strong expressions on the tip of his tongue just for the occasion, only he seemed to have forgotten how his mouth worked… And then the world stopped. 

Potter returned to the table, carrying a tray with two cups, a small tea-kettle, and a kettle with boiling-hot water. Severus watched the boy's hands deftly make up both cups as if it was in a movie, as if he wasn't in his own body… It wasn't the first time this strange detachment happened, and likely wouldn't be the last, and Severus felt that he should be worrying about it, but couldn't find in himself any strength to even make an effort to remember this thought. 

"Drink." 

That was the next word that found its way through the growing fog in his mind. A pity that Severus could barely understand its meaning.

"Severus…" 

It was his name. He was Severus, right? Right, he was. 

Then a pair of oddly familiar green eyes permeated his line of sight. 

"Severus. I said, drink." 

It sounded like a command. The voice had definite authority that demanded obedience. And the green eyes had a hard and unyielding expression to them—

Soft power enveloped him. 

"Drink," sounded one more time, and Severus found himself picking up a steaming cup and taking a sip. Then another. The taste was quite good. He took two more sips and looked at Potter who sat looking at him with the same unnerving blankness on his face that was the whole reason for Severus' presence here really. 

Nice calming warmth spread in waves from his stomach throughout his whole body, and, strangely, even mind, and Severus dropped his gaze to the tea in his hands. A special blend indeed. 

"Cheers," Potter said, raising his own cup. 

Suddenly realising what had transpired and feeling too embarrassed and too crowded, Severus jumped from his seat. "I need to go." And he practically raced out of the house. Driven by the completely irrational fear that he was being followed, he apparited two steps away from the porch, noticing that he was still clutching Potter's empty cup only when he reappeared in the middle of his own living room with small wet spots sprayed all over his clothes. 

"Fuck," Severus announced to his furniture. 

He almost smashed the cup, but at the last moment changed his mind. Not counting the fact that it was Potter's, he could find no fault with it, it wasn't even disgustingly luxurious. Just a common muggle white cup. 

The moment Severus registered how much attention he was paying to a bloody tea cup, there was a soft knock on his front door. He contemplated ignoring it, but whoever it was, they persisted. 

Sighing, Severus made his way to the front door and tugged it with a little more force than was necessary.

If he would’ve found Voldemort on the other side, he'd be more surprised, though Merlin knew why. 

"Good day, Sir," squeaked a small familiar-looking house elf, bowing respectfully. "Master Harold sent me here to give you this." She held out the same jar Potter used for his 'special Chinese blend'. Severus took it. "And this." It was a simple white envelope. "Have a good day, Sir!" And with another bow, the elf silently snapped out of existence. 

It all happened so fast, for a few seconds Severus continued to stand in front of his opened door, dumbfounded. Bloody Potter and his bloody livestock… Why couldn't they leave him be? 

He finally slammed the poor door shut, returned to the living room, and practically threw himself on the couch. After checking the jar and the envelope for any possible traps and reluctantly deeming it safe, he opened the jar and looked inside. It was full to the brim with the expected tea. Severus put it on the floor nearby and eyed the envelope. What could Potter possibly have to say to him? Sure, what they had, strictly speaking, wasn't a conversation. And, to be completely honest, there were a lot of things that they both could, and maybe should still, say to each other. But right now Severus couldn't stomach any form of contact with the blasted boy-turned-man. And he also had a terrible bout of deja-vu. 

But the envelope didn’t care. 

With a deep breath, Severus decided to just dive in headfirst and tore it open. 

You were right, this piece of pottery is fitting indeed. It fits nicely
on any shelf, you should try it, just to see for yourself. 

P.S.: I included a list of ingredients, but the pot's self-refilling,
so I don't see why anyone would bother getting bored reading it. 

P.P.S.: I'm terribly sorry to say this, but the brain de-mushing
'magic' of the blend works properly only without usual additions
to the tea (like sugar and such) and 2 times per 24 hours at most.

The last one is so important, I can’t stress it enough.

The proper way to brew a cup is also described on a second page.

P.P.P.S.: I heard that writing silly thoughts in silly journals with
silly doodles on the margins goes a long way to reducing the
aforementioned mushiness, but it’s none of my business,
so I better conclude this note until it spontaneously combusted
right in your hands. We wouldn’t want that, would we?

                                            P 

Severus snorted, but quickly took hold of himself again.

There indeed was a second page, where indeed was the description of the brewing process as well as a one hell of a long list of ingredients for the blend. Some of the plants weren't even grown anywhere on the British Isles, even with magic. But, being the potions master of the calibre that he was, Severus knew magical and non-magical properties of every single one of them, and was impressed with whomever put the blend together. It wasn’t only calming, it helped to clear and sharpen the mind, helped to sleep better, helped to strengthen the immune system. This tea was like a muggle potion.

“Incredible.”

Severus leaned back on the couch and quickly thought over the merits of sending Potter a ‘thank you’ note. It would’ve been a proper and polite thing to do, especially knowing the cost of some of the ingredients to which he now had unlimited access.

On the other hand, these thoughts inevitably led to thoughts about his embarrassing episode not an hour ago. It was bad enough when it happened when Severus was alone, now he had a witness. He was going mad. He already knew that. But now his dire situation somehow seemed a thousand times more real. And not because of the witness. Not because of who the witness was. Or maybe just partly. Potter was not his friend. Not an enemy, but still… not a friend either. And the fact that he saw the symptoms, and did not advise to go get help, but became the helping hand himself and so promptly… It meant something. It meant that the situation Severus found himself in when strange newly acquainted ex-enemies hurriedly give away remedies for free was far worse than he was hoping.

He picked the simple ‘piece of pottery’ up and held it in his hands, staring at it for a long time. Normally, the amount of stressful thought process he was undergoing in one go would’ve already caused another episode, but the effects of the tea held, and Severus couldn’t stop marvelling at it. He was starting to regain hope. The tea wasn’t a miraculous treatment, it won’t cure him from the aftereffects of grossly overused Occlumency, he knew. But for the first time he had a hope of it all going easier.