(Boys’ Room at Grimmauld Place)

Harry fell back on his bed with a wistful sigh, folding his arms behind his head and gazing up at the canopied ceiling of his bed. It was wonderful being away from the Dursleys and with people who actually *cared* about him, but being in Sirius’s house, when Sirius himself was…was…dead…

Tears stung at the back of his eyes and he quickly rolled over, digging his face into the pillow as the heat built up. He was grateful Ron took his time in the shower, and he knew he had yet to finish grieving, but Merlin, would it *ever* end?

He released a shuddering breath as the heat spilled over onto his cheeks, then he released another. He tried to bring it under control…His pillow was becoming damp…Another shuddering breath…But Snape was coming up…

Harry did not hear the man’s near-silent footsteps as he came up the hall. Nor did the teenager hear those footsteps pause in the threshold of the room or the Potions Master give a soft sigh. The Boy-Who-Lived was completely unaware when the older wizard started walking again, quietly shutting the door, this time gliding across the floor to his bed.

He *did*, however, notice when the bed dipped gently under his Professor’s weight and a slim hand came down to settle lightly on his back. “Give it time, Potter,” murmured with the same gentleness as he had shown earlier tonight. “It will get better.”

Harry nodded mutely into the pillow, struggling to bring his erratic emotions under control once again.

The Potions Master began to gently rub his back, hesitating for a brief moment before starting to quietly hum the tune to the lullaby he had previously sung on the front steps. As with earlier tonight, the song seemed to do wonders calming Harry.

Once the teenager felt he had himself reasonably under control, he rolled onto his side so that he was facing his teacher. “Did my mum teach you that?” he whispered. The tears had subsided to a slow trickle.

Severus smiled lightly. “She did indeed. And I do believe she used to sing it to you.”

Harry sniffed slightly before clearing his throat and shyly averting his eyes, “Thank you,” he whispered, his fingers creeping out to lightly touch the back of the man’s hand where it rested on the bed.

At that hesitant touch, Severus stiffened a bit, not expecting such an action on his student’s part. But when Harry did not pull his hand away, the Potions Master forced himself to relax. He shook his head, “Do not mention it, Potter.”

But the teenager shook his head, too, stubbornly persisting, “Not just for that, sir. For earlier tonight, and for the letter.” A small, sardonic smile tugged at his lips. “Actually,” he muttered, bashful, “I should probably be thanking you for First Year, too, when you saved me from Quirrel; for Second Year; for Third Year, when you stepped between Remus’s wolf-form and us; for Fourth Year; and for Fifth Year, when you sabotaged Umbridge and attempted to teach me Occulmency, while I’m at it…”

Throughout his speech, Harry had nervously been toying with the Potions Professor’s hand. Now, however, the very much stunned man gently entrapped the boy’s fingers, causing his student to stop his tirade and glance up in faint surprise. Severus struggled to find an appropriate response, not at *all* used to such speeches. Finally, he managed to speak: “Thanks go to you, too, Mr. Potter.”

Harry shot him a confused look. “Why, sir?”

Now it was Severus’s turn to be nervous. Dropping his eyes to the smaller hand he held in his own, he explained quietly, “Because you defended me at the meeting. No one else did so.” He gave a humorless smile. “Few have ever taken my side in an argument. You had many people talking tonight, Potter.”

“Terrific,” the young man retorted dryly. He sighed and continued, “But truthfully, Professor, I would rather they talk about that than about my Quidditch skills or who will be my girlfriend *this* year.”

Severus raised an eyebrow at the young Gryffindor, nerves easing somewhat now that he had gotten *that* thanks out of the way. “Indeed? You would rather they speculate about the nature of your relationship with the slimy Head of Slytherin?” the Potions Master asked dubiously.

That earned a laugh from Harry. “Professor!”

“What?” the man looked honestly confused.

The young Gryffindor kept laughing softly, shaking his head. “Never mind, sir.”

The older wizard’s other eyebrow rose and he looked at his student oddly. “At any rate, Mr. Potter,” the Professor remarked, “I am actually here on a matter of some importance.”

Harry sighed. “Let me guess, Dumbledore wants me to receive extra training.”

Severus started slightly before replying, “Well…yes. And it is *Professor* Dumbledore, Mr. Potter.” The teenager gave a small smile at the correction. The man phrased his next statement carefully. “I take it, then, you know of the Prophecy…”

Harry glared stonily at a point somewhere off in the distance, voice bitter as he recited, word for word, “//The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…//” (1)

“You know the entire *Prophecy*?” the Potions Master demanded sharply.

“Of course, it’s only *my* *life* that’s in question,” the teenager retorted acerbically.

Severus winced at the tone. /Damn it all, Albus!/ he thought, angrily shaking his head. /Your love clouded your judgment. One of these days it may just be your undoing!/ He glared at Harry. “You *do* realize, Potter, that Vol---the Dark Lord only knows half the Prophecy? And you *do* realize that I could easily take the second half of it and give it to him, therefore rendering you vulnerable?”

Harry turned back to him and smiled grimly. “I think we both know you won’t, Professor.”

Severus pulled away, slightly taken aback by the certainty with which the young man had made his statement. Then he sighed, and gently hauled the fifteen-year-old upright. Leaning down slightly, arms now crossed over his chest, the older wizard met the teenager’s emerald eyes, gaze serious, “Mr. Potter, I fail to understand how it is you can trust me. Not even many of my *colleagues* are certain I am not about to betray them to the Dark Lord…”

Harry sighed. “I don’t think I can answer you readily, sir, except with ‘I just do.’ Believe me, last year I would *never* have admitted to it, but in some way, I guess I always have. You’ve constantly protected me, after all, even though you…er…don’t like me very much.”

Severus blinked. That was all? That was *truly* all it had taken for his student to trust him?

He shook his head slightly in bewilderment. Albus had not trusted him until he had warned the Potters of Volde---the Dark Lord’s intentions. Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey, probably the only other two (aside from Albus and, apparently, Potter) who *genuinely* trusted him, had only done so when he arrived in the Hospital Wing near death one night---incidentally just after the Potters went under the Fidelius Charm. Voldem---the *Dark* *Lord* had not been pleased, to say the least…

/And I think Potter’s starting to rub off on me. Blasted boy…/ he thought, but really (and much to his horror), the ice around his heart was starting to melt. Not that he would tell Potter that.

“Are the extra lessons with you, sir?” Harry’s voice cut into his thoughts, weary and almost…*hopeful*?

Severus slowly turned back to him, gaze thoughtful. “Yes, Mr. Potter, they are,” the Potions Master answered softly.

Harry closed his eyes in silent gratitude.

The older wizard had continued to watch him. “I must confess, I am rather surprised you still wish to learn from me after the way I treated you in Occulmency last year.”

“Perceptions change, Professor,” Harry responded softly. “This you know.”

Severus inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed, I do. But what changed yours? Was it the letter I wrote?”

A tiny smile touched the teenager’s lips. “Somewhat,” he admitted truthfully. “But honestly, what really changed my mind was earlier tonight. No one will talk to me about…Sirius’s death…Well, the girls and Ron will…but…they…they won’t let me…just…grieve. Mrs. Weasley…smothers me, and Remus…he’s still grieving. And it’s just…more comfortable with you somehow…” He shook his head. “Does that even make sense?”

Severus did not wish to say so, but it *did* make sense---in a way. Although his Slytherins knew they could come to him with *anything*, and although he offered them comfort should they need it, to the rest of the school (colleagues included) he seemed rather aloof and cold, acting like a downright bastard sometimes. With Albus, and now Harry, he behaved rather more differently than what most termed “normal” for him. As such, the teenager had been granted a rare glimpse of his caring side. And since he had been the one to come after Harry…

Well, it just made sense, loathe as he was to admit it.

He sighed. “I believe so, Mr. Potter.” He lightly nudged the teenager’s chin up, claiming his student’s attention. “But remember, I still have a part to play in this war. I will not be anywhere near as harsh to you as I once was, but I *will* have to ignore you and I *will* have to act the part of the nasty Potions Master. Unless by some grace of Gandalf I am found out a spy…” The latter part was muttered under his breath, but Harry still heard it.

“You’d be killed, then,’ the young man remarked very quietly, in such a way that it had Severus closely inspecting his face.

The Potions Master was startled to note *pain* lurking in the depths of his student’s eyes. He nodded slowly, response cautiously, “Likely.”

*That*¸ apparently, was not the wisest response. Harry turned away, emerald orbs shut tight and jaw clenched, clearly battling it out with his emotions again.

Unfolding his arms, Severus lightly touched the young man’s shoulder. “Potter?” murmured.

Abruptly, the fifteen-year-old whirled back to face the Head of Slytherin, eyes open and fiery. “Promise me,” he demanded, “promise me that you will be careful. Promise me that if you’re found out, you will *not* give in willingly and will *not* let them kill you without any resistance.”

Severus jerked back slightly under the full force of Harry’s gaze. “Potter…” he began.

“Promise me! On your wizard’s vow, promise me!” the young Gryffindor demanded fiercely.

Severus’s eyes widened slightly. When (and where) had Harry learned about wizarding vows? Because it was obvious he knew swearing by them was perhaps one of the strongest oaths a wizard could make. Clearly, the young man was adamant that he live unless it became absolutely necessary that he die. In fact, the Potions Master received the distinct impression that the teenager would stand up to Death itself if it came to that. To be sure, Harry would do the same for his friends and Remus Lupin, but *never* had Severus *ever* thought such care and loyalty would extend to him as well. Least of all from this young man.

The Potions Master gave a resigned sigh, but nodded. “All right,” he conceded softly.

Harry still looked fierce. “Swear it!”

“I swear it, Potter,” he replied with another sigh. His gaze suddenly became stern. “But you must do the same.” Well he knew the Dark Lord’s hatred for this young man in front of him. Well he knew the Gryffindor’s tendency to be reckless. Now was as good a time as any to ensure such things could be, if not stopped, then at least checked.

In spite of the serious atmosphere, Harry cracked a small smile. “Me, Professor? But I’m not yet of age.” Young wizards were not recognized as ‘of age’ until they turned seventeen.

Not in the mood for banter at this particular moment, Severus growled, “That bears little relevance to the matter, Mr. Potter. I *highly* doubt the Dark Lord has any intention of waiting for you to graduate from Hogwarts!”

“I’m not a spy, either,” the teenager pointed out mildly, but nonetheless a trifle uneasy with the man’s tone of voice.

“Potter!” the Potions Master exclaimed sharply. “Just do it!”

Harry sighed. “You know I can’t do that, sir. Vol---sorry---He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wants me dead, and right now, that seems like a very likely option.”

The Head of Slytherin scowled. “Which is exactly *why* you’re to be trained in Advanced Defense and Advanced Dueling! Honestly, Potter, will you just stop and *think* for once?! *No* *one* is sending you out there to die! I am aware that you’re the *bloody* Boy-Who-Lived, but contrary to what you seem to believe, you are *not* some saint to be martyred!”

The teenager jerked slightly. Whatever he had been expecting, those words had *not* been one of them. “Then what *am* I, Professor??” he wanted to know, feeling heat once again build at the back of his eyes. “A tool for Dumbledore to use at his whim? The wizarding world’s ‘Golden Boy?’ Even *Draco* thinks I’m ‘Saint Potter!’ And you, *you* called me a ‘celebrity’ my first day of Hogwarts! If I’m not any of that, then what *am* I?!”

The Potions Master’s eyes were like smoldering coals. This had always been a sore spot for him, this notion that Potter was some sort of elite “hero.” He had wrongly thought that it was because he was just like his father, aware of his fame and popularity and not at *all* hesitant to flaunt it when he had the chance. And so he had resented James Potter’s son.

Then came Occulmency lessons.

Neither he nor Potter had been very agreeable to it, and therefore, absolutely *refused* to be, if not tolerant, at least *civil* to one another. And it was to *that*, he attributed most of their failure last year. He had, however, entered Potter’s mind, and found there quite a different view of this young man’s home life, and really, his life in general. But he had been so blinded by hatred for the young Gryffindor’s father and godfather, so incensed at the teenager’s behavior in lessons (both regular and extra), that he translated it as an attempt to gain even *more* popularity.

Then Harry’s apology had arrived, shattering every preconceived notion he had ever had of the younger wizard. It had become apparent to him then that the teenager was genuinely *not* his father. He looked like him, yes, but his mannerisms---a few of them---were Lily’s.

That, too, however, had changed. This young man was his own person, his own personality, which was purely Harry and *not* either of his parents.

Such a realization had shown him the true extent of what he had done to this younger being. By assuming he was another and would respond to things exactly *as* another did, he had hurt the fifteen-year-old in a way that would take quite some time heal. And with thoughts like that running through his head, he deflated, nothing except naked regret in his eyes when he looked back at Harry. “You are only a boy, Potter,” he answered softly. “No matter what you are capable of, and no matter what you are expected to do, you should not have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders---*despite* the fact that you have done so numerous times.” He sighed. “I am not going to say you are just like any other teenager, because you’re not. Not anymore. But I promise you, you will learn whatever you need to survive, and furthermore,” he hazarded a small, roguish smile, “to become one *hell* of a handful, all right?” He hesitated, sobering, before reaching out and resting a tentative hand against the younger wizard’s cheek.

Harry started violently at the gesture, *completely* taken by surprise, his eyes snapping up to his teacher’s. Regret and sincerity swirled in the man’s dark orbs, holding the young Gryffindor’s gaze and impressing his words in the teenager’s mind. “All *right*?” repeated quietly, those two words weighted with far more meaning than appeared on the surface.

A moment of silence, then the fifteen-year-old managed a tiny smile, his own hand coming up to hold his Professor’s hand in place against his face. “Okay,” he agreed in a whisper.

The Head of Slytherin briefly clasped the young man’s head to his shoulder before pulling back. “Good,” he said, his lips quirking into another small smile. It grew as Harry suddenly gave a yawn. Turning slightly to the side, he muttered, “Tempus.”

Wisps of smoke formed a clock face that read, “Eleven at night,” Severus murmured. He turned back to his student with his usual, more comfortable smirk, “Much as I’d love to continue this conversation, Potter, Molly Weasley will have my head for keeping you up to all hours of the night.” He rose to his feet, gazing almost…kindly…down at the younger wizard. “I will be here tomorrow morning, so we will decide what to do about your extra lessons then. And then we will probably go to Diagon Alley.”

He was relieved to see that the teenager’s smile was back as he nodded, eyes bright with the prospect of going to Diagon Alley. “Yes, sir.”

Feeling oddly…warm, Severus inclined his head, “Well, then, be sure to clear your mind, Mr. Potter. Rest well.” He gently pressed the student back onto his pillows.

As he began to back away, Harry quickly sat up and lightly grabbed the Potions Master’s wrist. “Please, wait,” he requested.

Startled, the older man halted and raised an inquiring eyebrow, “Potter?”

The teenager blushed lightly, dropping his eyes to the bed. “Would you…I mean, could you…would you mind…singing that lullaby again?”

Severus smirked, coming back to the bed and leaning against the wall near the head of it, his arms again crossed over his chest as Harry released him and laid down, watching expectantly. “I thought you said you weren’t a child,” he remarked dryly.

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly and grinned back, still somewhat shyly. “I never said I *wasn’t* a child, just that I don’t like being *called* a child.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he replied, smirk widening.

The teenager frowned at him. And *he* chuckled, “Very well, then, Mr. Potter.” Leaning down and unfolding his arms, Severus lightly pushed the fifteen-year-old back down on the bed, humming the tune before beginning, once again, to sing:

“Dream by night,

Wish by day,

Love begins this way…”

The young Gryffindor settled his head on the pillows and smiled, closing his eyes and letting his teacher’s voice break over him. Eventually, the man’s singing soothed his mind enough that he need not clear it any further. Before he knew it, Harry was sound asleep.

He did not even realize the Potions Master had, in fact, repeated the song twice over.