The light-headedness didn’t come at all, this time. Rather, everything became abundantly and perfectly clear.He no longer cared much for how Ron and Hermione felt about his outburst; but that didn’t really matter. He realized he wanted to care, had cared mere moments ago, and somehow, that was nearly the same thing. Harry began making connections he couldn’t help but think he should’ve made long ago. This swell of emotion and immediate muffling directly thereafter was Obscura... and he’d done it at least once over the summer; once in Snape’s classroom; once in Dumbledore’s office; and just now.

Only Merlin knew how many times before that, but at least one for Sirius Black, as well. His godfather – whom he probably loved at least as much as he did Ron and Hermione.

Somewhere, buried deep, anyway.

There was only one person to whom he could go who knew anything about the technique, so Harry wasted no time. When the Potions classroom proved empty, Harry began wandering down the dungeons, hoping to catch sight of Severus Snape, but having little luck in locating much of anyone. Soon, Harry was lost in a part of Hogwarts he’d never visited before, and was wishing he’d brought the Marauder’s Map – but he knew there was no returning to Gryffindor Tower, at least not tonight. Despite his Obscura, he knew that this would be bad politics, to say the least.

Harry ended by a corridor that looked somewhat familiar; lit torches lined the walls, and a faint perspiration on some of the stones showed that he was very deep in the earth indeed; he hadn’t seen windows for several staircases, and was beginning to think that Hogwarts truly descended into the bowels of the earth. Then again, the third-floor bathroom led to a cave, so he supposed that could be true.

Moving by instinct and little else, Harry took a right fork at the next bend, and found a room with light emerging from beneath the door. Feeling incredulity break part-way through his sense of dreamlike calm, he knocked politely on the door.

Severus Snape opened it and blinked at Harry in abject surprise.

Somehow, Harry found he was not as startled. He’d known his professor to be here, somehow. Even in his Obscura-induced state, this was more than slightly out of the ordinary, but he filed it away for further consideration.

“Harry!”

“Professor,” Harry greeted. “Can I come in?”

Snape glared at him. “It’seleven-thirty in the evening.”

“Yes,” Harry replied.

Snape continued to assess him in the flickering torchlight. “How did you find–” He broke off. “Albus sent you,” he answered himself. “Fine, fine, come in, then. I suppose it’s something that couldn’t possibly have waited until morning?”

Harry slipped past Snape’s beckoning hand and entered the Professor’s private chambers.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe bats clinging to stalactites, black curtains with moth-holes, cauldrons bubbling over the fire and cooling on the mantle.

Instead, Professor Snape’s quarters resembled that of anyone else, Harry realized in slight wonderment. The furnishings were simple and matched, as if Snape had purchased them all at once as part of a set; they were, without variation, dark blue or forest green in upholstery of a simple fabric, and where they showed wooden legs, or where there were tables, the wood was a dark walnut. A couch was nearly shoved up against the wall directly facing the door, and before it set a small, low table; chairs seemed scattered about the room in a manner which, at first glance, appeared random – at second glance, anything but. A fire blazed in the hearth to his left, and a long, expensive-looking, but well-worn rug of intricate design lay before it. Rooms led from the sitting room to the left and right; Harry imagined that one of them was a Potions lab and the other a bedroom, though he could not see them from where he stood. A rather extensive mess of shelving units lined the entire back wall, and were lined with books, without space for a single other. In fact, Harry noted two or three stacks of unshelved books piled haphazardly near the couch, as though there was no other possible place to put them.

Harry shifted his attention to his Professor, who was standing in a black robe looking annoyed. “Er...” he managed.

“Come in all the way or not at all,” Snape warned.

Harry came in all the way. “Thanks,” he said, wondering if he was the first Gryffindor to ever see the inside of Snape’s rooms. The Potion Master’s reputation would be shot to hell if anyone saw how normal – even homey – they really were.

“What is it that brings you here in the middle of the night?” Snape inquired, seating himself on his couch and looking incongruously – well – at home.

Harry had to scramble to come up with something vaguely articulate. “I did Obscura again tonight,” he managed, hoping that his directness would evenly match Snape’s. “Just about a half an hour or so ago.”

Snape stiffened in his chair and frowned. “Under what circumstances?”

Harry briefly explained about Draco’s orders and his subsequent behaviour towards Ron and Hermione.

“You performed an Obscura over this?.!” the Professor snapped. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, it’s meant to be used sparingly! In times of true trial, and need – not when someone yells at you, or when you’ve been arguing with your little friends!”

“I can’t control it!” Harry snapped back, with equal fire. “If I could, d’you think I’d be bothering you?”

Snape opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it slowly. Harry had the distinct impression he was counting to ten again. “What’s the effect, then, Potter? What did you Obscure?”

Harry sighed. “I don’t care about what I said to them.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I performed an Obscura!” Harry said feelingly. “Because I know I shouldn’t’ve! Because I know it was over something... not small... but something I could’ve probably handled on my own a couple of months ago without resorting to anything like this.”

“What happened a couple of months ago, then?” Snape wanted to know. He relaxed again, leaning slightly back into the couch; Harry realized that his Professor was settling in for a long conversation.

“Black,” Harry replied. “Black went through the Veil a couple of months ago. D’you think that’s it?”

A shadow passed over Snape’s face. “Perhaps. Why don’t you explain how you feel about Black?”

“I can’t,” Harry replied. “I’ve Obscured it.”

“You Obscured Black’s death.” Snape’s brows lifted. “Then you’ll have no problem with my saying that it was entirely his own fault that he was killed. He was an impulsive fool with no concept that subtlety is the most important tactic in the arsenal of any true soldier.”

“I don’t think that’s really fair,” he said, “but you’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose.”

Snape barked a laugh, but then an odd expression, almost worried, seemed to overtake him. “Talk a bit about your father then – about James.”

Harry thought this was the strangest request he’d ever heard from the man, but he obliged him gamely, talking about his father, how it had bothered him when he’d seen – seen that his father wasn’t all he’d cracked up to be, but how it didn’t really bother him so much anymore.

Snape was nodding. “Thank you. Now, your relatives, back home?”

Harry talked briefly about them – very briefly. He didn’t care much for them, but they were barely blips on the radar of his life.

“Potter. You do realize you’ve Obscured anyone you ever cared about.” Snape’s eyes dimmed. “Anyone you ever hated, as well. You’re speaking easily with me. With Draco Malfoy. I suspect, if the Dark Lord appeared this very moment and were willing to be reasonable, you’d sit him down to tea.”

Harry’s throat felt dry, and he began to tremble slightly as this slowly took hold in his mind, a chill running over his skin and raising the hair on his arms. He attempted to swallow past the lump in his throat, but ended up nearly choking because of the lack of moisture on his tongue.

“You’ve dimmed yourself completely, like wrapping a thick blanket around your soul. How comforting that must be, not to care for anything.”

“You’re one to talk! You do it too!” Harry shot back, anger stinging him into motion.

“Oh, yes, Potter, by all means, become just like me!” Snape replied, flushing. “That sounds a brilliant plan, doesn’t it?”

“It’s just the pot calling the kettle black, that’s all I mean,” Harry said in a would-be reasonable tone of voice. “Besides, I’m here because I thought you could help me. Get – get rid of it, or something.”

“Potter – if I were to get rid of all that was holed up inside of you right now, you would go promptly and irrevocably mad.”

Harry glared at Snape, his eyes softening when he saw the truth reflected in the depths of Snape’s face, voice, expression. “Oh, Merlin,” he said. “Then how?”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to seep it out of you on a gradual basis, not at the rate you seem to be casting...”

Harry hung his head. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be more aware of when I’m upset, sometimes it’s just hard to tell until I’ve screamed or broken something.”

Snape laughed harshly. “Yes, I know the feeling. But there is a way. You spoke of letting it out in ‘chunks’; I have found that this is possible. An Obscura can be countercharmed by Revealeo.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Harry demanded. “That isn’t so bad.”

“It’s... painful,” Snape replied with a small wince. “I am not certain you can bear it. Perhaps even more importantly, I am not certain you can do it. If you are not consciously casting Obscura, will a conscious casting of Revealeo aid you?”

“Well, I think it will,” Harry mused. “When I used to do accidental magic – and this is accidental magic – people used to come and clean up my messes, right? Like with Aunt Marge?”

Snape nodded, confirming Harry’s long-standing suspicion that all of the teachers knew about his escapades outside of school.

“So they would’ve had to have used generic countercharms in order to make it work...”

“They wouldn’t necessarily have countercharmed your aunt,” Snape corrected. “An Accio would have brought her to earth; that would have nothing to do with the charms you unconsciously used. An Obliviate was used to modify her memory, and a Finite to bring her back to her proper size.” The Potions Professor was referring to one of Harry’s funniest memories with a perfectly straight face. Harry forced himself to analyze the words rather than picture his aunt, floating over Privet Drive.

“Only one way to find out,” Harry told him. “I’d like to try it with you around, though, in case things go awry...”

Harry watched Snape’s motion with the wand – it was an odd, rather complicated maneuver, a tight loop followed by a twitch away, as though Harry were lassoing the pocket of emotion and tugging it free.

“Okay,” Harry said, and took a deep breath. “Revealeo,” he incanted.

Immediately he felt a pain in his head, centering around his scar, and oh sweet Merlin it was awful, this was like Cruciatus, only not around his physical body, it was centered on that indefinable rest of him... he gasped at the almost satisfying pain of something black being torn away from his subconscious and moved back into his conscious mind...

Harry looked up from the floor, surprised to note that he had fallen, looked around at the dungeon. Snape was seated next to him, one hand resting under Harry’s head. Harry realized with a cold chill, that he’d been thrashing enough that Snape was worried enough to touch him, to prevent him from smashing his head open or breaking his neck. There was something very frightening in that.

He scrambled into a seated position. “Oh, yes,” he said distantly. “Oh, yes, that really hurt.”

“I warned you,” Snape replied.

Harry scrabbled back until he was leaning against the edge of the couch. The Professor stood. “You won’t be in good enough condition to climb the stairs for another hour or two,” he said.

“Now you tell me.”

Snape nodded. “That’s right. As you have been casting Obscura left and right these days, I certainly didn’t want to give you any more warning than I absolutely had to.” He paused to consider. “I do have some reading material you may find interesting, though, while you wait.” he continued.

Harry blinked. “Reading material?”

The Professor nodded, some private amusement twisting his lip. He fumbled through the pile of books by the edge of the couch and withdrew a large, thin volume. He handed it to Harry, then moved to the room to the left of the sitting room, which Harry now realized was an efficiency kitchen, or what passed for one in the wizarding world. Oddly enough, it looked like Snape was mixing up some tea.

Harry turned to gaze down at the book, then realized it was not a book, but a report of some kind. Emblazoned on the cover in even, black lettering were the following words:

Potion-Making and Medicinal Herbalism, the Disturbing Connection:

a cross-linked study between the Potions Today Records and the Herbpharm Database

by Severus Snape

May 5th, 1969

Harry stared blankly at the sheet of paper, reading it over and over again until it somehow managed to register in his beleaguered mind that he was looking at his own paper topic. He flipped feverishly to the first page, scanning for the thesis. There it was, in black-and-white:

...thus, one needs must imagine that there was, at least at some point in history, some exchange of information. Otherwise, the conclusion that is reached must be one of the following: either Muggles possess some small measure of magic, and always have; or wizards have been employing science and calling it magic. Of these three postulations, which has the most promise?

There are far too many correlations between the two journals. (See Figures 1-4). It is statistically impossible that these associations can have been the result of one mere exchange; the data is both too scattered chronologically and too varied geographically. Neither remaining option is palatable to the wizarding community at large...

Professor Snape came in from the kitchen, holding a steaming mug. He handed it to Harry. “For the pain,” he said. When Harry didn’t reach his hand out to grip the cup, Snape sighed, and placed it on the parchment, carefully balancing it before letting go.

...and yet, it must be accepted, that in fact – both are true.

Harry gasped and nearly jolted the hot tea in his lap. He recalled all over again that Snape had put it there, and cradled it in one hand. “You wrote this,” he said. “You – you wrote this for your Advanced Potions class.”

Snape was sitting in one of the chairs, and had scooted it slightly so that it faced Harry. “That’s right,” he said, watching Harry carefully.

“It must’ve made some splash,” Harry continued.

Snape didn’t say much of anything; he examined the tea in his cup. It suddenly occurred to Harry that this looked very, very bad.

“I didn’t ever see this!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve never read it before in my life!”

“I know, Potter.”

“You – you know?” This wasn’t the answer Harry was expecting.

“You can’t’ve.”

“But... you published it... and now–”

“I never published that paper. I never even handed it in,” Snape corrected. “I was obscenely proud of it. Showed it to Lily Evans, even, but she’s the only other person who’s ever had her hands on it.”

Harry gazed at the papers with new reverence.

“Haven’t Obscured your mother? That’s reassuring.”

Harry glared at him, then peered at the paper again. “Why didn’t you hand it in? It... I mean, I know I’m no expert... but it reads really well. It looks good – and the idea... and you had proof!”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Snape inquired, his black eyes glinting. “You’re right. Despite my many years of respectable articles, I’ve never written anything half so innovative, since. A bit of magic in everything, in everyone, a bit of science always operating in the magical world – there’s something inherently correct in it, something symmetrical. That’s the beauty of a true theory: when you read it, even if you’ve never heard of it before, it seems you should’ve known all along.”

“That’s just what I thought!” Harry cut in excitedly, hearing the concrete articulation of what he had only felt. “But... you never even... no one else knows about this...?”

“And why do you suppose that is, Potter?”

Harry frowned at the suddenly cold note in the Professor’s voice. “I don’t know, sir.”

When Snape only continued to glare as though the answer were perfectly obvious, it slowly dawned on Harry.

“I suppose a final paper on Muggles wouldn’t’ve gone unnoticed, especially one like this, if you wanted to join the Death Eaters.”

Snape smiled grimly and nodded, as though pleased at Harry’s deduction.

“But... you wrote this back then. You knew it was true!”

“There’s your naiveté again, Potter,” Snape said, but his voice was weary rather than biting. “Yes, I knew it was true. I abandoned it for what I felt to be a greater cause at the time.”

Harry gazed at the paper, and back up at his Professor. Voldemort, more important than something that would rock the foundations of the entire magical world...? “But...” He frowned, resolve gripping him. “Look, all right, I know I’m naive and inexperienced... but this is the important stuff. I mean, it’s why I’m studying so hard now. Ron doesn’t understand, but there has to be something after Voldemort. If you fight so hard it’s all you have, what are you supposed to do when the fighting’s done?” He shook his head. “Even that’s not really it. This stuff... uhm...” He blushed, fought his embarrassment, and finished in a small voice. “Transcends anything he can do.”

Snape eyed him critically. “Do not be embarrassed of passion, Mister Potter. It is rare enough without those few who happen to possess it being ashamed.”

Harry blushed even redder, but before he could manage something self-effacing, Snape was continuing.

“I do regret abandoning that work – more than you know, I wish I had published that paper... for so many reasons. It would have denied me entrance to the Death Eaters, for one... but there is no use wishing for what might have been. Of course, I may be lucky enough that some promising young student might follow my work...”

Harry felt his entire body begin to tingle with some mixture of shock and pleasure. He didn’t know what to say, or do, so he swallowed his tea in one, scalding gulp.

“That should take effect, soon,” Snape continued, without missing more than a beat. “And you ought to finish reading that,” he tacked on, with a nod to the paper. He stood, moving to the kitchen to dispense with his own empty cup; but then he paused, on the threshold, and spoke without turning.

“Tell me what you think,” he said, before continuing into the darkness of the dimly lit kitchen.

It took a moment for Harry to gather himself before he could turn his attention again to the yellowed parchment in his lap.