Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Telling Tales

Snape's quarters were cold and quiet when Harry whirled out of the fire and into the living room. Harry frowned at the silence; some part of him had been hoping that his father would sense him coming and rush out to meet him. Actually going to get Snape was harder, but since the Floo wasn't warded against Harry at all, no one had been alerted to his arrival.

Sighing, Harry dropped the envelope he was still clutching, and wrapped his fingers around his sleeve instead, just over the wound. Yuck. The fabric was damp and cold, and that wasn't even counting what it would look like once the lights down here were spelled on.

Harry shuddered and almost flooed right back to the Tower. How on earth was he going to face his father? What would he think when he saw Harry's blood-soaked sleeve? When he learned what Harry had done to himself?

Nothing for it, though. He either trusted Snape to help him, or he didn't; it was as simple as that.

And Harry trusted him, he really did.

One bracing breath, then two. At which point Harry realised he was still waiting for his father to come out and find him. But clearly, that wasn't going to happen.

It was up to Harry to decide if he wanted Snape's help enough to go and ask for it.

But that's just the problem, his father's voice echoed in his head. You don't ask!

But that's what this year had been all about, Harry suddenly sensed. Learning that he could ask. That he did have someone he could trust with anything. Even this.

His feet seemed to move on their own as Harry made his way to Snape's bedroom door. Then it was just a matter of knocking. To do that, he had to stop clutching his arm. Strange how hard it was to uncurl his fingers from his sleeve and raise his fist to the stout wood.

It suddenly occurred to him that he needed to be quiet. Because otherwise, he'd end up waking Draco as well as Snape. Drawing in another rush of air, Harry carefully rapped his knuckles against the door, three times in quick succession. Then he held his breath. And strained his ears.

Nothing. Not a whisper of sound, not even so much as a rustle. Harry was on the verge of panicking when the door abruptly swung open.

"Harry?" Snape squinted at him in the dim light emanating from the wall sconces above his bed. "I thought it must be Draco needing something. I didn't expect you back tonight."

Obviously, it was too dark for him to have noticed Harry's stained sleeve.

Harry bit his lip. Now that the moment was here, he didn't know how he was going to explain. Or even start.

"Uh . . . um . . ."

Snape had good instincts too. He could tell something was wrong. Reaching out, he laid a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Come in and tell me about it."

That was enough to loosen Harry's tongue, but not because of the caring he could both hear and feel. It was more the fact that his arm still really hurt, In fact, the longer he stood there, almost frozen by both the chill air and his own reluctance, the more it throbbed.

"Y-- you don't have any healing salve in there, do you?" he half-gasped, all at once so close to tears that he felt instantly ashamed. Or maybe he felt ashamed for another reason entirely.

"Healing salve?" Snape reached into a fold in his dressing gown.

Harry knew what was coming, but he flinched all the same when his father's wand came into view and he heard the illumination charm. Harry squinted his eyes against the brightness. Or maybe, against the look sure to cross Snape's face when he saw just what Harry had been doing to himself.

Snape saw, all right, but he didn't understand. Or at least, not at first, when all he could see was a sleeve drenched in blood. With a harsh intake of breath, he snatched Harry's hand and shoved the fabric up past his elbow.

Harry couldn't help but look down then. His arm looked absolutely awful. Pin-pricked and festering. Bruised. And worst of all, the large puncture a few inches above his wrist, still oozing blood.

Harry felt sick just looking at it. He couldn't imagine how his father felt.

Snape said nothing for a long moment. He merely looked at Harry's arm, his dark eyes steady. After a moment that seemed to last forever, he searched Harry's face.

Harry looked away.

And then, his father spoke.

"You were right; you do need some salve. Let's get this seen to, and then we'll talk."

Talk. Harry didn't know how he could. No matter that his father already knew the truth. He did know. Harry could tell. He'd seen it in the man's eyes in that instant before Harry had looked away, mortified. He'd seen it all. Horror at the truth. Panic, quickly damped. And resolve to help him, whatever it might take.

"Come with me," said Snape calmly, placing his hand on Harry's shoulder again. One gentle nudge, and he was manoeuvring the boy towards his laboratory.

Harry felt dazed. Exhausted. Like he might trip over his own feet as they walked the short distance. Well, it was probably past two in the morning. That wasn't the problem though, and he knew it. He just didn't want to face what was coming.

Explanations.

But he couldn't explain really, could he? He knew why he'd transfigured that first needle, but trying to explain how it had got so far out of control . . . he understood it, but he didn't think anybody else could. There just weren't words for all the horrible thoughts that had been spinning through his head lately.

He started talking so he wouldn't even have to think about them. "Um, are we in your lab so you can brew me some salve? I thought you'd have some already made up."

"And so I do," said Snape, opening a cabinet mounted high on the wall. As he stretched an arm up to reach for something on the top shelf, his dressing gown was pulled up a bit, and Harry saw that his father's feet were bare.

A small detail, but somehow, it got to him. Harry gulped, feeling guilty. He could have waited until morning. He didn't have to drag his father out of bed at an hour like this, and in the dead cold of the dungeons at night.

"Some of those wounds are festering." Snape's voice was matter-of-fact. "You need more than a standard healing salve. But first I think you'd better take off that top, Harry."

Oh. He meant so that his arm could be properly cleaned, probably. Harry gave a shaky nod, his fingers moving to fumble over the buttons at the front of his pyjama top. He wasn't surprised when he saw Snape draw his wand, but it did startle him when the man merely used a soft Aguamenti to moisten a bit of cloth.

Snape began gently wiping the dried blood from Harry's skin.

"Can't you use magic?" asked Harry, wincing. It wasn't that it hurt so badly, though the one spot still did throb. It was more that he hated how long this was taking. The more time it took, the more guilty he felt about what he'd done to himself.

"Sometimes the direct method is best," murmured Snape as he continued working. When Harry's arm was clean, he opened a wide, squat jar and scooped out a portion of glistening olive-coloured goo. Harry wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell, which resembled both overripe cheese and strangely, toothpaste. Well, it could be worse. The stuff could be a potion he'd have to drink, instead of an ointment. He didn't say anything as his father dabbed the salve carefully against each mark on his arm, but when Snape moved as though to cap the jar, Harry gulped again, and twisted his right arm so the underside of it was visible.

"This one too," he said, wishing more than almost anything that he could avoid admitting it.

Snape's hair swayed as he nodded, his features impassive. Harry couldn't believe his father didn't care, but the way he was reacting . . . the way he was not reacting, actually, was beginning to be really worrisome. "Aren't you angry?" he asked as Snape set to work dabbing salve once more.

The man's black eyes flashed something as he looked up and met Harry's gaze. "I'm not pleased," he said, the words so dry they felt cutting. But not hurtful, which was odd. "However, I hardly think that what you need at the moment is more drama."

That made sense. Actually, it made so much sense that Harry felt himself nodding. "I . . . yeah. All right."

Snape finished treating Harry's other arm. This time, before capping the jar, he asked if Harry needed salve anywhere else. That question was almost harder to bear than all that had come before. Harry hung his head even as he shook it.

"Come, then," said Snape.

Harry scooped up his shirt from where he'd laid it on the counter, and followed his father out. He sort of expected they'd be going to Snape's office next, to talk, but the man stopped in the living room and turned to face Harry, who was shivering by then.

Snape frowned, and flicked his wand to cast some heating spells.

"Thanks," said Harry, his teeth chattering, but not with cold. Nerves, that was it. He moved the hand holding his bloodied top. "Um, I don't really want to put this back on. Clammy--" As he followed that thought through to its logical conclusion, his stomach seemed to sink right down to his toes. He whispered the rest of it. "But I d- d- don't want to go get something and wake Dr- Draco . . ."

"I'll lend you something." Snape disappeared down the hall before Harry could remember to tell him to put on some slippers. For a moment, Harry just stared after him, a little surprised that his father hadn't Accio'd whatever he had in mind. It dimly occurred to him that perhaps Snape's summoning charms were just as noisy as his own.

Realising he was still holding his bloody pyjama top, Harry shuddered. It was horrible and disgusting, proof of how badly he'd messed up. He wanted to banish it, but his wand was still up in the Tower, and it hardly seemed like a good time to start openly using wandless magic. Harry dropped the top to the floor and tried to pretend it wasn't there, staring up at him.

When Snape emerged, a soft grey jumper in his hands, he was no longer dressed for bed. He'd changed into black slacks and a dark green shirt, and he'd put on some shoes.

Harry took the jumper and slipped it over his head. It was too big for him and hung loose, but Harry didn't mind that, even if it did remind him of the kind of clothes he'd had to wear while growing up. This was different, now. Dudley's cast-off clothing had meant he was unwanted at home, but this . . . this meant he was loved.

Though he was pretty surprised Snape had a jumper like this to start with. It didn't quite seem his style.

"Molly Weasley," said his father when he mentioned it. His voice grew dry as he continued. "A belated Christmas present. I suspect I may be on her list from now on out."

"Yeah, I have a whole collection of jumpers. Gryffindor colours, mostly. I bet Draco will start getting them too, now. Only his will probably be green, I guess." Harry was aware he was babbling, but Snape didn't seem to be objecting. "Um, speaking of Draco, did he mention our row?"

Harry braced himself. He couldn't imagine what Draco might have said, but it wasn't likely to be flattering towards Harry.

"I could tell you must have rowed." Snape sighed. "Draco's mood was foul, to say the least."

Harry knew it wasn't very Slytherin to ask, but he couldn't help it; he had to know. "Did he tell you I'd flooed back to the Tower?"

Snape's frown reached his eyes. "I asked you not to do that. But to answer you, Draco merely said you'd gone back early. In fact, he all but implied that he'd walked you to the Tower."

Oh. So Draco hadn't badmouthed him to Snape. Harry felt bad now that he'd thought the opposite. In fact, he felt so bad that his arms started to itch something awful. He started rubbing his hands up and down his arms, the motion almost frantic.

Snape, he noticed after a moment, was staring.

"Itchy jumper," said Harry to excuse himself.

"I seriously doubt that." Snape waited a moment, his dark gaze steady on Harry, then finally spoke again. "Are you ready to talk about it, now?"

Harry tried to nod, but it came out more like a circular motion. Because he wasn't ready, not really. He needed to talk, but that didn't have anything to do with being prepared to. "Um . . ."

"Let's sit down," said Snape quietly, moving to seat himself on the couch.

Harry looked longingly back at the Floo. He wanted to go back up to the Tower and go to sleep and pretend he'd never come down here like this. Snape deserved better than a son who was so mental that he--

He couldn't even complete the thought. No wonder he couldn't start talking like his father obviously wished.

"I left my wand in the common room," he said, stepping towards the fireplace. "I . . . uh, I'll just go get it, all right?"

"It is absolutely not all right," said Snape in a harder voice. "I'll collect it for you after we've finished here. Until then, I'm certain no one will disturb it."

"I guess I'll get it when I go back up," Harry said dully. He felt defeated. Clearly, Snape was going to make him talk. No ifs, ands, or buts.

"You're mistaken if you think you're going back up." Snape shook his head as he spoke. "You can't return to your dormitory tonight, Harry. It's far too likely that you'll hurt yourself again."

Harry flinched. Apparently Snape didn't have any trouble putting Harry's problem into words.

"I . . . yeah." Harry flopped down onto the opposite end of the couch and tried to find some words of his own. "I . . . I came down here to talk, 'cause it seemed like it was just . . . getting out of hand, but . . ." He shrugged, uncomfortable.

"It's good you realise that it's got out of hand," Snape said slowly. "I hope you also understand, however, that there's no possible way something like this can be in hand. Yes?"

Harry opened his mouth, but it had gone so dry that he couldn't speak. Literally. He gave a shaky nod, instead.

Proving once again how perceptive he could be, Snape conjured him a glass of water and leaned forward to hand it to him.

Harry sipped some. He wanted to quaff the whole glass but even a little bit made him feel sort of queasy. Too much tension. He was starting to feel desperate. He'd been down here for who knows how long, and he still hadn't managed to say anything that mattered. And it was looking even less likely than before that he'd ever manage it.

"How did this start, Harry?" Snape quietly asked, plucking the glass from between his fingers and setting it down.

"I . . . uh, the snake pit, and fears, and I just wanted to be strong like you said--" Hearing how much like a nutter he sounded, Harry tried again. "I don't feel bad, see? And so I had to."

God, that wasn't any better.

"I can't!" he cried, balling his hands into fists. His fingernails dug into his palms. It wasn't quite like the needle, but it was something, at least. "I mean, I know how it started, but it's not going to make sense to anyone else, all right? Not even you! Because you've been through horrible, awful things in your life. I know you have. But you've never done something like this, have you?"

Harry hated the fact that his voice near the end sounded so hopeful. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, and it was sick that he sounded like he would. But if his father ever had hurt himself, as he'd put it, then maybe he could understand what had driven Harry. Right?

If it was a hope, it was a forlorn one.

"No, I haven't," said Snape. "But that doesn't mean I can't be of some help to you, Harry." Snape paused. "I'd like to understand what things just now are like for you, and why this seemed a . . . viable option."

Harry grabbed his glass of water and took another sip, even if it did make him feel vaguely sick. He was sure the water was fine, but it tasted brackish to him. With a grimace he set it aside once more. "I . . . I don't think I can explain. It's just . . . twisted, all right? It makes sense inside my head, but . . . well, why do you think I didn't just use my needle in front of everyone? I knew how it would look! Same way it's going to look to you, I bet," he added, muttering the last.

"Are you expecting me to judge you and find you wanting?" Snape reached out again and caught Harry's hands in his own. "Harry. I told you once that I admire you, do you recall? That hasn't changed."

"How can it not have?" gasped Harry, tugging on his hands. His father didn't let them go.

"Because no one can be strong all the time," said Snape simply. "And you are strong, Harry. It's part of who you are. But for all your inherent strength, for all your fearsome powers, you aren't beyond human. Nor should you expect yourself to be."

"But you've never done this," cried Harry, almost in tears. He didn't want praise like that from Snape. He wasn't strong! Wasn't that obvious by now? He wasn't strong, and the needle wasn't going to help him get that way!

"I've done worse," said Snape bluntly. "I turned my doubts and rage on others. I don't recommend that course, either."

Harry's mouth dropped open slightly. He hadn't thought of things like that, before.

"Harry, you are sixteen years old, but you've endured more dreadful experiences than most adults suffer in nightmares, let alone waking life. It's frankly exceptional that you aren't an inpatient at St. Mungo's by now. That you are now having trouble . . . coping, comes as no surprise to me. Didn't I say earlier that I'd already divined as much?"

His bottom lip hurt. Harry was slow to realise that was because he'd been chewing on it for the last little bit. "You did, but .. . this?" Freeing his hands from his father's, Harry held his arms out, palms up, though of course the warm, soft jumper covered every mark that marred his skin.

Snape sighed. "Harry, if you think I will love you any the less for being troubled . . . I'd like to think you have more trust in me than that."

"I . . . I do trust you," Harry murmured. "That was why I came. To you, not to Remus, even though Remus was the one who gave me the powder. But . . . it doesn't matter, Dad. I'm just too mixed-up to . . ." Harry lifted his shoulders, feeling about as useless as he ever had. He couldn't even talk coherently.

Snape took a long moment to consider that. "Don't mistake me," he finally said in a level, yet intense voice. "You aren't like me, as I said before. I think you need to talk things out. But if you can't begin to, yet . . . perhaps there is another way. Do you want me to understand this, Harry? The way you do?"

"Yes," said Harry fiercely. "But don't you get it? I can't explain--"

"Hush, you idiot child," said Snape softly. "I'm not asking you to. Not in words, at any rate."

Harry felt something then, pressing against the edges of his mind. A sensation of warm waters that would cocoon him and hold him afloat. "Oh. Yeah, that might work."

"You're Occluding."

"I'll stop--" Harry drew in a breath and concentrated on damping down the fire that flared continuously at the back of his mind. It should have been easier, considering Snape's waters were so near, just waiting to be admitted. It took effort, though. He'd just grown so used to constantly keeping up his Occlumency. He hardly even noticed it, any longer. Finally, though, the fire was gone, and Harry's mind was unguarded.

For a split second he wondered if Voldemort would attack him from the inside out, like before.

But almost at once, Snape's waters were streaming into his mind to fill it. Harry's fear dropped away. He knew his father would protect him. Would die to protect him, even, not that Harry would want that.

Harry relaxed, leaning back against the cushions, his hands falling to his sides, and let himself drift atop the waters. It was good to know he was safe. That his father was with him, and would stay with him through anything. Even this. Even knowing how messed-up and confused Harry was. Harry let go of all thought, completely, and closed his eyes, giving his father free reign to see what he wished.

It was over sooner than Harry would have thought, but that was because Harry didn't really understand a lot about Legilimency.

"Harry," Snape said, the word snapping him out of his trance.

"Hmm?"

"I can see what you've been doing, but not so much your reasons why."

Harry felt like he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water. "Oh. Shite. Yeah, Legilimency unlocks memories, not psyche. Crap."

"That was certainly true when I sought to understand your uncle. But your mind recognises mine, Harry, and I know you quite well--"

"Not as well as you thought, though," said Harry bitterly.

"I know you quite well indeed," repeated Snape in a firm tone. "I think I can sink far enough into your memories to sense what you were thinking, but the experience will be more intense than regular Legilimency."

"Oh, great. I get to get knocked on my arse like when you were first teaching me. But fine, if that's what it takes--"

Snape got up from the sofa. "I have something else in mind." Harry's eyes widened when the man waved his wand at the stone floor, transfiguring the surface into a soft, plush rug. Green, of course. Snape sat down on it, cross-legged, and crooked a finger for Harry to join him.

Harry hesitated.

"I expect it's a good deal less daunting than formerly," said Snape, smiling a little. "You're more at ease with me now, I trust?"

"Yeah, of course," said Harry, moving to sit down on the floor as well, his back to his father. He wasn't even sure why he was reluctant, really.

Snape straightened his legs and stretched them out to either side of Harry, then scooted forward a bit and pulled Harry back against him. "All right?"

Harry made a conscious effort to sit less stiffly. His father's fingers carding through his hair helped, reminding him that he'd been scared of this before, but it had been fine, really. More than fine. "Yeah, all right."

Closing his eyes, Harry felt waters washing into his mind once more. It wasn't like fifth year at all, he found, and not just because Snape wasn't attacking him. No memories flashed through his mind. Just peace, and yielding, and feeling himself melting backwards into the strength of the man behind him. The whole world turned warm and wet, and Harry was adrift in it.

Adrift and floating, but not alone. Never alone.

"Let yourself go limp," whispered Snape, and Harry couldn't tell if the voice was entering through his ears, or if the waters themselves were speaking. "Lean on me. Don't think of anything, Harry. Just be."

Harry sank even deeper into the water and felt it going over his head. He should be drowning now, he knew. But he wasn't; his father was with him.

Emotion began to whip through him, then. Tiny glimpses of emotion, gone before he had much chance to sense and understand them. Snape's emotions, he slowly realised. His father was responding to whatever he was seeing as he delved ever deeper into Harry's memories, and then his thoughts. Seeing things the way Harry had seen them.

This is making me stronger. I won't be afraid of needles when I'm through, and if I'm not afraid, I won't unleash dark magic again. I won't turn into a dark wizard--

Harry felt sorrow then, but not his own. A yawning chasm of sadness and regret that Harry could ever think like that about himself. A conviction that it wasn't true. And guilt. Terrible guilt that he hadn't done enough as a father and a teacher to keep Harry from even worrying about something like that.

Harry struggled, trying to raise his mental barriers and shield Snape from any more contact with his mind. He didn't like hurting his father.

More memories began to whip through Harry. More thoughts, feelings, impressions. More of himself. Harry fought it for a moment, but then something inside him broke apart. Why had he come down here if not because he needed help? He could trust his father, he could, even if it meant letting him know every last ugly thing.

Harry slumped, relaxing, and let his father's waters wash all the way through him, then, extinguishing every trace of his fire. Every ember, every spark.

So what if it hurts? Harry felt himself thinking then. My training out in Devon hurt too. Plenty. But it was for my own good, and so is this. I can't let myself turn dark, I just can't . . .

"Why would you fear that, Harry?" asked Snape, his voice made of pure water, pure thought. Harry felt lost in it. Lost, but not alone. He couldn't feel alone, not when his father's arms were tight around him, just as if he realised how much reassurance Harry needed.

But perhaps he did. Because he knew Harry . . . just as he had said.

And that was enough to tip Harry's memory back to Grimmauld Place.

A phantom image of the portrait began to form itself out of the waters, Lucius' features made of blue and green waves, his mouth open and moving. Horrid words reverberated through the ocean making up Harry's whole world. "I know very well the company you currently cling to, and the sort of nurturing they're likely to provide . . . Your so called wild magic? It's dark, all the way through . . ."

Harry flinched when he heard that again. The first time had been bad enough. This time, though, he was safe and warm and held, his father's love surrounding him and giving him strength.

The portrait kept speaking, on and on, Harry holding nothing back as he let his memories flow into the waters binding him to his father. Every last insult and sneer and innuendo, right down to the final, awful suggestion: You know, I wonder if dear Severus will actually put you down himself when you turn? I rather think he will. He's certainly got it in him. Has he ever told you about--

Blinding anger suddenly poured through the waters, a deluge that plunged Harry down and down and down. Severus' anger. But it wasn't Harry he was angry with.

The feeling was gone in little more than an instant, Severus' thoughts plunging into the depths to make room for more of Harry's.

Harry hesitated, fire flaring in the distant waves, but he didn't let it last. Severus hated Lucius. More than Harry did, perhaps. Severus would understand.

Harry saw himself running then, fleeing the library in Grimmauld Place and throwing himself atop Sirius' bed.

And then, Harry's worries took voice inside his mind, a blend of what he had thought at that moment, and all the things he'd contemplated since. Dark magic . . . and there's darkness inside me, or at least there could be if I don't do something to stop it. Even my father said I'd be a new Dark Lord if I kept thirsting after revenge . . .

"Yes, I did," said Snape inside Harry's mind, his voice now so decisive that it made the way he'd been speaking to Aran sound almost whimsical. "But that's not what you've been doing, you foolish child. You didn't hunt Lucius down to kill him! He came to you, more fool him. Self-defence isn't revenge, Harry, and satisfaction at a monster's death isn't evil. And neither are you."

Harry felt like gulping. He wanted to believe what Snape was telling him. Wanted to desperately, with his whole soul. How could he, though? "But . . . but . . ."

Snape's arms tightened around him, his voice radiating conviction so strong and bright it lit up the waters and tinted them a burnished gold. "Oh, Harry. Don't you know that your most shining trait is love itself? Think of what you told me out in Devon, about how you felt about those years of torment I put you through. And yet for all your lingering resentment, you've forgiven me. I know you have. You loved me enough to want to be my son. There's no darkness in you."

"But you said there could be--"

"There could be in anyone. For all your vast powers, you're human too, you know. But you haven't fallen into darkness. No, far from it. Voldemort loves only himself. But Harry, you're overflowing with love for all the rest of us. So much of it that you would protect us even at the cost of hurting yourself. Your needles . . . you mustn't do that again. But the fact that you resorted to them in the first place proves you are in no way dark."

The words were like a healing balm soothing his wounds, and as Harry basked in them, he felt the waters surrounding him begin to recede. As he emerged from the Occlumency, he let himself dissolve into his father's embrace instead.

Safe, that was it. He felt safe now.

Until, that is, he opened his eyes and saw Draco sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, not four feet away.

Startled, Harry yelped and flinched back, almost knocking Snape over.

"It's just your brother," Snape said wryly as he shifted back and then to the side.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know." And then, a little belatedly, to Draco, "Did we wake you?"

Stupid question; of course they had. Harry expected one of Draco's usual sarcastic answers, something like, No, Potter. I come and sit on the floor out here every night of the week.

But that wasn't what Draco said at all. Because by then, Draco wasn't even looking at Harry. His silver eyes were trained on the bloody pyjama top, lying on the floor just a short distance away. Then his gaze flicked back to Harry, and he spoke in a low, cold, utterly controlled voice.

"I'm going to kill whoever did this to you, Harry."

Harry felt like his throat was clogged as he tried his best to reply. "I . . . um . . ." Just like with his father, it was easier to show him than speak the words. Harry shoved up the sleeves of the jumper he was wearing, and did his best to shrug.

Draco stared. "What the hell kind of hex does that?" His eyes narrowed. "And why aren't both your sleeves bloodied?"

Harry craned his neck to look back at his father. "I don't suppose you'd . . . er, tell him for me?"

Snape gave a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head.

"Well . . ." Harry's voice almost cracked over the words. "You know how you said you were going to kill whoever did this? You . . . uh, I have a pretty good idea that you don't want to kill me, so . . ."

It took Draco a moment to put that together. And even when he did, he came to the wrong conclusion. "You did this to yourself, Harry?" The boy furrowed his brow until his eyebrows looked like straight lines. "This is bad. I know you can break out of Imperius but this must be some new variant . . . can you at least tell us who hexed you?"

"Nobody hexed me, Draco."

"Are you sure? You might be Confunded--"

"I'm not--"

"If you were, you wouldn't know it," said Draco in a reasonable voice. "Severus, have you checked him for spell residue?"

Well, Draco's conviction that someone else was responsible did have the advantage of loosening Harry's tongue. "Draco, I did this to myself, all right? And not because I was hexed! I wanted to do this!"

The truth finally dawning on him, Draco reared back in shock. "You wanted to? Why, for Merlin's sake?"

Harry thought of what he'd just gone through to get Snape to understand. "It's hard to explain," he said, sighing deeply as he yanked the jumper's sleeves back down.

Draco stared at him, just stared.

"I'm not a flobberworm on display," Harry finally snapped.

The statement seemed to snap Draco out of his thoughts. "No, you're not. You're a textbook case right out of The Road to Recovery."

Harry couldn't help it; he gaped. "What?"

"Lucius Malfoy deserved what you did to him!" Draco cried, raising his voice in what sounded like frustration. "He was going to kill me, you know, and torture you, and hand you over to the Dark Lord! It looks to me like you feel you need to be punished, but that's like the Ministry feeling guilty because they convicted a guilty man! You have nothing, nothing to fault yourself for. And if I can say that, you know it must be true!"

"That's not the problem," Harry said fiercely. "I don't fault myself, all right? Is everybody listening? Because I'm getting pretty sick of people thinking they know how I feel when they don't. Lucius Malfoy was a sack of shite and I'm glad he's dead, got it? Glad! And I'm glad I was the one who killed him! And I don't feel guilty, not one bit! Are we all goddamned good and clear on that now?"

Draco's eyes were huge in his face. "Clear as Lubaantum."

"And as long as we're clearing things up, I don't look at you and see Lucius! I was avoiding you because I thought you knew about this--" Harry gestured towards his forearms, "and I didn't want to talk about it, all right?"

"Oh, this is what you didn't want to talk about," murmured Draco, nodding. For a moment, something shined in his eyes, but then the moment was gone, and the boy was demanding, "If you don't feel guilty then why are you hexing yourself? And please don't tell me you did something as daft as use a wanded spell."

Trust Draco to think like a wizard no matter the circumstances. "I didn't use a spell at all," Harry said baldly. "I stuck myself with a needle over and over."

When Draco blanched, Harry wished he'd thought of another way to break the news.

Then again, Draco didn't blanch for long. His gaze flicked to the bloodied pyjama top. "Brandish the other wand, Harry. A needle wouldn't cause a mess like that."

"A big enough one would."

Then, Draco really blanched, his skin going pasty. "But you hate needles!"

Harry gave him a look as if to say, yes, I do seem to recall that . . .

Draco's nostrils flared. "Well, forgive me for being a bit out of my depth, Harry. Do you think you could answer my question now? What would make you want to torture yourself, Muggle-style, no less?"

Strange. He hadn't been able to tell his father, not in words, but now he could say it. Part of it, at least. Maybe the Occlumency had really helped. "I felt guilty that I couldn't feel guilty."

Draco crossed his arms, his voice emerging even more scornfully than before. "Oh, that makes perfect sense, Harry. Do you feel sad when you can't feel sad? Or happy when you can't feel happy? Or hungry when you can't feel hungry?"

Harry felt his fist clenching. "Thanks! It really helps loads to have you making fun!"

Snape moved so that he could look into Harry's eyes. And then he spoke, his voice insistent. "Your brother isn't ridiculing you. He simply doesn't understand, yet. But I do, and I must tell you: a sense of satisfaction, or even joy, at Lucius' death does not make you a terrible person. No less a great wizard of the Light than Albus Dumbledore himself feels the same. And I dare say you'd never call him dark."

"Dark?" gasped Draco. "You can't possibly think you're turning dark, Harry! Just because you don't feel guilty? You don't have anything to feel guilty for!"

Ignoring his brother, Harry focussed his gaze on his father's face. "How do you know how the headmaster feels? I mean, has he actually said he's happy?"

"Oh, he has more decorum than that." Snape's lips curled up slightly. "I do believe, however, that I can deduce his thoughts on the matter from the way he chuckled while we were dealing with Lucius' body. Chortled, even. He was in most excellent spirits. Will you now condemn him as evil?"

Harry swallowed. "No, but he's not the one who did anything, is he?"

"He killed Grindelwald, you twit!"

No ignoring that jibe. Harry ground his teeth together in irritation. "Listen, you aren't me, Draco. You don't know what it's like inside my head, so don't you dare call me names--"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Snape. "I think perhaps any further analysis of the situation can wait until morning."

"Easy for you to say," muttered Draco. "You were in his head, so you know exactly what's going on with him. Well, some of us can't perform feats of wonder with our mental powers. Some of us have to rely on speech--"

"Some of us are dead tired and don't want to blather on for another hour," interrupted Harry. "We can talk in the morning. Ha, if I feel like it. And that's that."

Draco abruptly nodded, though he couldn't quite bring himself to drop it entirely. All annoyance was gone from his voice, however, when he ventured, "You . . . you aren't going to do it again, are you?"

Harry opened his mouth to say he wouldn't, but the word wouldn't quite emerge. The truth was, he didn't know for sure if he wouldn't. He could see himself wanting the needle again. It wasn't even difficult to imagine that, though at the moment his arms weren't itching.

"No, he isn't," Snape answered for him. "But based on your hesitation, Harry, I think you'd better move back to the dungeons for the rest of term." He held up a hand when Harry would have protested. "It's only another couple of weeks before you'd move back in any case."

True, so Harry let it go. "But aren't we going to Devon for the summer?"

"Not straight away." Snape moved to a vantage point where he could look Harry in the eye. "We'll decide tomorrow how best to handle the final weeks of classes. But I must make one thing clear at the outset. If you feel at any point that you're in danger of succumbing to an urge to stick yourself, you must contact me at once. At once, Harry. I don't care if I'm in a meeting with Salazar Slytherin himself, you're to interrupt. Yes?"

Harry nodded.

"Now, to particulars," said Snape. "Where is the needle you've been using?"

Harry blushed, feeling like he was about five years old. "You saw, I think. I've been keeping it in the seam of whatever shirt I had on. I don't have it with me. And the yarn needle is upstairs in the common room. I think I dropped it. On the table where I left my books? Well, somewhere, anyway."

"I'll go and fetch your wand as well as return your common room to rights," said Snape. "And to avoid the inevitable hue and cry in the morning, I'll inform Mr Weasley that you've come home for the night."

"Don't tell him why," Harry pleaded. "I . . . well, I know I can trust Ron and Hermione, but this is just . . . no, all right? I'd rather just get over this, somehow, and not ever let them know what I was doing."

"I shall inform him your vision took a turn for the worse and I am treating you with a new, nocturnal Elixir which requires you be monitored while you sleep," said Snape.

Harry wasn't exactly happy about any of this, but he still felt his lips curling into a smile. "You really can think up stuff fast, can't you?"

Snape didn't answer that. "You should reconsider the matter of telling your friends, however. It goes back to what we discussed earlier tonight. But you needn't think about it now. Later, when you feel more able to . . . cope. All right?"

Harry couldn't even nod in answer. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

Snape pushed his way to his feet, his bones creaking a little. He gave Harry a hand up. "I'll see to matters in the Tower, then."

"Don't scare Ron half out of his mind when you wake him."

Draco stood up as well, a little bit of a smile hovering near his mouth, though his eyes still looked troubled. "The Hero of Hogsmeade? Afraid?"

If Harry had been less tired, he'd have stuck out his tongue. As it was, he just kind of stared, bleary-eyed, at Draco.

His brother had the grace to flush, just a little. "Sorry." He glanced at Snape, then. "Go, Severus. And make sure you summon that needle out of his sleeve or whatever. We wouldn't want Harry getting stuck by it later."

Harry yawned, too exhausted to even take exception to Draco's high-handed manner. He knew Draco meant well, anyway. "Night--"

Snape caught him by the arm, his other hand reaching into a pocket to pull out a packet of much-folded parchment. "I went to collect this for you earlier. Perhaps having it again will help you begin to feel better." He pressed the parchment into Harry's hands.

Oh. The Marauder's Map. Harry blinked, feeling his eyes begin to water. He'd complained he wanted it, and his father had gone straight away to get it for him . . . "You said you had work to do in your office!"

"I did. But I also took the opportunity to visit Albus." Snape patted him on the shoulder. "I'd have told you in advance, but I wasn't entirely certain he'd be ready to relinquish that map. You're not to misuse it, though. Do you understand?"

Guilt instantly swamped Harry. You're not to misuse it. Snape was thinking of one of his "Gryffindor adventures," no doubt, but what Harry had wanted it for was something much, much worse. He didn't want to let the map go again, but how could he keep it, knowing as he did that he might get an urge to make another needle, and the map could help him make sure he wouldn't get caught?

"I . . ." Realising he'd been practically hugging the map to himself, Harry made a conscious effort to hold it out. "You'd better keep it, sir. I . . . I wanted it so I could . . . um, see who was coming when I was . . . yeah."

His father's jaw clenched as he took that in, but he seemed to calm after a moment. "Ask for it again when you feel stronger, then," said Snape as he took it and tucked it back in his pocket. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah. Night." Sighing, Harry turned away to go to his room. Draco didn't follow; he was obviously going to talk to Snape for a moment or two. About Harry, no doubt. Harry was too tired to care. He just wanted to sleep and forget about this. All of it.

That soon became impossible, though. Harry had long since stopped noticing the melted surface of the walls in his room, but when he went in this time, they seemed to leap out at him. Wild magic. Lucius' horrid words floated to the surface of his mind. You're dark clear through, Potter . . .

Harry gasped, hating the way that claim seemed to just resonate inside him. It wasn't true, he told himself frantically. It wasn't. But if that was so, then why did it bother him so much?

Draco's voice broke through his thoughts. "Harry?"

"I need you to spell off the lights," said Harry without turning around. "I don't have my wand."

"You have your fingers," said Draco dryly. "But yes, you're not supposed to get used to using them without cover." He cleared his throat. "Do you want to sleep in Severus' jumper? Because I . . . er, I cleaned your pyjama top for you."

That had Harry turning around. "You did?"

"Lavare is well within my talents. And I didn't think you'd want Dobby to catch sight of this and come around offering to bleed for you, or something." Draco held out the top.

Harry shuddered. He couldn't look at it, let alone wear it. Ever again, probably. Besides, he didn't really want to change. He liked the feel of his father's jumper against his bare skin. He shook his head. "Banish it, I think."

"Ah. Yes, all right." Draco fetched his wand from his night table, and a moment later, the pyjama top was gone forever.

Harry was turning down the covers on his bed when Draco spoke again. "Harry? It'll be all right. It really will."

Harry didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.

A tap on his shoulder had him turning around to find Draco right behind him. "It will, Harry," the other boy said earnestly.

That time Harry tried to reply, but before he could, Draco was pulling him into a hug, his arms wrapping around Harry's shoulders to yank him close. "Severus and I will get you through this," Draco said, the words sounding fierce and loving, all at once. Protective, that was it. "I swear we will. I swear by Merlin's wand."

Draco started patting Harry's back like he was trying to offer comfort.

It was only then that Harry realised how hard he'd been trying to be strong. To not let Draco see how weak and frightened he felt. But all at once, he knew that his brother wasn't going to reject him, any more than his father would. No matter the horrid words he and Draco had exchanged after dinner. That was all forgotten now.

Harry wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him back, letting himself lean on the other boy. Letting himself rely on him. Draco would help him get through this. Harry knew that, now. He had help.

He had a family.

Harry pulled in a breath, sniffling a little.

Draco let him go, then, and stepped back, his silver eyes worried. "Shite. I wasn't trying to make you cry, Harry."

"I'm not crying, you prat!"

Draco studied him for a minute longer. "All right. Er . . . are you for bed, then? Or did you want to tell me about it, now?"

"Bed." Harry yawned. "Oh. Sorry about before. I didn't think I was better than you and Severus. I just wanted to be alone so I could . . ."

"Sorry I called you self-important and selfish." The pain in Draco's voice matched his expression. "I didn't know you were . . . er, taking things so hard, Harry."

"Yeah, well don't feel bad about that." Harry slid between his sheets, and sighed. They felt like home. "How could you have known? I was keeping it all from you."

Draco hadn't moved; he was still standing right beside Harry's bed, a strange look on his face.

"I don't have a needle now," Harry felt he'd better mention.

Draco didn't point out that with wandless magic, Harry could make one, anytime. Perhaps that's why the other boy was looking so much like he was standing guard.

Or maybe it was due to something else, Harry belatedly realised.

"Um . . . what was it that you wanted to ask me, anyway?"

In the instant before Draco turned away, Harry saw his features flush. The other boy flicked his wand to spell off the lights, then, judging from the noises the followed, climbed into the bed across the room. "It's not important, Harry. I shouldn't have been even thinking about it, not when you were having such problems of your own."

Harry yawned. "But something was really bothering you, I think. Just because I have problems doesn't mean you don't have them, too--"

Draco gave a short laugh. "We all have them, Harry. Let's just go to sleep now, all right? Merlin, in just a few hours it'll be time to get up! Severus'll probably let us sleep in, though."

"Mmm." Harry rolled over to face the wall, his mind swimming in exhaustion. Good thing, though. He didn't want to lie awake thinking. Or wishing he had a needle.

He told himself that tomorrow, he'd get Draco to tell him whatever had been on his mind these past couple of weeks.

 

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Harry was alone in his room when he woke up. He sat up and stretched, snatches of the previous night's conversation coming back to him as he got dressed. Oh, God. He didn't want to go out into the living room and endure yet more questions from Draco. He hadn't even been able to endure them from his father, really.

Thank goodness for Occlumency, Harry thought, and then almost laughed. He and Snape really had come a long way since last year.

Feeling a little more confident, he left the room to find his family.

Snape was alone at the dining table, a cup of tea in his hand. A plate was waiting for Harry, heaps of food piled on it, a slight haze proving a warming charm was in effect. His wand was lying neatly beside the plate, almost as though it were a piece of silverware.

"Thanks," said Harry, pocketing his wand before sitting down to tuck in. For some reason he was absolutely starving. Maybe because of all the stress the night before. "Where's Draco?"

Snape laid aside the parchment he'd been reading. Huh. Some Ministry proclamation, from the look of it. Oh, about the need for more Aurors. Harry felt his heartbeat increase, just a little. But then it slowed. Who was going to want an Auror with problems like his?

"Your brother has gone to Slytherin to collect his things."

Harry swallowed the bite of porridge in his mouth. "Oh. He's going to move back early, too, I guess. Is that wise? I mean, his house mates might think he can't tough it out."

"Ever since the Quidditch match, Draco has regained much of his former status." Snape shrugged. "If you must know, I expressed the same concern. Draco pointed out that as term only lasts two more weeks, his absence wouldn't be terribly significant. He was adamant however about being here for you."

That was kind of nice, Harry thought.

"You will find your own things returned to your trunk," added Snape. "The trunk I lent you is back in storage. If you would like to use it again next year, you need merely let me know."

All at once, Harry lost his appetite. "What's that, some sort of positive thinking technique you got from that book? Why would I need a spare trunk next year? I'll still have to live here!"

"You most certainly will not. We'll resolve this issue long before then."

"How?" asked Harry bleakly. "Are you going Muggle book-shopping again? Because I've never heard of a wizard having a problem like this."

"You might be surprised," murmured Snape, the words just a little dark. "My first year teaching here, I had a student in class who was similarly distraught."

Oh . . . Harry could feel his ears perking up. "Um, did he get better, then?"

Snape gave him an odd look. "She, Harry. I don't believe this particular . . . response to stress is limited to young men."

Huh. Harry had sort of figured it was, but he couldn't have said why. "So what happened to her?"

At that question, Snape sighed. "I don't know. Albus and I both tried our best to help her, as well as the then Head of Slytherin. They with more success, no doubt, as I was myself not in the best frame of mind that year."

Harry knew what that meant. If it had been Snape's first year teaching, it wouldn't have been long since he'd given up being a Death Eater in every sense of the word. "How can you not know what happened to her, though?"

"She never returned the next year. I believe Albus made inquiries, but the family had left England. They had been informed, of course. Whether they went abroad to get her expert help, or for some other reason, I have never known."

For some other reason . . . Harry had a horrible feeling that he knew what that meant. What if this girl had done what Harry was afraid he'd accidentally do? What if she'd hurt herself so badly that she'd bled to death before she could get to help? He gulped, all at once feeling frantic. "No offence, Dad, but if you never managed to help her, then what makes you think you can help me?"

"I care more about you," said Snape bluntly. "I'll stop at nothing. As well, I'm in a better position to help, these days. But in point of fact, Harry, I don't propose to deal with this alone. Just as you came to me for assistance, I too will need help."

That made sense, but still . . . "Not the headmaster. I don't want him to know!"

Snape looked as though he might dispute that, but in the end, he merely lifted his shoulders. "You're nearly of age. I suppose you're old enough to decide with whom you share personal information. I wasn't thinking specifically of Albus, though."

"Oh. Marsha." Harry grimaced, his gaze drawn to the parchment lying on the table.

"There's no shame in seeking expert help," insisted Snape, misreading his expression. "I don't believe you think ill of Draco on account of his sessions."

"No, it's not that." Harry gulped. He'd never considered before how the therapy might affect Draco's chances of becoming an Auror. Now, it sort of looked hopeless for the both of them.

Snape's voice was impatient. "What, then?"

"Well, the Ministry does a pretty thorough background check on anybody who wants to work for MLE, don't they? You might say there's no shame in . . . whatever, but I'm Harry Potter! I mean, you know how the name thing works. I can't have people convinced I'm mental. It was bad enough fourth year with Rita Skeeter making me out to be some kind of nutter. But now I want to go into the Auror Corps. How many strikes against me do you think they'll put up with? I'm already pretending to be a dunce at magic!"

"I see your point," murmured Snape. "The Aurors deciding your application will obviously be informed of the ruse we've been employing. It won't keep you out of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Oh, and Voldemort's going to just believe that the Ministry takes weak wizards on as Aurors?"

"He'll think you were accepted on your name. Or possibly to protect you by keeping you in the company of Aurors a good deal of the time."

"Oh."

"Getting back to your concerns about meeting with Dr. Goode, however, what makes you think that the Ministry will ever know?"

"Magic," said Harry, staring. "They probably monitor . . . everything!"

"I'm astonished you could believe the Ministry so very competent," said Snape dryly.

"I don't, but--"

"The good doctor is, as I believe you know, a squib, Harry. I can assure you with every confidence that the Ministry is not monitoring her office."

"Rita Skeeter used to like to follow me around, though--"

"Harry, I will accompany you to every session, as I do for Draco. If any reporter thinks to make capital out of your presence in her office, I will claim the sessions are entirely for me. Will that do? Or have you some new objection?"

"I don't object." Harry sighed. "I just don't want it to kill my career plans, all right? Those matter to me. Auror's all I've wanted to do, ever since I found out there was such a thing."

Snape didn't look too happy to hear it. And no wonder, considering his opinion of Aurors. But Kingsley Shacklebolt was a good one, and so was Tonks. And Harry and Draco would be, too. Their father would be all right with them doing that for a living.

Harry hoped.

"So, Marsha," he said, nodding. "All right. I just hope she doesn't stare at my scar so much this time. That gets old fast."

Snape's lips twitched. "I've no doubt that by now, you brother has acquainted her with all the less than salutary aspects of your personality. Doubtless she'll be able to regard you as less of a hero, now."

"Just Harry. That's all I want. I hate people making a fuss over me--"

"I know," said Snape gently. "Now, to practical matters. Shall I arrange for you to see the good doctor today?"

Harry arms started itching as he shook his head. "It's Sunday."

"I'm sure she'll see you--"

"Yeah, I'm sure she will. But I want to be just Harry, remember? Not some celebrity she makes special arrangements for."

"Draco's evening sessions are just such an arrangement and he's hardly a celebrity."

Harry latched onto that idea at once. "Draco's session, right. Let's schedule mine right after his. Or before, so we only have to go out to Surrey once a week."

"You needn't worry about inconveniencing me, Harry--"

"It's not that. I'd just rather, all right? And besides, this'll let me try a few days without . . . er, needles. I'd like to see how I do."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Very well, but remember what I told you last night. If at any time you feel that temptation is getting the better of you, you're to come get me at once. Yes?"

"Yes," said Harry, relieved. The itch in his arms subsided a little, becoming more like a dull, dry ache. He was a little worried it would become worse the closer his appointment got, but for the moment he thought he could manage.

"Now, there is something else we should discuss," said Snape. "From what I gleaned from your thoughts, it seems you've been ignoring my request that you never walk the halls unaccompanied."

"No, I haven't!" The moment he said it though, Harry remembered something. "Oh. Yeah, when I went to talk with Remus."

"And?"

"That's it, sir. I swear." Harry looked his father in the eye. "I admit I was sneaking off to the loo alone and such, but walking the halls? That's the only time."

"I'm disappointed in your friends. Draco would not have made such a mistake."

Harry hadn't thought about it before; he'd been too glad to have a chance for a moment alone with his needle. "Well, I guess Ron and Hermione must have thought I was in for a long conversation with McGonagall and she'd walk me to the Great Hall afterwards. I don't blame them -- I'm sure they thought that when they weren't out there, I'd be responsible enough to ask, right?"

"No doubt they went snogging down dark alleys again."

Uh-oh. His father sounded a little more than merely disappointed. "Probably they just went to eat. Look, what I was doing was my doing. Don't take it out on them. Please?"

Snape stared at him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "However, you will be more careful in future. I know it's not enjoyable, pretending to be so much in need of protection, but the feint may well keep you alive in the final battle against Voldemort."

Harry chewed his lip. "Hmm. Maybe Remus will find out that Voldemort already knows I'm strong, anyway, and then I can give it up."

"Perhaps," said Snape, though he looked like he found that scenario doubtful.

The noise of the door opening distracted Harry from wondering if his father doubted Voldemort's information or Remus' ability to play Lucius.

"Ah, good. You're up," said Draco as he walked in, his trunk floating behind him. "Too much sleep is a sign of depression, Harry, and we can't have that--"

Harry sighed. "If you go back to acting like you think you're some kind of psychiatric expert--"

Draco held up his hands. "All right, I'll watch it." He looked from Severus to Harry and back. "So, any news?"

"I'll be contacting Dr. Goode about scheduling therapy for Harry on Wednesdays."

Draco waved his wand a little to send his trunk sailing into the bedroom. "Harry can have my session."

"The fact that I allowed you to postpone it one week does not mean I believe you have no further need of it."

Shrugging, Draco turned away. "All right. Well, I'm going to go settle in, then."

Harry stood up from the table. "Wait. What did you tell Slytherin to explain moving out early?"

"Oh, the Elixir thing, like Severus said. We share a room so I'm helping to monitor you." Draco grinned. "I'm not such a bad liar now, Harry. Not as long as I Occlude. Though I can't fool Severus. Maybe with more practice, eh?"

Snape gave Draco a bit of a hard look.

"What? Don't you want me to become thoroughly competent?" Laughing, Draco went into his room to unpack.

"I'll need to inform Albus of the new living arrangements," said Snape, shaking his head as he walked over to the Floo. "Rest assured, I'll only say that we have some family problems to work out."

As Snape's hand reached for the powder, it stilled, his dark eyes returning to Harry's face. "Ah, yes. I think it best for the time being if you don't have access to any Floo powder, Harry. You might, in a moment of weakness, decide to use the network to find privacy. I trust you understand my meaning?"

Harry nodded. He understood, all right. It was the same reason, basically, why he hadn't taken his map when he'd been offered it. "Keep it out of reach, sure." His forehead creased. "I hope we don't have some emergency, though."

"A wanded Accio would certainly bring you what you ask, but the destruction to my wards would be quite evident."

"In other words, I couldn't hide that I'd gone off somewhere." Harry felt both better and worse, hearing that. He didn't like the feeling that he was being watched. But his father was doing what was best. Harry knew that.

Mention of the Floo brought the previous night to mind, anyway, when he'd flooed off after that fight with Draco. Stupid fight, as it turned out. Draco had just wanted to talk to Harry, and not about needles, and it was no wonder he'd got a bit irate when Harry kept ignoring him like that.

It made Harry wonder exactly what Draco had wanted, anyway.

 

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"So, you wanted to talk to me," Harry said as he sat down on his bed, one leg bent underneath the other. "I think there was something you wanted? I'm really sorry I wouldn't listen to you before."

Draco turned a page in the book he was reading and kept his gaze focussed straight down. "Not a problem."

"So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

The other boy glanced up. "Forget it, Harry. It wasn't anything very important."

"Of course it was," exclaimed Harry. "You got really upset--"

"Well, let's just say I've had a paradigm shift," said Draco calmly. "What matters now is helping you. You haven't had any urges to . . . er, stick yourself, have you? This morning?"

His arms had itched some, but not more than he could stand. "Not really."

"Good. Let's keep it that way." Draco went back to reading his book.

It took Harry a minute to realise he'd been outmanoeuvred, the subject neatly changed. "All right, back to you," he said in a decisive tone, going over to sit on the edge of Draco's bed instead. "Don't tell me it wasn't important. It obviously was important to you. So, out with it." When Draco ignored him, Harry reached out and plucked the book from his hands. "Come on!"

Draco grabbed it back. "You don't take a hint, do you?"

"What do I have to do, beg?"

Setting his book down, Draco crossed his arms. "I should never have brought it up in the first place, Harry. You have enough in your cauldron."

Harry drew in a deep breath. "Fine, I'll beg. Draco, please tell me what it was you wanted--"

"No."

The refusal sounded so emphatic that Harry stopped to think. Gryffindor forthrightness wasn't getting him very far, so maybe he needed a more Slytherin approach. "Well, I suppose for all your denials you must be upset with me after all, then. If you won't treat me like your brother and tell me what's on your mind."

Draco looked up, his silver eyes narrowed. "That's low."

Harry shrugged and tried his best to make sure his own eyes were hard. "I'd like to think you trust me enough to tell me anything--"

"It's not a matter of trust, you arse! Some things are just . . . just . . . personal!"

"You have to remember to Occlude when you lie," said Harry dryly. "Sure it's personal. It's so personal that up until today, you were practically begging me to let you say whatever it was."

"I was not!"

"Were too!"

"Was not!"

This was rapidly turning into a farce, Harry thought wryly. "Just tell me, Draco!"

The other boy sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Fine. Don't forget you begged me, though. Because it's going to sound pretty self-centred, bringing it up after what I found out last night. And I didn't want to, and you'd just better remember that--"

"You're perfection itself, all right? Just tell me!"

Draco flushed. "No, I'm not. But you wanted to know, so . . . it's just . . ." He clenched his hands together on his lap, his whole body tensing. "Well, you remember how there was a time a while ago when you tried to . . . er, give me the vault and house you had inherited from Sirius Black?"

Ah. All at once, several things clicked in Harry's mind. The almost appraising way Draco had been looking around in Grimmauld Place. The mention of something Harry didn't even want, anyway. Draco calling him selfish . . .

"You said you didn't want charity," Harry murmured.

Draco drew himself up a little. "I don't. But . . ." He cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease. Or maybe out of his depth. "Listen, at the time that's what I thought you were doing. I mean, you were trying to be nice, but it was pity motivating you."

"No, I was being a good brother," corrected Harry. "Or trying, I mean. I didn't know you'd take it like that. I should have. Severus did warn me."

Draco smiled slightly. "He mentioned that when he told me not to get too angry. But the thing is, I didn't understand before how things work between brothers. But now that I . . . er, feel the same way about you, I can see how it must have been. I mean, if you were down and out I'd do what I could to help you, right? And I wouldn't hold it against you that you'd taken something from me. And once I realised that, I started thinking it wouldn't be so terrible to let you give me something. If you still want to, that is."

"Oh, I still want to." Harry smiled as well, feeling like the expression was reaching all the way down inside him. "See, I feel like the vault and house really ought to be yours, Draco. You're a Black. A blood relation of Sirius. And I know he'd be so proud of what you've done this year. He'd want to help you, I'm sure of it." Harry blinked, still happy, even through the pricking feeling in his eyes. He didn't like dwelling on the fact that Sirius was dead and gone. "It's . . . I feel like I can honour him by being there for you when he can't, that's all. It was never charity."

"I know. And I don't remind you of Lucius. Sorry I threw that at you. I think I knew even when I said it that it wasn't true."

"No, it's not," said Harry. "You look just like him, and if you grew your hair longer the resemblance would be even more startling, but I don't even think of him when I look at you now. I just see my brother."

Something deep inside Harry seemed to wake up and stretch, then demand to be heard. It took him a minute to figure out what the voice inside him was saying.

Oh.

His father felt the same way, that was it. He didn't look at Harry and see James. Harry had known that, of course. He'd known it for a long time.

But now, he could really, truly believe it. When Snape looked at Harry, he just saw his son.

And knowing that all the way down to his deepest core seemed to heal something. A wound Harry had never even known was there. He felt more whole than he'd ever been. His arms stopped itching.

Harry didn't fool himself that he was over his problem for good, but for the moment . . . yeah. He felt all right. Accepted.

"Are you all right?" asked Draco, leaning forward. "You look a bit odd. You aren't . . . er, thinking about conjuring another needle, are you?"

"No." Harry jumped up. "I want to do something fun. Let's have that game of Wizard's Scrabble Dad wanted last night. I bet he'd play with us."

Snape wasn't back yet from talking with the headmaster, though.

No matter. Harry and Draco went ahead and played on their own.

 

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Snape was in a foul mood when he returned from speaking with Albus. He whipped his robes off, the edges of them slapping the wall as he turned to hang them. His expression was nothing short of thunderous.

"The headmaster said we can't move back?" asked Harry, though he couldn't really believe that was the case.

Snape took several deep breaths, looking like he was trying to calm himself. "You're my sons, so the matter of your domicile is not within in his purview, but that cursed portrait is."

Something clicked for Harry, then. "Oh. You went to Grimmauld Place."

"Yes," grated Snape, his fists clenching.

Draco looked from Harry to Snape, his silver eyes reflecting curiosity. "What's this about the portrait?"

Harry glanced at his father, but like the night before, Snape was apparently going to make Harry do his own talking. Which was probably healthy, Harry thought with a slight grimace.

"Um, I sort of had a chat with Lucius. I mean, with the portrait. He said I was . . . er, turning dark, and that's kind of how it all started."

Draco shook his head. "Why would you believe a word Lucius said? You didn't believe him in France when he said he'd let me leave in peace if I would just betray you."

"Um . . . well . . ." Harry slanted a glance at Snape. "See, Dad had sort of said something similar earlier--"

"He did not!"

"One of his revenge-is-bad-for-you speeches."

Draco made a face. "Oh, those. Yeah."

Harry didn't want to seem like he was blaming his father. "It goes back before that, though."

Draco looked blank for a second. Then he nodded. "The Parseltongue thing second year, everybody calling you a dark wizard."

"Back before that, even," murmured Harry, thinking it through. "I mean, when I was three years old I was hearing how horrible I was. I know now that my aunt and uncle had issues of their own, but . . ." He shrugged.

"Hurtful things heard in childhood still do have an impact," said Snape.

Harry nodded, figuring his father would know. "But you had sensed dark magic from me in the Dursleys' house way back before you even liked me."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. "Which I've explained before does not make you dark. Neither does your access to your deeper magic. Calling it dark is just an expression."

"So what happened with the portrait, then?" Draco interrupted. He clearly didn't want Snape to take the conversation in a new direction, leaving his questions unanswered. "I take it the Order is keeping it at Grimmauld Place."

The Potion Master's anger flared back to life. "Nothing happened to it!" he practically spat. "Thanks to your lack of impulse control, I've been prevented from destroying the last trace of Lucius Malfoy's essence here on earth!"

"And that's supposed to be my fault?" Shooting to his feet, Draco glared.

"Albus warded it to protect it from you, I do believe," sneered Snape.

"Yeah, well at least you think I had the right idea blasting it to hell, then."

Snape dropped into a chair. "You did. That portrait is a malevolent force, but Albus insists that gleaning information from it is of the utmost importance." The Potions Master's lips turned down. "We just had quite a row."

Sighing, Harry pushed the game board away and scooted over to the edge of the couch. Closer to his father. "Oh, no. You couldn't convince him you were right because I wouldn't let you tell him about the needles?"

"As if that would make a difference," said Snape, clearly disgusted. "Harry, the headmaster knew about the needles on Samhain. And he was the one who insisted that Lucius mustn't be charged. This is more of the same. Lupin's precious mission, again!" Snape began to mimic the headmaster's jovial tones, only he did it with a snarl. "The portrait will remain in Grimmauld Place, Severus, and that is an end to the matter. Sherbet lemon?"

"Well, it's my house," said Harry fiercely. "I ought to have the final say in what can and can't go on inside it!"

Draco cleared his throat. Ostentatiously.

Oh, right. Harry flicked a glance toward his brother, then returned his gaze to Snape. "By the way, Draco and I worked out the inheritance thing. He's going to take the house and Sirius' vault as well, so I guess it'll be up to him if the portrait can stay. We . . . uh, we'll probably need help with the legal end of things. Can you get us a solicitor?"

Snape looked from Harry to Draco. "I suppose it's my destiny to be the poorest one in the family."

Harry gulped. He hadn't thought of it that way. "Um, well I wouldn't mind sharing with you, but I can't possibly give you Sirius' things. He wouldn't have liked that--"

"Harry," said Snape dryly, "my remark was a poor attempt at humour. Very poor, as it turns out. I'm hardly in financial straits."

"Wouldn't know it from the paltry allowance we get," said Draco, his grin proof that he was joking as well.

"You'll have to forgive me if I wished to teach you to budget. Particularly you," stressed Snape.

"But is it all right for me to sign it all over to Draco? Last time I wanted to give my inheritance away, you told me to wait and I'd thank you later."

Snape inclined his head as though remembering. "You didn't so much wish to give it away as to rid yourself of it. There is a difference."

There was. Harry could see that. "I'm still thanking you, though. I'm really glad you didn't let me dump it all just because it was a reminder. This is a lot better. I just know Sirius would be proud of Draco."

"Yes, I do believe he would," said Snape slowly. A sardonic light entered his eyes. "Though as he always was a stubborn cur, it might take you quite a while to convince Black that you were truly on Harry's side, Draco."

Draco moved his hand in a familiar arc, though he had no wand in hand. "Serpensortia! There's my proof!"

"Yes, you did well," said Snape. "I'll arrange for a solicitor, of course. Now, back to the portrait. Since it can't be destroyed except by Albus, Grimmauld Place is likely the best location for it. However, you're not to be alone with it again, Harry."

"Ha. Like I'd want to." Shuddering in memory, Harry began running his hands up and down his arms.

Draco and Snape both noticed, Harry thought. His father stiffened and opened his mouth to say something, but Draco beat him to it.

"Let's go back to Grimmauld Place right now and have Harry Lumos the stupid portrait," said Draco, pacing by then. "A wanded Lumos. I'd like to see the headmaster's spells resist that."

"I'd like Order Headquarters to remain standing," retorted Snape. "As would you, I presume, since the house is shortly to be yours. Any contest between Harry's magic and Albus' is like as not to be cataclysmic. I think for the time being we must endure the fact that the portrait will continue to exist." His dark gaze flicked to Harry's face. "I hope you're paying attention. I feel no reluctance or compunction whatsoever over the prospect of killing what remains of Lucius. And I quite assure you, should I have succeeded, I would not feel guilt over my lack of guilt."

"That's different," murmured Harry.

"Oh, indeed. Because I am a Slytherin?"

Draco turned on a heel to stare at Harry.

"No, because it's a portrait!"

Snape nodded briskly. "Be that as it may, in a certain sense it is also Lucius. Have I your word that you'll avoid the portrait in future?"

"God, yes."

"And yours, Draco? Even if it hangs in your house?"

Draco gave a careless shrug. "Oh, I can handle anything Lucius wants to throw at me."

"All the same you're to stay clear of that portrait!"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "Remus Lupin might need me to coax information out of it at some point, you know. Lucius is more likely to spill when he's really angry, and who better than me to rouse that feeling in him?" Draco executed a sweeping bow.

Snape's nostril's flared. "You're not to be alone with the portrait, all the same. If Lupin really needs your assistance, he can talk to me, and we'll arrange something. No doubt using a certain invisibility cloak."

Draco beamed a smile. "That'll work."

Harry was tired of hearing about the portrait. He just wanted to forget the thing existed. "I'm tired of Scrabble. Let's all order whatever suits for lunch."

What suited Harry turned out to be a juicy steak. It came with a bone-handled serrated knife.

Draco put his hand over Harry's when he saw it. "Better use this one," he said, passing over his regular knife instead.

"Oh, for pity's sake--"

"The other one's got a sharp point."

"So does my quill when it's in good shape!"

Snape cleared his throat. "Draco . . . your interest in your brother's welfare is laudable, but I don't think Harry's . . . compulsion is quite that generalised."

"Yeah, I started using a needle because I wanted to get over my fear of them. So they couldn't be used against me again."

Draco drew his hand back. "Oh. Well, that wasn't clear. All right. Enjoy your overcooked filet. I don't know why you can't order it medium-rare--"

That was a pretty stupid complaint, considering Harry hadn't ordered it at all. He'd got exactly what suited him. Steak and chips, with lots of ketchup slathered over the top of both. Draco called it a travesty of a fine cut of meat. Harry told him to shut up and eat his snails.

 

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Late that same evening, Harry yawned and laid his book aside.

"Not keeping your interest?" asked Snape as he entered the room, a tray floating behind him. The scent of hot cocoa rose into the air.

"Well I was trying to stay awake until Draco finished his shower, but I'm starting to think he must want to be a fish." Harry sat up a little bit and took the cup that gently sailed his way. "Cocoa sounds awfully good, though. Thanks."

Snape picked his own cup off the tray, then sat down on the edge of Harry's bed. The ebony tray didn't seem to like levitating empty. It started spinning slowly in place.

"So," said Snape, his face slightly obscured by the steam rising from his cup. "It occurs to me that there are some additional things we ought to discuss."

Harry gulped some cocoa even though it was really too hot to drink fast. "Oh. Well, I don't think I'm over it or anything, but today wasn't too bad, really. I kind of wanted to make a needle a couple of times but I managed to distract myself somehow or other."

"I am glad to hear it, but that's not what I want to talk about at the moment." Snape paused, then resumed. "Have you given any thought to the health implications of what you were doing?"

Harry scooted back on the bed, and was a little startled when all that did was make his father scoot forward. "Well?"

"Um, some," said Harry slowly. "When I used the really big needle I bled a lot. I realised then that if I kept going I might bleed to death. I . . . I thought that healing spells would take care of that but the more I used them, the less they worked. Not that they worked all that well in the first place."

"Self-healing is self-limiting in a case like this," said Snape, nodding. "The essence of the spell is to provide aid. If the magic begins sensing that provision of such aid is only leading to further harm, it will cease to function well. But Harry, blood loss is not the only danger you were courting when you plied your needle."

"Yeah, I worried about infection too. I was trying to figure out how to get some salve and still keep it all a secret."

"Your arms were in fact infected when I treated them last night. Do you know what can happen when an infection is allowed to take root, Harry?"

Harry didn't, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.

"It's a bit more serious than a scab that won't heal over properly. Wounds can turn septic. Gangrene, Harry. Have you ever heard of it?"

Suddenly his cocoa didn't taste very sweet. "Yeah."

"Magic can heal a great many things, as you know. But it's not a cure-all, Harry. You only need to think of Moody to realise that."

"Well, I'd have come to you before I got gangrene," Harry said, a little bit offended. "I did come to you, let's not forget."

Snape's dark gaze didn't leave Harry's face. "Are you qualified to judge the severity of an infection? Are you aware that sepsis can cause its victims to become irrational? You might think you didn't need help when in fact you did."

"I think by the time my arm was rotting off I'd have figured it out!"

"I think that by then it might be too late to save the arm!" Snape glanced down. "Were you aware that you'd already developed an infection?"

"Just a little one. It was under control--"

"And so we come back to your extensive training in the art of mediwizardry," said Snape dryly. "I expect you're oblivious to this, but last night you were running a low-grade fever. And that's not the only danger you've been courting. What about actual poisoning, another possible result of inserting foreign objects into your bloodstream?"

Harry didn't like the way this was going. He hadn't done anything all that dangerous. "Listen, I've had loads worse cuts and scrapes than that and no one even blinked. You're going on as if any little drop of blood could be my death and we both know that's not true! Besides, is it any wonder I might feel the need to make myself stronger? Maybe I'm sick and tired of everyone acting like I'm some delicate flower! Not to mention incompetent!"

Snape's voice went gruff. "You are far from incompetent, Harry. Someday the world will know as much--"

"Oh, great. Like I want more acclaim!"

"Now you're just being difficult." Snape sighed. "Harry, you may have thought you were getting stronger, but what you were doing was in fact serving to weaken you physically. Even if the infection never truly became dangerous, don't you think it could have affected your control of magic when casting? What if you began to accidentally channel magic through your wand and you ended up causing injury to someone? Isn't that exactly what led to your self-doubts in the first place?"

Good point. Feeling himself flushing, Harry concentrated on blowing on his hot chocolate. He kept expecting his father to say something else, but it seemed like Snape was determined to make Harry reply before they moved on. Finally, Harry looked up through his fringe. "I hadn't thought of something like that happening," he murmured.

"Obviously."

"I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear?"

Snape sighed. "I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, Harry. I'm just trying to make you understand that even such an innocuous injury as pinpricks can have consequences. And I assume it goes without saying that the larger needle you used most recently, was simply beyond reckless."

Harry started to nod, but this time it seemed like Snape wasn't waiting for a reply.

"You could have severed a vein with that implement, you idiot child. As it was, you delved too deeply for a topical salve to completely reach. I shudder to think of the consequences had you developed an infection that deep within your arm. And even aside from infection, the injuries themselves could still cause harm to your magic flow and your ability to defend yourself physically."

Another factor he hadn't considered. Harry swallowed his cocoa abruptly.

"Imagine the disadvantage you'd have been at if, whilst wandering the halls alone, one of your less moral schoolmates had decided to attack you. What if someone had grabbed one of your arms or twisted your wrist to make you drop your wand ɮ"

"I don't really need my wand."

Snape gave him an impatient glance. "I do believe I've noticed that. But casting without it would have given away the important advantage of secrecy. We'd once again have been forced to Obliviate all the witnesses, risking the Board of Governors sacking and expelling everyone involved should anyone find out."

Harry frowned. His father was making him feel just awful about what he'd done, but what was even worse was the fact that the worse he felt, the more his arms itched. He knew in his mind that using a needle ever again was a terrible idea, and yet there was a little part of him that wanted one all the more because of it.

He certainly didn't want to admit what was happening, but his father had made him promise to tell him if he had such impulses. He squeezed the mug in his hands, willing the heat to be enough chase away the desire for pain and blood. It also served to keep his hands from shaking. "Dad, I'm not trying to weasel out of this lecture. Honest, I'm not. I know you're right and all, but when you make me feel bad, I start to . . . er . . ."

He didn't need to finish because his father deftly plucked the mug from his hand and pulled Harry into an embrace, holding him close and tight. The itching in Harry's arms subsided slightly. If he pretended hard enough, he could tell himself that it was just his sleeves feeling scratchy. Sighing, Harry relaxed and just enjoyed the feeling of being loved.

Snape didn't speak, not for a long moment. Then, his voice low, he resumed their discussion.

"You're feeling an urge to hurt yourself again." The simple statement was etched with sadness.

Harry nodded against his father's chest. "You said to tell you."

"Yes." Harry felt his head being patted, and then his back stroked. He felt a bit like a baby, being treated that way. But it felt good. Really good, so he didn't complain.

After a few moments more, though, he reminded himself that he was sixteen, after all. Sighing, Harry pulled back a little bit. "Thanks."

His father seemed reluctant to let him go. "I suppose this is why we need the good doctor's assistance. I'm doing the best I can for you, Harry, but in this I seem to have failed."

He didn't want to make his father feel bad, he really didn't. "You haven't failed, exactly. It's just that this is all new to you, right? You never planned to be a father. And even if you had, our problems are just bizarre compared to the ones normal families have. Even wizard families. I mean, how many parents have to think about hiding wandless magic or being prepared for constant attack? I know you've done your best, but you can't think of everything."

Snape's lips twisted. "I do try. To do otherwise would be less than Slytherin. But this . . . no, I don't believe I could have anticipated that you'd turn towards self-injury. Not when you'd never done so in the past, despite all your various traumas."

Harry nodded. "I'm not defending what I did with the needles, but you can't blame me for not worrying about it making me weaker. That never bothered you before when we were training in Devon. I just looked at it as more of the same."

The Potions Master stiffened as he held his son. "Yes, you mentioned as much last night. The analogy is flawed, however. You've been hurting yourself intentionally of late. Your injuries out in Devon, however, were an indirect result of our activities. The goal was to improve your Defence skills. Surely you understood that."

Harry had. "I knew you weren't trying to hurt me, sure. But the needle thing . . . well, I had a goal there too, you know. Get over my fears. I thought if my arms got too bad I could . . . uh, you know, nick some salve somehow, since the healing spells weren't working."

Snape made a disgusted noise. "Obviously you understood the consequences of your training in Devon even less than I'd thought. You learned absolutely nothing."

Harry frowned. "I learned that Wizarding Family Services likes to stick its nose in, so we can't let there be any evidence of . . . Oh, shite. I didn't think about how this might look if they'd found out."

Snape's drawl sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Indeed. I dare say we'd have another lovely notation on our record."

"I'm sorry--"

His father shrugged off the apology. "In any case, I wasn't referring to the authorities when I mentioned consequences. Cast your mind back to Devon. Can you recall the reason why I didn't do more to treat your injuries after our duels?"

Harry thought back, and slowly nodded. "Yeah. You didn't want me getting dependent on the potions involved."

"Or the spells," corrected Snape. "I never condoned your suffering as some sort of lesson."

"I didn't think you did--"

"No?"

"Um . . . well, I guess I did think that if I could just get better control of my magic then I wouldn't end up hurt."

Snape sighed. "So you did misunderstand, at least on some level. I should have discussed the matter more clearly with you at the time. I should not have been so selfish."

"Huh?"

Snape smiled grimly. "It pained me to know that I was hurting you, Harry, especially in light of what I'd been forced to do to you on Samhain. I wanted to think on it as little as possible. I had to remain objective or else I'd never have been able to teach you properly. Too, if I'd dwelt on it i6;" The Potions Master's mouth closed into a firm line.

"What?" When Snape said nothing, merely giving a tiny shake of his head, Harry poked him in the shoulder. "Hey. It's not fair, you know, for you to want us to go to you with everything when you won't do the same."

His father arched an eyebrow. "And life is fair, is it?"

Harry wasn't letting himself get guided down that garden path. "Spill it."

Snape's eyes seemed to darken. "It may help us to understand one another better, I suppose. I presume you recall me speaking of the nightmares I suffered after Samhain. Your defensive training unfortunately necessitated me hurting you again, which caused highly unpleasant memories to surface." The man paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That proved particularly problematic as I'd realised by then that the Truthful Dreams potion was becoming less effective in dampening the emotional impact of my dreams. My efforts to reformulate it, in fact, are what made me aware that I'd developed a problem."

This time Harry was the one who hugged his father. "Oh, Dad! I never thought of that. I've gone and put you through that all over, haven't I?" He gasped. "You haven't taken any more Truthful Dreams have you? On account of me showing up like I did last night?"

Snape frowned. "No, I have not. And my well-being is not your responsibility in any case--quite the opposite is true. I simply wanted you to know that I understand how easy it is to let a situation slip beyond your control. I'd be a poor father, indeed, if I allowed that to happen to you. And now we're well off the subject I'd originally broached with you."

Harry sighed. "Is there still more to say?"

His father brushed the hair from Harry's eyes. "Perhaps not tonight. Just remember this, regardless of the emotional factor, which we will discuss later, I assure you. I don't ever want you to willingly put yourself into harm's way, no matter how slight the danger may seem."

Harry twisted his fingers together. "Is that on general principle or just for me? I mean, I understand that what I was doing was dangerous because it was becoming compulsive and I wasn't caring for myself properly and even if I was, you can't just heal things over and over, but what about what you did to Draco?" argued Harry. "The Venetimorica weakened him something awful even if it was only once. But the payoff was that he was stronger in the end. Morally, I mean. Are you going to say that wasn't worth it, now?"

Snape's eyes narrowed as he sat there. "That was carefully supervised, as was your training out in Devon, for that matter. And neither of you were allowed to wander into harm's way while you were in a compromised state of health. Sometimes suffering does bring strength; I am not one to deny that. But to endanger yourself in secret, with no one to catch you should you fall too hard and fast . . . that is another case entirely."

"Besides," said Draco as he emerged from the bathroom, his hair slicked back from his forehead, " The Venetimorica was a punishment, Harry. Which goes back to what I said last night. You shouldn't be punishing yourself for what you did to Lucius. It needed doing, regardless of whether you meant to do it."

"I thought the needles needed doing, too," muttered Harry. "But yeah, they weren't such a good idea."

"No, they weren't." Snape's dark gaze met his again. "There's a reason why potions are ingested or applied topically, Harry. Wizards learned long ago that puncture wounds were by their very nature problematic, even considering the magical remedies we have at our disposal."

Harry remembered then, his father's distress at the idea of immunisations. His horror when he'd heard about how Harry had been supposed to get shots as a small child. And this was done to you? This injection of potion?

He supposed that this wizarding attitude towards needles was actually an overreaction or some sort of superstition, maybe based on some bad experiences with Muggle medicine that weren't completely understood. Still, Harry did see the truth in what his father had been telling him. Harry did understand the basics of health and first aid yet he had never made any effort to sterilise his needle. Even understanding as little as he did about Muggle medicine, he knew that doctors and nurses were supposed to do that. Gangrene still struck him as wildly ridiculous, but . . .

Peeling back his sleeves, he took a look at the marks that were left. Yeah, magic couldn't instantly solve everything. You could tell that something had happened to his arms.

"I'm sorry," he said, hanging his head. "Um, so do you think these need more salve?" Before his father could answer, Harry drew in a deep breath. "I promise not to do this again. But the same goes for the two of you. No more horrendous punishments for Draco, all right?" He looked at his father. "And you won't take any, er, harmful potions ingredients."

Draco nearly snorted. "I'm fairly certain that Marsha would skin Dad alive if we did something like the Venetimorica again, and I've been practically an angel ever since so it's hardly an issue. And I know all about the purple loosestrife. Honestly, I think Severus is overreacting to the whole thing. He ought to just take it if it makes him feel better, but he's got this whole ethics issue with potions ingredients. Trust me, you don't want to get him started."

When the Potions Master in question opened his mouth to reply, Draco raised his hand as if to stop him. "If you start a whole new lecture now, I'll be the one owling WFS to report you for abuse." The boy grinned. "Verbal abuse. We can only take so much at a time."

"That is singularly not funny," said Snape, glaring.

"I just think we've heard enough lectures for one night, Sev--, I mean, Dad."

Snape's glare faded, to be replaced by an expression that was wryly amused. "Perils of eavesdropping, Draco. Now, as you two have classes tomorrow, it's time you were asleep."

Draco slipped into bed, yawning. "Two more weeks. I'll be so glad of a holiday . . . Mmm, sleeping until noon."

"I've no intention of inculcating bad habits in you over the summer," said Snape, flicking his wand to plunge the room into darkness. Harry heard the cocoa cups settle onto the tray. "Good night." The door closed with a slight noise.

Draco waited to complain until their father's footsteps had faded away. "I like sleeping until noon!"

Harry had a hard time reconciling that with the stories Draco had told him of gruelling summer studies. "Lucius really let you?"

A grumbling noise. "No, but my mother would. Whenever he was away."

"I'm sure our holiday will be brilliant." Harry rolled onto his side to face the wall. "'G'night, Draco."

 

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With only two more weeks to go until summer, the time seemed to fly past. It was a bit of an odd experience for Harry. In previous years, he'd always dreaded the approach of summer. Now, he could hardly wait. The holiday ahead stretched out like a beacon, welcoming him. For once, he wouldn't have to spend the time away from school being worked like a house-elf. When he felt like studying magic, he wouldn't have to be afraid somebody would see. He could arrive at school with his homework done, for once.

And nobody would yell at him and tell him he was worthless.

Gryffindor seemed to understand about his eyes. Or the lie about his eyes, really. He wasn't having any problems with the Elixir; his eyesight was getting steadily better. Again. He still felt a bit like he was on a see-saw, and wished his vision would just stabilise.

Neville said it was great that Harry had a father who cared so much about him. And even Seamus had to agree. So that all sorted well.

Most of his classes continued to be a hoot. In Potions they were having an ice-cream making contest with prizes for most delicious and most creative. Harry was a little bit worried about the tasting coming up next week, since some of the more creative concoctions he'd heard discussed sounded kind of disgusting, actually. Who really wanted to eat peppermint pumpkin pistachio, after all?

Draco insisted that ice cream was common and he was making gelato, instead. Nothing Harry said could dissuade him, so Harry was working with Ron on a triple chocolate coconut flavour. They tried to include Hermione in their team, but she declared that she wanted to make gelato, too.

Ron had glared about that, and no wonder. Something besides lemon-lime gelato was clearly going on over at Draco's table. He and Hermione seemed to be having some awfully intense discussions about something. It looked like they were disagreeing a lot, too.

As much fun as Potions was with Dumbledore in charge, however, Harry would have to say that his favourite class was Defence. Snape continued to torment Aran at every turn, insulting his teaching methods, demonstrating his own vastly superior skills, even critiquing the man's hygiene at times.

Harry thought he'd die laughing when his father actually had the nerve to complain that Aran needed to wash his hair! The whole class had had a similar reaction, sputtering and trying to hide it.

Aran had turned red--but then again, he was red a lot these days--and opened his mouth to make some sort of blistering reply. But cowardice kept the words inside, and all he ended up doing was snapping his mouth shut and turning away.

Like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Harry was sure then, absolutely positive, that Aran's true punishment was supposed to be something more than utter humiliation. Snape was trying to provoke the man. He wanted him to fight back.

Why Snape wanted that was another question. One the Potions Master wouldn't answer, no matter how Harry pestered him.

 

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Wednesday evening was Harry's first therapy session with Marsha. In order to fit Harry into her schedule, the three of them had to leave Hogwarts during supper rather than after, so each of them had a quick sandwich at home with a promise of pudding later if the boys behaved. Perhaps they could have had time to eat properly, but Harry had wanted a short visit with Mrs Figg and maybe to dash over to see Dudley for a few minutes now that he had moved into the rebuilt Number 4 Privet Drive.

Perhaps it was all the soul-searching that he had forced himself to do lately or maybe it was simply the act of coming to Surrey at this time of year, but Harry was thinking about his "Muggle life" a lot these days. Although he was still quite annoyed with Mrs Figg for never having alerted Dumbledore to how wretched the Dursleys were, Harry did feel grateful to her for being a kindly respite from the virtually unmitigated hatred he'd suffered throughout his childhood. Plus, she was letting them use her Floo, so Harry brought her a nice little box of chocolates.

During their brief visit, Harry mentioned wanting to see Dudley, but Mrs Figg informed them that he'd got a night job as a security officer and was probably already out for the evening.

As they walked to their appointment, Harry felt nervous. Strangely, he was more anxious about what he was not going to tell the doctor than what he was. Dr. Goode had been given yet another version of events surrounding the boys' recent disappearance. She was told that during the altercation with their DADA professor, Lucius Malfoy had firecalled Aran regarding a statue he was having delivered, but had then taken the opportunity to hex their teacher and abscond with the boys. The rest of the story was the same except that Harry only seriously injured Draco's father, not killed him. The man was later Obliviated because he'd learned about the Venetimorica incident in questioning the boys. They'd feared he would use the information to get Draco expelled and Severus' custody revoked.

There simply wasn't a decent explanation for why they weren't pressing charges against Malfoy, but that was already true regarding all the things he'd done earlier in the year. Dr. Goode knew about his crimes from Draco's prior sessions. She'd already been told that there was a reason why Lucius couldn't be touched and it was secret.

Part of Harry wanted to tell his therapist everything, but he could see what a bad idea that would be. Precautions needed to be taken in case Dr. Goode was ever compromised. Their father had been willing to risk Voldemort's anger for the sake of his son's therapy by telling her about the abduction, but they couldn't risk the existence of their new spy by telling her of Lucius' death. Harry tended to think the half-truths made the entire venture rather pointless. "I won't be able to tell her the most important parts!" he complained when they'd coordinated their stories. "What if she just thinks I'm a nutter because she doesn't have all the facts? She might not be able to help me at all."

His father agreed that it was regrettable but pointed out that he had his family to confide in and if that wasn't enough he had his closest friends and the headmaster. "I'd even consent to you talking with the werewolf if I thought he could actually make the situation better rather than worse for once," he'd said.

Despite the tangled web of half-truths, his first session with Marsha had gone pretty well, all things considered. For starters, she hadn't stared at his scar at all. Harry didn't know if that was because she'd heard all about him from Draco by then, or if Snape had said something to her. He'd expected her to launch right into talking about the needles, and why he'd done a thing like that, and why he mustn't do it again, but instead, she was letting Harry talk. About whatever he wanted, actually.

Obviously she thought they ought to get to know one another a bit. But that made sense. How could Harry discuss personal things with someone he hardly knew?

So he talked about Quidditch some, and told her what it was like to fly at really fast speeds. Then he felt bad because she looked a little bit jealous from time to time. He couldn't imagine what it must be like for her, to know all about the magical world but be forced to stand outside it.

Or maybe he could, since he'd been all but a squib for a good part of this year. At least he'd had Draco and Snape constantly reassuring him that his magic would be back someday. Marsha knew for certain she'd never have any magic at all.

He hoped Draco didn't rub that in, too much.

When Harry couldn't think of anything more to say about the difference between a Firebolt and an XL, Dr. Goode gently asked how the week had gone so far. Harry knew what she meant by that.

"Well, when I start to feel upset, I get this itchy feeling in my arms," he began. "And . . . well, I guess you know why I'm here."

"What sorts of things have you been finding upsetting?"

Harry paused for a moment to collect his thoughts before answering. He told her about feeling guilty that his brother had got more hurt by Lucius than he had. Surprising himself, Harry soon began venting about the fact that everyone seemed to think he was fragile and incompetent and stupid. He found himself talking on and on while she just listened.

When his session was over and Harry went out to the outer room where Snape and Draco were waiting, he found them deep in conversation.

"I only mentioned it so you'd know how annoying that girl can be," Draco was saying. "And because I needed something to alleviate the boredom. The magazines here truly are the most worthless drivel I've ever seen. Honestly, Muggles must be positively brain-damaged--"

He glanced up as Harry cleared his throat, and flushed a little. And no wonder; Dr. Goode was standing right alongside Harry.

"I thought we were working on tolerance," she said softly.

"I am," said Draco staunchly, his colour still high. "I all but implied that Muggles have brains. That's tolerant, isn't it?"

Dr. Goode merely looked at him. A longish stare, her lips pursed.

Draco looked down. "Sorry."

The doctor turned her attention to Snape, then. "I would say that Harry and I had a very productive first session, Professor Snape. I think that at some point in the future, another gathering with the three of us could prove of use, but for the moment I'd prefer to continue seeing each boy alone."

Snape rose to his feet, nodding his thanks. Harry expected them to just go, then. He and Draco had both already had their therapy, after all. But his father had another matter on his mind.

"I've just had it brought to my attention that one of my students might be suffering from . . ." He glanced back at Draco. "What was the term Miss Granger used?"

Draco stood up as well, his features a little mulish. "Dyslexia. Merlin knows I've heard the word enough over the past few days. As if she would notice more about Greg after an hour's studying than I've learned in years and years!"

"Yes, dyslexia," said Snape, ignoring Draco's outburst. "I'd like your professional opinion as to the likelihood of such a condition in a young man nearly grown."

Dr. Goode smoothed her hands down over her skirt. "Oh, dyslexia is by no means limited by age, Professor. Adults can suffer it." She paused slightly, her voice a little hesitant when she resumed. "I take it the young man in question has never learned any compensatory strategies to help him read?"

Snape's own voice was gruff. "It's been widely assumed he was merely . . ."

Dr. Goode had no trouble saying it. "Stupid? That's unfortunate, to say the least."

"But reversing letters?" Draco shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "It's ridiculous. I didn't even believe Hermione when she said it!"

"Brain chemistry--Muggle and wizard brains both," she added dryly, "is a very complex matter." Her look took in Snape, Harry, and Draco. "Does he reverse letters when he writes?"

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

Draco raised his chin a notch. "I thought it was just bad spelling."

"Professor?"

"I assumed he wasn't putting much effort into his work," Snape admitted. "And that he was . . . slow."

The doctor made a slightly impatient noise. "For goodness' sake. Didn't your course of preparation for teaching include even a rudimentary overview of learning disabilities?"

Snape folded his arms over his chest. It would have looked intimidating if he'd been wearing his robes, Harry thought. In Muggle clothing it just looked defensive. "I'm afraid that education in the wizarding world does not follow Muggle norms," he admitted. "For example, my only course of preparation to teach Potions was to be shown to my classroom. I have a natural affinity for the subject."

Dr. Goode stared at him. "Then how did you learn to teach?"

"By experience."

Harry almost sighed. So that was where Snape's learn-by-experience obsession had come from. Well, at least he seemed to be backing off from it a bit lately. He was brilliant at teaching Defence, even when he wasn't baiting or belittling Aran.

"Hogwarts obviously needs to be brought into the modern world," said the doctor crisply. "However, I don't delude myself that my opinion will carry much weight."

Snape had the grace to flush, just a little. "Have you a book on dyslexia? I'd like to educate myself. There may be other students similarly situated."

"Without a doubt," murmured the doctor. "One moment."

Draco practically gnashed his teeth after she had left. "I don't believe it! That insufferable little know-it-all is right again? Well, just how was I supposed to know Greg wasn't stupid, eh? I mean, it's not only reading! He acts stupid all the time!"

"If he's been treated as though he is," said Dr. Goode calmly as she stepped back into her waiting room, "then that's understandable. He'll be suffering from a lack of confidence, among other things." She extended a thick tome towards Snape. "Perhaps this will help you work with him."

Draco was the one who reached out and took the book. "I want it first. I tutor him. Or try, anyway. He's my friend."

The doctor smiled. "If you have any questions you can ask me next Wednesday. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm late for dinner with Michael."

Harry waited to speak until they were walking down the street. "I didn't know Marsha was married."

Draco laughed. "She's not. Michael's her dog."

"And there I was thinking she was too modern to wear a ring," Snape said in a slightly sneering tone. Obviously her criticism had rankled even if it was somewhat justified. That wasn't what interested Harry, though.

"You noticed her ring finger?"

Snape shot him a quick glance. "My life thus far has trained me to observe small details."

Draco whistled low under his breath. "Sure, Severus. That's all it was. We believe you. Every word. Right, Harry?"

"Oh, do grow up," said Snape, his tone short.

 

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True to his word, Severus arranged for a solicitor, a rail-thin man who met them later that night in Dumbledore's office. Harry was a little surprised they just weren't handling the matter in the privacy of their own home, but then it turned out that the paperwork needed to be witnessed by two people outside the family.

Amaelia Thistlethorne was there, too, and not just as a witness. Harry was a minor, she explained, and though he'd been adopted, Wizard Family Services was still charged with assuring his welfare. He couldn't sign away his property until she believed he was acting of his own free will and not under any undue influence.

Harry took all that to mean that she was afraid the Slytherins in his family were ganging up on him.

So, he explained about Sirius, and how he'd turned his back on a family heritage of evil to do what was good and right. And how Draco had done the same, and since they were both Blacks, the money was sort of more rightfully Draco's than his, anyway.

To say that she was shocked would be an understatement. The wizarding world at large still thought of Sirius Black as the one who'd carried out a massacre of Muggles, after all. Harry didn't think she really believed him about Pettigrew being the one responsible for that. Well, not until Dumbledore backed him up on it.

But then, finally, she seemed to understand that Harry had loved Sirius and felt he was acting in his stead, by passing the inheritance along to his brother.

She signed the paperwork with a flourish, and so did the headmaster. It seemed kind of backwards to Harry. He'd have thought that he and Draco would be the first ones to provide signatures. Instead, they were last. Severus had to sign his consent, first. And then Harry was finally allowed to sign over his deeds to the vault and house, including all contents thereof. That last phrase almost made him hesitate, since the house still did contain some things he wanted. Sirius' old school wand, for one. And those books down in the basement that he'd never been able to open. He wondered if they were diaries, maybe. Old journals of Sirius'.

Harry signed anyway, and touched his wand to the parchment when directed, because he knew he could trust Draco to give him those things. All he had to do was ask.

Draco signed last of all, and then they were done.

With the solicitor, that was. Amaelia Thistlethorne had something else in mind. She actually had audacity to shoo Dumbledore out of his own office--Snape as well--so that she could have a private chat with "the boys" and see how they were doing. It was past time for her to check on their placement, she said. For a few moments Harry nearly panicked, worried that she'd somehow manage to find out about his needles, but the witch was babbling on about end of year exams and holiday plans so he relaxed. Honestly, Harry thought the entire conversation was frankly ridiculous. He and Draco would both be of age before the summer was out. They'd be adults.

Well, at least all this WFS rubbish would be behind them, then.

Or so he hoped. He never had forgotten that vaguely menacing letter Richard Steyne had sent to Snape.

But he and Draco both nodded and smiled and talked until the casewitch seemed satisfied. She left by Floo, the green flames against her orange dress a hideous sight.

Harry stood up to go, but Draco shook his head and said they were staying right there until Dumbledore returned. He wasn't leaving, he said, until he had the key to his vault. He wanted to write away for an accounting.

 

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Harry found out on Thursday during Defence class that magical transfers of property took almost no time at all. Well, when they weren't being held up by the terms of a will or something like that. Draco had already received his accounting. Ever since the Gringotts' owl had arrived during lunch, he'd been poring over a scroll filled with densely packed text. Harry tried not to look at it, even though he was sitting next to Draco. Well, he had plenty to distract him. Up at the front, Snape was doing an even better job than usual of berating Aran.

For all that though, Harry couldn't help but notice how Draco kept scratching numbers on spare bits of parchment as he murmured spells Harry had certainly never heard before. The numbers would add themselves up, or sometimes, multiply, but they weren't nearly as well-behaved as uncharmed numbers. When the ones column had to borrow from the tens, things got fairly violent. Harry saw a six actually burst into tears when it was shoved out of the way too hard.

Draco quickly drew in a little picture of a handkerchief, so the six could dab itself dry before the whole problem became nothing but runny ink.

Finally, he sat back and rubbed his hands as though satisfied.

Harry couldn't help himself, then. Leaning over, he spoke in a low voice. "So what's the total?"

"Oh, I haven't figured that out yet. I was just checking that the goblins hadn't cheated the vault. It was left untended for a long time, and you can't be too careful." Draco's teeth flashed as he smiled. "I won't know the grand total until I have some of the property in here properly assessed. But the Galleons alone . . ." He whistled, low under his breath. Snape would probably have heard it if he wasn't so busy lecturing Aran on classroom management. "Let's just say, they should be enough to keep me in silks for a long, long time."

Harry nodded, feeling better than he had in a long while. Maybe he was finally accepting that Sirius was gone. There'd never been a gravesite he could visit. No body to help him understand, deep inside, that falling through the Veil really was final. That the loss was permanent, and couldn't be undone.

But giving away the bequest . . . it felt like a chapter in his life had finally been closed.

"I don't think I ever actually said thank you," murmured Draco, leaning toward Harry. "You really are a good brother."

Harry chuckled a little. "So are you. Just . . . keep making sure Sirius would have been proud of you, all right? That'll be thanks enough."

Draco sat back in his chair, his silver eyes gleaming as he nodded.

 

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By Friday morning, Harry was feeling exasperated. All he'd heard since the day before was how they ought to spend the summer redecorating Draco's house. My house, Draco liked to call it. Which was all right, Harry supposed, even if it was a little bit hard to hear. To him, number 12 Grimmauld Place would always be Sirius' house.

Maybe that was why he was finding Draco's chatter about it so annoying. It was going to be their very first summer together! You'd think they could talk about that, a little bit at least.

Draco, oblivious to Harry's mood, turned to him at the doors of the Great Hall. "So, what do you think?"

You did ask, Harry thought.

"I don't think redecorating sounds like fun at all. And you know Dad will say we have more important things to be doing. And besides, even if he didn't say no, the house is sort of being used right now, right? I don't think the . . . uh, old crowd would appreciate your charming everything in sight Slytherin green."

Draco raised his chin a little bit. "Oh, please. Just because I exhibit a little house pride in my décor at school doesn't mean I plan to live my entire life surrounded by silver and green. And the, er, people using the house ought to be thrilled to have the place spruced up. It's like a mausoleum in there--an out-of-date one at that. And--"

All at once, Harry felt prickly all over. Sirius had once said something like that about Grimmauld Place. Harry sucked in a breath, a sense of déjà vu spinning through him as tears pricked his eyes. What had happened to yesterday's feeling that he was finally moving past his mourning?

"Are you all right, Harry?" Draco more-or-less dragged him into a side corridor. "I'll stop talking about the house if it bothers you so much. I mean, I didn't ever really know the man, but I do understand that the two of you were . . . close."

"We never had a chance to be, really," said Harry, blinking. "Not like I wanted. But I'm all right. Let's just go get breakfast with everybody."

Draco didn't move, though he did lower his voice. "Maybe you should give me all your quills, Harry. You can borrow one from somebody in class."

"Huh?"

"You did say they were sharp enough to--"

Harry pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against. "I'm fine, and a quill wouldn't do, anyway. Trust me on that."

Draco was still eyeing Harry's school bag. "If you're sure . . ."

Instead of answering that, Harry walked past him and on towards the Great Hall. Draco caught up with him and looked about to say something else, but just as they stepped through the doorway, Hermione appeared out of nowhere and shoved a book and a thick roll of parchment into Draco's hands.

"I've been playing around with some charms to change the arrangement of letters and words and such," she said, speaking so fast her words tumbled over one another. "I think that might work to counteract Greg's dyslexia, but I'm not quite sure of exactly how he tends to see things. Do you think you could get him to explain it to you? Maybe write out some examples for me to test?"

"Good morning to you, too, Hermione," Draco drawled, slinging his school bag over his shoulder so he could put his hands in his pockets. "No, of course you're not rudely interrupting a private conversation with my brother."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, the two of you can talk anytime! I've only got one week left to solve this problem for Goyle!"

"Who asked you to solve a thing?" Draco demanded, his voice pitched just slightly high. "He's my friend, not yours. I might have asked you to tutor him while I was going to be away, but I'm back now and I'll be the one to help him."

Hermione sniffed and tossed her head. "Well, what have you been doing to help him, then?"

"More than you'll ever know," sneered Draco. "Besides, this Mugglish method of flipping letters around on parchment is just . . . rubbish! Why not determine the problem with his brain chemistry and then brew a potion to fix it?"

"Why take weeks or months or years developing a potion?" retorted Hermione. "He needs help now. Actually, he needed it years ago, but--"

Draco suddenly looked past Hermione's shoulder. "Ron, can't you entertain your girlfriend in the evenings so she doesn't spend all her time making life more difficult for the rest of us?"

While Ron turned a predictable shade of red, Hermione looked ready to launch into a tirade, herself. Draco nudged Harry with his shoulder and politely bid his brother good day, smirking a little as he left Harry with the problem he'd created.

Just like a Slytherin.

"Don't mind Draco," Harry said as he headed for the Gryffindor table. "He's just miffed that you're the one who figured out Goyle's problem. He's been helping him for years and never noticed. But then, how could he? He'd never heard of dyslexia."

"Well if the Wizarding world would simply keep abreast of Muggle breakthroughs in the sciences and whatnot, I'm sure they'd discover a plethora of problems they could solve."

Hoping to head off another lecture, Harry asked Ron about the Chudley Cannons as they sat down and began loading their plates with the usual breakfast fare. The boys were still talking Quidditch when the owl post arrived. After washing some beans down with pumpkin juice, Ron said, "Hermione, hand me the Prophet, would you? We need to see the latest scores."

When Harry glanced over expectantly, he saw Hermione staring at the paper aghast, her hand covering her mouth.

"What is it?" Harry asked, the back of his neck prickling. At least it wasn't his scar, but still . . . "Voldemort? An attack?"

He reached for the paper but Hermione merely hugged it closer to herself. That was when Harry began to hear the whispering. Looking up, he saw something that made his bones go chill. All over the Great Hall, everywhere that a student had a copy of the paper, other students were gathered around whispering furiously as they read over shoulders.

In between sentences or paragraphs, almost all of those students were turning to scan the Gryffindor table, but their gazes would stop when they found him.

He ought to be used to the whole school staring at him, Harry thought. But he wasn't. His entire breakfast seemed to turn to rocks inside his stomach. Someone's found out about my needle! Oh Merlin, what if Skeeter or someone else was lurking about when I thought I was alone?

"Let me see that paper, Hermione--"

He never got to find out if she would have handed it over. Just at that moment, Warren Worthington, a seventh year, came up beside Harry. He shoved a copy of the paper into Harry's hands as he clapped him on the shoulders. Harry couldn't help but flinch, though he didn't know if the reflex was caused by the unexpected jostling or the glaring headline that seemed to leap off the page to meet his eyes.

Harry Potter: Dark Wizard? Boy-who-Lived Openly Using Dark Arts at Hogwarts

The minute he saw the headline, Harry's arms began to itch like mad. Someone has figured it out, he thought. Someone knows that my magic is dark and now they'll all turn against me again.

He dropped the paper as if it had burned him.

Worthington squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Don't you worry, mate. We've been down this road before, and this time the house'll stand behind you to a man." He gestured toward the paper atop Harry's plate. "As for this rubbish? Stupid git's just peeved he's getting sacked. Article ought to mention that, you think? I've half a mind to owl in a letter to the editor, mentioning as much!"

"Thanks, Warren," said Harry weakly.

The older boy nodded and went on his way.

Dreading it, but knowing he had to, Harry looked down at the Prophet. Without him even trying, his hands found their way up inside either sleeve of his school robes so he could scratch at his arms as he read.

 

Harry Potter, Dark Wizard? The wizarding world has long had cause to wonder. No need here to detail his suspect entry into the most recent Tri-Wizard Tournament, or the fact that he's more than once escaped reprisals for violating the laws controlling under-age magic. Events surrounding Potter have long been suspiciously fishy. Now, however, the Prophet has proof of what we all suspected.

According to an anonymous source from within Hogwarts itself, Potter has been incanting in nothing but Parseltongue ever since he recovered from his encounter with He-Who-etc. and his followers this past November. Even more shocking, any professor at Hogwarts who tried to discourage the practice has been threatened with dismissal.

 

Harry started skimming, looking for the most damning bits. There actually wasn't much substance to the story; much of the space in the article was taken up with background that everyone knew and with old pictures of Harry from the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

"That ungrateful bastard!" Ron exclaimed as he read over Hermione's shoulder.

"Ronald!" she admonished.

"Well, it's true," Ron whispered furiously. "Harry could have had Aran brought up on full charges for what he did, not to mention humiliate him in front of the whole Board of Governors and make it so that no one would ever hire that git to teach again. And then he turns around and does this!"

Harry hadn't noticed any proof that Aran was behind the article, but Ron seemed sure and Warren had also insinuated as much, so he read on, looking for some.

Our source inside Hogwarts, who would speak only on condition of anonymity for fear of reprisals, said that he believes Potter and his adopted brother, Draco Snape, formerly Malfoy, learned the Dark Arts from their adoptive father, Severus Snape, a former Death Eater spy.

'Just look at the facts,' the source said. 'They're as plain as the nose on Snape's face. Potter and the Malfoy boy [sic Draco Snape] were down in those dungeons with that man for months. They weren't seen by a single soul during all that time. Even the headmaster was barred from entry. And then the next thing we know, Malfoy [sic Draco Snape] was accused of murdering a girl! I don't have thing against either one of them; they were both fine boys before Snape got his hands on them.

'But apparently the staff here thinks whatever Snape taught them is fine. When they came back to classes, Potter was using that filthy dark language for all his spells and nobody said so much as a word of objection. You never know what it is that he's actually casting. He might be pouring hexes left and right, for all we know. But the boys act like it's just fine and proper and they've corrupted the other students into thinking the same! It's time the public knew just what sort of school Albus Dumbledore has been running. He could have taken the lead here in condemning these aberrant magical practices. Instead, he's been rewarding Potter and Malfoy [sic Draco Snape] with ice-cream parties! It's an outrage, through and through!'

The source also said, off the record, that he caught the brothers cheating with a dark artefact and that they attacked him when he tried to take it away. The incident was then covered up by the school and ever since, the source has been constantly watched and threatened to prevent him from saying anything.

 

"I thought 'off the record' meant something wasn't going to be printed," Harry mumbled.

"Well, clearly Aran is a fool to have trusted Skeeter at all," Hermione put in. "But we'll show her--"

Harry pretended to study the article while he thought about that. "Um . . . brilliant idea, but don't you think she's got herself registered by now?"

Glancing around to see if he was still being stared at, Harry noticed Draco stomping his way over from the Slytherin table.

"She must have," said Ron, his hands balling into fists. "Otherwise she'd never have had the nerve to print that big bloody load of lies, would she now? Just look at it! Facts all screwed up, a right ugly headline over the whole thing, and just like before with Malfoy, a so-called source whose head is stuck straight up his arse!"

Draco had arrived by then, but he didn't react to Ron's comment. Instead, he shouldered his way in next to Harry and dropped a roll of parchment on top the newspaper as he sat down. "Good thing Severus got us that solicitor, Harry. Have Hedwig deliver this, will you? We'll sue Skeeter, the Daily Prophet, and Aran for libel!"

Harry sighed. He knew that his brother meant well, but this was clearly another instance of his impulse control issue. They couldn't bring anyone to court without revealing things that needed to be kept secret.

"What do you mean you've both got a solicitor?" asked Ron, his eyebrows drawing together. "What would you lot need a solicitor for?"

Uh-oh. Harry's arms started itching even worse. Unable to stand it, he gave up scratching and started more-or-less clawing at one spot on his left arm. He'd have given his vault for a needle right then, but now it seemed like every eye in the Great Hall was on him. He certainly wasn't going to transfigure anything using Parseltongue. Even though no one would know what he was doing, they'd stare at him simply for doing it!

"My fortune's been restored to me, and more than that you don't need to know," said Draco calmly.

It was one thing to say that, but sooner or later Ron would have to know, Harry supposed. How was Ron going to feel to know that Harry had had loads of money to give away, and he'd given it all to Draco?

After a few moments another hand stilled his. Harry looked up, a little bit alarmed, but no one else seemed to realise that his brother had reached under the table and grabbed his wrist.

"Harry," said Draco in a low voice. "I think we'd better go find Severus."

Harry nodded shakily and reached out to grab the newspaper so they could bring it along. He noticed there was actually blood under his fingernails. Draco saw it too, he thought.

But nobody else, thank God.

Harry and Draco had almost reached the front of the hall when a commotion at the head table grabbed everyone's attention. Snape was stalking toward Aran, a copy of the Prophet clenched in his hand. He looked for all the world like some apocalyptic angel of death. Robes flapping behind him, boots clicking ominously on granite, his face was contorted into a mask of rage the likes of which Harry hadn't seen since Snape had caught him poking into his private memories the year before.

Harry wondered if he'd looked as frightened and ready to bolt as Aran did, now. The man jumped to his feet, but then seemed to realise he had no hope of getting away. In the next moment, he actually closed his eyes, just like a small child who thought that if he didn't see the monster, it couldn't see him.

Severus Snape saw him all right. His angry black gaze was focussed on nothing else. Walking straight up to the man until he stood just a few feet away, Snape raised his wand and held it levelled at Aran's throat.

Oh, God. Harry started to hold his breath. His father was going to kill Aran. Right here, right now, in front of hundreds of witnesses. Draco must have thought the same; he cried out with a strangled sort of squeak.

Snape's stance remained rigid, his wand arm not wavering in the slightest as he called out in a booming voice, "Aaron Alexandros Aran! You have publicly slandered me! You have cast dishonour upon my good name! You have reviled my son for the world at large to see! In front of all these witnesses, I demand satisfaction as is my right!"

Aran's eyes snapped open. "What? You-- I-- I did nothing of the sort!"

Snape took the paper clenched in his other hand and stepping forward two quick strides, smacked Aran in the face with it. "Do you deny being the scurrilous source for this disgusting rag of a periodical?"

His furious gaze clearly promised murder no matter what Aran said.

"I-- I--"

"Answer me, you knave!" roared Snape. "Answer me or I swear by Merlin's beard I'll silence you now and forever!"

"Of course I wasn't the source!" said Aran in a shaking voice. "I wouldn't do that to Hogwarts. Albus, tell him I wouldn't do that!"

The instant Aran denied Snape's accusation, Harry could feel magic tingling in the air. A rush of icy wind flew through one of the high windows in the Great Hall. Instantly, the temperature in the large room dropped several degrees. As visible as a dense fog, the gust of wind swooped down and looped itself several times around Aran and Snape both, binding them together in a sort of hazy cocoon.

"No," gasped Aran, his mouth dropping open in unmistakable horror. "No."

"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly as the icy wind stopped moving. "The elements themselves have spoken." A crackling sound accompanied his words. Harry saw icicles beginning to form on the strands of his father's hair and on Aran's fringe.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Harry asked, his voice pitched to a low whisper.

It was Ron who answered. Harry hadn't even realised his friend had followed him to the front. "It's a duel, it is!" he said, bobbing his head up and down. "I don't think there's been one in ages. Harry, your father's going to wipe the floor with that git."

Harry frowned. There were duels all the time at Hogwarts, but they didn't usually come accompanied by freezing winds. Clearly his confusion was written all over his face, since Draco took it upon himself to explain.

"It's a formal duel, Potter," the other boy drawled. "This isn't a game, or sport, or practice. This is the real thing. See that fog? It means that Aran has accepted. Now, he has to fight Severus, like it or not. Because if he won't . . ." Draco's grin was positively evil in delight. "Severus is allowed to kill him outright, and not even the Ministry could do a thing about it. Ancient magic."

Harry's mouth dropped open just as Aran's had the moment before. "Why on earth would Aran accept a challenge like that?"

"Challenge spell accepted for him," said Ron in a voice that said Draco wasn't the only one who understood pureblood customs. "'Cause he lied, see? When a wizard invokes a duelling challenge against you, he has to lay down specific charges. You can admit your guilt and avoid a duel, if you like, but if you deny a charge that's actually true, the spell will make you go through with the duel. That way, the challenging wizard gets satisfaction, one way or another."

"But why would he be stupid enough to lie, then?"

"Because he's Aran?"

"And because he doesn't know any more about ancient wizarding law than he does about Defence," added Draco. "He's probably just as confused as Harry. No offence, Harry."

By then, the headmaster had made his way over to the wizards bound by the challenge spell. Looking at the icy strand joining them, he nodded brusquely. When he spoke, his voice rang out with authority. "A challenge has been issued and accepted."

"I didn't accept!" squeaked Aran, beginning to shake all over. Small shards of ice rained down on the floor as they broke free from his hair.

Dumbledore ignored him completely. "A challenge has been issued and accepted," he said again. "The spell is cast and cannot be recalled." Lifting his wand, he cut through the foggy strand with a sharp chopping motion. Instantly, the noise of a gong reverberated through the hall.

The challenge spell fell to Snape and Aran's feet, the icicles vanishing clean away.

"Before this time tomorrow, the combatants must face one another in a wizards' duel," pronounced the headmaster. "All those present are called upon to serve as solemn witness!"

His voice changed then, to one far less formal as he glanced from side to side. "Might I suggest the Quidditch pitch? Things are bound to get messy and the house-elves really do already have tasks enough."

Harry almost burst out laughing.

"But, but, this is barbaric!" Aran stammered. "Headmaster, you can't let this happen!"

Dumbledore shook his head and raised his hands as if in defeat. "As you must surely have realised by now, Professor Aran, the matter is completely beyond my control. Powerful magic is at play, and it must be satisfied."

Aran's looked like he might pass out, by then. "But it'll be murder!"

"Oh, surely not," said the headmaster, his kindly blue eyes twinkling. "I have great faith in my Potions Master." Dumbledore's voice grew deadly serious, then. "And contrary to your allegations, he is not by any means a dark wizard."

"Indeed not," drawled Snape. "Though that should hardly ease your mind, Aaron. After all, one needn't be a dark wizard to follow through on the ancient form of the duel."

"To the death," whispered Draco. Harry shot his brother an irritated glance. He could have figured that one out, himself.

Aran visibly gulped.

The headmaster spoke up one more time. "All sections of Defence Against the Dark Arts will be dismissed for today so that the professors might have time to prepare. The duel will commence tomorrow morning before breakfast. Please, everyone, continue your meal."

Aran definitely wasn't going to continue his. In fact, he looked rather green.

Snape turned in a swirl of robes, his dark gaze studying the crowd below the high dais on which stood the head table. He was looking for his sons, Harry felt sure.

But something stopped him from coming down to them straight away.

"Oh, Aaron," said Snape in a sneering tone as he whirled back to face the other teacher. "One more thing."

As soon as the Defence professor looked up at him, Snape punched him squarely in the face.

Chapter End Notes:
Coming Soon in A Year Like None Other:

Chapter Ninety-Five: A Fitting End


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