"So, Scarhead, did you really fly into a goalpost?"

Harry ignored the taunts that burned in his ears all day. They made him flush with embarrassment, but somehow he couldn't hate Snape over the ridiculous lie. He spotted Ginny's red hair and was vividly reminded of Tonks with her scarlet hair, lilting a quirky grin at him on the moving staircase. It was only Snape's promise of vengeance that prevented him from sinking into the hole in his chest. He heard Pansy Parkinson's laughter in the corridor, and the spiteful, shrill sound pierced like a razor into his brain just like Bellatrix Lestrange's delighted cackle. His fury did not taste so bitter knowing that Bellatrix would pay for what she'd done.

It wasn't just his own anger steeled against Bellatrix Lestrange… He had the promise of Snape. And however much he'd distrusted or resented the greasy bastard in the past, he was daring to trust him in this. It was somehow an immense relief, knowing he wouldn't be alone in his deadly enterprise, knowing someone far more ruthless and calculating than he was stood behind him.

Even later, out on the Quidditch Pitch with the Gryffindor Team, when a few of his teammates jokingly offered to install some airbags in his broom, Harry managed to smile through the ridicule.

The only thing that stung his heart was Ron steadfastly ignoring him, refusing to look at Harry as though the very sight of him was revolting.

He flew around the Quidditch pitch listlessly, trying not to think of Ron, unable to muster the proper enthusiasm. Towards the end of practice, he snapped out of his stupor just in time to dodge a particularly vicious hit by a bludger, and realized suddenly that Ron had sent it his way.

"Weasley, what the hell?" Katie Bell screamed across the pitch, rounding on Ron with a swift jerk of her broomstick.

"Forget it," Harry called, waving her off. "I'm going to shower now, anyway."

He ignored the voices that shouted for him to stay and alighted upon the grass, swinging his Firebolt back over his shoulder. He didn't notice Ron alter his trajectory and sweep into a rough landing somewhere behind him.

"So you flew into a goalpost, huh, Harry? You were at Saint Mungo's?" Ron shouted.

Harry's muscles jerked with tension. He turned coolly to face Ron, who looked ready for a fight.

"Yeah, that's what happened, Ron," Harry replied in a tired voice.

"Funny," Ron sneered, "Cause Lupin gave me the map back, and I saw that you were at Snape's the whole time. Oh, wait-- at your dad's, right?"

Harry glanced warily upwards, and saw that the rest of the team was safely out of hearing range. "Yes, Ron, I was at Snape's. It was just a story."

"So maybe that's why Malfoy's your best friend now… why he counts for more than Hermione!" Ron snarled. "Him being in Slytherin, and your dad being head of Slytherin--"

"Ron!" Harry gasped, noticing movement at the edge of the field. People were approaching. "Keep it down!"

"Why should I? If Hermione--" Ron snarled, then glared down when Harry urgently grasped his arm. "Don't touch me!"

"Ron, just listen--"

"LET ME GO!" Ron bellowed, tearing away from Harry's grip.

"Aw, getting cozy with the Weasel? Doesn't look like he likes it very much, Potty."

Harry almost groaned at the sound of Malfoy's snide voice across the field. Draco was the last person Harry needed to see right now!

Ron was already glaring at Draco, emerging onto the Quidditch Pitch with the Slytherin team on his heels.

"Get lost, Malfoy!" Harry shouted.

"It's our field. We have it booked now," Draco replied coldly, his calculating gray eyes flickering back and forth between Harry and Ron. "Take your little tryst somewhere else, or I might vomit off the side of my broom."

"You're a fine one to talk about trysts, Malfoy!" Ron shouted. He whirled back on Harry viciously. "Maybe that's why you went back to help him. Maybe your secret girlfriend isn't a girlfriend at all! "

"Ron!" Harry cried, horrified.

Draco broke into peals of laughter. He gestured quickly for the other Slytherins to hurry over and join the fun.

Observing this, Harry grabbed Ron again to urge him away from Draco and the Slytherins, but the other boy was lost in his rage and jerked back from his grip.

"Trouble in paradise, Potter?" Draco jeered.

Ron's glare was poisonous.

"Why are you even calling him that, Malfoy?" Ron said spitefully, and Harry realized with a thrill of horror what he was going to say. "After all, his dad's one of--"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, slamming his fist into Ron's jaw.

Ron tumbled back to the ground, and the sudden pain flaring in Harry's wrist warned him what he'd just done. He'd punched Ron. But he'd had to--

Ron immediately scrambled to his feet and tackled him, sending Harry crashing to the ground, a hundred-and-seventy pounds of furious Weasley on top of him. He felt Ron's fist drive into his cheek, and then saw a burst of red as it slammed down again into his eye.

Harry grappled with Ron's flailing body and managed to roll himself on top, only to be whirled back around beneath his opponent. He tasted blood when Ron punched him again, and sent a blind punch in return. Ron yelped and clutched his face, his other hand slackening up enough for Harry to grab Ron by the collar and propel them away from the ecstatic Malfoy, away from the crowd of onlookers. They rolled off the Quidditch Pitch, down a slope under the stands. Ron reared up to attack again, and Harry scrambled back, raising his hands quickly to stop him.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Harry rasped, staring wildly up at Ron through his good eye. "Is that what you want, Ron?"

"Shut up!" Ron bellowed, and punched him again.

Harry staggered back against a support beam, his ears ringing. Ron leaped upon him, and Harry dodged and shoved him brutally against the beam. Ron grabbed Harry's collar and they both tumbled to the ground.

Harry struggled beneath Ron's weight, and managed to fumble around for a firm hold on the other boy's collar, wrenching Ron's face down to his.

"Don't you get it?" he hissed in Ron's ear, ignoring Ron's struggles to pry himself from Harry's grip. "If you tell them-- if Voldemort finds out-- they'll KILL me! Is that what you want? Do you really want me DEAD?"

Harry stared into Ron's wild eyes, and wondered with a feeling of dull horror if Ron truly did want to kill him. However angry Ron had been at him at times in the past, he could always have vouched that Ron would pull through for him when it mattered.

But now… this was about Hermione. This was different. Maybe this time a line had been crossed. Maybe Ron truly did hate him.

He could hear footsteps rushing down to their position, so he whispered quickly, "Every Death Eater and his mother will be able to curse me once they know I'm related to them. They'll be able to torture me while I'm here, and track me down once I'm out of the wards. Ron-- they'll kill me, and they'll kill Snape. Do you really want that?"

Shouts and laughter accompanied the students-- Gryffindors and Slytherins both-- crowding about them in a wide berth. Slytherins held back the Gryffindors eager to pull apart the two combatants. Ron glared down at him, panting heavily, his weight still crushing Harry to the floor. Some people were yelling for them to start fighting again, others yelling for them to stop, but Harry put up no resistance, imploring Ron with his earnest eyes (well, an earnest eye) not to tell them. He watched anger and denial play across Ron's face, and his heart thumped furiously in his ears.

If Ron said anything…

Suddenly Ron released him, and the crushing weight vanished. Harry heard groans of disappointment, and he sagged onto the ground, heaving in frantic lungfuls of air. He was vaguely aware of his former friend looming above him, a black silhouette against the morning sky.

"It shouldn't have been her," Ron muttered.

He whirled around and shoved his way through the onlookers, disappearing into the crowd.

Slytherin laughter and Gryffindor whispers filled the air. Harry felt his muscles protest as he pulled himself to his feet; his bruised face throbbed mercilessly, and he couldn't seem to open his swollen eye.

He wondered if Ron's parting shot meant that he'd prefer Draco to be the one lying in the hospital wing, or Harry. The answer was one more of those things he didn't know for certain. Not anymore.

* * *

"What happened to you?" Snape asked sharply when he arrived in his office that night.

"Nothing," Harry said, flouncing into the seat across from him. The skin around his eye was still a bit yellow and purple, but Madame Pomfrey had given him a salve to reduce the swelling. "Just a fight. Madame Pomfrey said it would heal on its own."

"With whom?"

Harry sighed, meeting Snape's eyes wearily. "McGonagall's already giving us detention, so don't bother. You can't punish us, too."

"I'll be the judge of that," Snape replied dangerously. "Now, who?"

Harry shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Snape's tone was replete with distaste. "I suppose this was another of your… Muggle fistfights. That display with Draco last year was positively disgraceful."

"Yeah, another Muggle fistfight," Harry replied, unwilling to say more. "Let's just drop it."

Snape considered him through glittering black eyes, then swept around the desk in a whirl of billowing black robes, one of his pale fingers running thoughtfully across the thin line of his lips.

"If you tell me who did this," Snape said in a careful tone, as though he were measuring every word, "perhaps I will be… inattentive while you use a hex from 1001 Virtues upon your opponent. I might fail to observe your transgression. And your opponent might fail to remember afterwards."

Harry would never consider hexing Ron, but the offer surprised him. Snape, turn the other way while he cursed someone? When he could easily give Harry detention? That was new.

"You'd do that?" Harry said, puzzled.

"Provided he's not a Slytherin," added Snape repressively. "If you wish to learn darker spells, you'll need test subjects… I will require a week to brew a memory alteration draught, but once it has been prepared, I'll allow you free reign upon the offender, provided you exercise some discretion of your own."

Harry shifted uncomfortably; he couldn't believe Snape was seriously suggesting this. Hermione-- he felt a lead weight in his stomach-- Hermione would be horrified. She'd call it a gross abuse of Snape's authority, and completely unethical. He felt suddenly very horrible, carrying the physical remnants of his fight with Ron and thinking of Hermione.

"Well, thanks," Harry said dully, "but I don't know if I'd want to do that to him. It would just be… I wouldn't want to do that." He touched his bruised cheek with a finger. "I can't."

"Come now, Harry," Snape said coolly. "Once you begin familiarizing yourself with the basic mechanics of offensive hexes, you'll need to apply them in practical scenarios. How do you think I learned my vast repertoire of spells?"

Harry thought about it a moment; he could probably guess. "You probably practiced them on my-- on James and Sirius?"

Snape smirked, and leaned back against his desk, his arms folded smugly across his chest. "They were both too skilled to serve as mere objects of practice... Lupin, however, was a different case." Snape's expression softened as he seemed to remember several of those practice sessions. "He was often milling about by himself in the hallways, and he was far too kind to hex me in return if my attempt failed. I learned quite a bit from cursing him."

Harry couldn't believe Snape had just gone around cursing Remus, and no one had stopped him. He couldn't believe Snape was admitting to it.

"He's never told me anything about that!"

"The point is, Harry," Snape said in a soft, malicious voice, his gaze locking with Harry's, "he has no recollection of it. Memory draughts are incredibly effective, and for the most part irreversible, provided they're used within an hour of the recollection one wishes to alter."

Harry was tempted to feel horrified that Snape had obviously tormented an unknowing Remus while they were at Hogwarts, and perpetually erased his memory of it… but instead he found himself thinking how much easier it would have been, had Snape used that potion on Ron several weeks ago. His friend would not have used the secret against him today; he wouldn't have had to punch Ron to keep him from blurting it out in front of Draco.

He wouldn't have further alienated his best friend.

"If you can really brew this draught," Harry said, a touch bitter, "Why didn't you use it on Ron? I know you wanted to obliviate him when I told him."

"The potion requires nearly a week to brew, and it must be ingested within twenty-four hours of completion. A potion-induced memory erasure must be premeditated."

"Oh." Harry was mightily tempted to do something to get back at Ron, but he didn't really want to hurt him… much less enlist Snape's help in melting his intestines or something. "My answer's still no. I don't want to curse someone."

His thoughts turned darkly to Bellatrix Lestrange-- how she laughed as Sirius fell to his death...

Just her... Only her.

Snape watched him with a scowl; he might have been looking into Harry's thoughts. "It seems squeamishness is one of your particular failings. I am thankful it is not a family trait."

"Of course it's not," Harry muttered, shooting him a dark look. "You'd never complain about hurting someone. You enjoy it."

Something strange flickered in Snape's expression, and Harry would swear he looked taken aback. "You believe I enjoy it, Potter?"

"You do." Harry looked up at him through clear eyes. "I saw your face when you were torturing Malfoy. You were-- you definitely enjoyed hurting him."

Snape's expression was unreadable. He gazed at Harry for a long moment through fathomless, black eyes.

"I do not enjoy inflicting pain, Potter. I enjoy exacting retribution. There is a difference." He sent Harry a hard, slanted look. "As you well should know."

Harry wanted to point out that there was a significant difference between getting back at Bellatrix for killing people he loved, and taking pleasure in making Lucius Malfoy scream in agony… but he had a feeling Snape would just twist his words against him and make him look like a hypocrite. He remained silent instead.

Snape turned sharply away from him. "In any case, we are not here to discuss me."

Harry nodded grimly, even though Snape couldn't see it. Talking about Malfoy obviously made them both uncomfortable.

Snape flipped through a stack of parchments perched on the edge of his desk. "I would like you to examine these spells; I've labeled them by ease of execution, and level of pain induction."

He dropped a thick stack before Harry, a cloud of dust floating up in their wake. He watched as Harry's eyes swept over the somewhat overwhelming influx of information.

"Consider this, boy," Snape said after a moment, "are you set on a physical confrontation, or might I acquaint you with the merits of poison?"

Harry looked up from the gigantic pile, a bit overawed. "Poison?"

A wave of Snape's wand brought a few dozen vials floating in from the adjoining room, and they arranged themselves on the desk in a neat set of rows. Snape immediately launched into explaining their uses, one-by-one.

Harry would never label Snape enthusiastic about anything, but he seemed to derive a certain glee lecturing Harry on the various intricacies of poisons. Apparently, he'd formulated several himself, and he presented those vials to Harry with a certain dark relish. Fast and slow ones, excruciatingly painful ones, basic Muggle poisons, magical poisons intended only for wizards.

It became readily apparent that he was particularly proud of one of his own creations in particular. "I call it Absynia. Note the texture," Snape said, swirling a vial of metallic gray liquid before Harry's eyes. "It perhaps appears somewhat grainy, but it dissolves instantly in liquid, and adds only the faintest hint of citrus to warn of its presence. I enjoy this one, for although it has no antidote, a careful application of counter-poisons can stave off death for months. It serves as an excellent means of coercion, or it allows the infliction of a slow, lingering death upon a victim."

A strange fizzing penetrated the room, and Snape's eyes drifted lazily to the small room branching off from his office. He set the vial back down upon his desk, and a swipe of his thin hand swept his curtain of greasy black hair behind his shoulders.

"We will resume this later, Potter. Consider this-- a direct confrontation might bring about several outcomes, both positive and negative. You will require preparation, training, and an advantageous setting." He shot Harry a long, measured look. "Poison, however, can find your target dead by the end of this week. Think about that."

Harry digested Snape's words as his professor gathered up the vials; he felt strangely anxious. Although poison certainly seemed to be the most logical course-- Snape claimed he'd allow Harry to brew it, even slip it in her drink himself if he wished-- it felt wrong for some reason.

He closed his eyes and tried to envision the satisfaction he'd feel, knowing he'd avenged Tonks and Sirius. All he needed to do was poison Bellatrix. Snape could set it up… Snape could get him close enough…

But simply killing her so quickly, so easily, wasn't enough.

What the hell do I want? he wondered, feeling angry with himself. A few days ago the prospect of killing her with a kinship curse-- without seeing her, with horrible consequences to himself-- had seemed ideal. Why now did simply poisoning her feel lacking?

His eyes trailed up to Snape, looming like some giant black bat over a cauldron in the adjacent room, peering into its smoky depths over his long, hooked nose.

"What potion are you brewing, Professor?" Harry asked, trying to divert himself from the unsettling thought.

Snape's eyes flitted to Harry's briefly before sliding back down to his cauldron. "Wolfsbane. Please do not feel free to linger in my presence."

The harsh words slid off him easily. "Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Harry said with a note of challenge in his voice, gathering up his books. "Full moon's on Sunday."

Snape smirked into his cauldron. "The other batch proved unsatisfactory." His dark eyes rose to Harry's through the thin film of smoke. "Back to your tower, now, Harry. I must work."

A wave of his wand sent the door slamming closed between them. Harry was caught for a surreal moment by the fumes drifting from under the crack in the door, wondering if he really knew what he was doing… if he really was the impulsive idiot Snape always made him out to be.

Poison would be so easy… So why did the idea of poisoning her leave him feeling so cold?

* * *

"Stay a moment, Harry."

Harry reluctantly trailed to a stop, just on the verge of escaping the DADA classroom. Students streamed around him on all sides, oblivious to Harry's urgent desire to duck into their midst and get out while he could.

He couldn't stand to see Remus. As he walked reluctantly back to stand before Remus's desk, his feet feeling heavier than lead, he looked at the desk, the blackboard, anywhere but at Lupin.

"Yes, Professor?"

Remus sighed, and sank wearily into the chair across the desk from Harry. He folded his hands on his lap, stretching the patched elbows of his robes to what looked like their limits.

"I wanted to speak with you about what happened on Sunday morning."

Harry shifted his books uncomfortably to his other hand. "You don't have to. I'm--"

"Harry, I know you're angry with me. You have every right to be."

Harry's head shot up. "You're worried I'm angry?"

Remus scrubbed his palm over his prematurely lined forehead. "I didn't react well to learning about Severus." Harry felt himself freeze up. "And what with the way I've been behaving recently--"

"You-- er, I thought you'd be angry with me," Harry said quietly.

Remus smiled. It made him look very tired. "It was a bit of a shock, Harry. But I've had some time to think it over… The Headmaster has filled me in on the more pertinent details." His chuckle was a bit forced. "And Severus has been very happy to tell me the rest."

Harry dared not speak.

"Truthfully, Harry, I would never even have thought of Severus as a father, much less as your father." He smiled ruefully. "But from what I've seen, I suppose I've underestimated him." The smile died from his lips. "I just wanted to be certain you know it hasn't changed how I feel about you. It will be an adjustment… But James's son, or Severus's son… You're still the same boy I tutored in the Patronus Charm third year."

"And the person who killed Sirius."

The harsh words escaped his lips before he could stop them. Harry wanted to dissolve under the stricken look on Remus's face.

"I am sorry for that, Harry," he whispered. "I wish I could take it back somehow."

Harry cringed. He wished he hadn't brought it up. He didn't know why he'd even said it when things had been going so well. They could have just patched things up again and pretended it never happened.

But it did…

"Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius," Remus said, his voice strained as though it took him some effort. His eyes settled kindly upon Harry, and Harry saw in them for the first time the acknowledgement that they shared the same pain. "I think, Harry, that we both have some healing to do."

* * *

Snape was clearly in a bad mood when Harry arrived for Occlumency. Harry thought somehow it had to do with his negative reaction to the idea of poisoning Bellatrix, but after an hour of reliving Lucius Malfoy casting the Cruciatus Curse on him over and over again, he was too angry to care.

"Are we done now?" he demanded when Snape ended the final spell. Without waiting for a reply, he lurched to his feet and started for the door.

"No. You have not repelled me once tonight."

"Well, doing it for the hundredth time is not going to make my mind any clearer," Harry retorted. "Besides, you're really going for that same memory. Is there some point you're trying to make?"

Instead of challenging the assertion, Snape rounded on him and snarled, "I was proving to you, you idiot boy, that I was perfectly justified in what I did to Malfoy! Even by your ridiculous standards."

Back to that again? Harry wondered.

"I'll take your word for it," he replied. The ache in his scar was positively killing him. He nearly made it to the door before Snape grabbed his arm and propelled him back into a chair.

"Have you no gratitude, Potter?" Snape snarled, looming over him. "I saved you from him!"

"I am grateful--"

Harry stopped, realizing suddenly that he never thanked Snape for stopping Malfoy. He'd never thanked Snape for much of anything.

It didn't help that Snape made it so damn hard.

"Er, thanks," Harry said, feeling his cheeks redden, a bit ashamed of himself. "I guess I didn't thank you before. But I am grateful. You did stop Malfoy. And when you--"

"I do not want your thanks, Potter!" Snape said scathingly. "You will retract your assertion that I was being the very definition of a nasty, evil Slytherin when I punished Malfoy."

"When you exacted retribution?" Harry said sarcastically. "Why do you even care what I think?"

"I do not," Snape returned shortly, "But I will not permit you to proclaim yourself the moral superior merely due to a single incident with Lucius Malfoy."

It sounded like a fairly weak excuse to Harry, but he just wanted to go lie down and let the pounding in his scar fade away, and he wasn't in the mood to figure out Snape's problem.

"Fine, you were justified in torturing Malfoy. I do not think I'm morally superior."

Snape looked irritated and entirely dissatisfied, but he had no grounds for objection when Harry started for the door again.

Harry was happy to escape. He was even more glad that he didn't have Occlumency again until the following Tuesday.

Yet that night, Ron's curtain yanked abruptly closed upon Harry's entry into their room. The next morning, he kept noticing Remus's guilt-stricken face across the Great Hall, and his visit to Hermione in the Hospital Wing found her looking paler than ever, and still deep in a coma, her prognosis increasingly uncertain. The prospect of returning to Gryffindor felt oppressive as the evening hour approached, and somehow he found himself back in the dungeons, trying to figure out how to get past Snape's tapestry.

Abruptly the tapestry transformed into an open door. Snape loomed there, looking slightly bemused down at Harry's invisible form.

"Potter. What is it?"

Harry suddenly found himself questioning his own sanity. Why in the hell had he just willingly come to Snape?

"You said I could look at the book if I came back," Harry said, his voice muffled by the cloak. He waited for Snape to yell at him to leave.

Snape stared at him a long moment. "So I did."

And to Harry's surprise, Snape stepped to the side, allowing him to pass. Harry walked into Snape's chambers, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that something fundamental had just changed between them at last.