“Harry! Harry, wait!”

The clear, ringing voice makes Harry halt and turn around. He feels his ears redden as he spots Ginny flagging him down. He wishes she wouldn’t holler like that. More than a few faces in the Great Hall have turned in his direction, no doubt anticipating some new kind of drama from The Boy Who Lived.

“Yeah?” Harry says, trying to keep his voice neutral. He can’t help but notice that Snape is watching from the Head Table, his eyes cool as he looks at Ginny. Harry can’t quite decipher that look—but it doesn’t look friendly. Then again, Snape never looks friendly.

Ginny brushes back a strand of long red hair, panting as she trots up to him. “I’ve got a message for you,” she reports. “It’s from—”

“Stop,” Harry says quickly, gesturing for her to follow him. The Room has turned him totally paranoid, but he can’t help it. Nobody is going to learn his business unless he wants them to.

Ginny nods, a spark of pleasure in her eyes, and willingly follows Harry out of the hall. He pulls her into a deserted corner near the dungeons. “Okay, what is it?”

“I’m meant to pass along a message from Dumbledore. He wants you to meet him in his office tonight at eight. The password is butterbeer.”

“Great,” Harry mutters. Apparently it was too much to ask that Dumbledore could leave him alone for a day. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ginny says. She doesn’t move, apparently eager to continue the conversation. “So when are we having a meeting of you-know-what, then?”

This seems to be the question on everybody’s lips. Harry shrugs. The mere thought of the D.A. fills him with anxiety now. It’s not like he wants to participate in something called Dumbledore’s Army now. It’s not like he EVER wants to step foot in the Room of Requirement again.

Ginny looks expectantly at him. “Can we do it soon, Harry? I think I just need one more meeting to get my Patronus working properly.”

“I don’t know,” Harry replies, his tone sharp. Something about Ginny is rubbing him the wrong way, and he really doesn’t want to stick around to let it explode. Ginny blinks at him in surprise and takes a step back.

“Look, Ginny, I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’ve got to get to Potions.”

Ginny puts her hands on her hips, a stubborn expression lighting up her eyes. “You aren’t giving up on the D.A., are you? Because that would be an absolutely rubbish thing to do.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What could be more important than the D.A.?” Ginny asks, her voice becoming unpleasantly shrill. “What could be more important than learning to defend ourselves with magic?”

Harry shrugs, feeling contrary. An image of himself, gagging down a memory, pops unbidden into his head. “Magic isn’t everything, Ginny. Sometimes it only makes things worse.”

“Well, you aren’t teaching us dark magic,” Ginny protests. “You aren’t turning us into Death Eaters.”

“I know that,” Harry says, irritated. He’s lost the thread of this argument. He closes his eyes, trying to regroup. “Look, Ginny. If I’m going to lead the D.A. again, then I’m going to have to make some changes.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m changing the name,” Harry says grimly. “And we can’t meet in the Room of Requirement anymore.” Harry raises his head, struck by something. “And we’re going to branch out a bit. I’m going to teach you other things besides magic.”

“Like what?” Ginny repeats.

“Like Muggle survival tactics.”

“But none of us are Muggles or Squibs, Harry—”

“That doesn’t mean your magic can’t be taken from you,” Harry retorts. He nods his head, getting into the spirit of things. “And I’m going to show you how to survive, um, psychological warfare.”

“How to survive what?” Ginny gasps.

“You’ll see,” Harry says, a small, unpleasant smile spreading over his face. “Yeah, I’ll let you lot know when I find a new meeting place.”

“What’s wrong with the Come and Go Room?”

“Umbridge knows about it,” Harry invents. The very thought of the Room makes him all nervous, and he wipes a hand over his brow.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Ginny says in a completely different tone of voice. She grabs one of his hands and stares at it. Harry looks too, trying to hide his surprise. There are billions of little white cracks running up and down his fingers. It’s not the sort of thing one would notice from a distance. But up close, it does look rather odd. How did he not see it before?

“I don’t know,” Harry says, perplexed. He flexes his fingers, but they feel fine. “Er, maybe it’s a side effect from the spattergroit.”

“Maybe,” Ginny says doubtfully. “You should see Pomfrey.”

“I’ll show Hermione,” Harry decides. “And if she doesn’t know what it is…”

Ginny takes this for agreement. “You’ll go to Pomfrey.”

She brushes her fingers over the strange vein-like cracks on his hands, fascinated by them. There is something maternal in her ministrations, and Harry, embarrassed but oddly pleased, lets her fuss. But, almost immediately, Ginny freezes, looking at something over Harry’s shoulder. She leans in to him, whispering “I’ll spread the word about the Nameless Army” into his ear, before releasing his hand.

Ginny fairly races down the hallway, and Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns around, bracing himself for whatever made her flee. Snape is glaring at him with undisguised resentment. The sheer force of the look startles Harry, and he unconsciously takes a step back. Exactly how much of that did Snape see?

“What are you waiting for?” Snape says in the silkiest of tones. “A personal invitation? Get inside.”

Harry sidles past his professor into the dungeons, uneasiness building inside of him. He finds Hermione and Ron in the back and sandwiches himself between the two of them.

Snape wastes no time. “Holidays are over,” he barks. “Let’s see if you dunderheads learnt anything while I was away. Potter!”

Harry tries to keep his voice neutral. “Yes, sir?”

“What would I get if I mixed bubotuber puss with billyweed stings and bulbadox powder?”

Harry blinks. “Er.”

“You don’t know? Let’s try again. What substance is created by mixing Doxy Eggs with oxidized ginger?”

Harry shifts in his seat, feeling unpleasantly like a first-year again. What’s Snape after, quizzing him on his first day back? What was all that rubbish about giving him an extension on his work? He aims for politeness, but there is a definite edge when he replies, “I don’t know, sir.”

Snape smirks at him. “Last chance, Potter. Jobberknoll feathers are used in what class of Serums?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m shocked. I suppose you were too lazy to crack a book in the hospital wing. I think detention would be appropriate.”

Harry frowns. He debates defending himself, but, of course, Hermione beats him to it.

“Excuse me, sir, but the Hogwarts Code of Conduct forbids penalizing a student on his first day back from an excused illness of more than three days.”

Ron lets out a snort before clamping his hands over his mouth.

Snape coolly looks at the three of them. “Weasley, Granger, you will join Potter in detention.” He lets that sink in, a dark look daring them to protest. Ron is revving up for it, Harry can tell, but he stops him with a warning glance.

“See me after class, you three,” Snape says coldly. Then he surveys the class at large. The Slytherins are sniggering and the Gryffindors are glaring. “I see nothing has changed in my absence. Today you will be creating a Babbling Beverage…”

The class drags on. Hermione makes her potion perfectly, and then patiently helps Ron, Harry and Neville whenever Snape is far enough away. Thankfully, the old bat ignores Harry and his delinquent friends until the class ends.

Harry marches up to Snape’s desk, Hermione and Ron trailing reluctantly behind him. Snape waits until the class has emptied before he addresses them, loathing written all over his face. Something inside Harry falters and retreats.

“Come to my office at eight tonight,” Snape says gruffly. He eyes Harry. “I’m sorry you can’t bring your girlfriend to detention, Potter. Perhaps next time.”

Harry stares at Snape. “What are you talking about?”

“Dismissed.”

This time it is Harry who is prepared to argue, and Ron who drags him away. Once safely outside, Ron releases Harry and looks at him. “What’s Snape on about?”

“How should I know?” Harry protests. “He saw me with Ginny just before class, but I don’t know how he went from that to girlfriend jokes.”

Hermione makes a distressed noise. “Ron, we’ve still got detention with Umbridge tonight.”

“And I’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore,” Harry adds.

“Aren’t we popular," Ron snorts.

“Well, there’s no way in hell I’m going to see Dumbledore. I’d rather do detention with Snape.”

“Me too,” Hermione says. “At least Snape won’t make us cut ourselves.”

“We think,” Ron adds, still looking disgruntled. He aims a kick at the dungeon door, and the three of them trudge off to Herbology.

The rest of the day is a blur of classes and concerned professors. Everybody seems to agree that Harry still looks a mess, and so they leave him alone and wave away half-hearted apologies about undone homework. Harry finds this treatment highly preferable to Snape’s, and so he is feeling somewhat refreshed by the time eight o’clock rolls around.

“Umbridge is going have us killed when we don’t show up,” Ron says mournfully.

“Too bad,” Hermione says briskly. “We have more important things to do to tonight.”

“I don’t think detention with Snape is that significant, actually,” Ron murmurs.

Hermione shoots him a look of disgust. “I’m not talking about detention. Harry, what did you tell Dumbledore?”

“I didn’t,” Harry says, letting his satisfaction show. He feels no compunction whatsoever over ignoring the wizard’s message.

“Lovely,” Hermione sighs. “Well, this ought to be an interesting evening.” She raises her hand and knocks on the door to Snape’s office.

“Enter.”

Snape is seated behind his massive oak desk. He points silently at three chairs placed in front of it. The three of them take their seats. Snape ignores them in favor of muttering a dark string of enchantments. Finally, he sets a flurry of fire at the closed, locked door. A shower of sparks outlines the door before fading away.

“Now we may talk freely,” Snape says silkily. “Potter, I presume you have told your friends why they are here?”

Harry looks blankly at his professor. “Er…detention?”

“No, you little idiot,” Snape says coldly. “The Fidelius Charm.” He smirks. “Clearly, you’ve forgotten. Well, young men in love have other priorities, do they not?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Harry says loudly. “I don’t have a bloody girlfriend!”

“Language, Mr. Potter,” Snape says, eyes dancing with ill-humor. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

“Harry has told us about everything,” Hermione interjects hurriedly. “And Ron and I both think it’s a good idea for us to take the Charm.”

“Well, since we have Ms. Granger’s blessing, I suppose it is safe to proceed,” Snape drawls. “Have either of you done the Fidelius charm before?”

Ron and Hermione shake their heads.

Snape settles into lecture mode. “The Fidelius Charm is difficult to pull off because it acts in near-sentient ways. In other words, the Charm can choose to reject our request.” Snape pauses to let that sink in. “The Charm has three groups of participants: the Secret Asker, which is I; the Secret Keepers, Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley; and the Secret Locker, Mr. Potter.”

“So Harry doesn’t have to keep the secret?” Ron says, surprised.

“No,” Snape says curtly. “He is here tonight in the capacity of Locker.”

“Why can’t you lock the secret?” Ron asks Snape sharply, looking protectively at Harry.

“Because the secret is about me,” Snape drawls. “And the Asker cannot also be the Locker.” He reaches into his desk and pulls something out of a drawer. Harry looks at it with distaste. “Yes, Potter, your favorite,” Snape says dryly. “The Pensieve is crucial to this Charm.” Snape pauses, surveying the three of them. “You lot will do exactly as I say, or there will be unpleasant consequences. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione says, speaking for Ron and Harry.

“Very well. Secret Keepers, I want you to think of the secret I want kept. Think of what Mr. Potter has told you about me…my loyalties, my history, my weaknesses, all what he learned inside the Room. Then place the tips of your wands together.”

Hermione and Ron, looking nervous, get out their wands. After a moment, a thick, blood-colored strand begins to coil out of each of their wand tips. Ron gasps and moves his wand away, giving the strand room to grow, until the secret hangs droopily between their wands.

“Now drop the secret into the Pensieve.”

Hermione and Ron do so, shaking their wands over the basin until the rusty strand detaches. The secret crouches defensively at the bottom on the Pensieve.

“Secret Keepers, each of you will now place a secret of your own into the Pensieve. Think of your secret, place your wand-tip to your ear, and draw out the strand.”

Ron gulps. “Why do we have to do that?”

“The Fidelius Charm demands payment in kind. To keep a secret, you must give a secret.”

“Wonderful,” Ron breathes. He looks sideways at Harry. “I’ll go first.” He puts his wand to his ear, and a golden swirl of something attaches to the tip. He drops his secret into the basin near the secret about Snape. The secret-strands circle each other warily, almost like dogs.

“Now you, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione nods. She removes a turquoise secret from her ear and drops it in the basin. Hermione’s secret darts around the others, faster and faster until it is only a blur.

“Now,” Snape says grimly, “the Secret Asker will add his payment. For a secret to be kept, a secret must be given.” He brings his wand to his ear and delivers a gray, amorphous blob to the basin. His secret coils into a tiny ball and begins to inch toward the corner of the Pensieve.

“Mr. Potter, you will now dip your wand into the Pensieve and say Surripio Solverum.”

Harry does so. The secrets stop moving and fall to the bottom of the Pensieve, all four of them in a row.

“The Keepers and Asker have offered payment,” Snape announces. “Now the Locker must lock the secret. To do so, Mr. Potter will place a secret of his own into the Pensieve. Then the four of us will watch this memory—”

“Watch my memory?” Harry interrupts. “Why do we have to watch mine? Why can’t I just put it in the Pensieve like the rest of you?”

“Because those are the rules of the Charm,” Snape snaps. “The Locker’s secret must be viewed by all the participants. The act of witnessing is powerful magic, Potter. We cannot do the Charm without it.”

“Is this why you wanted me to be the Locker?” Harry demands. “So I’d have to show you a secret and be humiliated?”

“I chose you to be Locker, Mr. Potter, because I have no other choice,” Snape growls. “I do not want anybody else to know why I am doing this Charm!”

“You’ve already seen loads of my memories in Occlumency,” Harry protests weakly. “And pretty much everything you saw was a secret!”

Snape seems to hesitate, his expression looking almost sympathetic for a moment. Then he schools his expression into something harder. “Weasley and Granger have not witnessed any of those incidents. And the four of us must watch your secret together, Potter. That’s the way the Charm works.”

Harry looks doubtfully at the Pensieve, racking his brains for something innocuous he can toss in there.

“After we view your secret, Potter, you will put your wand into the Pensieve and say Surripio Fidelius Finitum. If the Charm is satisfied, then the strands will transform into a harmless white stone, and the secret about me will be Untellable. If the Charm is not satisfied, no transformation will take place, and we will have to think of something else.”

Snape looks at Harry, a strange glint in his eye. “I should tell you, Potter, that the Fidelius Charm is rather sadistic. The darker your secret, the more likely the Charm is to be satisfied. It is up to the Secret Locker to convince the Charm to work. I wouldn’t offer up anything cheery. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Hold on,” Hermione says abruptly. “This is starting to sound like dark magic.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Snape says grimly.

“But Dumbledore used—”

“I assure you,” Snape interrupts Hermione, his voice like razors, “that your precious headmaster is more than capable of dark magic. Now let us continue.”

“But dark magic is illegal for students—”

“Do as I say, Ms. Granger,” Snape growls, slamming hand fist on the table, “or I will lose my temper. And you do not wish to see that.”

Hermione still wants to protest, but Harry cuts her off. “Come on,” he urges. “This is more important than some stupid rule.”

“Spoken like a Gryffindor,” Snape says snidely. “Now, Mr. Potter, your secret? And try to keep it clean. No fumbling in dark corners with any lady friends, if you would.”

Harry clenches his fists. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Have I touched a sore spot?” Snape says silkily. “You Potters are so sensitive about your red-headed paramours, it’s really difficult not to.”

“Don’t call my sister a paramour!” Ron squawks, his freckles all standing at attention on his pale face.

“I’m not going out with Ginny!” Harry says at the same moment. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t be any of your business!”

Snape just glares at him, two spots of color suffusing his pale cheeks.

A light clicks on in Harry’s head. “This is about my mum, isn’t it? You’re angry that I’m going out with another Lily, right? You’re upset because you think the Potter kid won the girl again!”

“DO NOT SAY HER NAME TO ME!” Snape yells, spittle flying across the desk.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry snarls. “You are being ridiculous.”

“That is the right of the scorned,” Snape growls. “Now put your secret in the Pensieve or get out of my office.”

Harry, itching with anger, yanks out his wand and puts it to his ear. He thinks for a long, hard minute. The room is absolutely silent. Finally, a thick strand slinks out of his ear, winding itself around his wand like a snake. The secret is jet black and shiny. Harry stares at it in repulsion, and then dumps it into the Pensieve. The liquid hisses and bubbles, churning violently. The other secrets begin to thrash as if in pain.

Harry looks at his friends, daring them to say anything. They are quiet, but Snape is still glaring at Harry. “Let’s get this over with,” Snape says gruffly. Snape gestures at his students, and they all duck their heads into the Pensieve.

The scene is already chaotic. Dudley is on the ground, straddling a much younger Harry, hitting him in the face, over and over again. The child is absolutely silent as he struggles with deadly intensity to get away.

“Why won’t you YELL!” Dudley demands in frustration. “Why don’t you ever YELL, Potter?”

The boy reaches up a mad hand and claws at Dudley’s face. Dudley rewards him with a slap to the mouth. “You’re going to pay for what you told Ms. Smith,” Dudley says, a sob catching in his throat. “She took away my recess for a week because of you, Potter!”

The child does not bother to reply. He just keeps trying to get away, but Dudley has a foot and fifty pounds on him. It will be another year or two before he learns to stop fighting back.

“I know what will make you yell,” Dudley says at last. Then he takes out a cigarette lighter—to this day Harry does not know where he got it—and flicks it on. The boy stares at the small flame in horror, but that does not stop Dudley from bringing it to his skin. A horrid sizzling noise fills the room.

The younger Harry swallows back a yell and bucks in agony, wildly kicking his legs. One of his trainers makes contact with the lighter, and it flies through the air. The horrid thing lands on the curtains, and the fabric immediately catches on fire.

“Daddy!” Dudley screeches, still sitting on the smaller boy’s chest so he cannot escape. “Look at what Harry’s done! Look at what the freak’s done!”

An obscenely fat man barges into the room. A thin, rat-faced woman is just behind him. They both stop and gasp at the sight of the now-blazing curtains.

The older Harry looks away from his younger self. Ron and Hermione have twin expressions of horror on their faces. Snape, oddly, isn’t watching the scene. He’s watching Harry.

Harry looks away.

“Get Dudders out of here!” Vernon screeches. Petunia swoops in, grabs her son, and hurries him outside. Vernon wheels on his nephew. “Turn it off! You turn off the fire right this minute, you freak!”

The younger Harry painfully scrambles to his feet. He looks miserably at the curtains. He can’t just summon this freak stuff at will. It usually happens when he least expects it, but he can’t tell his uncle that.

“What are you waiting for?” Vernon roars. “Do it now before I lose my temper!”

The boy looks around desperately. He grabs a cushion off the couch and begins to beat out the fire with it. The flames jump and spark, burning him afresh, but he doesn’t care. If he can just get the fire out, maybe his uncle won’t beat him…

“What are you doing?” Vernon yells. “Don’t destroy the house, boy!”

The boy, in a rare moment of disobedience, ignores his uncle. He knows he will really catch it if the house burns down. So he grabs cushion after cushion, beating back the fire until the curtains, along with most of the couch, are nothing but charred ashes at his feet.

Then he looks up at his uncle.

“LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” Vernon yells. “Look at the curtains! Look at the couch! Ruined! All ruined!”

“I’m sorry,” the child says dully. He’s learned that much already, at least.

“You’re paying for all of this,” Vernon thunders. “You’ll work it off, boy! And no food until you do! And you’ll go straight in the cupboard until Christmas!”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” the child says quietly, hoping against hope that his punishment will stop there. He did save the house from burning down…surely that’s got to count for something.

Vernon is rolling up his sleeves. “But first I’m going to make you scream, boy.”

When it is over, Vernon drops his nephew onto the bathroom floor. “Clean yourself up,” he orders, closing the door behind him. The car peals off a few minutes later.

The child Harry rests on the cold floor, his breath coming in great heaving gulps. His uncle didn’t kill him. So saving the house did count for something. A stab of white-hot pain jolts through him, and he lets out a low moan of pain.

Maybe he should have let the house burn.

Then he wouldn’t hurt any more.

The boy picks himself off the ground and washes the blood off of his face and hands. The older Harry hears someone suck in his breath. He’d forgotten his friends were watching, and he glances back at them. Ron looks like he’s going to be sick. Hermione is shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. And Snape? Snape is coolly leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest.

Can we go now?” Hermione asks shakily.

“Not quite,” Harry says grimly. “We haven’t gotten to the secret yet.”

Harry turns away from them, concentrating on his younger self. This was before he learned how to Heal himself. Too bad. Those burns, especially, look like they hurt.

The little boy quickly and methodically takes several things out of the cabinet underneath the mirror. Bandages, gauze, and disinfectant. He surveys the items with distaste. Then, with a sigh, he takes off his shirt. He mops the blood off his chest and opens the tin of bandages. He pauses, catching sight of himself in the mirror. He’s already got bandages on him. One from just this morning. Two from the weekend. The boy snorts in amusement, but his smile quickly fades. He grabs the tin and throws it, hard, against the ground. He clenches and unclenches his hands, nostrils flaring and twitching like a bird. The whole thing just seems so stupid. He’ll just get beaten again tomorrow. What’s the point?

The child picks up the tin and the other supplies and stows them back under the sink. The he purposefully limps out of the bathroom and into his aunt and uncle’s bedroom. He clambers up onto the bed, sucking in a harsh breath as his body touches the fabric. He sits there for a long minute, his eyes fixed on the bedside table. Finally, he opens the drawer and takes out something black and metallic.

Hermione gasps audibly.

The child picks up the object, turning it over and over in his hands. After a moment, he raises it to his messy mop of hair.

“Harry, no!” Hermione yells. She lunges at the child, but her hand goes right through his chest, like a ghost. “Don’t do it! Don’t pull the trigger!”

“Don’t pull the what?” Ron squawks. “Hermione, what is that thing?”

“It’s a gun!” Hermione yells. “It’s how Muggles kill each other!”

At her words, Ron and Snape both snap into action. They, too, try to wrest the gun away from the child. But it is only a memory, and they can do nothing to alter the events. They give up all at once, as though the same thought has occurred to all of them. Clearly, Harry didn’t go through with it. The evidence is standing next to them, coolly watching his seven-year-old self try and work up the nerve to kill himself.

The child Harry sits for a long time with the gun to his head. Snape, Ron, and Hermione all watch with bated breath, the tension making their features taut. The seconds drag on forever, but finally the little boy puts down the gun. He puts the gun back into the drawer, a regretful sigh escaping his lips. He slides off the bed and pads downstairs, looking for food he can hide in his cupboard.

“That’s the secret,” Harry says harshly. And then the four of them are back in Snape’s office, blinking as though blinded by sunlight.

Harry dips his wand into the Pensieve so he doesn’t have to look at their expressions. “Surripio Fidelius Finitum.”

The secrets come together in a violent, frenzied dance. The blob twists and shudders, and then begins to shrink until only a small, white stone lies at the bottom of the basin.

The Charm is satisfied. Snape’s secrets are safe.

Harry puts his wand away and looks up at the others. Ron and Hermione, both quite pale, are staring at him. Snape just looks livid. He waves away Harry’s friends. “Leave us.”

“But Professor—”

“LEAVE US!”

“It’ll be fine,” Harry says quietly. “Go on, I’ll meet you in the Common Room.”

Hermione and Ron waver, but in the end, slip out the door. Snape fires more spells after them, violently, and then faces his student.

“You tried to kill yourself?” Snape says in his deadliest tone.

“Yes.”

Before Harry can move, Snape reaches out and slaps him across the face. The crack echoes throughout the room. Harry physically jerks from the impact, startled out of his wits. He’s never gotten used to being hit. It surprises the hell out of him, each and every time.

“Do you know how many people have tried to keep you alive, Potter? Do you know how many people have made sacrifices to keep you alive?” Snape yells.

Harry says nothing. He licks his lips, tasting something familiar and salty.

“People have died to keep you alive!” Snape continues. “Your mother—your blasted father—they died to keep you alive! Dumbledore has put Merlin-knows how many webs into place! All designed to keep you alive! You must stay alive, Potter! Haven’t I gotten that through your thick skull yet?”

Harry nods. He lets his eyes drift downward, and they focus on the large ring Snape wears on his finger. The stone is flecked with blood.

“I turned spy because of you! I’ve been tortured in the name of keeping you alive! I’ve tortured people in the name of keeping you alive! And—to think—it could have all—to think that you, even as a child, could have ruined all of our work, all of our hopes—”

Snape smacks the back of a stool. The muscles in his jaw are working overtime as he tries to articulate his frustration. He glides up to Harry, erasing the space that Harry has put between them. “Did you ever try it again?”

“Try what again?”

“Taking out a gun and blasting your brains out, Potter!”

Harry closes his eyes, bracing himself. “Yes.”

Snape staggers back a step, fifteen years worth of near-disasters assaulting him. “How many times?”

“Too many to count.”

Snape sinks into a chair, the anger draining out of him. He looks up at Harry. “I’ve seen many things—too many things—over the years, Potter. But you—with that gun, with that weapon, about to kill yourself—I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Harry considers him. This puts things in rather a different light. He sits down across from Snape.

Snape groans. “I do not know how to do this.” He glances at Harry. “When was the last time you took out that gun?”

“Before I came to Hogwarts,” Harry replies. “You don’t have to worry, Snape. I’m not going to do anything stupid. It was just…harder…back then to deal with stuff.”

“I know what your childhood was like,” Snape says harshly. “I know exactly what your childhood was like, Potter! But I never tried to kill myself!”

“That’s because you had Lily,” Harry retorts. “Who did I have?”

Snape scowls.

“What would you have done?” Harry asks. “If it had been just been you and your parents, day after day after day?”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Snape mutters under his breath. He shakes his head. “I do not know what I would have done, Potter. I rather think it is my fate to live when others do not. Your father once told me I was like a cockroach, you know. Impossible to kill.”

Harry has no good answer for this, and so he stays quiet.

“You are the most frustrating, alarming child I have ever come across,” Snape finally says, breaking the silence. “Why on earth did you pick that secret? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“You said make it dark,” Harry says grimly.

“Mission accomplished,” Snape mutters. “Merlin, Potter! All these years of trying to keep you safe, and not one of us ever thought you needed protecting from yourself!”

“I needed protecting from the Dursleys,” Harry snaps. “Let me ask you something, Snape. Why it is my fault that I thought suicide was a good idea when I was seven years old? Are you really going to pin that on me? What the hell did I know?”

“Language, Potter,” Snape says sourly. Then he sighs. “You knew nothing. But we knew less. That much is obvious.”

Harry shrugs, not pacified.

“I told you in the Room,” Snape adds, “but perhaps it bears repeating, that I knew nothing of your treatment at the Dursleys. Nobody did, except for Dumbledore, and I’m not sure even how much he knew.”

“You saw enough of my memories during Occlumency, didn’t you? You saw how skinny I was after every summer, didn’t you? And you never said anything to me or to Dumbledore or to anyone!”

“No,” Snape admits. “I thought you deserved whatever you got.” He makes a face. “But I certainly saw nothing as dark as this during Remedial Potions, Potter.”

“You’re making excuses.”

“So are you,” Snape says, annoyed. “You aren’t seven years old anymore. What has stopped you from telling someone at Hogwarts about the abuse?”

“Did you ever tell anyone?”

Snape frowns and sidesteps the question. “We aren’t talking about me.”

Harry is starting to find this conversation really uncomfortable. “I just—I don’t know, I never felt like saying anything about it.”

“Because you were frightened of the Dursleys’ reaction?”

Harry swallows and gives the tiniest of nods.

“And you felt ashamed,” Snape adds, his eyes far away. “And you didn’t trust any adult to help you. They’d all failed you in the past.”

Harry nods shakily, staring firmly at his hands.

“You never would have told,” Snape charges quietly. “Not if Dumbledore, or I, hadn’t forced you into it.”

Harry takes a ragged breath. “I only see the Dursleys once a year now. Does it really matter anymore what they did or didn’t do, or who I told or didn’t tell?”

Snape lifts his hands in a vague, helpless gesture. “I remember every blow, Potter, and it’s been twenty years. It matters.”

“Oh.”

“I told Lily some of what happened to me,” Snape murmurs. “And she guessed the rest. But I never told anyone who might actually have been able to help. Like an adult, for example. A bit stupid, really.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “I might be someone who could help, Potter.”

Harry says nothing. Seems a bit rich, coming from a man who slapped him not ten minutes ago.

“I will do nothing unless you wish me to do so,” Snape says heavily. “For now. But you might do well to confide in your friends.” He pauses. “Or your girlfriend.”

“Ginny isn’t my girlfriend,” Harry says for what feels like the fortieth time.

“I saw the pair of you whispering…and holding hands.”

“No,” Harry insists. “She was holding my hand. They’ve gone all funny, look.” Harry shows Snape his fingers. The cracks have multiplied just over the course of the day.

Snape’s expression changes entirely. He stands up, glides soundlessly into his Potions store, and comes back with a vial of something. “Drink this.”

Harry takes the vial. It looks like glue. But he drinks it anyway.

It tastes like glue, too.

Harry studies his hands. The white cracks are already gone. He looks curiously at Snape. “What was that about?”

Snape groans. “I should have seen this coming. I really am an idiot.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “But what about my hands?”

“When you Healed me…in the Room…you took in a bit of my magic at the same time. Through your fingers.” Snape pauses. “Wizards’ magics are not supposed to mix like that. Your hands are the result of your…meddling with my life.”

“I’m not sure I would have ever noticed the cracks,” Harry says doubtfully, flexing his fingers.

“You might have noticed when your hands started to disintegrate,” Snape says tiredly. “That’s what would have happened without the corrective potion. The cracks would have multiplied until your fingers began to fall apart like sand.”

“Oh, dear,” Harry murmurs. “Remind me to thank Ginny.”

“Do that,” Snape agrees. “It seems a pity now that I gave her so many lines today.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because, Potter, I’m an idiot,” Snape growls. “I was beside myself, remembering how I had poured my tale of woe out to you in the Room. All my stupid secrets about my unrequited love for Lily! And it was unbearable to think that the whole time, you were sitting there, in that smug Potter fashion, thinking to yourself that you had repeated your father’s success, and that you’d gotten the girl when your stupid professor never could!”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Woah. Um, okay.”

“If you had only seen yourself, Potter! With that girl with her red hair and her big green eyes, the pair of you looking just like Lily and James! It was sickening!”

A long pause follows this outburst. “You know, Snape,” Harry finally volunteers, “you are kind of more messed up than I thought.”

“So are you,” Snape scowls. “The Boy who Tried to Off Himself At Seven!”

“So,” Harry says slowly, “is this why you were such a git to me in class today?”

“Have you really not guessed the answer to that by now, Potter?”

Harry shrugs, and allows himself to relax a little. The worst seems to be over. And, most importantly, the Fidelius Charm worked. Snape’s secrets are safe. He stands up. “So, are we done here?”

Snape favors him with an odd look. “Is there nothing else you wish to ask me?”

“About Ginny?” Harry asks uncertainly. “Well, um, I think it’s really weird that my having a red-head for a girlfriend could freak you out so much. But, er, I suppose I understand a bit better now, and anyway, she’s not my girlfriend, so what’s the big deal?”

“Do you not care that I slapped you?”

“Oh.” Harry’s hand rises unbidden to his cheek. It’s got a slice in it, thanks to Snape’s ring. “Um, that.” He shrugs, attempting to make light of it. “It’s not like it’s never happened to me before, Professor.”

“I will not hit you again.”

Harry nods quickly. “Oh, yeah, I know.”

“You do not believe me.”

Harry sucks the air in through his teeth. He turns and gives Snape his full attention. “Exactly why should I, Professor?”

Snape sharply nods his head, as though he is unsurprised by the question. “I do not know.” He stands up, and for the second time that evening, disappears into his private stores. He comes back carrying a vial of something orange. “You should drink this, or your friends will pester you with questions.”

Harry takes the vial and gulps it down. It tastes like pineapple. He feels the gash heal over. “It’s a lot quicker than the Muggle way,” Harry says quietly, setting down the empty vial.

“I imagine so,” Snape murmurs, fiddling with the blood-flecked ring on his finger. After a moment, he takes it off and drops it into his pocket. Harry looks away, oddly unsettled by the gesture.

“Potter,” Snape says, hesitation written over his face, “I told you in the Room that I was a weak man. I said I didn’t understand why you would want to depend on me.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve…I’ve started rather on the wrong foot today. I would understand if you were having second thoughts. About depending on me, or trusting me, or wanting to be in the same room with me. Merlin only knows why you haven’t run screaming in the other direction yet.”

Harry sighs. He looks at Snape’s oddly bare fingers. “I haven’t left yet, have I?”

“No,” Snape says softly. “You haven’t.” He swallows. “Your mother left, you know. I understand why people leave. But…when they stay…” Snape’s voice trails off. “Why didn’t you ever pull the trigger, Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “For the same reason I haven’t run off screaming in the other direction, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I guess I can’t stop from hoping that things will get better.” He pauses. “Or maybe I’m just a coward.”

“I won’t hit you again, Potter.”

“Oh, I know. I believe you.”

The two of them sit there, each of them doubting their words, and wishing that they didn’t.