Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall July 1996 (31)

On Privet Drive, Harry was roused most mornings by Dudley trouncing his twenty stones hulk up and down the stairs directly above his cupboard. Then once Uncle Vernon finally saw fit to let him move into Dudley's spare bedroom, the ham-handed thud of Dudley's fists on the door at 7 a.m. was more an annoyance than a wake-up call - Harry lay awake already, anticipating his cousin's obnoxious behavior.

That trained waking had carried over to Hogwarts. But, this summer proved the exception.

Every morning since arriving at Soth-ince, the bewitching aroma of a fry-up had been enough to rouse Harry from his bed. This morning, however, it took him a moment to work out what was happening; when awareness hit, he recoiled, then wormed his way to the far side of the bed, hitting the wall in his attempt to escape the brash warmth of Fang's tongue cutting a wide, soggy swath across his face.

"Ugh! Quit it!" Harry scrubbed at his cheek with his sheet, then yanked it up over his head - a futile effort to douse the lemony morning light, and Fang's fusty breath.

Yesterday had been a full day; reason enough for a bit of a lie-in, in Harry's opinion. He stretched languorously, then began to drift back to sleep, but a bark - like cannon fire in his ear - had him bolting upright, eyes as wild as his hair. Blinking dumbly, he fumbled for his watch, then brought it close to his nose: 8:35. Bollocks. He should have been up an hour ago.

"Snape still asleep?" Harry raised his brows in a hopeful manner at the bright eyed dog. With a cheerful swish of his tail, Fang barked again then coolly trotted from the room. Harry shoved his glasses on and lumbered along behind the dog to the kitchen where he knew Snape would be.

"Sorry ‘bout oversleeping," Harry said. He glanced over expecting Snape's pat response of "Sleep well?", but it never came. He sat down, hoping the man wasn't angry, but Snape said nothing to confirm or deny his mood.

After silently dishing up Harry's breakfast, Snape settled back, his head dipped low over his cup of Oolong; he seemed lost in his wavering reflection. Harry noted that though the tea cup was full, it lacked a fragrant cloud of steam; the man had no place setting either. Harry then wondered how long Snape had been up, sitting there staring.

Harry picked up his knife. The room's odd stillness amplified the clinking of it on the butter dish as he hacked off a bit of the pale glob to scrape on a slice of toast. The sound echoed gratingly, so he stopped. He nibbled at the crisp square, but the more he considered Snape's glum demeanor, the less he felt like eating.

Unnerved by the silence after a time, Harry asked, "What's doin' for today?"

Snape jerked, as if just realizing he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat, but still with an eye on his tea, he said, "A bit of simple revision to warm up. Then we'll move on to some more challenging things."

"Yeah?" Harry said. "What?" For the first time a tinge of genuine excitement to test his magic nipped at him.

"You'll find out." Snape closed his eyes and leaned back, exposing what had been hidden only seconds before.

Harry's eyes narrowed to concerned slits as he took in the muddy shadows beneath Snape's eyes. They underscored his sharp features making him appear strained and hollow - haunted, Harry thought. Grisly images of the man lying battered and unconscious in the hospital wing flashed through Harry's mind like a crudely edited home movie. Had Snape had a bad night of it? Had memories of that hellish night in the forest visited him as he slept? Now instead of wondering how long Snape had been up, Harry wondered if he had slept at all.

As Harry sat considering the man, he thought of Mad-Eye Moody's trunk. It had one lock, but it had taken seven keys for Dumbledore to get at the real Moody trapped in the bottom of it. Harry knew that getting to know Snape would progress much the same way, but after sharing such close quarters these many weeks, he liked to think he had a better understanding of some of the man's quirks.

Before coming to Soth-ince, Harry would have bet his vault that as a housemate Snape would be a real fusspot. What he found was that the man could be nearly as lackadaisical as he. Training sessions were conducted with the intent to prove that a thing worth doing was worth doing perfectly, but outside those sessions, apathy ruled. Gardening, reading, writing, daily walks, and the rare brewing stint in the potions lab filled Snape's days admirably. Harry imagined this hard and steady dedication to the mundane sprung from the extraordinary life the man led (had led) as a Death Eater and then spy.

To a degree, Harry got it.

The Dursleys quest to be normal was PRIORITY ONE on Privet Drive and they took great pains to accomplish it: they lived in an ordinary house on an ordinary street in an ordinary suburb, but Harry was the fly in their ordinary glue. That made life difficult on Privet Drive, but once he became part of the wizarding world, beastly relatives proved to be the least of his worries.

Harry's extraordinariness triggered the sort of undue attention he would never get used to: curious stares at his forehead, lies printed in The Daily Prophet, mad Ministry of Magic officials, cruel jeers from envious schoolmates, overt suspicion, overt praise... It all made the more conventional aspects of life more gratifying. That's not to say he didn't welcome the rush of the occasional close call with a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch, or the rare run-in with a Chinese Horntail, but ordinary had a beauty all its own. In its simplicity, it bred constancy, and in a life where the only certainty was death at the hand of a madman (prophesied, no less), ordinary was not only appealing, it was crucial for sanity's sake.

But, for all of Snape's ordinary habits, his sleeping habits were a mystery.

No matter how late Harry stayed up, Snape stayed up too. A typically light sleeper, Harry always heard Snape rustling about in the bathroom before he retired for the night. Anything heard beyond that was either the creak of the cottage settling or Fang's gusty snores - heard even when the boarhound slept in the sitting room - yet Harry never heard a peep from Snape's room, just four paces from his own.

Over time, Harry grew used to the quiet, but now the thought of it troubled him, and it threw his imagination into overdrive: maybe Snape was using a Silencing Charm to mask the sounds of his nightmares; or maybe he was muting them with something more potent, something like Dreamless Sleep Potion - which couldn't be good over the long term; or maybe he just sat up all night (as he seemed to have done last night) thinking about that night in the forest, thinking about being at the mercy of Wormtail, Bellatrix, Lucius and Vol -

Harry shook his head. He understood the emotional devastation nightmares wreaked. That Snape was a skilled Occlumens, Potions Master, and spy meant little because there was no way he had emerged unscathed from that level of torture. Harry knew, with all certainty, that night had staked a claim in Snape's mind. Whether it mixed with more benign thoughts, or lurked along the fringes with more... heinous experiences, it was there.

Harry yearned to ask the man how he was coping, but the likelihood of his head being ripped from his body was not an appealing outcome for the trouble. No, a far less volatile topic of discussion was in order.

After a few moments spent haphazardly squashing his porridge against the sides of the bowl, Harry said, "Sir?"

Snape opened his eyes slowly, then shifted his dark brows. He looked just the other side of exhausted.

"Um... thanks for... yesterday, with the festival, and for, you know, being nice to Hermione and her parents. Hermione's mum liked you... You were really convincing." Harry offered up a small smile.

Snape's face quickly shuttered. When he spoke, his tone was deliberate and sharp.

"Potter, after being cooped up here for so many weeks without a break, that trip was simply an opportunity to recharge and regain focus - that is all. And as for being ‘convincing', that is my job." He stood to dump his dishes into the sink with a clatter.

"But -"

"Finish eating and meet me outside," Snape said, then swept from the room.

Harry frowned at the beige clump of goo that clung to his spoon. He eyed it, hoping to penetrate its sticky depths in an effort to divine Snape's mood. Had he read too much into Snape's actions at the festival? Things had gone well... hadn't they? Snape had acted genuinely concerned, checking on him, talking to Hermione's parents... giving him that shell.

"His job..." Harry lifted his spoon to fling the mess into the bottom of the bowl. "Right." The more things change, the more they stay the same.

As Harry settled into bed last night, the day's scenes running through his head, he considered - though unwilling to fully concede - that when it came to judging someone's character, his radar was a bit skewed; it often left him with egg on his face.

Harry thought of Quirrell, a falsely timid professor who could have coined the phrase ‘two-faced' while playing host to Voldemort's weakened, parasitic form; he thought of Draco Malfoy, the snot-nosed son of a Death Eater, but no heir of Slytherin; he thought of Barty Crouch Jr. masquerading as Alastor ‘Mad-Eye' Moody for a year - though to be fair, the psycho had fooled everybody, even Dumbledore; and he thought of Sirius, the mad convict who had turned out to be innocent of murder and his godfather.

But for the most part, Harry thought of Snape. He had been ten kinds of wrong about Snape's role as a Death Eater, he had been wrong about the man's role in protecting him at Hogwarts since first-year, and he was likely wrong about a change in the man's feelings for him now.

Yeah. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

*WO

Snape's foul mood persisted as they trained. He exacted excellence from Harry each session, but he went about this one with the single-mindedness of a drill sergeant at boot camp. Harry worried that at any moment Snape would bark, "Drop and give me fifty!" He was spared that indignity, but as promised, after the initial ease of Windardium Leviosa, Reducio, and Impervius, things soon escalated to more taxing spell work such as defense against Inferi.

Harry strove to keep up as the morning wore on; following a hurried lunch, he wondered if he'd survive the rest of the day without spelling Snape's lips shut. But, instead of losing his cool he ground his teeth against his frustration and every bland "You can do better than that, Potter."

"Better" was never uttered outside the context of him needing to improve, and "good" was only ever anchored within an admonition: "It would be good if you could resist gouging holes in the earth..."; "Actually summoning the chair so that it doesn't take out all of my roses would be a good turn..."

Trying to extract a blatant word of encouragement from Snape proved to be much like trying to wrest a Curly Wurly from Dudley - not that Harry had expected any differently. In Potions Snape only ever had a mildly indulgent word for Slytherins, but Harry had hoped for more than a pale shadow of encouragement as he improved.

"Keep going... keep going," Snape intoned, as the eastern sky began to fade to indigo.

Fang, the hapless subject of this part of the training, was floating a respectable distance from the ground. The boarhound's soulful brown eyes shifted nervously as Harry quietly chanted, "Mobilicorpus, Mobilicorpus."

"Potter, eventually, you'll have to do this without speaking aloud or moving your lips," Snape blithely reminded him, not for the first time that day.

"I know..." Harry squinted at Fang, trying to keep the dog aloft, but he was done in. If not for Snape swiftly casting a spell to settle the bug-eyed dog on his paws, Fang would have crashed into the ground.

Harry sighed. "Sorry... You distracted me."

"Yes, and what will your excuse be when confronted with someone casting a spell at you in Defense Against the Dark Arts come September?" Snape's tone smacked of irritation. "Sixth-year students are expected to begin integrating nonverbal spell work with wand work. In essence, I'm not requiring any more of you than would be required once term starts."

Harry considered Snape's tight expression; he looked worse than he had at breakfast.

"Fine, I'll try harder, but..."

"No, ‘but', just do it..." Snape turned and stalked toward the cottage. Fang zipped past Harry to follow.

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, as he trudged along in their wake.

*WO

After a much deserved shower, Harry joined Snape in the kitchen. As he set the table, a sharp tap on the kitchen window startled him. Without thought, he brought his right arm up to hold it out stiffly in front of him, his palm jutting forward in a stopping motion, eyes trained on the small window above the sink. A rush of unintentional magic elicited an indignant squawk, followed by the thump of ash colored wings against the glass.

Snape took hold of his arm and coaxed it down to his side. When the man stepped toward the window, Harry had to stop himself from grabbing the back of his robes. He watched, on pins and needles, as Snape pushed the window open.

A ruffled great gray owl with a package in its beak, and a larger one in its talons, tumbled head over heels into the kitchen. After righting itself, it cast a malevolent, yellow-eyed glare at Harry who gulped and darted to hide behind Snape. With a loud hoot, the bird flung the packages to the floor with a surly crunch before executing a sharp turn to fly back out. Snape bent to scoop up the parcels and passed them off to Harry, who stared at them, confused. At sight of the tags, though, he broke into a grin.

"It's from Hermione, and the Weasleys!" Harry's grin faltered. "How were they able to send these? I thought nothing could get through the protections..."

"Miss Granger asked to send something along. She obviously alerted the Weasleys, as well."

"Then, what was all that rubbish with Dumbledore? ‘...Any correspondence, no matter how cleverly devised, could be intercepted...'" Harry enlisted the snooty tone Snape had used with Dumbledore.

Snape flushed, prompting Harry to snort softly.

"You know very well why I said that. In any case, certain precautions have been taken."

Harry flipped the package over. "When did she -? Oh! That's why she went back into the restaurant, isn't it?"

Snape nodded wearily as he recalled the girl cornering him, excited, asking in that annoying rapid fire way of hers if he would allow an owl to deliver a package. Her hunch that safeguards were in place was no surprise; yet, he was deeply unsettled by what followed.

"Ha - James looks great, sir...," she had said as they stood in a quiet corner. Surreptitiously, Snape cast Muffliato, then squinted at her curiously. "I mean, clearly he doesn't look like himself, but it's just really rare to see him so relaxed and at ease.

"He's usually so overwhelmed - the weight of the world on his shoulders. Last summer it was Dementors and the threat of being expelled from Hogwarts. And being disconnected from the wizarding world every summer has always been difficult for him, what with his relatives..."

 Snape frowned, confused, but Hermione didn't elaborate.

"Sir," Hermione said, searching his eyes, "I know you've harbored rather... ill feelings for Ha - James, and I can only imagine how difficult things were for you at the beginning of everything, but he's remarkable, he truly is! He told me most of what's happened since that night at the Ministry..."

Snape shifted his weight onto his left foot, and swallowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"When I asked how you two were faring, his face lit up," Hermione said, her eyes overly bright. "He'd probably rather cut out his tongue than admit it, but he needs to be looked after, especially with losing Si -, his godfather the way he did... It's just that he's had so few people to count on, and, well he tends to treasure those who show him kindness, no matter how insignificant -"

Snape's brow twitched skyward and Hermione's eyes widened in horror.

"N-not that what you're doing is insignificant, of course!" Hermione began to speak faster, eager to make her point. "I think it's wonderful that you're looking after him because, well... What I mean to say is that James admired his godfather surviving all those years in Azkaban... and, sir, he rather has that same admiration for you -"

Back at Soth-ince, when it was too late to matter, Snape realized that the restless whisper of her palms rubbing together should have clued him in to what she was about to say; he realized that it was at that point he should have cut her off. He should have told her that Potter's feelings meant as much to him as they ever had, but he hadn't. He had let her speak.

"Sir, I... It's clear you care for him too," Hermione said.

The last syllable hung in the air like the last wavering note of a violin solo. Clearly the girl's words begged for a curt, scathing retort, but Snape's rancor failed him. In its place, he had abruptly, (and rather feebly, he acknowledged) offered to allow an owl so that she could send Harry a letter.

What a world, Snape thought, only to be further horrified when, in a heady moment of gratitude, Hermione threw her arms around his waist. He froze. Belatedly, Hermione stiffened, too. Clueless of how to gracefully extricate herself, she began to babble apologetically; her apologies rapidly devolved into petting Snape's sides. When after countless, awkward seconds she was still petting him, Snape had gingerly taken her wrists and placed her arms at her sides.

Flushed with relief, Hermione had said, "Thank you, sir. That... that was rather a bit embarrassing." 

Snape snapped out of the memory at the crisp sound of Harry ripping into Hermione's gift. He pulled out a letter and a black leather book with a bowed tree branded into its center. He ran a finger over it and jerked it back when the tree flexed to stand straight and proud, then, the cover fell opened, displaying creamy blank pages. When he shut the book, the tree slumped over once again. Putting it aside, Harry read the letter.

Dear James,

Harry chuckled.

I had so much fun yesterday! Seeing you was odd, but wonderful! It was especially great to meet Mr. Brockman and to see how well you two are getting on.

My parents want to wish you a happy birthday...

"My birthday!" Harry shouted, shocked he had forgotten.

... I hope you like the diary. I spotted it yesterday at the festival and went to get it while you were riding that ridiculous water ride. It's charmed so that only you have access to it, so you needn't worry about prying eyes once we're back at school.

The tree is a rowan. I asked the craftswizard to brand it onto the cover. For some reason it made me think of you and I thought you'd like it. Muggles often forged talismans out of rowan wood as protection against witches, but oddly enough, it's considered a source of protection in our world as well.

Happy birthday!

Jean

"I forgot it was my birthday," Harry said, still sounding surprised. Snape raised an eyebrow; Harry shrugged. "It's easy to lose track out here..."

As Harry tried to push the letter back into its envelope, he noticed a folded note inside it addressed to E. Brockman. He briefly wondered what Hermione would possibly have to say to Snape, but noting that it was only a single sheaf of parchment, he figured it couldn't be too important. He imagined she was probably gushing over having seen the man yesterday.

"Looks like there's something for you, too."

After handing the note to the bewildered man, Harry tore into the second package. He let out a bark of laughter when a host of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes from Fred and George toppled out of it, and he more or less drooled at the sight of the treacle tart from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Ron had sent along a letter in addition to a small, lumpy package.

James,

I got a six-page letter (which I haven't finished) from a mutual friend. She told me what's going on, or at least some of it. She said there was still a lot she didn't know, but that you're doing well. With the company you're keeping, I find that hard to believe. For the entire summer, mate? Bloody hell! I'm hoping she was just trying to wind me up... Anyway, hope you like the presents. Dad helped with the charm on the photo. It's only supposed to reveal itself to you.

Bilius

P.S. The bones are for the dog - not you.

Puncturing the package, Harry tossed a handful of Jabberwocky bones at Fang who caught them mid-air, crunching loudly. Harry grinned as he uncovered the framed photo of him, Hermione, and Ron.

It was taken, from what he could tell, during one of the lighter moments at a Dumbledore's Army meeting. Colin Creevey had recently joined and was, as ever, desperate to capture Harry's image on film. He and Ron had been goofing around, hexing each other to bray like a donkey, and after carrying on for several annoying minutes, Hermione had hexed them mute - perfectly timed for Colin to snap the shot. Like silent movie actors, both boys fell to the floor, dramatically pleading with Hermione to release the hex. She watched them, a smug, pleased look gracing her face. It was only after Harry offered up a gaudy bauble the room provided at his silent wish that she burst into laughter and reversed the hex.

Smiling at the memory, he gathered up the box to take to his room. He put the photo on his night table, adjusting it to face the bed, then went back to the kitchen.

Snape always asked Harry what he wanted for dinner, but tonight he didn't. Instead, he took a moment to contemplate the dishes Harry had set out. Then he tapped his wand against each of them in turn. Harry beamed as a heaping tray of chicken and ham sandwiches appeared along with a platter of steaming, greasy chips and several frosty bottles of butterbeer, dew sluicing pleasantly down the sides. Along with the treacle tart, the meal included all of Harry's favorite foods.

"Thank you, sir!"

Snape dipped his head stiffly then snagged a chicken sandwich and a butterbeer. Harry nearly laughed when the man took a long pull from the amber colored bottle. When Harry had requested it before, Snape had never indulged, claiming that no self-respecting adult would enjoy imbibing so crassly flavored a liquid. Though he confessed to drinking it while a student at Hogwarts, butterbeer, he said, clearly targeted children who had yet to acquire a taste for anything other than sugar. Harry snickered into his second ham sandwich; Snape had shifted an eyebrow in what looked like grudging appreciation after polishing off his butterbeer, then reached for another.

As they ate, Harry pondered every July 30th prior to this one. Always he had played the role of time's sentinel, tracking the ticks of his watch's second hand, counting down until the midnight hour. He was amazed that his sixteenth birthday had escaped that ritual. He considered that typically, old habits die hard, yet yesterday had come and gone - its date an ironically meaningless consequence of a thoroughly meaningful day. Midnight had found him deeply asleep, the sights, sounds, smells, and people of the day, laying waste to a habit that like his cupboard beneath the stairs, he had long outgrown.

*WO

Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall, August 1996

August. The word fairly oozed laziness, but the hazy, humid heat shrouding the valley demanded it. Harry didn't have a calendar to mark the days as he had done on Privet Drive, but September - summer's spoiler - willfully imposed its presence at the close of each day. Indifferent, Harry ignored the first's approach as doggedly as he had once looked forward to it. Inspired by the valley, he was now absorbed in a freedom he had never enjoyed at the Dursleys.

Summertime on Privet Drive had always comprised a sure mix of mowing, weeding, planting, polishing, organizing, house painting, fence painting, car washing, and the occasional house washing. But, here in the valley, weekends and evenings were Harry's to do as he wished. For the most part.

Snape had forbidden him from flying his Firebolt and venturing past the magical line, but those taboos were of little consequence. Harry found that he didn't pine for his broom as much as he had imagined he would, because with all the valley's riches, he was never bored, thus he had no desire to wander beyond its boundaries.

One evening over dinner, he told Snape that when he first set foot over the magical boundary, it felt as if the valley had embraced him. Other than Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place, Harry had never experienced a place come alive around him. With its shifting staircases, disappearing doorways, animated statues, ghosts and poltergeist, Hogwarts owed its millennia-old spirit to its founders, students, teachers, and headmasters; more simply, Grimmauld Place owed its soulless air to generations of equally soulless Blacks.

But Soth-ince was different. Harry fancied it possessed a unique, unassuming personality.

 The rugged landscape echoed its provincial mining history. Jutting, uneven swells lent an unpredictable crookedness to the bowl-shaped land's outlying edges, giving it the appearance of a badly crafted piece of pottery. Quartered snugly together, the cottage, oak grove, small pond, and garden laid cradled within the valley's vast expanse. Despite its unpretentious appearance, the land was notably ancient and deeply magical, in its own right. Snape never volunteered how he had come to own the land, or who had inhabited it before, but Harry didn't need a pedigree on it. He loved it. It had a palpable sentience, and like most magical places, it was secretive and surprising.

One Saturday, while traversing the edge of the oak grove, a long, gnarled branch, normally positioned high above Harry's head shifted to hang low, blocking his path to the grove's shadowy interior. He tried to bypass it, but every oak along the perimeter reacted similarly to impede his progress. On his last, frustrated attempt, he heard a string of low hisses. Looking past one tree's thick branch he spotted a family of Adders slithering toward the grove's edge, likely in search of a patch of grass or rock on which to sun themselves.

Snape bade him be wary of strange wildlife residing in grove or elsewhere on the grounds; Harry heeded the warning as well as he could, meaning not at all; the valley had become his personal playground. Undaunted, he roamed the lush pastureland as though he had been born to it, and as the days floated seamlessly one into the other, he began to dread leaving it.

It's now familiar essences and quiet murmurings soothed him to sleep at night. Its remoteness inspired a sort of fearlessness that fed his magic and his soul. In short, Soth-ince provided Harry with a life he had never dreamed possible. Now when Snape called upon him to think of a safe place, without fail Soth-ince was foremost in his thoughts - and despite the man's fickle attitude, so was Snape.

He did his best to communicate this in the twice-weekly letters he now exchanged with Hermione. After he pestered Snape for two days straight, the man relented. He agreed to let them correspond as long as they coded their language and promised to burn the letters after reading them. Ron had written three brief notes, but they contained little that wasn't a coded dig on Snape.

Snape always shook his head at Harry's graceless reaction to the arrival of his post. Anything that sounded remotely like the soft, ruffle of feathers sent the boy scrambling into the kitchen. There were a few notable false alarms when after stubbing his toe on the coffee table, or falling flat on his face after tripping over Fang to get to the kitchen, he returned to the sitting room, red-faced, annoyed, and rubbing at whatever body part had taken the brunt of the blow.

"What?" he would say to Snape, who might be stretched out on the sofa or writing at his desk, eyeing him inscrutably. "I thought I heard something..."

When there was an actual delivery though, Harry had quickly learned to snatch the letters from the determinedly vindictive post owls. It seems the great gray that made the delivery on his birthday had communicated to its comrades that Harry was deserving of a severe pecking upon delivery - every delivery. As a different owl was used for each trip, it was the only explanation Harry could come up with for their hostile behavior. After mulling it over, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised, after all Hedwig could hold a grudge as ably as a scorned woman.

"How typical is it for owls to always attack the person they're delivering post to?"

Just entering the cottage from one of his walks, Snape looked at Harry standing in the center of the sitting room, ruefully nursing yet another deeply split and bleeding finger. He walked to the boy and took his finger in hand.

"Accio wound-cleaning potion," Snape said, turning Harry's finger this way and that. The potion, stored on the kitchen counter (because that was where Harry normally received his post) whizzed through the air into Snape's extended hand. Harry braced himself for the slight sting and repugnant, smoky stench of the purple mess, yet he couldn't complain; it always did its job of healing him right up.

"That should do... until next time," Snape said, letting loose Harry's finger.

Though Harry had been nipped and clawed by Hedwig too many times to count, he had never resorted to anything stronger than Muggle alcohol to treat the wound, if that. Ordinarily, he just let the scratches scab over and was done with them, but Snape insisted on using a potion, obviously not trusting that Harry wouldn't get an infection from any of the strange owls.

Harry looked at the purple coating on his index finger and smiled.

*WO

Jean,

Things are good here. Believe it or not, I've been using the diary. It's not as stupid as I thought - writing my thoughts down. Edmund writes a lot in what I guess is his diary. Either that or he's making some hideously detailed plans for the coming months, if you know what I mean...

I wrote Bilius. I told him his jabs at Edmund are getting old and that I don't much care for them. He wrote back that maybe I should wait to write him when I'm feeling ‘myself.' I haven't heard from him since. What's he said to you?

James

Dear James,

I'm glad everything is going well! I knew you would use the diary, too!

Don't let Bilius's reaction discourage you. You know him; it takes him a while to get used to things, especially when he's left out of the loop. Remember fourth-year? Plus, once he sees how well you're doing, he'll realize how foolish he's been. Don't worry yourself about it. Honestly, you don't need his approval.

Write soon,

Jean

*WO

Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall, August 1996

August waned, training did not.

Fang was again Harry's hapless volunteer (victim) for this bit of the day's training. Snape wanted Harry to Apparate the dog from the end of the garden where they were standing, to the farthest edge of the grove. Harry had successfully Apparated the boarhound from room to room inside the cottage, gradually working up longer distances until he progressed to working outside. A few days ago he Apparated Fang from one side of the garden to the other, equaling about twelve to fifteen meters in distance, and he had felt plenty confident in doing it. Today's distance, though, was pushing his limits. It was fifty meters from the garden to the farthest end of the grove.

Suppose he failed and disappointed Snape? The prospect was nerve wracking. Yes, Snape kept pushing Harry to next level proved that he was living up to Snape's expectations, but the man kept irritatingly mum about his thoughts on Harry's progress, as if fearing an encouraging word would undo all of it.

Harry closed his eyes, and tried to tread on the uncertainty threatening to overwhelm him. He focused, and in his mind's eye, he saw Fang disappearing from where he stood at Harry's side, and appearing at the target, the back corner of the grove. He breathed in when he heard the crack of Disapparation, and breathed out seconds later when he heard the crack of Apparition. Then, shockingly, he heard Fang crying in the distance. He opened his eyes to find Snape bolting toward the dog. Harry shot after him, right on the man's heels, dreading what they might find.

When they reached him, the big dog was on all fours, though carrying on loudly. At first glance he seemed all right, but he continued to howl and whimper piteously, nudging his snout repeatedly against Snape's hand. Snape knelt down to sweep his fingers along the dog's dark coat searching for wounds, a frown of concentration furrowing his brows. Once he reached Fang's large head, he stopped. He held out the dog's ears; one was sliced at a neat thirty-five degree angle, giving him a decidedly lopsided look. At Snape's touch, the dog screeched, causing both wizards to wince in sympathy.

Horrified that he had splinched the dog's ear, Harry fell to his knees and threw his arms around him.

"Oh no!" Harry choked. "I'm sorry, Fang... I'm so sorry! Oh, please..." He been so focused on not disappointing Snape, he hadn't bothered to consider what would happen to Fang if he messed up. He murmured nonsensically for several minutes, and rubbed the dog's back and neck until Snape spoke.

"Potter..."

Harry steeled himself for the harsh diatribe to come. He slowly turned to face Snape. The man didn't look mad, which meant he likely wasn't, but his dark eyes were unreadable. That perturbed Harry. He hated benign, yet inexplicably knowing looks. It reminded him far too much of Dumbledore. 

"Yessir?" Harry muttered.

"Look..." Snape pointed at Fang's head.

Puzzled, Harry looked down and found the black, velvety skull sporting two whole, floppy ears. Harry gaped, disbelieving. He whipped back around to Snape, his green eyes eating up his face with wonder.

"How did you do that?"

"I did nothing," Snape said coolly.

Fang, who had been trying to squirm out of Harry's arms, finally shook free to shake his body - his head in particular, as if checking to make sure everything was in flapping order. He then licked Harry's face extravagantly. Harry sighed. He wanted to fire off a few choice words, but he settled for taking a long, deep breath and then letting it out. If he had learned nothing else this summer, it was that getting riled over things beyond his control was a waste of energy. So he had one more aspect of his magic to contend with. It was what it was.

"How do you feel?" Snape asked.

Harry's twitched his nose, damp from Fang's kiss. "All right. Glad he's okay," he said, gesturing at the dog, now loping after a nimble rabbit he had no chance of catching. "How should I feel?"

Snape shrugged. "As someone who's never healed anyone or any animal in that manner before, I wouldn't know."

Harry swallowed audibly. When he spoke, though, he was decidedly calm. "I hope that's it. I hope that's the last... surprise. Just when I was getting used to everything else..." 

Snape, still kneeling, rubbed at his forehead, then closed his eyes. "Yes," he said. He sighed heavily and got to his feet. "Come."

Side by side they silently made their way back to the cottage and settled in for dinner.

*WO

Jean,

A lot's happened here - nothing terrible, it's just... a lot.

How is your class going? I can't believe summer is almost over. I'll be glad to see everyone, but I never thought I'd actually like it here. So much has changed for me it's sort of difficult to sort it all out in my head. I've told Edmund a little about how things were for me growing up and he actually seems to listen when I talk about it. Totally out of character, eh? But it's nice.

James

Dear James,

Class is great, but I... Well, this guy who's not even in my class, asked me out for coffee. I've seen him around the library and he seems perfectly nice, but I told him no. He smiled and said, "Maybe next time." That was Thursday; he asked again Friday and I declined, again. He didn't seem too bothered by it, which I thought was strange, but even stranger was how he acted when my dad picked me up. He drops me off as well, and to be honest, I don't think he leaves, but Billy - that's the guy's name - he would become sort of agitated, and dash off just as my dad arrived.

Today, though, he was helping me pick up my things after my bag ripped, and Dad showed up. I introduced them, but I could instantly that Dad didn't like him, and Billy was incredibly anxious to get away. In the car, Dad said he felt there was something off about Billy, that he wanted me to stay away from him. I was surprised because Dad rarely dislikes anyone, but he was so grim about it that I agreed.

He likes you, though. Mum, too. Ever since meeting you she won't stop singing your praises. ‘Darling, have you written James today?' ‘Such a lovely boy.  Be sure to ask him round for tea sometime.' Merlin! I think that if she weren't already married, she might ask for your hand!

Always,

Jean

P.S. I'm not at all surprised that Edmund listens to you...

Jean,

An admirer, eh? Did you want to go out with him? I mean, not that it's any of my business. You said he was nice and your judgment is usually spot on, but I think it's good your dad was there. I'm glad he told you to stay away from this guy. If he didn't like him, then you should definitely listen to him - he's probably right. Your mum, too.

Yours,

James

*WO

Snape and Harry were near the close of another intense session. For nearly an hour, Harry had been trying to freeze the bucket of water Snape had set on the ground before him. For all the luck he was having, he thought Snape might just as well have asked him to transfigure Fang into a stick pin. Freezing things was difficult, advanced magic, and each failed attempt gnawed at his confidence. Frustrated and feeling the devil of a headache coming on, he gave up.

"Why are you pushing so hard?" Harry glared at Snape accusingly. The man looked thoroughly taken aback.

"Have you forgotten why we're here, Potter?"

Harry frowned. "No, but -"

Snape crossed his arms over his chest. "This time is not about festivals, nor is it about wiling away the days fishing at the pond; it is about you learning to manage your magic -"

"Yeah, so I can off Voldemort! I know, I know!" Harry threw his arms over his chest. Already overwhelmed with frustration he wondered why was Snape telling him what he already knew? Once Dumbledore shared the contents of the Prophecy, its meaning had been seared into Harry's brain.

Snape snarled; his eyes glowed like burning coals. "That most certainly is not why we are here!"

Harry gawked, wondering what alternate reality the man was living in. Corralling his magic so that he could destroy Voldemort most certainly was why he was here! It was his destiny, wasn't it?

But, just as Harry was taking in Snape's bizarre reaction, Snape was taking in Harry's. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow; his dark eyes probed Harry's green ones intently.

"Potter, you truly believe your only purpose in life is to defeat the Dark Lord?" His voice was full of wonder.

"Well, that's what the Prophecy -"

"For the love of... Damn that ridiculous Prophecy!" Snape spat. "What do you believe?"

Harry's mouth worked for a moment, then he said, "I - I don't... I never thought about it..."

"Indeed."

"When Dumbledore told me about the Prophecy, he said -"

Snape growled. "Never mind Dumbledore, Potter... I want to know what you believe!"

Harry sighed harshly and jabbed his fists into his jeans pockets. What did Snape want from him? What did he want him to say? The future was fixed, preordained without any input from him. What did it matter what he thought?

"I - I don't know!" He shrugged angrily. Snape rolled his eyes, prompting Harry to yell, "If the prophecy's so meaningless, why do I have all this power? If I'm not supposed to destroy Voldemort, why all this training, huh?!" He kicked the bucket of water over. "Why... why me?" he asked, his voice small and exhausted as he watched the water fan out between him and Snape, creating a watery bridge.

Snape reached out a finger to gently tip Harry's chin up. Once Harry was looking at him, Snape lowered his hand. He sighed at the sadness and anger in Harry's green eyes.

"I can't answer that. But second-sight... quackery is in no way proof, singling you out as the means to defeat the Dark Lord!"

Harry found the man's utter certainty perplexing... and infectious. It sparked a desire to believe, so badly Harry's throat burned with the taste of it, but, he threw on the mental brakes: it would be mad, not to mention, deadly to let his guard down against Voldemort. Regardless of Snape's disdain for the ‘truth' of the Prophecy, Voldemort wouldn't be satisfied until Harry was dead. Of that he was certain.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Snape's reaction was peculiar; his dark eyes darted nervously over Harry's face, bouncing back and forth between his forehead and his eyes. He looked strangely wounded, as though he wanted nothing more than to look away from Harry, but he didn't. He resolutely held Harry's gaze as he said: "I only know that it is madness for a child to bear the fate of our world on his shoulders, especially as it was the folly of grown men that triggered the terrors that child had no part in."

Harry blinked. A child? Harry probed Snape's eyes, trying to understand. There was something different there. He questioned, not for the first time, the man's feelings for him.

Did Severus Snape, Hogwarts' self-proclaimed Potter-hater, now see him as something other than James Potter's clone? Did he now understand how deeply Harry loathed his ill-begotten station in wizarding lore? Did he now accept, after hearing Harry reluctantly chronicle his life in Surrey, that it had been far from charmed? Did he now believe, after so many weeks of training, that Harry was not a talentless hack, but clay, malleable and in need of Snape's hard, but practical influence to mold him into the powerful wizard he was to become?

Did Snape see beyond even that? Had he finally discovered Harry, the boy?

"So... why are you pushing me so hard?" Harry asked softly, hoping that was the case.

Snape raised his eyes to look past him to the setting sun.

"In fair weather prepare for foul,"* he said, then waved his wand to right the bucket Harry had knocked over. "Go get cleaned up for dinner."