As Harry had figured, more than a few people stared at them as they walked down Exton Street towards Waterloo tube station. Snape seemed to not notice at first, steering them towards the station and trying to look menacing as they kept mostly in step. At the last corner though, as punk teenager kicked a pop can in their direction, Harry distinctly heard the tripping jinx that Snape sent the boy's way.

"Did you find Ginny's behaviour a bit strange this morning?" Harry asked, jamming his hand in his pocket to do a habitual wand-check.

Snape gave him a quick side-glance, and a small huff of breath that conveyed how ridiculous he thought the question was.

"All Weasleys behave strangely," Snape answered.

"Oh really? Based on what evidence, exactly?" Harry challenged, stomping his feet a little on the sidewalk.

"Fascination with muggle rubbish, hell-bent desire toward destruction, fang earrings, - "

"Leave Bill out of this. He just took the cruciatus curse for me the other day," Harry snapped under his breath. Snape stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, jerking them to a halt as he gave Harry a very cold stare. Disgruntled tourists shoved their way around them.

"You were not the only one who experienced pain that night in the graveyard when Voldemort returned," Snape's icy voice said. "And I can guarantee you that no one came to my side during it."

Harry blinked at Snape, noticing for the first time that Snape's eyes weren't really black and fathomless. They were an extremely dark brown, and they were filled with anger and self-defiance. Harry likened it to looking at a child who'd been abandoned, but steadfastly asserted that he could take care of himself no matter what.

"I'm sorry," Harry finally said.

Snape lifted his head slightly in inclination, and continued walking them forward towards the entrance.

Harry wore his most comfortable pair of jeans, and Snape his usual black trousers, and the way they had their jackets cut made the conjoinment stand out a little less than usual. After two hours of practice the night before, they could finally walk with relative normality instead of tripping each other.

Snape reached into his pocket for tube fare, glaring at a woman who was pointing at them.  They were headed for the disability turnstile, as it was large enough to allow both of them through without getting caught in the robotic doors. Snape paid the fare and pulled Harry through by the shoulder as they passed the turnstile.  From the left, Harry saw a young bloke in a uniform twist up his face and walk rapidly toward them.

"Sirs! Excuse me!"  The man called, his hands worryingly scrunching up at his sides.  "You have to pay two fares, that's the cost if you want to ride the tube."

"Oh?" Snape said, in his calmest and deadliest voice. Harry closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath. Outside of school (and focused on someone else), Harry found Snape's vitriol to have an underlying black humour to it, one that took most of his willpower not to laugh at.

"Each person pays a fare," the employee stubbornly repeated.  He seemed oblivious to the crowd of people now staring at them, as well as the unusually close stance between Harry and Snape.

"Perhaps it may escape your notice, but we are conjoined," Snape answered dryly, pulling his body slightly to the right and causing Harry to stumble a bit as he was yanked along.  "And as such, anywhere I go, he must go as well.  What does your little rulebook state for this...occasion?"

The man looked absolutely flummoxed, and Harry fought a smirk from appearing on his face by trying to look bored. It was eerily similar to the blank looks that students gave Hogwarts professors on a daily basis.

 "I don't...Do you have a Freedompass?"

Snape appeared to be enjoying himself, and Harry could feel him rocking gently on his feet.

"I am not disabled, you inconsiderate drone. I have a parasi - my brother is attached to me. If we had one body and two heads, would you try to charge us twice?"

"Er, no, I suppose not," the employee stammered, his brows furrowed.

"Precisely. I refused to be charged for the inconvenience caused by the Underground's lack of consideration," Snape responded, reaching across his chest to grab Harry's jacket lapel. "Although I suspect in your case, a second brain would be an improvement instead of inconvenience."

He spun them towards the escalator and they marched off, Harry coughing to hide his snorts and the guard sputtering in indignation.

"That's a good point. Why should we have to pay twice?" Harry muttered, once they were on the escalator down.

"Because we take up two seats, you moron," Snape answered, with a smile on his face.  

"Prick," Harry smiled, watching the advertisement posters pass them on the walls.  A few pushy people were impatiently tapping the escalator steps behind Snape to get him to move over, but Snape refused to budge. Harry figured that they could probably fit themselves to let people through, with a small struggle, but Snape seemed to enjoy being an inconvenience to people so he didn't suggest moving.

They did indeed take up two seats on the tube, and Snape glowered at everyone who dared look at them. Harry knew from hanging around the Weasleys that twins in general attracted attention, but he hated the staring that happened once people realized they were conjoined. He was just glad that this train didn't have the silly armrests dividing the seats.

"Are you actually going to tell me where we're going?" Harry asked, relaxing against the hard plastic chair.

"We're on the Northern Line, Potter, pay attention," Snape replied.

"What a Dumbledorian answer that is," Harry muttered.  They listened to the female robotic voice warning against the gap as the train doors opened at the next station.

"In answer to your earlier question, Ms Weasley likely is uncomfortable at the thought of sharing her boyfriend with her hated professor," Snape offered.

He looked to be trying not to smirk at saying this, and Harry thought he could try a bit harder.

"Well, it's not like it's permanent," Harry pointed out, trying to justify his position.

"It doesn't matter. One way or another, something's always come up between you two, hasn't it, Potter?" Snape said, sounding slightly satisfied.

"You're saying that Ginny's mad because I can't spend every minute of the day with her?" Harry said, surprised.

"Women seem to enjoy individualized attention," Snape shrugged. "And you certainly can't give that anymore."

Harry turned and stared at him for a long minute while they pulled into Leicester Square.

"I don't like it when you sound helpful. It makes me suspicious," Harry finally said.

...

They found Silas Prince at Camden Town tube station, his hand stuck inside the top of a turnstile ticket reader.

"Uncle Silas," Severus said, rendering Harry speechless and Silas surprised.

"You have an uncle!" Harry hissed, jabbing Snape in the side with his elbow and staring back at Silas.

He was around sixty, dressed in grease-spotted navy coveralls that tucked into his plain brown work boots, and a very worn leather tool belt low over one hip. He had a hand-rolled fag in his ear, a dull red cardigan over the coveralls that was buttoned up incorrectly, and a corduroy newsboy cap that had been washed so often Harry couldn't tell if it had been originally blue or grey.

Silas stared them over, keeping his shock to a minimum. He seemed to be studying Harry and Snape, and Harry could see the family resemblance in the strong narrow chin and dark eyes.

"I know twins runs in the family, but last time I seen you, you weren't attached to nothing," Silas finally said, his expression neutral.

"Very funny," Snape sneered. "We require some of your time. For a puzzle...of sorts."

Silas turned away and fiddled for a moment longer with something in side the machine before shoving his screwdriver back into his tool belt and snapping the machine lid closed.  Snape stood with his arms crossed, unconcerned by the non-answer, but glaring at the muggle transit users who stared at them.

"Wave your little stick then, boy, give an old man some time off to chat," Silas commanded, though his eyes shone as he said it. He seemed to have no concern at all that they were cutting into his work day, and merely collected his tools and work jacket and turned them all towards the escalators.

"Far from old, Silas," Severus retorted, before muttering a ‘time me not' charm.  They fell into step slowly, as Silas appeared to not be in any rush and Harry and Snape were following.

"Are you a squib?" Harry asked, keeping his voice low. "I mean, you work for London Transit, but..."

They'd reached the platform and were waiting by the far wall for the train.

"No, boy," Silas interrupted. "Who are you, by the way? Other than my spontaneous fifth nephew."

"Harry Potter, sir," Harry answered, offering his hand to shake.

"Huh. How'd you get stuck to grumpy there?" Silas answered, his work-calloused hand strongly grasping Harry's.

"Piss off, Silas," Snape commanded, pulling Harry back from his uncle. "I came for your assistance, not your insults."

"Ah, Severus. Always thought you were too solitary a bugger to be conjoined.  But you look like you've lost ten years, so seems to be recommended." 

Silas had a crooked smile on his face, as he stood on the platform at a precise spot that didn't seem any different to Harry than any other tile on the platform.

"I can't say anything for the procedure," Snape answered, arranging his face into one of his better teaching scowls.

"Not just some rope holding you together then?" Silas smirked, an expression eerily similar to Snape's.

Silas nodded at Harry, and stood calmly while the train came in and stopped, door dead centre in front of Silas.

"Not a squib, boy, but my magic ain't right either.  Left Hogwarts day I turned seventeen."

The train was rather empty, and the three managed to find a bench near the connecting doors. Snape glared at the plastic armrest dividers on all the seats. 

"Polio," Snape supplied, when Harry seemed to be waiting on more of an explanation from Silas.

"Boredom and booze," Silas winked.

Harry laughed, and they kept quiet as more passengers piled on at each station.

They navigated their way through King's Cross station and jumped on the Piccadilly Line in silence, Harry watching Snape and his Uncle and noticing the shared traits.  Once the tube dumped them out at Holborn station, Silas led Harry and Snape towards the south end of platform four. They waited until the station had cleared, when only one old woman was left sitting on a bench and staring at an advert across the tracks. Silas was standing with his back against an old metal door that looked like it led to a storage unit, and Harry shifted uncomfortably as the doorframe dug into his back, Snape crowding him from the right.

Silas withdrew his wand and flicked it angrily at the door, which began to shimmer.

"Come, boys."

Harry was absolutely fascinated.  The old brick walls of the disused platform were dusty and white washed, the curved ceiling testament to the original use of the tunnel. The tracks had been cemented over, and they walked awkwardly through a narrow hallway, Harry's arm around Snape's waist to prevent either of them from scraping against the wall. Silas walked at a fast enough clip to suggest he'd been in the closed platform plenty of times.

War-green paint covered the bottom half of the walls and an industrial cream colour covered the top, leading to one large storage room and what appeared to be several small offices. The space was narrow, and Harry realized that the entire platform had been converted into an underground office bunker.

"This is platform six," Silas said, nodding to the old signs plastered on the walls, their art-deco typeface reminding Harry of his history books and lessons on the thirties.  There were war posters tacked up on the wall, their corners curling over slightly as they encouraged patriotism and keeping mum in conversation while in public and at home. Looking up into the rafters, Harry could see a few old gas masks hanging from pipes in the wall that ran next to the fluorescent light fixtures.

They shuffled over to a small cupboard door in the middle of the hall, and Silas opened it to reveal a tiny dark staircase.

"After you, Severus," Silas said, appearing both amused and curious as to how Harry and Snape would ascend.

Navigating the stairs was more of a struggle than either had anticipated, but once they'd gotten upstairs, Harry felt cold goose pimples pass over his body as they passed some sort of magical barrier.

"When was this station closed?" Harry asked, looking around the converted dormitory they'd stepped out into, that still bore marks of its old occupancy. There were groves in the plank floors from the cots that had once been lined up against the wall, hooks in the curved roof to hold cloaks and hats, and writing on the wall from bored and anxious Londoners.

"1917," Silas replied shortly, tapping a worn part of wall with his hand, revealing what his wards had hidden. "We used it as an air raid shelter in the second war."

Above all the old usage marks and stains in the paint, Silas had set himself up with a rather well-furnished flat.  There were various storage trunks placed about the room in a random pattern, and a rather large kitchen area ran along the east wall. A small sitting area took up the west wall, and two doors adorned the far wall.  Harry couldn't see where the bedroom was, but he assumed it was behind one of the doors.

"Tom Riddle was thirteen when the Blitz started. He might have come here for shelter," Snape said, talking somewhat to himself. He and Harry followed Silas through the flat to one of the doorways.

"Many of us did," Silas gruffed. "Extensions to the tube were being built when war broke out, an' many of those unfinished stations were used as shelters too."

Harry looked on in open curiosity at what was revealed as Silas opened the door.  Silas flicked on the lights to reveal a fair-sized office, a large and cluttered desk in the centre of the room with what appeared to be a year's worth of newspapers stacked around it. Silas walked around the pile, throwing himself into a battered and cracked leather chair.  To the left was a large bookcase filled with manuals and textbooks, grease-prints on the spines, and to the right was a thick-planked worktable with odd metal bits and motor parts scattered about. The walls were adorned with fliers covering the ugly pea yellow Victorian wallpaper, posters of old tube advertisements, big band concert ads, and a large advert for the first Concord's flight out of London, which appeared to have been stolen from a poster box at St Pancras station.  There were also a few posters that Harry was surprised by; retro prints from the 80's of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle comics.

"You read comics?" Harry asked, letting Snape tug him towards a wooden workbench that had just been transformed into a two-seater leather chair.

"I follow history," Silas corrected, digging through the paperwork on his desk.

"It's a bloody miracle anyone can find you here," Snape muttered, lifting a dirty work rag from the corner of the desk with his wand.

"That's the point, boy, they can't," Silas laughed. He continued searching around his desk while Harry stared around the room, leaning back and forward to look around Snape.

"So if you're here for assistance, what's the problem then?"

Snape shifted in his seat, bringing his arms up to rest his hands on his knees. He seemed to be nervous or uncomfortable, and Harry felt him pulling a bit to the side.

"Are you still collecting information on the deal-makers?" Snape finally asked.

Harry kept his mouth shut and watched as Silas smiled grimly.

"The latest," Silas said, waving at the picture of a Martin Miggs comic. "First appeared ‘round 1980."

"Knowledge?" Snape asked, ignoring Harry's inquisitive look.

"Popularity," Silas grunted in answer. He shuffled around some papers on his desk, unearthing an old hand crank torch and an ashtray with a dented wooden pipe.

"How much did it cost him?"

"Standard five years."

Harry huffed and flicked his concentration between Snape and Silas.

"What the hell are you talking about?"  He turned to glare at Snape, leaning back quickly and causing Snape's hair to sway. "And how is this going to help with what we have to do?"

Silas finally seemed to find what he was looking for, and a yellowed London Times was tossed towards Harry and Snape.

"Read the main article, then."

Unfolding the page, Harry found a picture of a human Martin Miggs sadly waving at him.

Local Man Dies In Lift Crash, Investigation Proves Freak Accident.

"I don't get it. A random muggle died, and became a wizard comic hero? So what?"

"He wasn't a muggle," Snape said, at the same time that Silas shook his head.

"Wasn't no muggle, boy. He was a wizard, and a stupid one as well. Made a deal with death ‘imself."

"And only had five years to enjoy it," Snape finished, pulling a book off a table nearest him. It was a book of London legends, and Snape flipped through to a certain page. He put the book half on his lap, and half on Harry's.

"Martin Miggs made a deal with death, a deal for popularity. Became one of the most popular wizards of ‘is time."

"Worst than Lockhart," Snape muttered.

Silas glared at Snape, before continuing his tale.

"Death gave him that long to enjoy it, he did, and then killed him. And tell me, Harry boy, did you yourself know the Mad Muggle was actually a wizard?"

Harry shook his head, still bewildered with what this had to do with Voldemort and why Snape had opened the book to the entry on Jack the Ripper.

"'course not. Miggs wanted to be popular. Death made him popular as a made-up comic book goof."

Silas sounded amused, as if he shared the same sick sense of humour as death.

"Same thing happened with Jack the Ripper?" Harry asked, glancing at the picture of the Ripper murders.

"Somewhat," Silas answered, filling his pipe with loose tobacco from tin he'd pulled out of a drawer.  He sat back in his chair, the springs protesting as he leaned backwards.

Snape also leaned back, tugging Harry with him, and settled into the couch with a measure of ease that suggested he'd heard this story many times as a boy.

"Jack the Ripper wanted infamy.  Some wizards are born twisted, boy. Whether it's the power or the magic that addles them, lord only knows.  This bloke was one of those. He wanted to be feared, reveled, worshipped for what he did. So he makes a deal with death to make sure he's fast enough and cunning enough to commit murders and not get caught."

"And death gave him that?"

"For two years," Silas nodded, puffing away.

"And then what?"

"Well that's the thing, innit Harry boy.  Do you know who Jack the Ripper is?"

"No. No one does," Harry shrugged.

"Bit of a cruel trick, eh? Infamous for the crimes, but no one knows his name."

"Sounds like death has a sick sense of humour," Harry said.

"He's not the only one," Snape muttered.

"That he does, Harry boy," Silas smiled. He puffed hard on the pipe and sent a halo of smoke up over his head like an antenna. "Strange bloke. Likes to watch cricket matches."

"How on earth would you know that?"

Silas, for the first time in the half hour that Harry had known him, looked slightly guilty.

"Because Uncle Silas here made a deal with death when he was younger," Snape said, a sneer in place that Harry had seen many times before when Snape was inspecting his potions.

"Might have done," Silas confirmed, not sounding completely remorseful about the matter either.

Harry stared at him, slightly aghast. 

"What could you have wanted that would have ever made a deal with death seem like a good idea?"

Snape, only half paying attention, continued to flip through the book of London legends.

"No? Not even if you were on the cusp of becoming a man, and lost your magic to some muggle disease?" Silas asked, and this time his eyes didn't quite match his smile.

"Polio," Harry stated.

Silas nodded, and unearthed a jar of boiled sweets from a pile of papers. He plucked out what looked to Harry like a toffee flavoured one, but it was a wrapper that Harry didn't recognize.

Harry leaned forward in the chair, earning a grunt from Snape.

"So, you think that Voldemort made a deal with death, and that's why we can't kill him?" Harry asked, looking between Snape and Silas.

"That is my working theory, yes," Snape confirmed. He snapped the book shut and withdrew a piece of paper to show Silas. "Survived a bounce back of the killing curse in 1981, brought back - "

"I know the story, Severus," Silas interrupted, emptying out his pipe.

"Wait, how exactly does a deal with death work?" Harry asked, ignoring the paper Snape held for the moment.

"Silas can best explain," Snape said, tapping the note and seeming to be working something out.

"That's Uncle Silas to you, boy," Silas grumbled, glaring at his nephew.  He turned his attention to Harry, and started his story.

"When one is desperate enough, ‘tis easy to find death. He makes all sorts of deals. Deals for the unpopular, unloved, weak, poor, sick, anyone. You get a certain amount of time, see, ‘n you can do what you want with the time. But death will come for you, he never forgets, fer two reasons. Your time's up, or your token's been destroyed."

"What token?"

Silas shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and glanced at an old muggle clock on the bookcase to his right. It seemed to be straight out of the late 1800s, glass tubes highlighting each individual numbers and wire filaments sparking light inside the tubes to tell the time.

"When you make the deal, death gives you a token. Little glass thing, the size of one of them tubes over there," Silas said, nodding toward the clock. 

Harry took a closer look and realized that one of the tubes was not actually part of the clock, and seemed to have more inside of it than the other pieces.

"What's in it?" Harry asked.

Silas didn't answer, however. He continued to stare at the clock, lost in his thoughts.

"The scene of his death," Snape answered, startling Harry. "That's what your token shows. Where you will die at the end of the contract."

Harry scrunched his face up in revulsion and fought the urge to look back at the clock.

"Mine just shows a tube station, eh," Silas said, giving a dry laugh that wasn't anywhere near humourous.

"If the token is destroyed, death can collect on the deal early," Snape said, looking straight at Harry. It was an open look Harry wasn't used to, one Snape normally gave to his colleagues in the Order when they were working together on a task.

"So, you think that Voldemort made a deal with death, and that he has one of these tokens. And that's why he can't die," Harry clarified.

"S'right. You can't die, then, unless your token's destroyed or your time's up. And only a fool'd keep his token on him."

"I wonder why Dumbledore was so fixated on horcruxes then," Harry said, speaking aloud to himself.

"He wasn't dead wrong," Snape mused, running his fingers through his hair. It was a habit Harry had never seen him do before in school, and he wondered if Snape was just feeling more relaxed around him now.

"But he wasn't right, either. I could have wasted a lot of time looking for horcruxes when they weren't real," Harry said, frustration lacing his tone.

"'course Dumbledore wasn't really right. He didn't make a deal, did he? Scholarly types always think the answer is found in books, but sometimes, you gotta walk to the edge and drop off," Silas said, staring up at a burnt out bulb on the wall sconce to his left.

Harry ignored the imagery of Silas' comment and took the paper from Snape, which had a list of objects Dumbledore must have thought were horcruxes.

"Alright, but you said the standard contract is five years. He's been around since before I was born, so how does that work?"

"Some of us are here for longer," Silas said, sounding slightly defensive. Snape stiffened beside Harry, and Harry understood not to ask Silas about his own contract.

"I believe he found a way to lengthen his time of borrowed power," Snape said, convinced he was right.

"Of course he did.  So we just find death and ask him to revoke Voldemort's contract. I mean, if he's cheating death, wouldn't death want to destroy him?" Harry asked.

"Never summon death on his terms, boy," Silas said, his warning strong.  He reached up towards the wire mesh light covering on the burnt out bulb and attacked the rusted screw with his screwdriver.

"I don't like where you're going with this," Snape warned, staring up at his uncle.  Silas paid him no mind, and started banging on the screw head.

"You were taught just as I, Severus-boy. He who holds the Hallows..."

"...commands Death," Snape finished, looking frustrated.

"Er. What are the Hallows?" Harry asked.

"Part of a bloody fairy tale," Snape answered, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Well, fuck," Harry cursed, watching as the rusted screw finally popped out of the light holder.

"Well fuck indeed," Silas repeated. "Looks like you boys have got some treasure hunting to do."

....

Silas had effectively dismissed them, pointing toward an old elevator shaft that could be used as an apparition point.  Popping into an alley a short walk from their flat, Harry and Snape kept quiet as they slipped through the crowds. Walking fast was not only easier to keep their steps matching, but also allowed less time for muggles to notice them.

"How did Silas escape the five year standard contract? He must have made the deal decades ago, and he's still alive," Harry asked, keeping his head down.

They rounded the corner to Snape's street, walking up to the plain brown door that hid the entrance to Snape's flat.

"He cannot leave the underground stations; he hasn't walked outside in more than forty years. I wouldn't call it living."

Shut up at the idea of being stuck underground London for the rest of one's natural life, Harry didn't say anything else until they'd stepped into the kitchen.

"So, you're the logistics expert, where are we supposed to find these hallows?" Harry asked, once Snape had deadbolted the door behind them.

"Not at any shop stall," Snape grumbled, steering Harry roughly towards the kitchen. "Fill the kettle."

Harry did so; waiting in thought while Snape lit the stove element.

"It's a cloak, a stone, and a wand?" Harry asked, handing Snape the full kettle.

"So they say. Summon that house elf of yours - the one that won't slit your throat while you sleep."

Harry snorted before calling Dobby's name. He spun slightly on his feet as Snape backed up in a half circle, so they could both rest against the kitchen counter.

"Dobby is here, Harry Potter sir!"

"Good to see you, Dobby. Professor Snape needs you to do something for him."

The little elf turned eagerly towards Snape, nearly tripping on the too-long sock he wore.

"Yes sir?"

"I believe in the library of Grimmauld Place you will find an old copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. We require it."

"Yes sirs! Dobby will retrieve that right away!"

Dobby left the flat with a resounding crack that made both of them wince.

"He's a bit - "

"What makes you think I am a logistics expert?" Snape interrupted.

"Well, you must be, to figure out those custom potions," Harry shrugged. He inched them towards the fridge for milk.  "And you chose a logic puzzle to guard the philosopher's stone."

"Indeed," Snape said, but he sounded pleased that Harry had noticed.

"Right," Harry said. "Milk or lemon?"

Snape poured the tea and paused long enough for Harry to fetch the milk from the fridge.

"Milk. A word of caution, Potter. Milk with tea is delightful, lemon with tea is refreshing, but milk and lemon with tea is a science experiment," Snape said, his voice lighter than Harry had ever remembered hearing it at school.

"Ugh," Harry responded, his stomach not liking the idea of acidic lemon and milk together.

"Precisely. Now, pass me the plate of liver in the fridge."

"You're going to eat a liver sandwich with tea?" Harry asked, his appetite shot.

"No. You are going to study the Tale of the Three Brothers, and I shall experiment on my liver and replicating potions, as I do not wish to be attached to you for a second longer than necessary," Snape answered, marching them towards the work table where Dobby was waiting with the book.

...

"I think we have a hallow," Harry said a while later. He'd finished the book and taken some notes on parchments, steadfastly ignoring the experimentation Snape was doing on his own liver.

"This is not a joke, Potter," Snape said, his hands steady as he chopped something.

"No, I'm not joking. I think we have a hallow already. Can you leave that for a second?"

"Fine," Snape huffed. His face was a mask of irritation, but he followed Harry to where their trunks were sitting.  Harry flipped the latch on his and pulled out the shimmering invisibility cloak.

"You want me to believe a Zonko's product is a hallow?" Snape scoffed. He reached to take hold of the cloak and stopped as his fingers touched the fine material.

"This didn't come from Zonko's," Harry said, "and it's survived more than a few Potters. All the way back to the Peverells."

Snape took a moment to inspect the cloak, and Harry could tell that he was starting to believe it.  Out of the corner of Harry's eye, he saw something burst on the table and a loud belching sound.

"Ah, that will be my liver," Snape commented, taking Harry and the cloak back to the bench.

"That's disgusting. I thought Hanna Prewett was working on that," Harry said, trying not to whine. He noticed that Snape had framed a photo of Dumbledore, and that it was half hidden behind a potted lily on the table.

"She thought that attaching the two of us was a good idea. I don't trust her."

"You have a point," Harry conceded.  "So we've got the cloak,"

"Might have," Snape interrupted.

"Whatever," Harry finished, waving a hand towards the lily. It stretched up to meet him, revealing more of the photograph.

"We just need to find a wand and a stone. Right, shouldn't be difficult," Harry said, his sarcasm thick.  He smiled at the photo of a much younger Dumbledore, at what appeared to be a dueling contest.

"You know, even though he was much older, at the Department of Mysteries Professor Dumbledore made dueling Voldemort seem like a playground game," Harry mused, entertained by the poses in the animated photograph.

"That's because he's never lost a duel," Snape said, pouring liquid into a small pewter container. He sat straight up after saying the sentence, dropping the glass-stirring rod onto the table.

"God dammit," Snape swore, glaring at the photo.

"What?"  Harry asked, tense at Snape's sudden anger.

Harry watched as Dumbledore twirled in the frame again, yelping loudly when he felt a painful tug on his right side.

"Stop!"

Snape had turned to his side, presumably to walk away from the photo, and had yanked Harry along with him.

"You can't just take off without telling me," Harry blurted, feeling far too close to an angry Snape for comfort. He could feel Snape's body heat through their shared stretch of skin, and smell the carbolic soap Snape used to wash his hands with.

"Then I suggest you move your arse and pay attention," Snape replied icily, once again starting to move.

"No."

Harry's voice was firm and he crossed his arms. His feet were planted far enough apart to keep him steady against Snape's movements.

"In case you have forgotten, Potter, I am your superior," Snape hissed, trying to turn and painfully tugging against their shared side.

"And it's my body too," Harry countered. It was a very bizarre sentence to be saying in front of his potions professor, and Snape seemed to realize it as well.

"We cannot divide up control of our bodies," Snape huffed.

"No, we can't. And there's no point getting all pissed off and storming off, because I have to storm off with you."

Harry had a funny image of Snape stalking down the hallways of Hogwarts, his robes billowing behind, while Harry tried to keep up and look menacing in a strange version of a three-legged race.

Snape seemed to have come to a decision, and pointed at the photo.

"Your dear Headmaster Dumbledore is holding the Elder wand."

Harry's mouth went slack as he blinked at the dueling headmaster.

"But he..."

"The only wizard the Dark Lord fears, Potter," Snape said, crossing his arms.

On the worktable, the replicated portion of liver Snape had managed to produce disappeared with a strange squishy sound.