-Severus-

It was snowing again. Snowing relentlessly, large, slow flakes with high moisture, leaving a heavy, wet mess on the ground that reached mid-calf to most students. Severus' sixth years came into the Defense classroom right after Herbology and tracked muddy water all over the floor as they moved to their desks. Then they dripped all over the floor even more while they sat in those desks during class.

Severus made them stand up and taught them all three different drying charms—one standard, one with a cleaning charm worked in to banish the mud and a third that included a warming charm to heat up the frozen extremities.

And because he wasn't really a nice man, he let the Slytherins practice on the Gryffindors, and instructed them to use Aguamenti on them to make sure they were good and wet before they dried them off.

Harry looked mutinous. But then again, Nott had soaked his head pretty thoroughly. When Nott dried him off—successfully the first time—Severus noted that Harry's hair curled up in loose ringlets when it dried quickly. The Slytherins found this quite entertaining and started calling him Pretty Boy Gilderoy.

Harry was not amused.

/

12 December, 1996

Tuesday

Dear Harry:

Your concern over the Headmaster is not unwarranted. You know what the eventual outcome of the curse he suffered will be. He grows weaker slowly but he does indeed weaken. I do not know how much time he has, Harry. That depends largely on him. He is exerting himself this year, attempting to do as much as he can while he has breath in his body to make it easier to destroy the Dark Lord. But he does not routinely share his activities or his discoveries, even with those he most trusts, as you have accurately pointed out. I do not think it is a matter of trust so much as an innate conceit or confidence in his own abilities.

I do think we could discuss the Headmaster and nothing else and still manage to produce long letters. However, I suggest that we accept him for what he is, learn from him what we can and love him—like a father, a grandfather, a mentor—while he is still with us. Most of all you must learn—as I have already—that when you are a pawn on an old man's chessboard, you must play a better game than the one pushing you about.

I have spent some time thinking about the statement you made about love as the greatest human experience. I find myself once more calling out my experience as a child, attending Catholic mass with my father's mother. There are many verses in the Bible that deal with love. I must admit that my adult self, cynical as I am, does not see these as my child self did. However, I clearly remember my grandmother saying to me as we left mass one Sunday, a mass where the famous verses from Corinthians were read: "When you hear those words, Severus, use your own name in place of the word 'love' and ask yourself if you are those things." And then she would say the words with me, words I remember to this day, for she would repeat them with me every time we were together. 'Severus is patient, Severus is kind. Severus does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud. Severus does not dishonor others, he is not self-seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs. Severus does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.'

It seems ironic to repeat those words at this point in my life, for surely I have not lived up to them. Still, it is an appropriate illustration of the application of the emotion.

I feel as if I have just delivered a sermon. Well, I dress the part of a preacher; I may as well play the part as well.

I well remember human transfiguration and the lecture regarding the enhancement of certain features. I believe our practical exercise was similar, but we were given rats instead of kittens. I do believe Minerva has mellowed with age. And yes, tales of the "most excellent" goatee sported by Miss Granger's kitten have indeed reached my ears. I do wonder why it reminded all my Slytherins of their Head of House. It is almost as if they were hoping I would take umbrage (forgive me the use of that word) at the offense and dock points from Gryffindor. I am happy that I was not the only adult singled out and do indeed feel a bit sorry for the kittens. You have returned them to normal, have you not? If you have not, I would be interested in adopting the Minerva kit. It would irritate her to know end to know that her rather severe bun was residing in my quarters.

In answer to your question about the authorship of the extremely useful Muffliato spell, yes, it is mine and mine alone. For once, you stumbled upon and elected to use a rather benign spell, not one that will main, damage, destroy, rip, rend or mutilate. It is a shame that wizards cannot receive a residual each time a spell of their creation is used. Imagine the potential wealth of the witch who invented the breath freshening charm, or of the wizard who first uttered "lumos."

You bought Ginny Weasley diamonds? Obsessed is hardly the word, Harry. Perhaps you should rethink this gift, save it for next year, or at least until you have had a date or two. By the way, every witch of a certain age knows the spell to detect a true gem from a false one. Perhaps you should purchase a book for her instead, or something of fine workmanship or value that is not, say, jewelry—especially diamonds. Quality Quidditch Supplies sells a very fine line of dragonhide gloves that are both supple and strong. Flourish and Botts carries extremely nice quills, some of them with gold embellishments. If none of those things appeal, why not surprise her with her own hula hoop? It's a toy, of course, and not considered too personal, yet you will get to enjoy it many times over if she takes up practicing it in the common room.

The weeks before holidays are slow for everyone but I do understand your boredom—call it ennui, if you are desirous of improving your vocabulary so I will stop mistaking you for a London street urchin. It grows from the frustration you are feeling—as if your hands are tied and you cannot do anything to alter the course of certain events. You may want to stop some, and make others occur more quickly, but all things will play one way or another despite your most fervent wishes. Remember that if you wish something to occur, there is likely someone else who wishes the opposite just as strongly. Your Animagus transformation, your work with the Head Master, your relationship with Miss Weasley and whatever it is Draco is "up to"—all will play out in time. I encourage you to persist in your commitment to "letting things go." You may even go back to being the happy-go-lucky child you once were. Oh, excuse me. That must have been another Harry. You never did let things play out now, did you? Rushing in where angels fear to tread…

As for the appalling lack of disasters, I've been informed by several members of the faculty that the number of potions-related mishaps has dramatically decreased since Professor Slughorn took over my position. Easily explained—his regimen is less exacting than mine; he does not challenge the students as I did. I have also been told that the number of Defense-related injuries has increased threefold in the same time period. Again, easily explained. I am the first adequate Defense instructor this school has had in some time. The only injuries sustained last year under the Toad were paper cuts.

Ahh…forgive me. I did not mean to make light of the injuries you suffered during detention. I of course was referring to her actual lesson plans which consisted of reading, turning pages and extolling the virtues of Cornelius Fudge. I sometimes wonder about those two—I daresay that atrocious lime green bowler he favors is quite her style and would clash abysmally with that infantile bow in her over-teased hair.

You've only this week and next to finish out before the holidays—I trust you can manage to make it through without injuring yourself playing Quidditch (at least the snow will provide a cushion should you fall off your broom, especially if it continues falling at this rate) or getting punched in the nose (in a very Muggle way) by Mr. Thomas should he find you drooling over his girlfriend.

By the way, you did not include any questions for me in your letter, aside from the conversational ones about the Headmaster and such. Have you tired of your game? Have you found out everything you need to know? Or have you simply grown disinterested, succumbing to that internal ennui I've already described?

I've been saving up a tidbit and now seems to be the right time to deliver it to you. During the summer between our fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts, your mother dragged me to the theater to see a new film that had just been released. It was utterly ridiculous yet it remains one forever ingrained in my mind, as much for the lack of plot, the ridiculous premise and the use of the same castle in almost every scene (shot from different angles but the same castle nonetheless) as for the brilliance of the comedic actors. The name of the movie was "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Your mother found it unbelievably funny. If you know the movie, you will understand more about your mother's sense of humor than anyone could ever describe to you. If you have never seen it, we shall see it together in London this summer where it plays occasionally at a cinema I know.

Now my question for you—what do you think your Animagus form will be? You have been strangely silent on the matter as of late.

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus rolled up the parchment, melancholy stealing over him as he thought of that summer day in the theater, Lily laughing until she cried, how the two of them had seen the movie a half dozen more times that summer until they could repeat dialog together. Why, after all that had entered his mind in the years since, could he still remember it? Had the ability to be silly, to laugh 'til his sides ached, died along with Lily? What makes you think she's a witch?... Well, she turned me into a newt!...A newt?...Well…I got better.

He wasn't sure, really, if Harry would appreciate the humor as Lily had. Harry was far more serious than either of his parents, the burdens of life and prophecy heavy on him already. Yet, thought Severus as he rolled out the parchment chessboard, noted Ron's move (he'd stopped pretending Harry was paying any attention at all to the game anymore) and duplicated it on his tabletop set, who wouldn't appreciate the Black Knight, or the Castle Anthrax or indeed, the Holy Hand Grenade? Was there a metaphor in there somewhere for Hogwarts and the quest the Headmaster was setting for Harry?

-Harry-

He had been so angry, so disgruntled after class on Tuesday that for the first time he hadn't responded to Severus' letter. His homework was returned on Friday and Severus had scribbled a short note on the bottom, hidden by their concealment spell. "Forgive me. I should have known you were not in the mood."

Now it was Sunday, the weekend waning and all of his other homework finally completed. Nearly everyone was studying for end-of-term tests. Ron was distractedly rubbing Lavender's feet while he pretended to read the Potions textbook propped up on his knees. He was really staring at Hermione, rather openly, Harry thought. She was sitting at a table with Cormac McLaggen, apparently helping him with his Herbology. Interesting that she was helping a 7th year with material she apparently hadn't even learned yet herself, but this was Hermione after all. Cormac seemed to be paying a lot more attention to her cleavage than to the passage she was explaining. Harry mentally slapped himself for noticing her cleavage, or at least noticing that Cormac was noticing it. Was that the same? Of all the ways to make Ron jealous, Hermione had actually hit on the one that would drive him insane.

"Hey! That hurt!" Lavender pulled her foot out of Ron's lap, inadvertently (or so it seemed) dropping it on Ron's groin, which elicited the expected reaction. As Ron shrieked like a girl, Harry saw Hermione's barely concealed smile.

When the common room quieted down again, Harry opened his Defense homework and began his delayed response to Severus.

/

17 December, 1996

Sunday

Dear Severus:

You're right—I wasn't in the mood. However, it wasn't right for me to take it out totally on you, even though it was your stupid idea to let YOUR Slytherins drench us with water. Personally, I'm not sure that what Nott shot me with WAS water. How would I know when he used a non-verbal spell? He could have done a "Dogpissamenti" or a "Sewerwateramenti." I wouldn't put it past him to know how to say "Dog Piss" in Latin. And I REALLY didn't need anyone to know about my little hair problem. It stayed like that most of the day and the stupid Gryffindor girls loved it. They kept running their fingers through it and touching it and telling me how soft it was. I actually sat on the couch in the common room that night and gave up. I let this first year girl—I think her name is Rosalie—stand up behind me and comb it for about 15 minutes. I hate to admit it but it actually felt good. Almost put me to sleep. I'll have to think of other ways I can use my fame, popularity and stunning good looks to greater advantage. Perhaps I could get some of them to walk on my back? Or massage my feet? Or do my homework? Shoot…maybe they'd like to take over my chess moves since I'm starting to lose ground with you on our game…

I talked to Hermione about Ginny's present and she agreed it was too much. I'm keeping the earrings, though, to give to her when it IS appropriate. I actually appreciate your other suggestions. Minerva took me to Hogsmeade for a couple hours on Saturday and I got those gloves you suggested. Hermione also owled her parents and they are picking up a hula hoop. I figure that will give the entire Weasley family hours of entertainment, in case we run out of things to do while I'm there. I can just see Mr. Weasley trying to figure out how it works and what's inside if to give it that rattling noise. Of course, my ultimate goal will be to get Ron to do it. You know, I think we're old enough to have a drink or two with the adults to celebrate Yule. That might loosen him up a bit. I'm hoping we get to go to the twins' flat on Diagon Alley soon—they're quite the responsible adults now, aren't they?

I think I would have liked to have known your grandmother. What she said—what you said—makes so much sense. I have been trying to understand this "power" Professor Dumbledore thinks I have in spades. I've always thought of love as something elusive since it never seemed to pay a lot of attention to me, at least not until I came to Hogwarts anyway. Hermione has this book called "Bartlett's Quotations." When Ron and Lavender got together, she brought it with her once when we were studying together and was looking up quotes on love to prove to herself that she didn't love him, or even like him. I told her then that she didn't need that giant book—she just needed a Beatles anthology. I suggested "In My Life." I remember listening to it with you in Liverpool, in that quirky shop with the six thousand Beatles bumper stickers plastered all over the wall. "There are places I'll remember all my life, though some have changed…Some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain…" I didn't say anything to you then about it, but you literally stopped when the song started and you got this look on your face, almost like you were in pain. It made me listen more carefully—I'd heard the song before, of course, but I guess I never really listened to what it was saying.

I know that's not really the gist of the song—it's really about the person that he loves more than everything else. Yet I can't help but thinking about how my life so far is really defined by places…Privet Drive, the cupboard under the stairs, Hogwarts, the Gryffindor common room, the Burrow, Shell Cottage. It's like I'm always looking for a home, for a place to hang up my heart, I guess. And really, the place that so far comes the closest is Shell Cottage. I love how I feel when I'm there, like it's just exactly the right size for the two of us.

If I told you I had already seen "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," would you still take me to see it with you this summer? I actually saw it the summer before last. Dudley and his friends had rented the video (do you know what video tapes are?) and I watched it while the Dursleys were at Aunt Marge's one Saturday. I wasn't so sure about the ending, but parts of it were brilliant. I was saying "Ni!" to myself silently whenever they told me to do anything the rest of the summer (Uncle Vernon: "Potter, get out there and scrub the hubcaps on my car with a toothbrush!" Me: "Ni!") and I swear after the Dementors attacked I would call out "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" and then say "I'm not quite dead yet." I admit—it was a great coping mechanism. I just can't believe my mum liked it, though. Don't you think it a bit…um….raw for her? You know, it's hard for me to think about her as having an off-color sense of humor. She was my mum, and I never even got to know her as my mum, much less as a friend. Do you know how lucky you were?

I imagine you do.

I don't really know what my Animagus form will be yet. Well, I think I do know but Minerva isn't so sure yet. Actually, I think I'm going to be a stag, like my dad. Minerva has me transform my legs or arms every time now, and they always turn into what seem to be deer hooves. She must think there's something wrong, though, because she doesn't let me try a full transformation. I hope you're not disappointed—I know I already remind you enough of my dad without having his Animagus form too, but honestly, I can't seem to do anything to change it. She has me think of feet and then I have deer feet. I don't THINK deer feet—that's just what I get when I think "Feet." I think I'm ready for the transformation. Sometimes it's hard to stop at just the feet, but she wants me to wait until after Christmas. Has she said anything to you about any of this? I really do think she's holding something back from me.

I don't know if I told you this yet—Ron's got this chessboard set up on a table down here and it has your chess game mocked up on it. He gets really upset if anyone gets too close to it, so when Cormac moved a piece yesterday he about went ballistic. He spent a good hour last night just staring at it. Don't you think this game has gone on long enough? Can't you just end it and put him out of his misery?

Sorry—had to go referee a fight and now I'm back. Ginny and Dean just got into this horrific row over you! It was really funny. Dean said something that wasn't exactly complementary about you (he was writing his Defense essay) and I don't know what inspired him to say what he said as it had nothing to do with Defense and everything to do with your supposed lack of personal hygiene and some specific ingredients in your homemade shampoo that—believe me!—should never be put on a person's head. Anyway, Ginny stuck up for you and said that she imagined that they didn't pay you enough here to be able to afford good shampoo and you probably just used whatever the elves gave you and besides you're a good teacher despite how unfair you are and biased toward the Slytherins. Hermione took Ginny's side (she even said that you not washing your hair more than once or twice a term was all a defense mechanism to keep people from getting too close to you) but then Cormac took Dean's and said that your hair actually dripped on his textbook once when you were leaning over him in class. It ended up with Ginny stomping off to her room and Dean and Seamus sneaking out to the kitchen to nick food from the house elves.

Just a bit more than a week 'til we're back at Shell Cottage. Did you say we were going to have a Christmas tree? I bet Dobby would come and help us set it up…

Regards,

Harry

/

Well, he'd written all those things that were bound to get everyone else in trouble but he really didn't care. He was feeling a bit careless lately anyway, and with as boring as things had been, was perhaps unconsciously trying to liven things up. He could just imagine Snape leaning over Cormac in class this week and whispering in his ear something like "Careful, now, McLaggen, or I might drip hair grease all over you." McLaggen would think there was a Slytherin sympathizer in Gryffindor.

He packed up his things and trudged up the stairs to his dormitory, deciding to get to bed early for a change. He'd just changed into his pajamas and had slid beneath the covers when a soft knock sounded on the dormitory door.

"Come in," he called out, sitting up in bed and doing a quick non-verbal "Lumos" to light the wall lamp again.

Ginny opened the door and stepped inside, quickly looking at the other beds.

"Ginny, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Feel like talking for a bit?" she asked. She looked uncomfortable.

"Yeah, sure. Um, just let me get dressed again." He indicated his pajamas as he pulled his shirt and jeans on over them and then quickly put his shoes back on. "We can go up to the Head Boy's room." Each of the house dorms had single rooms for the Head Boy and the Head Girl, for years when that the Head was from the house in question. As the Head Boy this year was from Ravenclaw, the Gryffindor Head Boy's room was empty. Together, they trudged up two more flights of stairs to get to the room at the top of the turret.

They sat on the bed next to each other as Ginny told him she was thinking of breaking up with Dean, and Harry tried to be sympathetic, he really really did, but his heart couldn't help singing just a little bit, lighting up with a glimmer of hope. He put an arm around Ginny and she leaned into him. He tried to convince himself he was feeling—and acting—brotherly. But he knew that Ron wouldn't find the smell of her hair quite as intriguing as he did.

He woke up some time later to find himself lying on top of the bed sideways, his legs on the floor still and his arm around a sleeping Ginny. It was decidedly uncomfortable and his feet were freezing. He closed his eyes again and pretended he'd never woken up.