-Harry-

Monday dragged on and on for Harry. He felt strangely confined today, both within his body and within the stone walls of the castle. He overslept, nearly missed breakfast and showed up at Herbology without his textbook. At lunch, he pushed his food around on his plate while Ron prattled on about Bill's girlfriend.

"You mean he didn't even mention her?" he asked, staring incredulously at Harry once again. Why, after Harry had spent an entire day with Bill and Severus outside of Hogwarts, learning to get his feet under himself so to speak in his Animagus form, did Ron only want to talk about Fleur Delacour?

"No, he didn't," replied Harry. "Should he have?" He poked at his chicken pie and idly stabbed at a potato.

"Should he have?" said Ron. "Should he have? If you were engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world, wouldn't you talk about her?"

"Oh, yeah. They're engaged. I forgot about that," said Harry, distractedly as Lavender glared at Ron from her spot two places down from him, next to Seamus. Personally, he thought Fleur was all right. She had a certain charm that had appealed to him when he was a fourth year, but lately he was more attracted to girls with, say, red hair and athletic builds. He unconsciously sought out Ginny at the table, and when he caught her eye, she rolled her eyes at him and mouthed "Phlegm." He bit back a smile.

The day stretched on. By ten o'clock, when he finally climbed in bed after finishing all his homework, meeting with the Quidditch team to schedule February practices after the long January off-time and replying to Severus' letter from the week before, he was finally beginning to feel at home in his own skin.

He pulled his curtains closed and had barely laid his head on his pillow when his head began to explode with pain. He sat up, choking back a cry, concentrating on the pain a moment. Certain that Severus was being called—again, so soon after the last one—he managed a moment of rational thought then kicked himself free of the covers and without another thought transformed into Lightfoot. The crushing pain, which had felt like a gale force wind trapped within the confines of his skull, immediately ebbed and within moments became only a distracted memory. Lightfoot sighed, if indeed a deer could sigh, glanced out the window at the star-filled sky, staring at the shadows at the edge of the forest, then closed her eyes and slept.

/

27 January, 1997

Monday

Dear Severus:

If we have any more days out like our day yesterday, we're going to have to do them on Saturdays so I have a day to recover before classes. You should be thankful we didn't have Defense today—I was pants in Charms today, was late to Transfiguration and forgot my Herbology book. I even almost missed breakfast. I just felt all wrong for most of the day—like I really wanted to be outside running again. You know, there's a certain attraction to being in animal form when you're a teenager and the other alternative is to go to class cooped up with a whole bunch of other teenagers, having to sit still and take notes and listen to a professor drone on. (You know I'm talking about Binns, right? You certainly don't drone on. I would never call what you do droning, now, would I?) Maybe that's why most wizards and witches don't learn Animagus transformation until they're out of school—probably had really high dropout rates, right? I mean, take someone like Crabbengoyle. Say, for instance, that they, by some ripple in the cosmic fabric, defy all expectations and manage the Animagus transformation. Once they change into their new form—something strong with a small brain and a big appetite like an ox or a dairy cow—and realize that in that form they don't have to read, use a quill, take a shower or say, wipe themselves—they'd never change back!

You know, I had a great day yesterday even though it left me so out of sorts today. Thanks for inviting Bill. It was great to see him again. I wouldn't have minded if you'd asked Minerva instead, or even the Headmaster, but since I don't get to see Bill during the school year I really appreciated the chance to spend time with both of you.

I never knew acorns could taste good, especially mushy half-rotten ones. OK, I wouldn't say good but they were incredibly satisfying. Don't get any ideas—like having the house elves serve them to me on my dinner plate instead of my treacle tart or anything disturbing like that—but I'll take them when I'm Lightfoot any time.

OK, getting back to your letter now. I'm sitting here trying to imagine you as Headmaster of Hogwarts. All that power at your fingertips…the ability to influence the main dish at every meal. The power to reinstitute corporal punishment as an alternative to detentions. The ability to use the school's funds to pay for new state-of-the-art brooms for the Slytherin Quidditch team. Of course, it would be your responsibility too to deal with Peeves and the Board of Governors and Muggle parents who wonder how their children are doing in maths and all of that. It wouldn't be ALL fun and games! I wonder what your welcome speech would be after the sorting? "Dear Students—welcome to another fun-filled year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This year, we have banned all products from WWW and Zonko's and have changed the school uniform to include spats and waistcoats for the boys and floor-length dresses and chastity belts for the girls. You'll notice as well that all prefects are from Slytherin House. At this time, I'd like to award the house cup to (dramatic pause)…..Slytherin House!"

Are you sure you don't want to be a healer? And do you really think I'd be a good one? (healer, that is) I'd have to be a specialist to make enough money so that you can enjoy the carefree lifestyle of a professional Quidditch Player, though.

Now—about any future children I might have. Don't assume they'll all be messy-haired and green-eyed (though I'd like to guarantee you at least ONE to assure you three generations of Potter torture). I think other hair colors—red, for example—come through pretty strongly in family lines. Yeah, I know my mum had red hair but I figure all the rest of her kids, if she'd had had time to have any more, would have been redheads.

That's weird, and really sad, thinking about the brothers and sisters I might have had, if Voldemort hadn't come around. I always think about what he took away from me, but this is the first time I've ever really thought about a big family—little brothers and sisters. I could have been like Bill is, an admired big brother to all the other Weasleys. Well, my luck I'd have gotten a whole brood of annoying little sisters I'd have had to protect and take care of, but it still would have been better than what I ended up with.

OK, OK. I'll stop feeling sorry for myself…water under the bridge, right? Keep my eyes—and my mind—looking forward.

I'm really beginning to worry about getting that memory from Professor Slughorn. I'm going to take your advice and get at him from another angle. I guess I'm really going to have to buy into that Slug Club crap, right? I'll give it another try soon. I have no idea when the Headmaster is going to call another one of our sessions, but it's been nearly a month since the last one already.

You asked me a question at the end of your letter. It's a good one…what two people would I take with me to a deserted island?

To give a really good answer, I'd need to know more. How long will we be on the island? How big is it (as in—could I get away from these companions now and then)? How warm is it (as in—will I need to cuddle up with another human at night to stay warm)?

But knowing only what I know about the island (practically nothing), I have to think along practical lines. Of course, there is an obvious choice between good company and good help or protection. Hagrid, for example, would be dead useful on an island but it would be almost impossible to hide from him and if he got all sad and melancholy we'd probably drown in his tears.

Hermione would be great—she's really clever and incredibly calm in a pinch. But I can't take both Ron and Hermione since they're not talking now (though maybe a romp on a deserted island would bring them back together) and Ron had a tendency to sleep half his life away so even though I'll miss them I'm leaving the behind.

I've known all along who my choices are…just dragging out telling you.

You and Ginny.

That is, if you insist I take two. Can't I only just take Ginny? I'm sure that within a year or two we'd be able to produce that third person anyway.

You'd be the level-headed one, brave, wise, smart, great to talk to and could brew all sorts of useful potions (like a hangover potion from the coconut rum we'd make and of course a handy contraception potion). I don't think I have to tell you why I'd choose Ginny, but she's brave and smart too, practical, strong but soft in all the right places. Plus, I know you'd get along with her too, and if you close your eyes and squint she'd remind you of my mum.

If we're there long enough, and you run out of ingredients for that contraception potion I mentioned, I'd trust you to babysit little James Severus while we pop over to the other side of the island for some private time.

Well, I just reread your letter to make sure I remembered everything and now I have that picture of Aunt Petunia pulling off her shirt and honestly, I may have to gouge my eyes out. Thanks for that.

Guess it's time for my question then. Why did you choose Bill Weasley to be my second guardian?

I'm pretty sure you'll say "I told you so" but I'm exhausted. I think I overdid it yesterday after being sick all week.

See you in class tomorrow—looking forward to that surprise quiz you mentioned to me yesterday. I doubt the Gryffindors will be as surprised as the Slytherins, though.

Regards,

Harry

/

"Harry! You overslept again! Harry!"

The curtains of his bed were pulled back and Harry groggily opened his eyes and looked at his best friend. He blinked.

"What the hell? Harry?"

Harry shook his head, realizing in his foggy brain that he'd spent the night curled up on top of his covers in his Animagus form. Dimly, he remembered the pain of Severus being summoned.

"Come on mate, change back! We're going to be late for Defense if you don't hurry!"

Harry concentrated and transformed back, rubbing his forehead though his scar no longer hurt. He looked out the window, seemingly surprised to see daylight, then moved his gaze back to Ron.

"Yeah. Thanks for waking me up. Do I have time to shower?"

"No—class is in fifteen minutes. Just get dressed and let's get going. I'll wait for you in the common room."

Harry was grabbing his robes, putting on his shoes and trying to pack his book bag all at the same time. He and Ron were out of the common room within ten minutes, approaching the Defense classroom together just as class was set to start. Snape stood guarding the door. He stared at Harry but did not say a word as Harry and Ron slipped by him and found seats at the back of the room.

But when Snape walked past Harry toward the front of the room a moment later, Harry could not help but notice his limp.

-Severus-

Severus dropped Harry's homework assignment onto his desk. The parchment rolled back up, hiding the letter he had just read. Harry had obviously written the letter before Severus had been summoned Monday night, as there was no mention of the summons or the pain Harry had undoubtedly felt with it. Well, he'd have to address it in his reply. There was no way around it.

He thought back to Harry's Defense class on Tuesday. The boy's eyes had been glued to him throughout the entire session. He'd tried his best to hide the slight limp, but the extensive bruising on his hip had made walking difficult and painful. He'd spent most of the class period sitting behind his desk while the students practiced blocking the body bind spell. Harry, even paired with Longbottom, had failed to block the spell numerous times. He'd ended up in the infirmary after failing to block Longbottom's spell and falling backward and knocking heads with Weasley. Weasley yelled "OW!" but stayed on his feet, rubbing his head. Harry, on the other hand, tried to stand after Longbottom cancelled the spell but was obviously dizzy and glassy-eyed. Glassy-eyed or not, he managed to glare at Severus when he was sent to visit Madam Pomfrey, and the glare clearly delivered, perhaps with a small serving of Severus' Legilimency, the message "Shouldn't you be going too?"

Severus sat up straight in his desk chair, pressing the small of his back against the slats in the back of the chair and adjusting his hip against the small pillow he'd wedged between the side of the chair and his body. Two days later and he was left with only residual soreness. The bruise paste had cleaned up the rest of the mottled yellow and purple bruising. Harry might assume that he'd been the victim of a prolonged attack of Cruciatus from the Dark Lord, but in fact his injuries had occurred after the meeting, when he'd literally gotten caught in the middle of a duel between sisters Bella and Narcissa. A blasting curse from Bella aimed at Narcissa had glanced his hip and tossed him against a wall.

No, his job was not getting any easier. Narcissa, always on edge because of Draco, had a twitchy wand hand and Bella did not like the Dark Lord's trust in Severus.

And how was he to respond to Harry's clever retort on his "chosen" position as Headmaster of Hogwarts? When Harry had posed his question in his previous letter—giving Severus a choice of potential "dream" careers—and Severus had chosen Headmaster of Hogwarts, he hadn't yet had his meeting with the Dark Lord where the bastard pronounced that he had hand-picked Severus himself to ascend to Dumbledore's position. Of course, the "appointment" presumed that the Dark Lord would take over the ministry and that Draco….Draco…would complete his appointed task.

Severus stood and glanced at the clock on his desk. As he watched it, it edged from "Gryffindor Tower" to "In Trouble."

Blast! What was that child up to now?

30 January, 1997

Thursday

Dear Harry:

It is Thursday night, around 9 p.m., and you are up to something. I am warning you now that I will not take kindly to discovering that you were out prowling about the castle under your invisibility cloak, especially if you are up to anything other than nicking a late night snack from the kitchens. I shall be checking the detention roster in the morning and speaking with the other professors and Mr. Filch to see if any students were caught out of bounds last night. While I know it is impossible to expect a 16-year old to obey every rule every time, I hope it was not your curiosity over a certain Slytherin's activities that caused my mantle clock to move to "In Trouble" just after I glanced at it to see that you were safely ensconced in Gryffindor Tower.

As for the timing of any future "outings" we may have, recall, please, that our original plans called for our adventure to occur on Saturday. I changed the plans and delayed until Sunday to give you an additional day to recover from your illness last week. With the extent of your activities in the field Sunday morning, I cannot help but wonder what you would have done as Lightfoot had you been in top form. Perhaps you would have leapt over the stream to join the Roan on the other side, disappearing into the forest to live out the remainder of your life as a deer. And while there is a certain attraction to never having to work again, study for an exam (or mark the infernal things) or face a dark lord, I fear you would miss your friends, especially a certain Miss Weasley.

So, you think that I, as headmaster of this venerable institution, would be satisfied with changing the discipline structure and dress code and elevating Slytherin House to its deserved position? While your ideas are indeed good ones that I shall definitely evaluate should the opportunity ever arise, I believe my first act as Headmaster would be to abolish the singing of that insipid school song. Is it too late to change my choice for my dream career? More and more I am thinking that the better choice would be a Motivational Speaker. I would, of course, speak on the value of total abstinence (life-long, of course) and would certainly secure engagements in schools throughout Europe—magical and Muggle alike. I am relatively certain that I will be quite successful and the already abysmally low marriage rate on the continent will plummet even further.

I would urge you, Harry, to step up your quest to secure that memory from Professor Slughorn. Perhaps the Headmaster has not scheduled another meeting with you because there isn't yet a reason to do so. Professor Slughorn will not be an easy nut to crack, especially given the subject matter which he decidedly would rather forget, but you may do well to stroke his ego a bit. Well, perhaps more than a bit. I don't think you can possibly inflate his head any more so lay it on.

Before I answer your question about the oldest Weasley, let me first take some time to discuss with you the youngest.

While I am indeed honored to be on your "short list" for companions on our hypothetic deserted island, it is obvious that I would be left floating on the life raft if the aforementioned Weasley was in the picture. I do not have many opportunities to see Miss Weasley together with her current boyfriend (Mr. Thomas, I believe?) as they are not in the same year and thus not in the same classes. That being said, last term I caught them out past curfew once or twice and found them in rather compromising positions before curfew as well. Indeed, they spent two rather interesting detentions with me in November "harvesting" the swim bladders from goldfish. It is now almost February, and they are either doing a phenomenal job of hiding from me, are extremely lucky, or simply are not engaging in the type of activity that would merit detentions. I do not want to give you false hope but felt that, given your obvious desire to get to know the young lady better, this bit of information might motivate you to verify it and to watch the young couple more closely lest another boy try to move in before you get up your nerve.

Now, before you run off to spy upon the snogging couples in the Astronomy Tower, let me address your hormonal issue.

Bear with me, Harry. I do not necessarily take pleasure in asking teenage boys to reign in their primal urges, so to speak. But your rather frequent mention of procreation (resulting in the actual production of new little Potters) has made the alarm bells go off in my head. I recall that in previous letters I discussed the school's policy of taking "paired off" students to their Head of House and Madam Pomfrey for "the talk." "The talk" is meant to convince them not to procreate by bringing up the unpleasantries of parenthood. I shall simply take it as a given that when you mention populating an island with new Potters (James Severus? Why can it not be Severus James? Or better yet, Severus Ignatius or Severus Nobilis or some other appropriate name?) you are contemplating doing so at some date in the future, most likely in the next century. As long as I can go on blindly assuming that the next Potter to enter the world will not do so until you are shaving twice a day (out of necessity) instead of twice a week, I will allow our happy chatter in these regular missives to continue.

Mind you, however—don't count on me to be the workhorse on that island paradise while you and Miss Weasley go traipsing off to "pick coconuts." Contraceptive potions require a variety of ingredients and you will be responsible for searching for the appropriate shells, roots, leaves and animal scat. Yes, I said "scat." Look it up.

And now, I believe it is time for me to answer your question about Mr. Weasley. You want to know why I chose him as your second guardian. I did so, even though the Headmaster had other ideas, because I was looking for the proper balance of adult influences in your life. Minerva serves as primary as she is your Head of House, is strict and will keep you on the straight and narrow as far as possible. She is honest and upright to the core. You will not be able to pull the wool over her eyes and she will make sure that you arrive at your 17th birthday well prepared to face your adulthood. Minerva is an excellent choice for guardian for all of these reasons, but she is not necessarily the best choice as a mentor for you. Arthur and Molly Weasley would be excellent choices as parents—they have done an admirable job raising their other children, but you, Harry, need more attention than they can realistically give you. Bill Weasley, however, has the qualities I recognize as critical in a mentor. He is young still, so you identify with him. He has a stable job, is a member of the Order, is quite gifted magically and, importantly, he is a member of a family to which you are close—a virtual "older brother" for you. In addition, he is not yet permanently attached to anyone else, and does not have his own children to take precedence over his care of you. He is not likely to have either while you are still 16.

Allow me to be blunt, Harry. Bill is a logical replacement for me, should a replacement ever be necessary. I do not claim to have all the qualities I described in him, at least not in the same measures, but should I become unavailable to you—temporarily or permanently—I want you to have someone to mentor you through whatever comes next.

As I know this will be a theme in your return letter to me, let me now address the events of Monday night. I was summoned rather late in the evening, and spent a relatively short time in the Dark Lord's presence. However, I ran into some trouble after the meeting, with some brawling stragglers, and was injured when attempting to intervene. I am recovered now and the injury itself was not serious, only painful. I do not know how you spent the time while I was gone, but trust you did so either in occlusion or as Lightfoot. I suspect you did not know of my injuries until you came to class, as you did not look overly worried when you and Mr. Weasley ran into class at the very last moment, and I applaud you for your ability to hide within yourself and not seek out the connection and open up any chance of the Dark Lord discovering this link.

My question to you now: If being a Gryffindor was not an option, which house do you believe you would have been sorted into, and why?

On that note, I will end this letter and go roam the halls in search of offenders. If you are out there, Mr. Potter, you won't see me coming…

Regards,

Severus

/

He slipped out into the dungeon hallway a few moments later, clad, as always, in black from head to toe. Sometimes he wondered what he would have done with his hair had he been born a blonde…it certainly would have negated the whole effect. He took the great stairs up to the second floor and ducked his head inside the infirmary. Perhaps Harry's "In Trouble" indicated some physical malady. But no, about half the beds were still occupied with flu patients, but Harry was not among them. He passed the stone gargoyles guarding the Headmaster's office and thought in passing of a password appropriate to a Potions Master turned Defense Instructor turned Headmaster. The word "bezoar" came to mind, but he discarded it as too obvious and chastened himself for letting his mind go in that direction. He would not think about it again—he would not—until he was faced with having to go up those stairs to take over the office.

Up more stairs, behind tapestries—he knew the shortcuts too—skipping over the trick stair until he was in the Gryffindor hallway, but around the corner from the portrait hole entrance. He knew each of the recesses where the Gryffindor couples hid, just as he knew them in the hallways near each of the other houses. He leaned against a wall in the shadows and listened. Nothing was out of place. Not a noise to be heard, not an errant gasp or a sharp intake of breath. He waited only a moment more before going to Minerva's office. She opened the door several moments after his soft knock.

Harry was sitting on her sofa, glaring at Dean Thomas, who sat opposite him on a wingback chair. Thomas has a fat lip and was holding an icepack on it. Harry had a gash in the bridge of his nose and had his glasses, broken at the nosepiece, clutched in his right hand.

"Professor Snape," greeted Minerva, carefully suppressing a smile. "Please allow me to finish with these two young men and I'll be right with you."

He backed out into the hallway without a word and leaned against the wall. The door opened a moment later and the two boys exited, Harry shooting a puzzled look at Severus as he passed. Severus watched the two disappear around the corner, then opened the office door and walked in.

"I've given them detention with you on Saturday, during their first post-holiday Quidditch practice. They are not happy."

Severus smiled. "No, they wouldn't be, would they? Miss Weasley's on the team, after all."

The two professors smiled at each other, and Severus dropped onto the couch and accepted the glass of scotch Minerva pressed into his hand.