-Harry-

Studying took on a whole new intensity when Ron wasn't involved. Stuck as he was in the hospital wing, still weak and half out-of-it, he could provide neither comic relief nor commiseration when they had to write an entire essay on the similarities between a turtle and a croquet ball for McGonagall's animal transfiguration lesson. Hermione was all business when it came to homework and looked disapproving instead of erupting in suppressed giggles when Harry suggested that a turtle could be used as a croquet ball, providing it was painted red with a white stripes.

Hermione did come in handy for some things, however. She had grown up in a Muggle household with Muggle parents and had a more than decent grasp on fine arts. Not that Harry hadn't grown up with Muggles; it was just that his Muggle family didn't know Victor Hugo from Winged Victory.

"Les Miserables?" she repeated, correcting Harry's horrid pronunciation, though he wasn't entirely sure that the word should really end with the "b." "I saw it in London with my parents just last summer. Phenomenal production, really. Why do you ask?"

"Well…it's just that…well…" he paused, not knowing how to continue without giving something away he wasn't ready to reveal. He sighed. "Severus quoted a song from the play in his last letter," he said, his voice low.

Hermione put down her quill and blew on her Transfiguration essay to dry it before rolling it up and stowing it in her bag. She was biting her lower lip, as she always did when thinking very hard and not wanting to let on that she was several steps ahead of you already.

"I know the score rather well," she said at last, looking up at him. "I have the soundtrack at home on CD." Her eyes had a peculiar look to them, almost as if she was wanting to tear up but was suppressing the emotion. They were very soft and vulnerable that way, thought Harry, watching her bite her lip. "Which song, Harry?"

Harry looked away as he answered. "Bring Him Home." He looked up at her after he said it. Her eyes had softened even more and she gave him a small smile.

"It's one of my favorites," she said. She looked around the common room but almost everyone had gone to bed. It was nearly midnight, after all, and they, too, should really call it a night. "I'll sing it for you, if you'd like," she offered. "It won't be like hearing it in the theater, but you'll get the idea."

She smiled when he nodded, thought a moment, then began to sing quietly.

Harry stared at her, utterly transfixed, as she sang. Reading the words was moving enough. He'd read them and re-read them since receiving the letter yesterday at the end of Defense class, absorbing the words and their sentiment, but nothing was like hearing them in Hermione's clear voice; words and music together, each going beyond the expression of the other.

When she finished, they were quiet a moment. Harry, seated on the floor in front of the sofa as was his custom, rested his head back on the cushions and stared at the ceiling.

"He really loves you, Harry," commented Hermione softly, at last.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Yeah, I know."

/

5 March, 1997

Wednesday

Dear Severus:

I went to bed late last night—Hermione and I stayed up studying trying to catch up after this weekend. That's why I didn't get a response written to your letter last night. I've been thinking about it, though, and I asked Hermione about that song. She knew it (of course)—she told me she'd gone in to London with her parents last summer to see the show. She told me a bit about who sings it, and why, and I'm not sure what to think about that. I hope you know by now that I'm planning to survive this thing, but I'm not sure how good it will be to "come home" if you're not planning to be around. I have no choice to believe what you're telling me about the headmaster, no matter how much I wish it weren't true. He's gone so often at mealtime in the Great Hall, and he hasn't called me in for another session since just after term started. What are you doing for him? Is he in a lot of pain? And if he isn't around next year…to run Hogwarts…will Minerva take over?

I can't even begin to imagine Hogwarts without him. I'm not sure I'd even want to be here with some Ministry-appointed idiot like Umbridge running this place next year. They'd likely run it into the ground, send all the Muggle-borns home and hire death eaters to teach.

This is really making me mad. Dumbledore has a plan for everything—I hope he's got this one figured out.

I just can't believe there's a chance he won't be around. It's a good thing you're here now to watch out for me and make sure I don't do anything stupid.

And I'm not offended by your five words. Well, not after I read the lyrics to the song, anyway. What you're really saying is that I'm young and have a lot of living to do still. Besides, "He is only a boy" is way better than something like "Stubborn git/Looks like James," "Gryffindor brat obsessed with Malfoy" or "Complete dunderhead, inept at Potions."

Ron is doing better—but I guess you know that. I went up to see him after breakfast this morning and he was awake and leaning up against a pile of about 10 pillows. He had been eating some sort of disgusting gruel from a breakfast tray. He complained a lot about all the potions he has to take, and how awful they taste, and how they make him sleepy. And to prove it he went and fell asleep while we were talking. I wish I could sleep that easily. It's hard to get to sleep lately, especially without Ron snoring in the bed next to mine. You'd think the quiet would make it easier to sleep, not harder, but I lie there and think about how Ron almost died, and how no one is really talking about how that mead got poisoned in the first place. I remember Professor Slughorn saying he meant to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas so maybe the poison was meant for him. Except Hermione pointed out that Slughorn wouldn't be likely to let go of such a good bottle of mead, would he? So it wouldn't likely ever get to Dumbledore, and any number of people could drink it once it did. As it was, we all three had it in our glasses.

I'm starting to realize that I'm like a cat with nine lives. The thing is, Severus, that I think I've used up most of them already.

Ron looks loads better than he did this weekend. Madam Pomfrey won't tell me when he gets to leave the infirmary—I suppose it's possible she doesn't know yet. She just looked all serious and said "He's got a some healing to do still." When he fell asleep she tucked him in and took away his tray and about six of his pillows. She looked like she wanted to clear off his bedside table—I don't think she thought that all the gifts people sent him were appropriate for a hospital. Of course him mum and dad sent him flowers and Lavender brought him candy so it must have been Fred and George that sent the personal hip flask and of course the toilet seat. You know, you have to wonder where they get all the toilet seats they send us when we're in the infirmary. I've gotten three toilet seats from them over the years—I guess I should be wondering why I end up in the infirmary so often. The last one they sent was one of those cushiony kinds that was a really putrid shade of green. I gave it to Dobby and he about passed out from excitement. I'm not sure what he did with it but at least he isn't wearing it.

Everyone is after Ron's position on the Quidditch team. I finally went ahead and told Cormac he could keep on Saturday and he's driving me nuts with all his ideas and game plans. He follows me around with this animated chalk board drawing plays and bragging about his broomstick. Do you think you could manage to assign him a detention for Saturday afternoon? I'm beginning to think we'd do just as well without a keeper as with him. Quidditch was a lot more fun last year when I was banned from playing.

I've got a new game for you that Fred and George made up. It NEVER gets old. I'm going to name three people. You have to kiss one (not just a peck—a regular snogging session at minimum), marry one (with full "benefits") and polyjuice into one and live their life for a day. Your choices are Professor Trelawney, Aunt Petunia and Rita Skeeter.

And just because that's so fun here is a second one with three more equally appealing choices. You have to spend a week in the same prison cell with one of them, be handcuffed to one for a week and teach the last one how to blend in in the Muggle world (and your life depends on your success). Your choices are Mad Eye Moody, Gilderoy Lockhart and Hagrid. (Oh, and you don't get to use magic on any of them.)

And while you're thinking about that, how about telling me why you became a teacher….using only five words.

I hope I haven't given you too much homework.

I'm went up to the owlery last night with Hermione—she borrowed Hedwig to send a letter to her parents. Hedwig and Mac were all cuddled up together making lovie dovie eyes at each other. Hermione thought it was sweet and romantic. I promised her an owlet of her own if these two get it together and have babies. I hope that's OK with you—I know you said they might nest in the forest and never bring their babies near us, but I have a feeling they'll stay nearby. Mac's very attentive but it's obvious that Hedwig is the one in charge. She'll have him regurgitating his food for the owlets while she eats her field mice and keeps them down. Anyway, I told Hermione she has to name her owlet after a Beatles Song and suggested Eleanor or Madonna. She looked at me like I was nutters—asked me if I didn't think a magical name was more appropriate. "What, like Dumbledore?" I asked. "Or maybe Hogwarts?"

I didn't deserve to be hit for that, did I?

I'd better get back to my homework. I'm getting behind in Transfiguration and Minerva will have my head on a platter if I don't get this essay done tonight.

Warmer regards,

Harry

/

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He stared into the fire for a long moment, remembering, as he often did when he looked at this particular fire for too long, how Sirius had come to him here back in fourth year, tried to give him advice about fighting the dragons in the first task. How Sirius had been worried about him and had made a point to come to him, by floo call anyway, risking his own safety in the process. He remembered, too, that Ron hadn't been speaking to him at the time and had come down and nearly caught him at it.

Nearly a year now since Sirius had…gone. He thought of all that Sirius had been for him, in those too brief moments they had spent together. As close to a parent as anyone had been, closer even, up to that point in his life. All through fourth year, during the Triwizard Tournament, Sirius had come back to Hogsmeade, hidden in a cave, stolen newspapers, eaten rats. Risked discovery so he could watch over Harry. Fifth year they'd had those brief days at Grimmauld Place right before and after the trial, two weeks at Christmas. Harry remembered the Sirius of that time, stuck in Grimmauld Place. He thought he'd been happier in the cave eating rats.

He drew his knees up to his chin, hugged his legs even closer to himself and stared at the fire. After Sirius died, only six weeks had passed before the accident at Privet Drive and then Severus had stepped sideways into his life and unbelievably had filled that hole; that hole created by his parents' death, left open and unhealed during his years at the Dursleys, half-way filled by Sirius, and by Molly Weasley and now hardly noticeable at all.

What would Sirius think of his current arrangement?

He had a sudden stray thought and grinned.

OK, Severus…you have to be roommates with one, work partner of one and life partner of the other. And your choices are Sirius, Remus and James.

Severus would probably choose a life sentence in Azkaban.

-Severus-

He didn't have the stomach for this anymore.

He sat again in Minerva's office, in his customary spot in the middle of the loveseat, with his usual glass of scotch and the now all-too-common concerned look on his face.

"Severus, I assure you that Poppy said he'll be fine."

"But he hasn't regained consciousness yet…" Severus protested, checking the annoying cuckoo clock behind Minerva's desk. Two hours already?

"Nor will he until Poppy allows it," said Minerva. She moved a straight-backed chair in front of the loveseat and sat in it, knees almost touching Severus.' "I know you are terribly concerned, Severus, but honestly, skull fractures are not all that uncommon among Quidditch players…"

"That's it! I am going to personally petition the Board of Governors for new Quidditch rules. Players should be wearing helmets! Preferably ones made from iron cauldrons. Did you hear what that sounded like, that bludger hitting Harry on the side of the head?"

Minerva grimaced.

"I heard, Severus. I have already banned Mr. McLaggen from Quidditch for the rest of his Hogwarts career."

"Fortunately for him not a long one," muttered Severus. "I might just kill him myself."

Minerva sighed. "It was rather disturbing to witness his behavior on the pitch. He's not even a beater." She frowned. "Fortunately, since one of the beaters was deprived of his bat, he had both hands free to catch Harry."

Severus tipped back his glass and downed the contents in a single go. He braced himself against the heat in his gut, then stood up. The cuckoo clock emerged for its half-hour chime. The bird left its wooden perch and fluttered around their heads. Severus brushed a tiny yellow feather off his black robes.

"Molting again?" he commented dryly as the bird regained its perch and disappeared into the clock.

Minerva reached up and plucked a small yellow tail feather from his hair. She examined it a moment then placed it on her desk where it joined several others of the same size and color.

"Can't have you walking around the castle with feathers in your hair, can we Severus?" she stated. "Sybil might think you're dressing up for her?"

Severus glared at her but otherwise ignored her comment. "Well, if your idiot bird clock is correct, it's still hours before curfew. I'm going to floo to Poppy's office and chance a peak in the infirmary." He was not going to waste an entire Saturday pacing in his quarters, worried about Harry.

Minerva put a hand on his arm as he turned to leave.

"Best be discreet, Severus," she warned. "Your reaction in the stands when Harry was hit was a bit…out of character."

"How so?" he retorted. "Did I not sit down and wait out the game while that idiot Hufflepuff Seeker took another hour to catch the snitch when there was absolutely no competition for it? Did I not cheer appropriately when Hufflepuff won the game—finally? Did I not scathingly comment on Miss Lovegood's relevant Quidditch commentary about that cloud that resembled my distinguished profile?"

Minerva squeezed his arm then released it.

"You did do all those things, Severus. Never mind. Go have a peek at Harry."

He handed her his empty glass, thanked her for the scotch and slipped quietly out of the room. Minerva looked down at the empty glass then watched Severus walk silently away down the hallway. She closed her office door and shook her head, remembering the anguished cry of "Harry!" that had come out of Severus' mouth as the unconscious boy had slipped from his broom. Filius and Horace had looked at him oddly but in the ensuing commotion hadn't called him out on it. Minerva, however, still held the picture of Albus restraining Severus, his withered hand blending in with the black of Severus' robes.

/

9 March, 1997

Sunday

Dear Harry:

It is a few minutes past midnight, just barely Sunday, and I write this from a comfortable chair not far from your bed here in the infirmary. At first, I found it a bit hard to concentrate what with Mr. Weasley's snoring echoing off the walls. I found that a nice Muffliato charm did wonders for my concentration, however, even more effective than a pillow over the head.

According to Poppy, you were unconscious all afternoon, waking up at sunset and causing a bit of a commotion in your desire to seek vengeance on your erstwhile teammate Mr. McLaggen. You will find some comfort in the knowledge that Minerva has banned Mr. McLaggen from Quidditch for the rest of his Hogwarts career, short though that be, for unsportsmanlike conduct. However, her punishment pales to the punishment that the Gryffindors doled out. While Gryffindors are not nearly the sore losers that my own snakes are (and I will deny saying that 'til the end of my days), they reacted rather poorly to one member of their Quidditch team nearly killing another. The ensuing slaughter by the Hufflepuffs may have further inspired their creative revenge. I do not know how the lions managed it, but just after dinner this evening (a meal from which Mr. McLaggen was conspicuously absent), the Slytherin Quidditch team—which had taken the pitch to practice—alerted me to the presence of a male wearing nothing but a diaper affixed to the Quidditch goal posts (with nothing but tape) about twenty feet up from the ground. The tape they used was grey and very strong. Apparently, the Muggles use it for a variety of purposes and it has quite a popular culture following. According to an American Muggle-born girl from Hufflepuff (about half the school turned out to watch Professor Flitwick and myself remove McLaggen), the stuff is called "Duct" tape and the makers of the tape actually award a scholarship to an American student couple who design formalwear from the substance and wear it to their school's "prom." While McLaggen's "attackers" used the traditional grey variety, I am told it comes in a number of colors, including neon pink and lime green.

Miss Granger, who obviously has way too much time on her hand and has researched uses of duct tape at the library over the summer, informed us that the tape can be used to repair the broken shells of tortoises, hold loose parts on automobiles and remove warts. If that is true, Mr. McLaggen should be completely wart free for a number of years.

Minerva said she would find the culprits and make sure they are punished. However, she must not be trying too hard as she was playing cribbage with the Headmaster when I left Albus' office a little while ago.

As for Mr. McLaggen, Poppy took pity on him and went to treat him in one of the guest rooms, as the Gryffindors would not allow him back in the tower, nor would they allow him in the infirmary near you. I have a feeling the young man will make himself as invisible as possible in the remaining months of his Hogwarts education. The Gryffindors have called for a public apology from the young man, to be made in the Great Hall during dinner. They would also like him to lick your shoes. I felt that was unsanitary so only approved the request providing he use an antiseptic mouthwash before licking anything of yours.

You are going to have quite a bit of bruising tomorrow so I have left Poppy some fresh bruise paste—her stores were rather low this far into the year anyway. I can't see much of your skin now as you are still bandaged up. It looks as if she was rather generous with the bandages, but there was quite a bit of blood I am told. You may be interested to know, too, that Miss Weasley came by this afternoon before you work up and sat with you for some time. I do not know if she cried over your prone form and professed her undying love—Poppy only said that she sat with you for a while and argued a bit with her brother.

As you claimed in your recent letter that you already have enough toilet seats, I took the liberty of dealing with the one that arrived for you this evening. It wasn't obvious at first, as this one was covered by a lovely yellow floral arrangement and it sported a banner that read "Bon Voyage Carmen and Curly." It came addressed to you, however, from a Diagon Alley address, so I simply changed the banner to "Get Well Soon Little Brother" and placed it beside your friend's bed.

As you are still peacefully slumbering and I am not yet tired enough after today's excitement to return to my own bed, I will address your ridiculous questions. Really, Harry? Do these hypothetical yet impossible situations amuse you in some way? Do they not disturb you as deeply as they disturb me? I suppose you expect to be able to see within my psyche by analyzing my choices. Well, for what it's worth (even if it be a chuckle when you wake and read this), here goes.

To your first question: I will polyjuice into your Aunt Petunia and live her life for a day. During that day, I will reveal to Vernon that I am having an affair with Dudley's gym teacher, entertain Dudley and his friends wearing only an apron and tell the neighbors that my nephew is a wizard.

As for the other choices—you do realize I am only continuing to humor you, don't you?—I will make Ms. Skeeter my bride and will engage in lip-lock with Professor Trelawney. Ms. Skeeter's life expectancy is far shorter than Professor Trelawney's as she is in the public eye and is bound to be offed by an irate reader or squashed in her Animagus form. As for the benefits—what type of benefits do you mean, Harry? Please give me more details so I can better address the question.

On to question number two..equally difficult, I must say. I will spend a week in a cell with Hagrid. I will likely drown in his tears, but it is better than being handcuffed to him as I cannot imagine being dangled from his side for that time, my hand stretched over my head to reach his wrist, being licked by that drippy dog of his and sleeping next to him in a bed (where I will likely be smothered the first night). I suppose I will be handcuffed to Mad Eye, as I could never imagine him blending in with the Muggle world. I am not at all sure I will survive a week with Mad Eye, and I do not even want to imagine sleeping next to him or having him ask me to scratch his back. The last scenario is the easiest—Lockhart in his current state can readily pass for an insane Muggle. I'll just set him loose outside the Leaky Cauldron and that will be that.

Oh my—a third question, Harry? Five words to describe why I became a teacher. Harry, I have the five words. They were not difficult to put together. I simply am not…ready…yet…to reveal this to you, or to anyone. I promise you that someday, before too long, I will. I can tell you this now—I did not ever intend to become a teacher, until circumstances changed, and it was necessary.

Now a fun hypothetical question for you. Would you rather go through life with Mad Eye's appearance, Gilderoy Lockhart's brain or Mr. McLaggen's personality? Choose well, Harry.

You slumber on and I myself am growing tired. I'll end here, and save discussion of the Headmaster and the curse for another letter. You have other things to think about now, like getting better, and figuring out how to win the hand of young Miss Weasley.

Stay safe, Harry. I grow weary of the hospital wing.

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus blew on the parchment he'd been writing on to dry the ink then muttered the concealment spell and rolled up the parchment. He placed it on the nightstand beside Harry's bed, tucked under his wand and glasses. Poppy had assured Severus that Harry would be in the infirmary most if not all of the next day.

As he walked down the hallways toward his dungeon quarters, Severus thought of Harry's question. Few people—no, only one person beside himself—knew the real answer to that question. He was a recently minted Potions Master when, at the age of 21, he had fallen at the Headmaster's feet and vowed to do anything—anything—to protect Lily's son. And Albus had taken him up on it, had made him a spy, had kept him close, at Hogwarts, all of these years.

How similar his five words were to the five words Harry had suggested to convince Horace to give up the memory.

"Do it for Lily, Professor."

I did it for Lily.