A silence stretched for a while after Lyle had made his announcement. Harry’s mind was whirling.

“Great. Someone else round here wants me dead.” There was no way he was ever going to get to Hogsmeade now. “Like one psychopath wasn’t enough.”

Lyle frowned heavily. “Somebody else? There is someone who wants you dead already?”

“Sirius Black,” Harry said before Snape could speak. “That’s why there’s Dementors everywhere; he broke out of Azkaban to finish me off.”

“Sirius?” Lyle gasped. Harry looked at him sharply. “That’s impossible!”

“Lyle,” Snape said.

“There must be some mistake, are you sure?”

“Did you know Black?” Harry asked, astonished.

“Lyle.”

“Of course I knew him!” Lyle said. “Well, he didn’t know me, but I saw him with Lily and James often enough—”

“What?”

“Lyle!”

 “Well of course, they were the best of frie—”

“LYLE!”

Lyle seemed to finally realise Snape was trying to shut him up, and a stone dropped into Harry’s stomach as he realised what Lyle had been about to say. “Black was friends with them?” He turned on Snape furiously. “Was he friends with you too?”

“Absolutely not,” Snape said with a scowl. “We always loathed each other.”

“But he was still friends with my mum—even though he went over to Voldemort, and now he wants me dead?”

An awkward silence fell. Snape sighed.

“I had always rather hoped Dumbledore or someone would be the one to tell you this, but … Black is the reason your mother is dead. He sold her, and James, out to the Dark Lord. After being named your godfather.”

Harry felt as though he’d been punched by Dudley; he couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t believe it,” Lyle whispered. “I would never have … the last person …” He closed his eyes, looking as shocked as Harry felt.

“He … he betrayed them?” Harry whispered.

Snape nodded. “He was the only one who knew where we were living—not that he knew about Lily and I; James was the only one who knew that. He also killed Peter Pettigrew—” Lyle gasped again “—and twelve Muggles with a single curse. The man is a maniac.”

Harry groaned and put his head in his hand. “This is too much. I can’t take this in.”

“That is why I didn’t want to tell you everything at once,” Snape reminded him. “It is a lot to process.”

And all this on top of the first staggering discovery, which Harry hadn’t fully processed either, yet. It irritated him to realise that Snape had been right. But he was just so sick of secrets.

“Anything else you haven’t told me?” he said hollowly. “Anything more to add? Or is that it now?”

“I think that is all now, Harry,” Snape said in a gentle tone.

“Thank goodness for that,” Harry muttered. “Now I just need a three-month holiday to get it all straight in my head.”

“My advice for now,” Snape said, “is to return to bed. I don’t care what the time is, you look exhausted. I will give you a sleeping potion. And Lyle …”

“I will protect him,” Lyle said firmly, coming out of his shock.

“Right. Let me deal with the Weasleys, and then you two can get to Gryffindor Tower.”

It felt very strange heading to his dormitory accompanied by Snape and an invisible bodyguard. Harry didn’t like the prickling feeling on the back of his neck Lyle gave him, but supposed he was going to have to get used to it—it didn’t look like Lyle was going anywhere, not least until both the assassin and Black were caught.

After the initial shock, Harry was having trouble feeling anything except exhaustion, both physically and mentally. He supposed this was what Snape had called information overload—there was just too much in his head.

They stopped in front of the Fat Lady, having had an uninterrupted journey.

“Get to bed, Potter,” Snape said, back to being the public Snape. He looked like he wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He silently handed Harry the potion and stalked away. Harry said the password, and heard a slight rustle of robes as Lyle climbed through the portrait hole after him.

The common room was empty; everyone was in class. Harry went straight up to his dormitory. He had never been so grateful for a foul-tasting potion in his entire life; he downed the thing the moment he was in bed, and felt his mind beginning to shut down already.

“Night,” he mumbled to Lyle, wherever the man was.

“Sleep well, you highness,” came a whisper.

Harry was only just able to mumble “Call me Harry, please,” before he fell asleep entirely.

-

“Where have you been all morning?”

Severus raised his eyebrows at his employer, who despite looking rather the worse for wear, was still able to project a mixture of concern and sternness into his question.

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be keeping you company, Albus. How are you feeling?”

Albus brushed the question off. “Minerva was in here earlier to see if you were visiting me. She was most annoyed that you had not turned up to teach your class without giving any warning. I have to say, that is most unlike you, Severus.”

“Oh,” Severus said softly. “I’m sorry, Albus. I should probably go and apologise to Minerva, as well.”

“So what happened?”

“I had some … personal business to attend to. I’m afraid my class rather slipped my mind.”

Albus frowned at him. “What personal business?”

 -

It took a while, when Harry woke, for his memories to catch up—for some time afterwards, he just lay there for ages, staring at his hangings and trying to recall how he had ended up back in his dormitory.

Ron pulled a curtain aside slightly, and upon spotting Harry awake in bed, raised his eyebrows and pulled the curtains back fully. “Morning. What are you doing here? Madam Pomfrey didn’t let you out?”

Harry mumbled something indistinguishable. The last thing he remembered clearly was racing Cedric Diggory to the Snitch. After that, everything was fuzzy. He knew he had to have forgotten something big. He remembered Snape telling him he was his father—what could be bigger than that?

Ron sighed. “Hermione’s not gonna be happy when she finds out you sneaked out of there. How are you feeling now?”

“Um … fine.”

“Really? Your shoulder’s better?”

Harry suddenly remembered the sharp pains—the numerous examinations by Madam Pomfrey were beginning to come back. “Oh. Yeah, feels much better.”

Before he could remember why, Ron continued, “Good. How’s Dumbledore?”

Harry slowly sat up, the attack flowing back, and groaned as it brought many more memories. The reason for the attack. His identity. The fact that he had an invisible bodyguard stationed somewhere in this very room.

“You okay, mate?”

“Fine,” Harry lied, rubbing his eyes. “And Dumbledore’ll be okay, Madam Pomfrey says. I’ve asked her to let me know when he’s allowed visitors. I still have to thank him properly.”

“Good.” Ron was still watching him suspiciously. “Do you think it was Black?”

Harry swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut as, finally, the rest of the memories came flooding in. “Don’t know who it was,” he whispered.

“Harry?”

“I’m—fine.” Harry struggled to pull himself together. “What’s the time?”

“Just gone eight. I saw you in here yesterday dinnertime, so you’ve been asleep some time.” Harry realised Ron was already dressed and ready. “Are you going to come to breakfast? You must be starving.”

Harry’s stomach grumbled in response, and he went red as Ron grinned. “Guess that answers it. Come on, then. I’ll wait for you.”