It was one of those things that, once seen, once understood, it could not be unseen. Much as Severus wanted to, much as he wanted to wedge that safe distance back between them, and return to an aloof, cordial coexistence for the remainder of their prescribed cohabitation. Much as he wanted to pretend that he was not considering the headmaster's words more and more, turning them over in his mind, examining his teaching experience and Head of House duties and trying to fathom how much would translate to actual parenting.
Because the boy was Lily incarnate. Once the parallel had been drawn, it was if the bright red-headed girl he'd been drawn to as a child had been superimposed over the boy. His curiosity, his endless questions, the way those green eyes brightened with awe at every tiny revelation about the wizarding world… that was all Lily. In retrospect, instructing the boy on the basics of quill usage had been nothing more than history repeating itself. Certainly Severus' body was older, carried more scars and aches… but he had lived that scene already. Not at his kitchen table. And in those days he'd had to sneak quill and ink from his mother, who guarded her wizarding things jealously in a house where there was little enough money for necessities, let alone the frivolities of 'their kind', as Tobias would call it.
And yes, he'd instructed the boy with the wisdom of many more years behind him. But how could he forget the way he'd guided Lily's hand over the parchment, the way he'd patiently helped her to form all the letters of the alphabet so that she could see just how to best manage their curves and twists? And the little ink stains on her hands when they'd finished… he hadn't dared to tease her about the dark splotches, but she'd teased herself, laughing about how much of a mess she'd made. And she'd smiled at him—gratefully, with a bit of self-deprecation mixed in, and her eyes had sparkled with genuine delight. And Severus' heart had felt so full.
Her son hadn't smiled, no. Severus almost wished…. But he was going soft. It had been a punishment for the boy, an exercise in meditation for the little monster so that he would think twice about simply going his own way and nearly getting himself killed. Something to teach him that an eight-year-old boy was not the epitome of wisdom and good judgment, and would have to rely on others to keep him safe and sane. Copying lines had not been an exercise set for the boy's enjoyment. If anything, it was an exercise to keep him occupied for the morning, and hopefully out of further mischief.
No, the boy had not smiled as he'd struggled through the exercises. But as he'd grown more adept, there had been a quiet air of satisfaction about him that also spoke of Lily. A Lily older than her son's current age, but Lily nonetheless—Lily leaning over a simmering cauldron, Lily penning the conclusion to a long and well-planned essay, Lily demonstrating a complicated charm she'd worked endlessly to master.
Severus shoved his lesson plan aside, giving up on even attempting it. There was no point; he was hopelessly distracted.
He could see himself keeping the boy. And that terrified him more than anything ever had.
Because it was just as he'd told Albus. What did he know about rearing a child? His own childhood was a wasteland, brightened only by moments of kindness shared between him and his mother—rare occasions when Eileen was not too bitter or catatonic to offer a little comfort to her only son. Certainly he could not fashion himself after his own parents and hope to succeed by imitation.
And the Headmaster was certainly no parental figure. Too removed, too involved in his own political schemes and manipulations, too busy safeguarding the world from itself…. And too indulgent by far. Albus held human nature in far too high of esteem, and he would expect a child to develop and live by his own moral code rather than set strict boundaries and consequences. Which would lead to a spoiled, out-of-control boy floundering about, trying to make sense of right and wrong…. And no, Severus would not have that.
Severus knew that he wanted the boy for all the wrong reasons. Not to care for him, not to raise him to a happy adulthood…. No, now he wanted the boy to preserve the last bit of Lily left on the face of the earth. To live out childhood memories through the woman's son. And that was not acceptable.
He would have to give the boy up, to follow through with the original plan. Because it could do Potter no good to remain here.
Besides, it wasn't as if the boy was actually happy here. The only reason he was even moderately content was because he'd been so miserable under his relatives' roof.
And speaking of miserable…..
Severus rose from his desk and made his way out to the sitting room, intending to peer out into the yard to check on the boy. It had been nearly an hour since he'd sent the boy out with instructions to weed the two side plant beds—the only safe parts of the garden. Normally he would just spray on a solution or utter a de-weeding charm, but he'd decided that a little labor would do his charge some good. Perhaps it would tire him out. And a tired Potter would hopefully be less inclined to cause mischief.
The boy was not where he'd left him. He'd apparently finished with the two beds and had moved on to the lawn proper. Severus watched from the window for a few moments as the boy's tiny, frail form, hunched over on his knees, dragged stubborn weed after stubborn weed out of the earth, piling them neatly at his side. He worked diligently, Severus had to admit, and with purpose. Probably instilled into him by those insufferable muggles….
Severus abruptly strode out to the backyard, his gait agitated. "Potter!" he called, managing to startle the boy.
Potter was on his feet in seconds, his eyes wide behind his glasses, one hand still nervously clutching at a fistful of chickweed. "S-sir?" he stammered.
"Leave that," he commanded, gesturing to the weed, "and come inside. I told you to do the beds, didn't I?"
Potter cast his eyes down and stared at his ratty trainers. "Y-yes, but—"
"Not the yard. Are you too foolish to know when your task has been completed?"
"No, sir—"
"Well," Severus snapped, feeling unjustifiably irritated, "it certainly seems like it. Go on, go shower off and get into some clean clothes."
Potter bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry, sir—"
"What are you apologizing for?"
The boy shrugged, his chin still tucked pitifully against his chest.
Severus' jaw clenched automatically, his teeth grinding. "Verbal answers, Potter!" The boy flinched, and Severus sighed. Temper, he reminded himself. "Never mind; go bathe."
Potter fled without another backward glance.
Severus raised a weary hand to rub at his eye. Merlin, he was not fit for this. At least the tremors hadn't started back up. The younger the body, it seemed, the more resilient it was in face of spell damage, particularly the Cruciatus Curse. Then again, Bellatrix was a veritable prodigy when it came to inflicting pain. She'd likely attenuated the strength of her curses to an optimal level, with the intent of prolonging the boy's agony. Maybe she'd intended to drive him into madness like the Longbottoms before finally killing him. Yes, destroying the boy utterly would be more her style….
Severus pulled himself from such morose thoughts. The boy was alive, well, and in his care for a few more days at least. If he could just focus on keeping Potter that way…. He shook his head to himself. Impossible task that that was.
He still needed to do something about the boy's clothing, too, he reminded himself. Perhaps tonight.
And in the meantime… well, there was an entire afternoon to fill. And after setting the boy to weeding, he didn't think it would be terribly humane to have him start on cauldrons already. So, more lines?
No, the boy's hand would cramp, possibly fall off. He'd seen the way Potter had cradled it throughout lunch, trying to be stealthy about his discomfort. Yes, doubtless the boy had had enough of that particular form of torture for one day.
And really, he thought, it wasn't as if the child hadn't already suffered at the hands of Bellatrix. Potter seemed genuinely remorseful, and he'd behaved himself for the most part—barring, of course, the shattered glass and ink stains. Though Severus knew that he could not read genuine malice in those actions, just ineptitude. Products of his upbringing, even.
Well. He wouldn't reward the boy, per se, but there was no need to be an entirely heartless bastard.
Potter returned a quarter of an hour later, his glasses fogged, his hair slick and wet, plastered to his head. His green eyes stayed mostly on the floor, as was the boy's habit, though they darted up on occasion, full of nervous apprehension.
Merlin, the boy still looked as though he expected to be beaten. Severus found himself wondering, not for the first time, just what those vile Muggles had done to him. Though Severus knew that his own demeanor could easily contribute to that impression. Half of the student population, best as he could tell, was convinced that he kept whips and canes around to use on particularly recalcitrant students during detentions. And of course he did nothing to discourage such rumors.
"You may read quietly for the remainder of the afternoon," Severus told the boy coolly, watching with some gratification as shock, then disbelief, then finally relief, twisted over the boy's face. "Provided you can keep yourself out of trouble. One toe out of line and you will be harvesting flobberworm mucus instead."
Potter's face practically glowed by the time Severus had finished speaking. For a moment he was afraid that the boy was going to do something foolish and awkward, like hug him.
"Well?" Severus snapped, shifting uncomfortably under that worshipful gaze. Just because he hadn't flayed the brat….
"Yes, sir," the boy agreed readily, and correctly interpreting his dismissal, scampered off to the bookshelves.
Severus shook his head to himself, thoughts involuntarily straying back to parenting. Clearly the boy respected and listened to him, and that was an essential foundation. It was more than he had with most of the screaming miscreants he was forced to teach, even the more tolerable breed that ended up in his own house.
But respect was not everything, he knew. He'd seen it in the pureblood families, the haunted looks in children who had worlds of respect for their wealthy, powerful parents, but no affection, no emotional connection. And not that Severus was the most sentimental of creatures, but even he could appreciate—from a purely clinical standpoint, of course—that some kind of underlying bond was necessary between parent and progeny, or surrogate parent and ward. Something founded in trust, colored by mutual fondness. No, Severus had no firsthand experience with that kind of relationship, but he could not help but believe that he would be a very different man today if either of his parents had shown him such a degree of care.
As it was, his mother's love had been sparse and erratic. She had been too self-absorbed to take a genuine, prolonged interest in her son, and more often than not she'd looked at him with disgust—her child with tainted blood, the reason that she could not return to her wealthy, respected wizarding family, the reason she was trapped with an abusive, alcoholic Muggle husband in a dingy little squat.
And his father… well. He'd never wanted children, and Severus was not only another mouth to feed, but a wizard to boot, devil's spawn, half-animal. The only attention the man had paid to Severus was with his belt or fists, and even that contact was often followed by slurred Hail Maries in an effort to contain the dark taint of magic. It certainly didn't help Severus' case that Eileen's Prince inheritance—a pittance of books and artifacts that she'd managed to smuggle away with her—were Dark, and proudly advertised the fact with their gruesome illustrations and general evil aura.
Severus shook his head to himself as he retreated back into his lab. Well, he knew how not to behave.
He couldn't give the boy everything he needed, though, much as he might want to. It was just as he'd insisted to Albus, over and over; he was not guardian material. Certainly he could learn, as all new parents did, by that great teacher Experience. But to start out at such a deficiency….
And he was not known for his temperament. So far he'd been able to rein himself in, but what would happen when something pushed him over the edge? When he was tired and prickly and more prone to venting his spleen than usual? He'd brought children to tears on his bad days, by Merlin. Children he only saw for hours each week. What psychological damage could he do to a boy under his constant care?
Not to mention James Potter's son. Oh, he could see Lily in those eyes now, but once the boy grew? Once he donned his Hogwarts robes, Gryffindor crest and all, and became a true miniature James? What then?
Severus sighed and turned to his latest project, another variation on the potent healing draught he'd been developing. Lose himself in his work, that was what he would do. He had time still. He would continue to contemplate the matter, weigh the pros and cons of taking Potter on, explore the limitations of his own conscience. Grapple a bit longer with the latest impossible task that the headmaster had dumped in his lap.
Sighing to himself, Severus reached for the jar of giant's toenails, tipped a modest amount into his mortar and pestle, and began grinding away.
XXXXX
Harry cast another furtive glance back at the door that led to the laboratory. The Professor had told him to read, hadn't he? And he hadn't forbidden anything on this particular shelf.
So why did it feel so wrong to be holding this book in his hands? Surely not because he was doing anything wrong….
Still, Harry couldn't help but continue to shoot nervous glances back at the laboratory door every few minutes, even as he continued to smooth his hand over the cover of the book he'd found. Le lys dans la vallée, by Balzac. Whatever all that meant. Initially it had caught his eye because it was the only book on the shelf that didn't seem to be on wizarding subjects. He'd planned to go back to Hogwarts, a History, but this slender green volume had caught his eye, despite the fact that the words were entirely nonsensical.
It had to have been Fate, though, because there, penned neatly on the inside cover in elegant, looping script, was a note.
Sev,
Here's a little something to help you practice your French. It's one of my favorites. It will probably be too sweet and flowery for you, but I hope that you will try to wade through it anyway. (Maybe I just like it because "Lily" is in the title!)
I hope your summer is starting out better than the last. Please remember that Mum and Dad said that you could come over any time. They're quite fond of you.
One more benefit of you learning French with me: Tuney won't be able to understand a word we say! Yes, she finally dropped lessons. (I know what you'll say, Sev: "not a moment too soon, she had neither the wit nor the talent for it." I have you pegged!). And yes, you don't have to remind me that there are spells for that (remember, some of us get letters from the Ministry the second we even consider doing a little harmless Scourgify).
Anyway, all this to say that I hope to see you soon.
Love always,
Lily
Harry didn't care so much about the meaning of the letter. It could have been a shopping list for all it mattered to him. Because here was something real, something tangible, that his mother had written. He traced the swoops of her cursive reverently, mouthing the words to himself, trying to imagine her saying these things aloud.
He tried to conjure up that voice from his nightmare—because that had to have come from somewhere, right? He hadn't just made up a voice for his mother. His little infant brain had probably captured it and stored it away deep in his memory.
The letters were so beautiful. They had to have been made with a quill. And his mum must have been very good at it, too, because there wasn't a single ugly blot in the letter. No, it was all smooth and practiced, the lines thin and elegant like undulating ribbons. Not like Harry's butchered chicken scratch.
He wondered what her hands had looked like. Were they long and elegant? Aunt Petunia's fingers were long, but not in an elegant way. They were bony, almost skeletal, fit for vicious pinches and little else. Harry had learned early on that it was best not to ask anything about his parents (well, especially his father, but his mother too). It sent Petunia right into a fury and usually resulted in several long days spent in the cupboard with meager meals.
But Harry had learned, too, that just because he couldn't ask about his parents didn't mean that he couldn't imagine about them. As long as he was in his cupboard, he was free to daydream about whatever he liked. So he'd spent long hours trying to recreate his parents from his non-existent memory. His dad, he figured, probably looked something like him. Dark hair, light skin. Maybe his mum too, though Aunt Petunia's hair was very light. Sometimes he imagined his mum looked a lot like his Aunt Petunia, only much prettier. And her face wouldn't be all pinched, like she'd eaten a lemon or swallowed a bug. It would be a lot softer, and she'd have little crinkles at her eyes from smiling all the time.
Sometimes Harry would close his eyes in his little cupboard and imagine being home—his real home, not his aunt and uncle's house. It was a small little house, but cozy, and it always smelled warm, like cinnamon. And there was no loud, blaring telly, and no big, stupid lawn that had to be weed-free and mulched and watered. In the evenings they would all dine at the table together, and Harry's mum would serve him and fuss that he wasn't eating enough, because he was a growing boy and needed to eat all he could. And Harry wouldn't make faces at her like Dudley did at Aunt Petunia, and he wouldn't complain that he wanted his pudding before finishing his dinner. No, Harry would smile and nod at his mum and eat up, and his dad would pat him on the back affectionately and beam at him too.
And then, after they'd finished washing the dishes together (in his dreams, his mum and dad were very playful and flicked suds and water at each other, so the washing up was more a game) they'd all settle down together on the couch, and maybe there would be a big fire. And Harry would curl up between his mum and dad, and they would just talk. Or listen to some nice music on the radio maybe.
But seeing this letter his mum had written the Professor was so much better than imagining. It was stupid, but Harry felt like crying out of joy. His mum had been learning French. And she'd read this book and liked it. Maybe Harry could learn French too someday, and he could read this, and then he'd know if he liked the kinds of books his mum liked.
He was reading the letter over for what had to be the twenty-third time when the sound of a clearing throat dragged him back to reality.
"Ahem."
Harry spun around on his knees, heart thudding, clutching the book to his chest, only to find the Professor leaning against the wall just before the hallway, arms folded over his chest, one brow arched questioningly.
"I did not know that you were bilingual, Mr. Potter."
Heat prickled over Harry's face. He ducked his head down automatically. "What's 'bilingual'?"
"Able to speak two languages." The Professor swept forward, his hard black eyes pinning Harry like a collector's needle though a butterfly. "In this case, French and English. You are fluent in French?"
Harry swallowed hard and shook his head to the ground.
A sigh. "Verbal answers, Potter. Must I beat it into you?"
Harry flinched, but squared his shoulders immediately. He could take a beating, he thought. Sure, he'd only ever dealt with Dudley pummeling him, and the Professor was a lot bigger and a lot stronger than Dudley. But his uncle had clouted him on the head, too, and that had to count for something—
"Figuratively speaking, boy!" the Professor snapped, the irritation in his voice notching up considerably. "I have given you repeated assurances that I will not raise a hand to you, and yet it does not seem to be sinking in. So perhaps more lines are in order, a hundred repetitions of, 'I will answer verbally at all times' as well as, 'Professor Snape is neither a sadist nor a child abuser, and as such he will not allow me to come to physical harm'. Perhaps that will finally force it into your thick skull."
Harry didn't know what a sadist was, but he figured it was a fancy way for the Professor to say that he really, really wasn't going to hurt Harry, just give him chores and lines and all when he misbehaved. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled. He felt bad that he'd flinched and cowered again, but it wasn't like he was thinking about these things. He just sort of reacted, that was all.
Another, heavier sigh. "Back to my original question. Do you understand French?"
Harry swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "No, sir."
"Mm. And did I or did I not instruct you to read for the duration of the afternoon?"
"You did, sir."
"So how is it, Potter, that you are following my instructions when you cannot read the book that you have chosen?"
Harry's hands tightened instinctively around the book's cover. "I—I just wanted to look at it, sir. And then… then I saw the inside cover, and…." Harry bit his lip, hesitating.
He'd been snooping. He knew that for sure now. Even if he'd pushed that niggling thought away at first, it was painfully apparent now that he'd been caught red-handed. And he knew how snoops were dealt with—or at least, how his aunt and uncle would deal with him. Because sneaking and spying and stealing were awful things to do, and he had no right to go nosing about in other peoples' things.
Even if his mother had written it.
Harry gathered up what little courage he had and, holding that strength close to his chest, managed to choke out, "I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have looked. It was really bad of me and—"
"Potter." A third sigh, this time filling every syllable of his name. And before Harry knew what was going on, the Professor had hauled him to his feet by his upper arm and pushed him back to sit on the loveseat. "Eyes up here."
Reluctantly, Harry dragged his gaze up.
Strangely enough, the Professor did not look angry. If anything, he looked exasperated. Wordlessly, the man held his hand out, and Harry deposited the book into his outstretched hand without hesitation. "Your mother gave this to me the summer before our fourth year at Hogwarts."
Harry blinked uncomprehendingly at the man. Wasn't he going to yell? Or at least assign a new punishment?
"The title translates to, 'The Lily in the Valley'. Your mother was right; it wasn't to my tastes. It was a long-winded romance wrapped in a social commentary, and I had no patience for such things. But I never told her that, of course, because I was afraid she would take it the wrong way. I hated every chapter of it, but I trudged my way through anyway, dictionary in hand, just so I could discuss the inanities of the whole thing with her."
Harry stayed quiet, practically holding his breath. This was just like earlier, he realized. The man was lost again in another time, deep in the flow of those memories, and if he spoke too loudly or demanded too much, the spell would break and he wouldn't get to hear another word about his mother.
"I'd forgotten it was out here," the Professor continued musingly, speaking more to himself now. He turned the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing over the binding and the cover in near reverence. "Your mother joked that I should sympathize more with the story's hero. Said that I, of all people, should be able to understand him, Slytherin that he was. Félix was ambitious enough, certainly, but he was also a self-important nitwit hiding his base desires behind a façade of pretty words and convoluted philosophical ramblings."
Harry tried not to stare too blankly, lest he remind the Professor who he was speaking to. If the Professor remembered that Harry was there, and that he would have to explain every complicated little thing, he would probably clam right up and set Harry a thousand or so lines instead, just as he'd threatened.
The Professor blinked and seemed to come back to himself anyway, his eyes flickering down to Harry. "What I mean to say," he said slowly, carefully, as if tasting each word on his tongue, "is that your mother found the hero noble and romantic, and I found him pathetic and self-serving. But your mother did always have a brighter outlook on things than I did."
Harry's lips trembled as he tried to hold back his questions. There were so many he longed to ask, so many things he was dying to know about his mother, and here was someone who could answer them all. But if he pushed he would spoil it, he just knew.
"Ask."
Startled, Harry looked up, meeting the Professor's dark, intent gaze. "Sir?" he breathed.
"Ask your question, before it burns a hole in your tongue."
"What did my mum's voice sound like?" Harry blurted out before he could think better of it.
The Professor tilted his head slightly, his lids drifting half-shut. "Her voice." His voice was instantly rougher, faintly scratchy and strained. "How to describe her voice."
Harry swallowed thickly. "It's okay, sir, if you can't…. I imagine it's a hard thing to describe."
"It is."
Harry tried to be patient as the Professor lapsed back into silence, his hands continuing to turn Le lys dans la Vallée over absently. He dearly hoped that the Professor would at least try, even if it wasn't perfect. Harry could live with that. He just wanted to know something, to have some details to go on, so he could use his imagination to fill in the blanks.
Just when Harry was afraid the Professor would say no more, the man spoke again. "It would be much easier to show you." The Professor crooked a finger at him and, without another word, turned down the hall, toward his own rooms.
After a moment of stunned disbelief and another of hesitation, Harry followed, wondering what the man could possibly mean about showing him.
The Professor led Harry into a room that reminded Harry very much of Uncle Vernon's study, only this room was slightly cluttered and in disarray, and looked far more scholarly than his Uncle's ever could. Shelves ringed the walls, stuffed full of books, most of them old, many of them in languages that Harry didn't recognize. The large, dark-wooded desk had its surface entirely covered by stacks of parchment, books laden with bookmarks, a few inkwells, a smattering of quills. One leather-bound notebook took up the center, splayed open and filled with cramped script that Harry could barely make out. Week Twelve, Properties of Common Herbs…. Potions, perhaps? Maybe the man's lesson plans?
Harry's contemplation of the notebook was thoroughly interrupted when the Professor swept an arm over the desk, shoving parchment and such aside, clearing a space for the heavy stone basin he withdrew from beneath the desk. Strange as the basin itself was, even stranger was the ethereal liquid pooled inside. It emanated a soft, silver-blue glow. The contents swirled, folding over each other like clouds of mist, undulating, rising and sinking.
"A Pensieve," the Professor informed him by way of explanation. "A storage device for thoughts, and also a viewing plane for them…." The Professor hesitated.
Harry's breath caught. A viewing plane for… memories? Did that mean…?
"I can show you a memory of your mother, if you wish." The Professor sounded rather reluctant, and that alone was enough to tighten Harry's stomach and twist it uncomfortably.
But the man had offered. And that was enough. "Please, sir," Harry begged, his words faint. He could scarcely believe this. He might see his mother, might hear her even. It was too much for him to take in.
The Professor dipped his head and, sliding his wand from his sleeve, touched the tip of the dark wood to his temple. The man closed his eyes lightly and, after a pause of a few seconds, drew the tip back, dragging with it a vibrant silver strand. A memory. He dropped it carefully into the basin. Then he beckoned Harry forward with a quick wave of his hand.
Harry stumbled forward, his whole body thrumming with excitement. Too, there was buried a touch of trepidation, because he had no idea how difficult it would be to view the memory, and what if his magic wasn't good enough to let him? Worries stirred like restless birds behind his excitement.
"We'll go together," the Professor announced once Harry was at his side. And the man took a firm hold of Harry's forearm. "Dip your head in. It will be a bit disorienting, but it will not hurt…."
Harry drew in a bracing breath and, without another second of hesitation, mimicked the Professor, lowering his face into the basin as if he were about to perform his ablutions.
The sense of falling was not nearly as frightening as it should have been. Especially not with the Professor's steady, reassuring grip on his arm. They tumbled through the pulsating mists, passing by snatches of things—a disembodied laugh, a twist of robes, a breeze playing through the leaves of a tree. The sensation was exhilarating. Harry barely contained a triumphant laugh. Was this what it felt like to fly?
They landed softly in a swath of grass, beside a large oak whose leaves were starting to turn. Beneath it, stretched out side by side in the shade, were a red-headed girl and a dark-haired boy. His mum and the Professor, both looking to be several years older than Harry.
"Mum!" Harry cried.
The elder Professor's hand tightened around his arm. "She can't hear you, Potter. It's a memory, nothing more."
Harry swallowed thickly and nodded his understanding. "Where are you?"
The Professor jerked his head back behind him in answer. Harry turned and saw two things, an expanse of lake and, settled above that up on the cliffs, a large, many-turreted castle.
Harry gasped. "Hogwarts!"
"Indeed," the Professor agreed mildly.
"Hm, okay, how about… the Cat's Grace Potion?"
Harry turned back so fast that he was certain he'd torqued a muscle in his neck. His mother, asking Snape a question. And how beautiful that voice was. Soft and gentle, but not fragile. It was clear and sweet, imbued with a subtle strength. Harry thought that he could listen to it for hours without tiring.
"Kneazle fur, ground harpy eggshell, and shaved stag antlers for the base, with lady's slipper blossoms and willow bark infused during the process." The young Professor recited the recipe effortlessly, a slightly arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. "Do you give up yet?"
Lily grinned easily at him and slammed the book closed. "Yes, I suppose I have to," she conceded. "Honestly, Sev, didn't you have better things to do over the summer than memorize your textbooks?"
Harry noted the way the younger Professor's smile faltered slightly. But he recovered quickly. "Well, I do take my studies seriously, unlike some—"
Lily smacked his arm lightly. "Don't be mean."
The Professor's smirk turned into an impish grin. "Very well. Not to you. Others, though…."
"I'm not asking for a miracle, Sev. Though it wouldn't kill you to make an effort."
The younger Professor snorted. "Ah, but it might, and then who would you partner in Potions?"
Lily laughed, and the scene began to dissolve before their eyes, breaking back apart into mists that chased each other round and round. And Harry felt himself floating up again, up and out, bursting through the skies….
Harry blinked dazedly as he pulled his head out of the Pensieve. His mother's laugh lingered in his ears like the pealing of some high, clear bell, striking deep into his core and touching at something. He felt… content. Short as the memory had been, it was good to know now that he had heard his mother's voice, that he had more than a mere figment of his desperate imagination.
And it was thanks to the Professor's generosity.
"Thank you, sir," Harry uttered, lifting his eyes to meet the Professor's impassive black gaze. And then he impulsively dashed forward, circled his arms around the man's waist, and squeezed him in a fierce hug.
The Professor went stiff as a steel girder beneath him, and made no move to reciprocate. And then it occurred to Harry that he might have made a grave mistake. Perhaps the man didn't want to be touched by the likes of him…. Harry hastily stepped back, head down, cheeks heated in a very obvious blush.
"S-sorry," he stammered, "I shouldn't have… I just…."
The Professor cleared his throat. "No, it's… it's fine. I… it was not unpleasant."
Harry winced and shriveled back a little further. He'd made the man uncomfortable, if not angry, and now the awkward tension in the room was thick enough to choke. Stupid, stupid, stupid….
"Back to your reading," the Professor announced suddenly. "That was enough of a diversion for now. In fact, let us think up an appropriate assignment for the remaining time before dinner, so that you are not tempted to fritter the evening away."
And without further ado, the man led Harry back to the sitting room, seated him back on the loveseat, and informed him that he was expected to read a chapter of Hogwarts, a History before their evening meal, and to expect to be quizzed on it. And with those instructions, as well as a stern reminder to come fetch him should the pain or tremors start again, the Professor retreated back into his lab.
Harry sighed to himself as he tried to settle back into his reading. Seeing that memory had been so very wonderful, and yet he couldn't help but feel a dark disappointment tugging at his heart. He wouldn't be allowed to stay. He only had a scant few days left with the Professor, before he would be sent off to his new family. And they probably wouldn't have ever known his mother, not the way the Professor had.
Well, he would just continue to do his very best to be very, very good, and hopefully impress the Professor somehow, enough that the man would decide to keep him after all. No more stupid stunts that would make the man angry. Harry would just ask directly, and often, what kind of chores and work he could do, and then the Professor would see how good and kind and helpful he was. And he would have to show the Professor that he was smart, too, because Harry doubted the man would want to open his home to a boy he found dull.
Harry threw himself into his book, paying extra close attention to all the hard words, sounding them out, trying to figure out what they could mean. He wouldn't muddle this up, he promised himself. Not again.
Chapter 12