Snape's Promise by Melolcatsi

Chapter 14

Death Eaters, Werewolves, and Uncle Vladimir

Severus’ fingers hesitated on the buttons of his left cuff. I will do this, he told himself. I will not lie to the boy, I will not omit facts. I will not give him cause to resent me later for having kept this from him.

He’d told the boy of the First War. In general terms, he’d described the Dark Lord’s followers, their purpose, their anger and hatred. He’d told the boy of Lily, clever Muggle-born witch that she was, told Potter the younger of how the redhead was always at the top of her class, how she was brilliant in Charms and defied everything that the Dark Lord stood for.

And then he’d come to that critical moment, those hateful words he’d spewed that had cemented him in his own path, mired him in his own mistakes. He’d been too blind to see that it hadn’t been about the word itself, that ugly slur. No, it had been about what that word meant—the ease with which it slipped from his lips, the natural place it held in his day-to-day vocabulary.

He’d understood eventually, but far too late. After that night he’d pleaded for Dumbledore’s help, after that Halloween when the Dark Lord had slaughtered both Potters and destroyed himself in the process. After the pain of grief had torn through him and shredded every last lie he’d told himself, after he realized that the only way he could say his apologies to her ghost was by devoting himself, body and soul, to fight everything she had fought against.

“Sir?”

Severus’ attention snapped back to the boy, assessing him. Potter seemed apprehensive. Severus sighed. No sense in delaying. Carefully he slipped the button through the hole and began peeling back the black cotton fabric, rolling it with precision, revealing the pale skin one inch at a time.

Severus winced at Potter’s sharp intake of breath.

“Wow! Is that a tattoo, sir? It’s so cool—“

“It is not a tattoo, boy, and it is not ‘cool’,” Severus snarled before he could temper his reaction. He cursed himself as the boy recoiled as if stung. Drawing a deep breath, Severus forced down his anger—mostly a by-product of the intense self-loathing he felt whenever any attention was paid to the Mark on his forearm. “Do you remember what I said, Potter, about the Dark Lord gathering followers?”

Potter nodded slowly, his eyes still wary after Severus’ outburst. Again, the Potions Master cursed himself for unnecessarily frightening the child. After all, how was the boy to know?

“The Dark Lord needed a way to contact the faithful. So those he was closest to, those he trusted with his plans and orders, were… branded.” Severus swallowed in a pathetic attempt to mitigate the dryness that was starting to choke his throat. What would the boy think of him now? Potter would run screaming once he understood the meaning behind this “tattoo”. He would beg for Albus to take him away.

Nothing for it, Severus reminded himself. He’d lied to Lily about this, and he’d lied to himself for too long before that. He would not lie to her child now. He would confess and accept the consequences of his poor choices. Even if it would hurt to be rejected by Potter as Lily had done.

Merlin. When had it come to that? When had he started caring about what the boy thought of him?

He watched in apprehension—and a slight bit of satisfaction, he could admit—as the child put everything together. The boy’s eyes widened in horror.

“You… you used to….”

“Yes,” Severus confirmed quietly, fixing his gaze on the bookshelves to the boy’s side. “I was foolish enough to follow the Dark Lord in my youth. I took the Dark Mark willingly, and I did terrible, unforgivable things in his name.”

“Did it hurt?” the boy asked, voice trembling slightly.

Severus’ eyes snapped back to Potter, and he could feel his eyes blinking automatically as he tried to make sense of the boy’s question. Did it… hurt? That was what concerned Potter the most? Whether the branding had been painful or not? What was wrong with the boy?

Well. No reason not to answer, he supposed. “Yes. It hurt a great deal.”

Potter winced, seemingly in sympathy. Strange boy.

“It was my choice. I should have known better, but I still chose to take the Mark. We have to live with the consequences of our actions.” Severus sighed and lifted a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. Why was this so damned complicated? “You understand what this means? What I have done? What it means in the context of your personal history?”

When Potter didn’t respond immediately, Severus reluctantly pried his eyes up to study the boy. He was chewing his lip thoughtfully, his green eyes narrowed in a look of intense concentration. “You worked for Voldemort.”

Severus flinched as a ghostly twinge of pain lanced up his arm. “Don’t say his name,” he growled, glaring sternly at the boy. “But yes, I did.”

“But you left him,” the boy reasoned slowly, stealing a peek up at Severus’ face as he made this conjecture. “ ‘Cause otherwise you wouldn’t take me in or be nice to me or anything.”

“Be-cause,” Severus emphasized, biting his tongue to keep from threatening the boy with lines about speaking properly. This was not the time. “And yes, you’re correct. I… I changed my mind. I went to Professor Dumbledore to see if I could do anything to atone… to make up for all the evil things I’d done. I spied for him for a good while, until the Dark Lord was vanquished. It was too late to make up for the worst of my sins, though.” Severus drew a deep, bracing breath. Here it was. The words that would drive the boy away. “Do you know what a prophecy is, Harry?”

Harry fiddled idly with his teacup. “No, sir.”

Severus sighed. Yes, nothing was easy. “It is a prediction, usually one that comes true. Certain witches and wizards have a special gift, and they—they deliver these prophecies. You’ve heard of riddles, yes?”

The boy’s brow creased briefly in offense. “Yeah. Like, what has hands but cannot clap? Our teacher told us some in primary once.”

Severus nodded. “Well, prophecies are like riddles, but much harder to understand. Most are not understood until what they have foretold has already come to pass.”

The boy’s brow furrowed further. “But if that’s true, then why bother with them at all? Isn’t that like… like only understanding the weather report from the day before?”

Exactly, Severus wanted to say. He’d never had any great love for Divination. But he knew that there were several wizards and witches—respectable members of the community, nonetheless—who would thoroughly disagree with such a simplistic assessment. And he knew that poisoning the boy against all prophecies now would do him no favors in the future, only close his mind. He was far too impressionable at this age.

“Perhaps,” Severus hedged. “Sometimes, though, just enough is understood that certain actions can be taken to avoid disasters. It is a poorly-understood art.”

Severus watched the boy’s fingers as they nervously stroked the handle of his teacup.

“Was there a prophecy about Vol—about him, sir?” he inquired after a moment.

Severus allowed his eyes to fall shut now. So much for courage, he thought bitterly. Here he was, having to be led into this difficult admission by an eight-year-old. He could not find enough nerve to broach the subject on his own. Pathetic.

“Yes, there was. One about him… and you.” Then, before he could falter further, he pressed on. “I—I was the one to overhear it, actually. I was still in the Dark Lord’s service, and I had gone for an interview in Hogsmeade—a wizarding village,” he explained at the boy’s confused look, “when I heard it. I… I only heard half, but that was enough for me to run straight back to the Dark Lord.” Severus had to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I… I am truly sorry, Harry. It was hearing of that prophecy that set the Dark Lord after your parents.”

Severus was not surprised when the little boy shrank back suddenly, his body hunching over protectively, his legs curling inward to lift his knees. “What did it say?” he whispered. Severus barely caught the words.

Severus had to wet his lips a few times before he managed to even start the recitation. He fumbled over the words, even though he knew them so well that he could recite them in his sleep—and often did, especially in his nightmares. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have a power the Dark Lord knows not.” Severus stood abruptly, nearly overturning his teacup in his haste, and paced over to the window overlooking the back yard. “Albus would have my head for laying this all on your shoulders, Potter, but you have a right to know. Especially if you would have me as your guardian.”

Silence. And then the boy’s small, timid voice, amidst the heaviness of that silence, his words vibrating in the air like stones cast into a still pond. “I don’t think I understand the prophecy, sir.”

Severus allowed himself a small, grim smile, and barely restrained himself from retorting that no one understood prophecies, and that he had just finished explaining that concept. “You know the circumstances of your parents’ deaths. The Headmaster told you that much, I know. You vanquished—that is to say, defeated—the Dark Lord that night. You fulfilled your role.” He turned back to the small child, keeping his eyes on the coffee table, on the tea tray, anywhere but those emerald eyes. He could not bear to see the child’s judgment. Not yet. “Born to those who have thrice defied him… your parents fought the Dark Lord viciously, with everything they had. Three times they confronted him. Three times they defied him. Born as the seventh month dies… I believe, Potter, that you know that July is the seventh month, and that your birthday falls at the very end—as the month dies, as it were. Do you follow so far?”

Severus caught the boy’s sharp nod out of the corner of his eye. He took that as a cue to continue.

“Marked as an equal… well, you bear the scar.”

The boy tugged at his fringe self-consciously, as if he could deny that fact by hiding the physical mark.

“As for the power the Dark Lord knows not… if the Dark Lord himself does not know, I scarcely believe that anyone else could venture a guess.”

Another solemn nod was the boy’s only response to this information. Then he lapsed back into a pensive silence, his brow drawn together unpromisingly.

Severus forced himself to settle back into the armchair. For want of something to do—anything, really, to distract him from the nerves that had him so on edge—he began meticulously rolling his sleeve back down, re-covering every inch of the blasted Mark that stood out, even faded as it was, starkly against his pale skin.

“Vol—he knew to go after me, after hearing the prophecy,” Harry began after a good long while of silence. “I was the only one who it could have been.”

Severus shook his head, fighting the urge to cringe as he remembered his own futile arguments with the Dark Lord. Oh, how he’d tried in vain to condemn the Longbottoms in place of the Potters. “There was another boy, born around the same time, who would have met the criteria. The Dark Lord did not choose him, though.”

Potter’s bright eyes shot up, surprised. “But—but he could have?”

Severus heard the plaintive not in the boy’s voice, the clear longing for what could have been a much more pleasant childhood. Had the Longbottoms been chosen, Harry would still have both of his parents. He would have grown up in a loving home, not with Petunia and her ilk. So much had been taken from him by that single decision.

Too, by Severus’ own role. Had he never delivered that thrice-damned prophecy in the first place….

“Yes, he could have. But he did not.”

The boy curled in tighter on himself. “I wish….” The words were no more than a faint breath.

Severus felt his throat tighten in response to the unspoken wish. “As do I. I wish, in fact, that I’d not been so foolish as to run to the Dark Lord with that prophecy. I wish I’d realized then and there that I would be signing the death warrants of your parents. I… I will never forgive myself for that—“

“Voldemort killed them,” Harry interrupted suddenly, his words angry and fierce. He straightened as he spoke, his spine suddenly rigid and unyielding.

Severus flinched once more at the pain, but this time he did not have the heart to correct the boy. There were more important things to address. “He did, but I—“

“He didn’t have to listen, did he? He—he could have just left them be. ‘Cause—because he really wanted to kill me. And that’s stupid, because I was just a little baby. He didn’t have to be scared of me. But he was. So it was Voldemort’s fault, no matter what the—the prophecy thing said.”

Severus closed his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully himself. To be young, he thought, and for things to be so beautifully simple. To understand nothing of this twisted web of guilt woven over them all, with the murders of this poor boy’s parents at the epicenter of it all. “Harry, you do not understand. My actions led directly to their demise. Blame the Dark Lord for their murders, yes, but I am equally at fault—“

“But you can’t be!” the boy protested, a note of panic worming its way into his tone.

Merlin. The boy couldn’t stand whatever image he held of Severus to be tarnished. It was both endearing and horribly guilt-inducing. Why on earth had Potter put him on a pedestal? He hadn’t been overly indulgent with the boy. Hell, he’d been cold and strict and unapproachable for the most part, hadn’t he? Everything that should have put the child off.

But no. Harry Bloody Potter had turned him into some kind of saint who’d rescued him from his relatives, and now, hearing the truth of Severus’ past, the boy was fairly imploding. Perhaps this “whole truth and nothing but” business had been a dreadful idea after all.

“You didn’t mean to get them killed,” Harry argued frantically, rising from his seat and overturning his teacup in his agitation. His eyes were wide and pleading. “Besides, Voldemort—him, I mean—he would have murdered them anyway, wouldn’t he? You said that they stood up to him and fought against him. He wanted them dead already. And he would have killed me too probably, right? So—so it didn’t change anything.”

Severus rubbed his temples hard, trying to stave off the migraine that was quickly building behind his eyes. Yes, what the boy was saying was true, but even so, it did not excuse Severus’ actions. The Potions Master knew that all too well. He would not run from what he’d done; he would face it down every day, he’d vowed, and suffer the agony of those consequences. Now, if only he could explain culpability to his young charge—idealistic Gryffindor though he was.

“And besides,” Potter continued blithely, “you’re good now, so it doesn’t matter.”

Severus was… good? Where had this pronouncement come from? Not that he’d put it past the boy to make such simplistic, absolute judgments of character, but still. And why did those words feel so strangely close to absolution?

Severus immediately brushed the notion off. An eight-year-old could not understand enough of the situation to forgive sins of such magnitude.

Still, Severus needed to know what the boy meant by those words, and how he’d reached such an absurd conclusion. Severus was bitter, yes, penitent, resolved, miserable, acerbic, anti-social… the list went on. But nowhere in that collection of attributes was the word “good”.

Severus settled for the simplest question he could formulate. “Am I?” He fought to keep his tone even and aloof, but it trembled noticeably.

Harry’s bright, Lily-green eyes locked onto his, and the small boy’s gaze seemed to penetrate through every wall Severus had ever tried to erect between himself and the world, straight down to the most vulnerable and starved parts of himself.

“Yes,” the boy replied steadily, with absolute conviction, “you are.”

Severus swallowed thickly. “And how do you know this, Potter?”

Still the boy’s gaze did not waver; it was as steadfast as the certainty lurking in those emerald depths. “You take good care of me. You teach me things and let me play, and when I have nightmares you come and sit with me until I feel better. And you want me to stay with you.”

Severus wanted to snort at that, to inform the boy that any simpleton could play the role of devoted caretaker long enough to gain permanent custody before enacting any of their cruel or perverse desires. He wanted to tell the boy that he was young and hopelessly trusting, and that he would do well to guard his heart. He wanted to assert that he, Severus Snape, was not good simply because he’d managed to provide for the boy’s basic needs for a short time.

But try as he might, Severus could not get any of those thoughts past his lips. So he turned away, hiding his face, and said nothing as he contemplated how to regain control of this conversation.

It was no use, though. Potter had other ideas. The boy carefully extricated himself from his seat and shuffled over toward Severus, his posture both cautious and determined. When he was close enough, he placed a tentative hand on the man’s sleeve. The gesture of comfort was too bizarre coming from the small boy.

And too welcome, Severus thought.

“I drove your mother away from me,” he confessed suddenly, unable to help himself. Damn those innocent eyes to hell. He wanted—needed—to tell this boy everything and beg for the child’s forgiveness. “I called her an awful name when we were in school. I let her believe that I thought less of her for being born to Muggles.”

The small hand did not withdraw. In fact, it squeezed tighter. “Did you say you were sorry?”

This child, he thought, fighting not to shake his head. “I did,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t enough.”

Potter’s face crumpled in dismay. “It should be enough,” the boy asserted. “If you say you’re sorry and mean it, it should be enough.” Those green eyes shot up to his, suddenly accusatory. “You did mean it, didn’t you?”

Severus fought to make his tight throat swallow. “I was sorry that I’d hurt her,” he hedged.

Potter didn’t seem to notice his careful qualification of the statement. “And… and you’re still trying to make it up to her now, right? With me?”

Severus nodded solemnly. That remained truer than ever. Lily, I will cherish your son, he thought. I will give him everything that you cannot because of my foolish choices. There was no use in condemning himself so thoroughly, he thought, that he found himself entirely unworthy of taking on Potter’s guardianship. He had told the boy the essential facts. He would answer the child’s questions now. And Potter had forgiven him willingly enough. That was the end of it.

And if Potter changed his mind later, as he matured and was better able to evaluate the situation—without the childish innocence that currently clouded his view of things—well. He would simply have to weather that storm if—when—it came.

For now….

“I think she would be happy with you,” Potter offered quietly. “No matter what you did in the past. My primary teacher once said we have to forgive others so that they can forgive us when we mess up.” The boy paused for a moment, as if pondering over a particularly complex thought. “And,” he added, his high, childish voice far too serious, “she said that actions speak louder than words.” It was impossible to miss the gratitude underlying those words.

Severus nodded once to accept this. It would not do, he thought, to look a gift horse in the mouth.

XXXXX

Harry couldn’t keep the bounce out of his step as they made their way to the fireplace in the Professor’s study. They were going to Hogwarts. The Professor wanted to adopt him. Could things get any better?

Well, Harry had to admit it would have been better if the Professor hadn’t looked so sad and upset earlier. Harry could understand, sort of, after what the man had told him about his past and the prophecy and all. But at the same time, none of that really mattered to Harry. So what if the man had once followed Voldemort? He didn’t anymore. And the man still felt just awful about it. That was plain to see.

And it wasn’t as if he’d murdered Harry’s parents himself. Though the Professor felt like he had. In fact, he’d tried to protect Harry’s mum—though the man could only concentrate on the fact that he hadn’t tried to protect his dad and baby Harry too. Okay, maybe that was bad, Harry had to admit, but the Professor had looked so miserable as he’d confessed that. Harry had to believe that, if given the chance now, the man would trade his own life for all three Potters. And that, Harry had reminded himself emphatically, was all that really mattered.

“This will be different than Apparition,” the Professor warned him as he pulled a glazed ceramic dish down from the mantel. “More unpleasant, in my opinion, but less violent.” The man seemed to have recovered his equanimity after their previous conversation. He’d disappeared for a few hours after Harry had run out of questions, still morose, and when he’d turned back up announcing that they had an appointment to keep with the headmaster, he’d seemed more himself.

“Will it hurt?” Harry asked shyly, crowding obediently closer to the Professor when the man beckoned to him.

“No, it should not.” Snape guided Harry directly into the empty grate, pushing the boy’s head down lightly so that it would clear the stone of the mantel. He stepped in after the boy, crowding into the narrow space along with him. It was tight, but roomier than Harry had anticipated, though he had to press uncomfortably close to the professor’s midriff in order to fit.

“You’ll be flooing with me,” the Professor informed him. His voice rang loudly in Harry’s ears, amplified by the brick and mortar of the chimney. “As with Apparition, hang on tightly. And close your mouth and don’t breath through your nose, else you’ll get a lungful of ash.”

Harry obeyed as best he could, sealing his mouth and puffing out his cheeks as he held his breath in. The Professor wrapped an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer.

“Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts!” Professor Snape through down a handful of silvery, powdery substance, and suddenly a green fire flared to life all around them.

Harry barely contained his startled gasp as he braced himself to be burned alive. But the flames were not unbearably hot, just warm and dry, and Harry had little time to contemplate them, as they were immediately shot up like a rocket, spinning and twisting wildly amidst the maelstrom of hot air and ash. Harry buried his face in the Professor’s dark, coarse robes and held tightly, even as the forces of the floo seemed to attempt to part them.

Then a few seconds later they were tumbling somewhere, and gravity returned full force. It clamped down on Harry like a vice, and if it hadn’t been for the Professor’s steadying hands on his shoulders he would have tumbled face-first onto the rug.

He couldn’t see out of his glasses. They were all gray from the trip through the fireplace. He was about to rub his palms against the lenses to clear them when they were plucked from his nose, then redeposited, spotless. Harry blinked up at the Professor, who was now leveling his wand at Harry. The man uttered something, and Harry felt a gentle breeze surround him before glancing down at his clothes—a button-down shirt and dress slacks that the Professor had shrunk down for him. They, too, were immaculate once more, not a speck of ash on them.

Harry couldn’t help himself. He grinned up at the Professor. “Thanks.”

The Professor merely quirked a brow at him, which Harry had learned was the man’s way of saying “you’re welcome”. And then, as if to explain away the action, he added, “We have to have you presentable for the headmaster.”

Harry chose not to respond to that. Instead, he started to look around the room they’d flooed into—the Headmaster’s office. He’d never seen such a wonderful place in all his life. Even the shops in Diagon Alley couldn’t compare, he thought, as he examined the various magical instruments that buzzed and whirred on the man’s shelves. He paused before a strange contraption where a collapsible golden ball was slowly shrinking and expanding. It was surrounded by four thin golden rods that stood erect like pillars. Harry reached out a finger to push at the floating ball, to see if it would move.

"Potter!" A hand closed around his wrist, restraining it.

Harry jumped back, his gaze swinging guiltily to the professor.

Snape was glowering down at him, his fingers still mercilessly tight around Harry’s wrist. “We do not touch what is not ours—“

“No harm, Severus!” came the Headmaster’s jovial voice. He swept down from the staircase behind the desk, his wrinkled face pulled into a bright grin. “There’s nothing in here that cannot be fixed with a simple reparo! Hmm, except, perhaps, the Obfuscifying Orblet… ah, but happily that is on a shelf well beyond young Harry’s reach. And how are you this fine evening, Harry? Keeping Professor Snape on his toes, I hope?”

Harry couldn’t help but marvel at how strange the headmaster appeared in that moment. He’d donned an emerald green robe, a rather loud number, and Harry could swear that the embroidery at the edges of the sleeves was sparkling. The man was grinning broadly over his crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, looking to all the world like a deranged lunatic. But a kindly lunatic, Harry thought, like the sort who would babble nonsense to himself in the corner of an asylum.

Then Harry flushed to himself for thinking such a terrible thing, because clearly the Professor respected the headmaster a great deal, even if he did have his quirks. But it was still so odd, Harry thought, to see men and women walking about in garish robes as if they were perfectly normal.

But then, the Professor still mocked him for gaping at floating dishes whenever they had their meals together.

“Hello, sir,” Harry offered politely, retreating as he did toward the Professor. He felt better once he was at the man’s side, though Harry didn’t know why such as small thing should make a difference.

“Well, let us not linger out here,” the headmaster announced, clapping his hands together. He seemed rather excited this evening, Harry thought. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing. “I thought a more intimate setting might be appropriate for this meeting, so our guest is awaiting us in my parlor. Come now, boys, pip pip! Up the stairs, no reason to tarry!”

And with that he ascended back up the stairs, not even bothering to wait for them.

“Don’t worry, Potter,” Snape said out of the side of his mouth as he strode forward to comply. “Whatever he has isn’t catching, else we’d have all been driven mad long ago.”

Harry grinned to himself as he followed. He liked it when the Professor joked like this. He wished the man would do it more often.

He trailed after the pair, casting one longing glance back at the contraptions in the headmaster’s office. What he wouldn’t give, he thought, to be able to spend just a little more time here. He liked the Professor’s home, but it was so very plain by comparison.

Well, maybe he could convince the Professor to get a few contraptions like the headmaster’s. Perhaps the man wouldn’t mind too much.

“Coming, boy?” Snape called impatiently from the top of the stairs.

Harry realized that he’d allowed himself to become distracted. He shook himself out of his daze and hurried up the steps to catch up with the Professor.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what to expect once they entered through the portal at the top of the stairs. Another office, perhaps, with more tempting magical gizmos for Harry to appreciate. With his eyes, this time, he firmly told himself.

Instead, they entered into a grandiose—but entirely dignified—sitting room, where the Headmaster and another man were waiting for them, both perched on overstuffed antique armchairs. The Headmaster was still beaming at them both, the wrinkled lines of his face carved in what appeared to Harry to be unadulterated delight.

The other man, however, was far more reserved. His clothing, to begin with, was utterly dull compared to the Headmaster’s. He wore what appeared to be an olive robe, and beneath that a pressed white dress shirt. Nothing remarkable, except that the robe still looked absurd to Harry. The Professor donned them occasionally, but he was just as likely as not to wear only his slacks and a button-up shirt.

In a way, his stony expression reminded Harry greatly of the Professor. He was older, and balding, the remains of his halo of pale brown hair scraped uselessly over the glaring bare patch that radiated up from his forehead. He was not as thin as the Professor, and his features not nearly as sallow, though they were washed out. Harry’s eyes immediately fell to the small mole just to the left of the man’s nose.

His grey-green eyes immediately locked on Harry, and he rose to his feet fluidly. He gave a curt nod to Harry before turning rather stiffly to face the Professor.

Automatically, Harry moved closer to the Professor.

“Albus.” The Professor uttered the Headmaster’s name like he might a dirty word. “Whatever scheme you’ve concocted this time, you’ve neglected to mention involving third parties—“

“Severus, may I present Vladimir Afanasyev? He has graciously agreed to assist us with our current quandary.”

Harry stole a glance at the Professor’s face. The man’s lips were puckered unhappily, his brow drawn. But he still extended a hand to the man.

“A pleasure. Severus Snape, Master of Potions—“

The stranger squeezed the Professor’s hand in what looked to Harry to be a painful grip.

“Here at Hogwarts, yes. I have heard much about you from Albus. Much.” The man’s words struck Harry as rather dark and hinting, but he couldn’t understand why. “Your past, in particular, I have found… fascinating.”

The Professor’s lips pressed together more tightly. “It is well behind me. And I beg you to remember that.”

The man released the Professor’s hand and stepped back slightly, arching a brow. “Hm. Indeed. Albus has reassured me several times over of your good character, and as my faith in him is absolute….” The man shrugged. “I suppose his good opinion will be enough for me.”

Harry moved a touch closer still to the Professor, who by then was holding himself taught as a bowstring. “So glad to hear it. Now, if I might inquire of you both why your good opinion should matter….”

The Headmaster cleared his throat lightly. “This is Vladimir Afanasyev, Severus. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

The Professor simply stared in response. “I have heard the name Alexander Afanasyev, yes, in association with Russian literature, but only in passing. As for a Vladimir, however….”

“Ah.” The Headmaster turned apologetically to the man—Vladimir. “Of course. I don’t suppose that you are particularly well known outside of our chosen field, hmm? Vladimir is a respected expert in the field of Transfiguration—particularly, he is well-known for his contributions to the field of Meta-Magics, which is to say—“

“Spells, incantations, and rites that influence magic itself, yes,” the Professor interrupted in a bored drawl. “I am educated, Albus. But I believe that I—that we both, in fact—are owed something of an explanation. The hearing is hours away, you realize—“

“Yes, yes,” the Headmaster agreed, waving a hand as if to bat aside the Professor’s concerns. “Hmm… where to begin. Vladimir, I don’t suppose that you would do the honors? And let us all sit, yes? It makes for a more pleasant conversation.”

The Professor sighed and lowered himself onto the sofa. Harry hesitated until the Professor arched an impatient brow at him and jerked his head rather sharply toward the empty place beside him, indicating that Harry should take it. Harry did.

“Very well,” the Professor sighed, “I suppose that you’ve hatched some scheme involving complex transfigurative magics designed to disguise me….”

The Headmaster and the stranger exchanged a significant glance.

“In a way, yes,” the Headmaster conceded after a moment.

“Albus, this is a case of guardianship that we’re discussing—not to mention the guardianship of Harry Potter! Turning me into a complete stranger will do us no favors—“

“Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” the Headmaster suggested musingly, tugging at that long beard of his.

Harry watched the stranger, Mr. Affayessa-something—Afanasyev—who was regarding him and the Professor with something like an amused look. “The beginning. Yes. Well, I am not here merely because I am an old acquaintance of Albus’. It just so happens that I am a distant cousin of Lily’s—twice removed, on her mother’s side, the line that traces back to Russia. I did not know her well, but we corresponded briefly in her later school years, mostly concerning things of an academic nature. She’d read up on my work, you understand, and, her natural curiosity piqued—especially considering that we are related and magical—”

“You are Muggle-born, and so was Lily. You exchanged letters.” The Professor made a sharp, impatient gesture with one of his hands. “Much as I would like to hear the entirety of this saga, Mr. Afanasyev, we are, in fact, on a rather tight schedule. So, if you would kindly get to the point….”

The stranger cast a strange look at the Headmaster, one that seemed to Harry to mean that he’d been warned about how snappish the Professor could get.

“Very well, Mr. Snape.” The man folded his hands over his lap and fixed his steel-grey stare on the Professor. “I was fond of Lily, though I did not know her well. And I would very much like to do all I can to aid her child”—here the man’s gaze strayed back to Harry, strangely sad—“though I could not take him myself.”

The Professor made a scornful noise as he shifted restlessly on the sofa. “Is this right, Albus? If I express reservations, you push and prod me into doing what you wish, but if one of your esteemed colleagues has his doubts, you let him go without hesitation? When I agreed to take the boy, I was told he had no other options! That it was my home or an orphanage, effectively! Yet here is a blood relative who might stake a legitimate claim, where I have none!”

Harry couldn’t help but shrink back a ways from the Professor at those words. They sank like stones into his stomach, weighing him down, pulling with them every last little shred of joy he’d felt when the Professor had offered to let him stay. The man didn’t actually want him there, of course. He’d thought that Harry had no other options.

Stupid of him to think that those pictures, that all those stories, that the memories of his mother meant anything. No, Harry was just luck that the Professor had decided to share those at all. Harry wrapped his arms tightly over his midsection and ducked his head down, doing his best not to let his hurt show.

The Headmaster cleared his throat lightly, and Harry felt without seeing the elder wizard’s gaze shifting to him. “Severus, perhaps I misunderstood our conversation earlier? It seemed to me then that the prospect of having Harry stay with you was not nearly so… hm… onerous.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Snape growled. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear! I merely mean to say that—well! That surely he will be better off with a blood relative than with….”

“Not with me, I am afraid,” Mr. Afanasyev cut in, his words low and smooth. “I am afraid I am not what your Ministry would deem a… hm, a reliable guardian. Not to mention that I absolutely will not subject myself to any blood-based tests.” Mr. Afanasyev’s eyes swung to the Headmaster’s, and Harry thought that there was a question there. Not like the man was asking for permission, but asking if what he was about to do was a good idea.

The Headmaster nodded once, firmly, his long white beard dipping deep, nearly to his waist.

“Very few are privy to this information, Professor,” Mr. Afanasyev began warningly. “And for good reason. I can trust that what is said here will not go beyond the confines of this room?”

Harry saw the Professor’s gaze flicker to the Headmaster, the question in his eyes nearly the same as Mr. Afanasyev’s had been earlier. And again the Headmaster gave a steady nod, his blue eyes solemn.

“Provided that you are not a fugitive criminal, or something equally abhorrent, yes, I will keep my own counsel.”

Harry startled when Mr. Afanasyev burst out into deep, throaty laughter.

“And how, Professor, might you define ‘equally abhorrent’? Quite a wide loophole you have left yourself, no?”

“You do not trust my discretion, Mr. Afanasyev?” Snape shot back, his frown deepening the furrows of his brow.

“Severus, I quite assure you, the only danger posed by this knowledge is to Vladimir’s academic career and social standing,” the Headmaster offered soothingly.

“Salacious, then. You are afraid I will use it as fodder for blackmail? Or that I am a hopeless gossipmonger?”

“I ask only your word that you will not share this with anyone,” Mr. Afanasyev replied calmly. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Snape drew in a deep, sharp breath, his shoulders rising and nostrils flaring with the force of it. He exhaled very slowly. “Very well.”

“I contracted lycanthropy nine years ago, during Voldemort’s”—the Professor winced slightly—“first rise to power. Rather than risk total alienation from my colleagues, I announced that Europe had become too dangerous for me, and my research too dangerous for Europe, and I relocated to a remote region of Siberia. My mother was a full-blooded Russian, and so I speak the mother tongue well enough to get by. I have maintained correspondence, academic and otherwise, with colleagues, but I have not been back in the public eye here in Europe since my self-imposed exile.”

Harry didn’t really understand much of what had been said. He knew from “contract” that Mr. Afanasyev was sick somehow, but didn’t know what with. He also didn’t understand how that mattered at all, except to explain why Harry couldn’t have lived with him. Well, that and the man lived in Siberia, which Harry knew was really, really cold and far away.

The room grew very silent, so silent that the occasional crackle and pop of the fire seemed to echo deafeningly in the small chamber.

Harry steeled himself. The Professor may not really want Harry, but he’d always answered all of Harry’s questions, and patiently too. Sometimes with a little nod of approval, even, like it was a good thing that Harry asked rather than remain ignorant.

Harry tugged lightly at the Professor’s sleeve to get the man’s attention. The Professor turned slightly, a brow raised.

“Sir, what’s—what’s lion-throwy?”

“Lycanthropy,” the Professor corrected automatically. “It is a disease with no cure. Its—victims”—the Professor spoke the word as though he thought it didn’t really fit—“transform into werewolves during the full moon. They lose all sense of self and attack friend and foe alike during that time.”

Harry cast a fearful glance over at Afanasyev. A werewolf? Like the kind in horror films that they sometimes showed on the telly?

“Unless,” Afanasyev interjected coolly, “they have access to a very special potion, young Harry. Wolfsbane. It allows us to keep our minds, though we still become a bit hairier than we desire.” The man winked at him, and Harry felt himself inexplicably relax. So what if the man turned into a werewolf, anyway? It wasn’t like the people who did ever actually wanted to. Right?

“And that is what you will get out of this mad scheme, yes?” the Professor pressed, his tone growing sharp. “A lifetime supply of Wolfsbane, in exchange for—what? I still haven’t the foggiest idea of how you intend this to work out—”

“Patience, Severus,” the headmaster chided.

“I already have a competent supplier in Siberia,” Afanasyev informed the Professor coolly. “But thank you for assuming I would only act out of self-interest.”

“I merely meant to offer my services, should you have need,” the Professor drawled. “No need to take offense.”

“Shipping an unstable, time-sensitive brew halfway across the world seems a touch impractical, no?”

There was a snide edge in Afanasyev’s voice that reminded Harry of his aunt’s neighbors getting together to brag about house renovations. They were always trying to outdo each other, or cut each other down. He remembered how his aunt would disguise her criticisms as compliments. Yes, it’s lovely, Dawn—so wonderful that you can get serviceable carpeting on a budget. And such bold colors! One would think that they would be an eyesore….

“I’ve no knowledge of the competence of brewers in Siberia,” the Professor remarked flippantly. “For all I know, you’ve been forced to lock yourself in a shack for full moons and to suffer through the repercussions alone.”

“I, Mr. Snape, have the foresight to do my homework on a particular region before I commit to moving there. I knew that a fine brewer lived a short pop away from the area I’d chosen. Truly, I find it strange that such a precaution would not even occur to you; Albus had, after all, reassured me that you were an intelligent man.”

“I am a man of many talents, Mr. Afanasyev. I rarely am forced to rely on others for substances vital to my well-being. One would think you had learned the value of self-sufficiency, living as you have—"

“Boys,” the Headmaster cautioned, glancing between the pair. “We are not here to compare wand lengths.”

Harry did not understand the Headmaster’s remark, nor why the Professor’s normally sallow skin was suddenly flushed bright red.

“Albus!” the man hissed.

Mr. Afanasyev, on the contrary, looked vaguely amused, with a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

Harry tugged on the Professor’s sleeve again. “Sir,” he asked as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, “what does he mean, wand lengths?”

“Albus, care to explain to the child what you mean by comparing wand lengths?” the Professor demanded caustically.

The Headmaster smiled brightly at Harry. “Certainly. You see, Harry, in this case, wands are analogous to a certain part of the male anatomy—”

And Harry heard no more than that, as the Professor promptly clamped his hands over Harry’s ears. Though Harry had no trouble hearing the Professor, whose voice had rose considerably in volume.

“He is eight years old! Don’t you dare.” The Professor waited a moment, and Harry could just feel the man’s glare. After a few seconds the Professor removed his hands.

“You invited me to explain, Severus.”

“And if I invited you to take a flying leap off the Astronomy Tower, would you comply?”

“That sounds like a rather invigorating proposal—”

“Ahem.” Mr. Afanasyev cleared his throat rather conspicuously. “I was under the impression that I was invited here for more pressing matters. The boy’s custody hearing?”

“Ah, yes. Now, Severus, you understand Vladimir’s difficult position. He cannot remain long in our community without arousing suspicions, or risking a brewer’s indiscretion—”

“I repeat that I could be perfectly discreet,” the Professor interjected, casting a meaningful glare toward Afanasyev.

“Mm. I do not doubt your discretion, Mr. Snape, but there is no need for it. Regular absences at the full moon would be difficult enough to explain. That, and my work truly is dangerous, and best left to… hm, less populated areas. My return is out of question. However, I may be able to assist you as, from what I understand, you do not possess the necessary credentials to be considered as a guardian for young Harry Potter.”

The Professor stiffened beside Harry. “Yes, that is correct. You have already remarked upon my past, and I’ve no blood ties to the boy.”

Mr. Afanasyev nodded curtly. “I propose to lend you my identity—to allow you take on the boy in my stead. I can claim blood ties through his maternal line, and we can tell the story that Harry has been staying with me after he was removed from his relatives’ care. For public appearances you may assume my identity, and claim that you and the boy are often away for work to deter any would-be well-wishers.”

The Professor huffed. “A fine plan, but even Polyjuice has its limits. For one, it would never allow me to pass Ministry-administered tests. And unless you plan on owling regular shipments of your hair to supplement whatever we might harvest from you now, my ability to take the boy out in public will be unduly restricted.”

“Precisely why I am not proposing Polyjuice.” Afanasyev reached into his robes and withdrew a smallish black rectangle, one that was slightly larger than his hand. It appeared to be made of something very hard, because Harry could see how the light glinted off the surfaces of the box. “This is another secret, Mr. Snape, the fruits of my labors. I trust that, as a fellow innovator, you will not go about chattering idly about what I have done?”

The Professor just glared at the man for some time. Finally, he replied in a very hard tone, “I do not chatter. Nor do I gossip. I am a very insular man, not a hare-brained socialite in desperate need of scandalous rumors to spread about.”

Again, Harry saw that Afanasyev was practically smirking, as if he were merely teasing the Professor, and enjoying it all the while. “Very well.” The man withdrew a wand—pale, almost bleached, unlike the Professor’s. Harry squinted at it closely, trying to decide if it was long or short compared to the Professor’s. But his focus on that immediately dissolved when Afanasyev tapped his wand against the black square.

The top lifted slowly, like a clam raising its shell, until the solid black rectangle was transformed into something akin to the jewelry boxes that Uncle Vernon occasionally brought home to Aunt Petunia. And there, at the heart of the black square box, was an enormous silver amulet, engraved with a myriad of intricate designs and symbols that Harry could not even begin to make out. The thing seemed to be humming, too—a phantom buzz that Harry couldn’t quite hear, but knew was there.

“This is, I can quite confidently say, my life’s work. It is a part of me. And I mean that in the most literal sense.” Afanasyev carefully withdrew the amulet from the box and held it suspended before him. “It is a Transformative Core. I have poured my essence into it and turned it into an anchor of my own core. I have laboriously inscribed into this piece of jewelry every external and magical detail that makes me me, and now its wearer is able to assume my form completely.”

The Professor leaned forward slightly. Harry could see the glimmer of awe in the man’s eyes—reverence, even. “When you say completely….”

“It will transform the wearer to the physical extent that Polyjuice would, though it will bestow upon the wearer my mannerisms, gait, and—to a certain extent—my speech patterns. Unlike Polyjuice, however, it cannot be dispelled, as it works on the wearer’s very core. Also unlike Polyjuice the wearer will be able to perfectly reproduce my magical signature.”

The Professor pushed himself up from the couch and drew closer to the amulet, hovering like a moth around a flickering candle. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to brush the filigree. “That is… most impressive. Though the danger of allowing such an object into another’s hands—”

“You see why I had such reservations. Why I asked if Albus could guarantee the moral fiber of the man he proposed I lend this to.”

“I will guard it with my life,” the Professor vowed solemnly. The man’s eyes flickered back to Harry. “We have but hours to get our story straight, and if Potter is to be convincing, we should begin immediately.”

Harry’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He was going to have to lie if he understood things correctly. The Professor was going to pretend to be Mr. Afanasyev so that the wizards would let him keep Harry. Though why Harry couldn’t just tell the wizards that he wanted to stay with Professor Snape was beyond Harry’s comprehension.

“Take it,” Afanasyev urged. “Allow yourself to become accustomed to it. The magic is potent and disorienting, I am told, much more so than Polyjuice.”

The Professor did so, handling the amulet very carefully. “What will the boy call you—me?” the man wondered aloud.

“Uncle Vladimir, perhaps?” the Headmaster suggested jovially, with a quick wink to Harry.

The Professor snorted. “Uncle Vladimir. I suppose it will have to do.”