His breath heaving itself out of his chest, Harry stood next to Cedric and tried to pretend that he hadn’t been asleep five minutes ago.

“You’re late,” Cedric muttered, while Bagman was announcing “the arrival of our fourth champion!”

“Slept in,” Harry gasped out. “Accident. Only fell asleep after midnight.”

Even though he’d fallen asleep after Snape’s glowering escort to Gryffindor tower, Harry had jerked awake some time later, from a dream where he was suffocating, drowning in cold dark water… He’d tossed and turned in his bed, the terror lingering, his mind unable to think but also unable to rest. He hoped he didn’t have any imprints on his face from the awkward position he’d finally fallen asleep again in.

The gillyweed that Dobby had given him was a slimy reminder in his hand of just how unprepared he felt for this. Once the task had been explained to them and they took up their positions on the edge of the lake, Harry waited for the signal to begin.

Bagman’s “ GO, ” was amplified by his sonorous charm. It echoed in Harry’s ears as he lifted the gillyweed to his mouth, throwing a frantic gaze round the observers to see if there was a chance, any chance, that Dobby had been wrong and his friends weren’t trapped in the lake under tons and tons of cold grey water…

He couldn’t see them. But when his eyes flicked past a group of professors, Snape and Vector and Sprout, something clicked in his head.

And then the bell started ringing. It was loud, even with the noise of the crowd cheering and whooping and singing. Harry’s head was swimming with the realisation and with the noise; Snape stood up in an abrupt motion, his face twisted in anger…

Harry shoved the gillyweed into his mouth and chewed frantically. The effects were instantaneous—  he couldn’t breathe, not in air—  he needed water— 

Red-faced, Harry threw himself sideways into the lake, landing with an ungainly splash. 

Why , he wondered dolefully, swimming downward with a far greater ease than he’d ever had in his heavily chlorinated primary school swimming lessons, why, why, why did Dobby have to steal that gillyweed from Snape?

When the points were being awarded Harry happened to glance over at Snape, who was standing among the other teachers. His fingers were curling round his wand. Harry quickly ducked his head and turned away. Snape was going to confront him about the gillyweed, wasn’t he? It had been clear that the man knew it was missing. 

“Congratulations on your score, Harry!” Ludo Bagman said. Then Harry was surrounded— people were talking to him, congratulating him, Fleur was thanking him again for saving her sister—

And then there was a sudden hush, and people were sidling away. Harry turned, and sure enough, it was Snape, standing behind him with an expression like a thundercloud.

“A word alone with our youngest champion,” the man hissed out. But mostly everyone had already left— good sense, Harry thought. Snape was clearly not in the best mood.

“Professor Snape,” Harry said carefully.

“Potter,” Snape said. “Tell me, does it amuse you to behave this way? To sneak around the castle at all hours? To steal repeatedly from my storeroom?”

His tone indicated that this better not be the case.

“No,” said Harry. “It wasn’t—”

“Stop lying ,” barked Snape. “You are only compounding your many misdeeds— and believe me, I know that—”

“Please, professor,” Harry nearly shouted. “Listen to me, for a moment. It was for me this time, but I didn’t ask them to, but I probably should have told him to put it back—”

“What nonsense are you saying—”

“So I am sorry,” Harry said, trying to keep calm but only barely succeeding. “You know what? I don’t care. You can punish me for it, don’t punish Dobby. He did it for me.” 

He stared up at the man defiantly. If Snape was determined to lay blame on Harry, then the boy wouldn’t be able to stop him. But he did want to tell the truth, even if Snape would ignore it.

“Well then,” Snape said finally. “My office. Now .”

Snape’s office was as gloomy as ever.

“You expect me to believe,” Snape was saying dangerously, “that a house elf knew that you hadn’t found an answer to the challenge, and took it upon itself to learn of one and give it to you?”

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly. His temper was once again threatening to come loose— he terribly wanted to be shouting at Snape. “It was Dobby. He’s a good friend. He’d do anything he thought would help keep me safe. And so he gave me the gillyweed. Overheard Moody and McGonagall talking about it.”

His lip curling under, Snape corrected, “Professor Moody and Professor McGonagall.”

“Sir,” Harry said insolently. He met the potions professor’s gaze and held it, though he had to scrunch his toes together to stop himself from backing down.

“A wonderful story,” Snape said sarcastically. “A Hogwarts house-elf that is just so devoted to the boy-who-lived that it betrays the interests of the professors.”

“Why don’t,” Harry said, teeth gritted, “You ask him. Seeing as you don’t believe me.”

Snape gave him an odd look— Harry thought he was probably confused because he thought it was all a story to push guilt off himself— then said loudly, “ Dobby. ”

And then Dobby was there, accompanied by a loud crack .

“What can Dobby do for Profess—” the house-elf began. Then his eyes went big and round, even bigger and rounder than they usually were. It was clear that he had seen Harry, and was quickly coming to a conclusion.

Dobby’s lips wobbled, and then he was talking. Snape, whose mouth had opened in readiness to question him, did not speak. His dark eyes were fixed on the elf.

“Dobby knows he shouldn’t have taken it, but Harry Potter needed the gillyweed! And Professor Moody assured Dobby it was fine— he knew Professor Snape sir wouldn’t want Harry Potter to drown—”

At this point Harry had a half-hysterical thought that the last point really didn’t seem true… but then— 

“Why,” Professor Snape asked slowly, “Did Moody tell you that?”

“Dobby heard him say to Professor McGonagall that he wondered if Harry Potter would think to use gillyweed, and Dobby knew Harry Potter had not thought of anything, so Dobby went to Professor Snape sir’s storeroom last night and Professor Moody was there for his ingredients—”

It was clear from the expression on his face that Snape had not allowed Professor Moody to borrow his ingredients.

“What,” Snape said slowly, dangerously, “Was that man taking? For I assure you he had no right to take anything from my stores.”

Dobby wrung the end of his multi-coloured scarf between his thin and knobbly fingers. “Boomslang,” he said, looking up at Snape. “If Professor Moody hadn’t said it would be fine, then Dobby would not have taken the gillyweed.” 

Moody had been in Snape’s storeroom, taking boomslang—  and he’d been out in the corridors on the night Snape thought Harry had stolen from him—he was always drinking from that hip flask of his, too— 

Harry looked from Dobby, earnest and protective, to Snape… Snape’s face was undergoing rapid shifts in expression, then it smoothed over into blankness.

“Perhaps,” he said. “It was never you brewing that polyjuice potion after all, Potter.”

Harry knew better than to say I told you so , but he definitely thought it.

After that, things moved surprisingly quickly.

A flick of Snape’s wand lit up the fireplace, and Harry was told to travel through to Dumbledore’s office. Before he stepped into the flames, he twisted around to see that Snape was flicking his wand and muttering something— there was a familiar white silvery substance flowing out of it and solidifying into a shape—

But before Harry could see the form of Snape’s patronus, Snape glanced over and noticed his loitering, then gave a sharp flick of his wand in Harry’s direction. Then he was tripping into the fireplace and whirling into the flames. 

Sprawled on the floor of Dumbledore’s office, Harry patted the floor around him for his glasses, which had fallen off when he’d tumbled in. The flagstones were cool under his hands—where were they—

His fingers had just closed around the arm of his glasses when he heard the whooshing of the floo that meant Snape had arrived. Seconds later, Harry found himself being pulled up by a grip on his arm.

“Honestly, Potter,” Snape said. Harry slid his glasses back on and glanced up at him: the man had that habitual expression of slight disgust that he found so useful when interacting with a Potter. “Just sit over there and don’t touch anything.”

Harry couldn’t help it if the floo disliked him, and it was really Snape’s fault anyway, but he obediently went and sat on the divan anyway. He ran his hands over the intricate embroidery and wondered at how long it would have taken to make. 

They waited for Dumbledore in silence. Harry sat as still as he could; Snape paced back and forth. His deliberate strides lead him from one side of the office to the other, and  his sharp turns were made dramatic by the flare of  his black coat’s skirt behind him.

Perhaps ten minutes later Dumbledore arrived, to sit behind his desk and listen seriously while the situation was explained to him.

“What I don’t get, though,” Harry said once they had finished a brief outline, “is why anyone would want to drink polyjuice for most of a year, and act all the time like— like that, and for what?”

Snape scoffed and made to say something, but Dumbledore’s raised hand stopped him. 

“Now, Harry,” the headmaster said. “What can you tell us about the imposter’s actions, that might provide a clue to that?”

Harry looked uneasily between the teachers, feeling that he was at the brunt of a ‘teachable moment’. “Well,” he said, “He’s been acting mad— though Ron said Moody was like that before— and, I don’t know— oh, he’s been helping me with the tournament, hasn’t he? He gave me that hint about the broom— and he told Dobby it would be alright to get the gillyweed! Maybe he even meant Dobby to overhear him… And I think that Cedric said something about him.”

Neither Snape’s nor Dumbledore’s faces betrayed anything of what they were thinking. 

Hesitantly, Harry said, “I think he wants me to win?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew it wasn’t right, it didn’t quite fit…

“Though I don’t know why,” he added after a bit, looking down at his hands. It didn’t make sense— if the imposter was some kind of creepy fan of the boy-who-lived, then wouldn’t they think that Harry would be able to win by himself? “If they want me to win, it’s not much of a victory if they have to help me to it, is it?”

Harry twisted his fingers together and thought a bit harder about the seemingly-not Professor Moody..

“I suppose he did turn Malfoy into a ferret. Professor McGonagall made him turn him back.” Harry paused, then said, looking up at the teachers through his glasses, “There was that lesson on the unforgivables curses. And the imperius— but he made me practise it until I could throw it off. Why would he do that if he wanted to hurt me?”

Dumbledore looked very weary at this. “Am I to understand,” he said, “that your defence teacher has cast an unforgivable curse on you? More than once?”

Harry nodded. “But it wasn’t so bad, sort of floaty, really, and it’s good that I can throw it off. Isn’t it?”

Dumbledore was looking rather sad. “Oh, Harry,” he said softly. 

“ No , Potter,” Snape said abruptly, jerking Harry’s attention over to him. “No, it is not good that a teacher has been casting unforgivable curses on the student body.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said earnestly. “The penalty for casting an unforgivable curse on another human being is to go to Azkaban. Someone under the imperius curse can be made to do anything . If the imposter cast that curse on you and told you to kill your classmates, you would murder them in cold blood.”

A sick feeling started winding its way through Harry’s stomach. “But he didn’t,” he protested. His voice echoed oddly in his ears, too loudly for the quiet room. “He just made us hop around the room, or sing, or— and I can throw it off now!”

He looked back and forth quickly between Dumbledore and Snape, who seemed to be somehow communicating together wordlessly through their gazes. Harry could feel his heart thumping in his chest, louder and faster than usual— could they just say something—

“Potter,” Snape said eventually. “Do you truly believe that a person with benign intentions would imprison Alastor Moody for most of a year, keep him close at hand as required for the polyjuice potion, and drink it on the hour every hour all that time?” 

He leaned closer to Harry, who was transfixed by the dark gleam of his eyes. “You are but a child, and would not understand, but— sometimes cats play with their food. Pretend to let it go, give it the illusion of a chance, an escape. But in truth there is none. Someone who uses the unforgivables freely would not rely solely on a single curse, not when there are thousands more.”

“Oh,” Harry said blankly. “O–oh.” 

He gripped the fabric of the divan tightly as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. When Dumbledore shot a sharp look at Snape, he did not notice.

“What I believe you do not understand,” Dumbledore said kindly, “Is the current political climate taking hold in Magical Britain. You could not be expected to, really, as it is the culmination of many factors coming together—some people have been seething in feelings of anger and wrongdoing for years; there is a conservative backlash forming against progressive policies… Some believe, wrongly of course, that any advancement in the rights of a disadvantaged group will come at the expense of their own.”

He adjusted his half-moon glasses with a hand, and continued. “There have been certain signs, certain similarities—” here Harry noticed Snape’s right hand move towards his left arm, then still itself— “to what was happening not that many years ago… You remember, of course, the Quidditch World Cup? These events do not happen randomly— they are the outburst of sentiments that have long been simmering under the surface of Wizarding society.”

For a moment all Harry could hear was his own breathing, then Snape was talking.

“Do you know what it would mean,” he said, softly enough that Harry had to lean forward a bit to hear him, “Do you know what it would mean, Potter? If, in front the crowds of the tournament— all the people eager for a spectacle, ready to watch the coming generations best and brightest strive to succeed in gaining the cup— if, in front of them all, the boy who lived—”

Dumbledore shifted in his seat, and opened his mouth, but Snape did not even look at him, merely held a hand up to stall what the headmaster was going to say. His eyes fixed on Harry, Snape went on. 

“What would it do, Potter, if instead of a big happy victory, they were presented with something else? The slaughter of their child saviour, helpless in the face of real danger? The broken, bloody body of the miraculous survivor—”

“Severus—”

“The murder of the boy-who-lived, while they all watch on, unable to stop it—”

“Severus— ”

“Don’t you know, Potter,” Snape said to Harry, his eyes like deep black pools drawing the boy in. “Don’t you know just how many people wish you dead?”

Harry could not breathe.

“ Severus!” Dumbledore was hissing. Harry watched, feeling quite absent, as the headmaster turned towards the potions master, eyes flashing furiously.  “That is quite enough out of you. Harry is just a boy—”

“Yes, a boy, and a reckless fool of one—” Snape whipped around to look at Dumbledore, breaking the gaze that Harry had found himself trapped by. “Too nosy, too prying, too foolhardy by half—”

“Severus, be quiet —”

“--- a boy that needs to be scared enough not to do anything stupid!”

And then the two men were glaring at each other, both breathing heavily. Snape’s nostrils were flaring; Dumbledore’s fingers were gripped in a rictus round his wand. Harry, forgotten, ground his nails into the palm of his hand and managed a shallow, shaky breath.

“Enough,” Dumbledore said finally. “No more, Severus. If you wish you may shout all you want at me in my office later, once Harry is gone and the imposter dealt with, though I shall think the lesser of you for it.”

Another unspoken message passed between them, and then they were both looking at Harry, Snape’s face utterly blank once more as he moved away, creating distance between himself and the headmaster.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said. “A deep breath, please.”

He stuttered one out, then in— and then he found he didn’t need the grounding pain of his nails anymore. Dumbledore beckoned him over, and Harry half-stumbled to the side of the desk, where the headmaster took his hands in his.

“Harry,” he said, “I wish that could be unsaid. Breathe, Harry. That’s it, good. Good boy.”

Dumbledore’s hands were warm on his, and Harry was breathing now. He met Dumbledore’s eyes.

“He’s right, though,” Harry said, his voice small and tight. “He’s right, isn’t he?”

The old man inclined his head, eyes full of a weary sadness. 

“Harry,” he whispered, “you are, and always have been, so, so brave.”