Harry worked in the shop for two hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and practiced for half an hour every morning except for Sunday, which McAullife held as the Lord’s Day and spent the entire morning hour playing only hymns. Harry didn’t mind the break, and Snape seemed particularly satisfied on Saturday evenings to know that he wouldn’t have to listen to Harry’s occasional amatuer playing during breaks in between McAullife’s more experienced tunes.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?” came a voice behind him. Snape was looking over his shoulder at the music workbook that Harry was writing in.

“The circle of fifths,” Harry said bleakly, writing BEADGCF in the margins of the page. “Luckily there are no sharps or flats on the bagpipes.”

Snape sneered. “I have seen obscure alchemical equations that make more sense.”

Harry mournfully nodded, trying to think of an acronym for the order of flats.

Snape shook his head and walked away. Harry bent his head closer to the workbook, twirling the pencil in his hand. BE A Daring Gryffindor… Chasing… Flobberworms? He couldn’t think of a dangerous magical creature that started with “F” before he was distracted by a buzzing sound.

“If you could tear yourself away from your thrilling studies,” Snape said sarcastically, emerging from behind the privacy screen with enchanted parchment in hand, “the Headmaster has information regarding traps recently laid to ensnare the Dark Lord.”

Harry eagerly shoved the workbook away, sitting up straighter in his chair with anticipation as Snape dragged a chair next to him.

They sat side-by-side, watching as Dumbledore’s elegant script blossomed across the page, describing the Order’s latest efforts.

Harry was glad that Snape had decided to allow him in on these conversations, as he knew most of the Order wanted to keep him in the dark.

They had started small, sending a picture of a metamorphosed Tonks to the prophet from a forest in the south. Apparently, the Ministry had eagerly searched the area, but Voldemort hadn’t sent any Death Eaters.

“He was likely relying on information from his spies within the Ministry,” Snape explained when Harry looked at him questioningly.

Harry nodded.

The Order had then gone on to feed false information to the Ministry through the spy they’d sent, Percy, by making subtle hints about Spain. That was when Dumbledore made a strange comment that had Snape crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking away.

Without our pre-existing arrangement, we have had more difficulties in gathering information about the Bludger, but we believe it has veered far South in pursuit.

The Bludger was codename for Voldemort, something which Harry found very amusing but which never failed to elicit an eye roll from Snape.

“What does he mean about a pre-existing arrangement?” Harry asked Snape, who was still staring blankly at the countertop.

“The Order’s spy is out of commission,” Snape said flatly.

Harry had a flashback to Dumbledore and Snape standing in the hospital wing, and Dumbledore telling him, “Severus, you know what I must ask you to do.”

“You can’t spy anymore, because you have to watch me,” Harry realized, jaw dropping slightly.

Snape gave him an irritated look. “There is more going on than just you, Potter.”

Harry didn’t wince at this curt relapse in their unspoken truce, but he did frown and mirror Snape’s crossed arms. “I know that.”

Before it could grow into a full-blown argument, Dumbledore continued writing. The Snitch must be prepared.

Snape paused, then dipped the quill nearby into its inkwell and wrote, “Occlumency lessons?”

Yes. Bludger and Snitch sharing a pitch.

“Nice way of saying he keeps popping into my head,” Harry commented.

“Actually, you keep ‘popping into’ his head,” Snape said conversationally as he wrote back, “Already begun several weeks ago.” He smiled slightly as he wrote that, and Harry guessed that he was smug at being able to surprise Dumbledore.

Harry was staring at him, mouth ajar again. “What?”

Snape set down the quill and turned to him when Dumbeldore didn’t immediately respond. “You have been dreaming of the Dark Lord’s actions, and felt his emotion. If he were invading your mind, it would be the other way around. As it is, I believe you have been unconsciously using a form of Legilimency upon him. In your sleep, you are more vulnerable and have less control over your mind. During the day, you sometimes feel as he does, when his own mind is in less control during strong emotional outbursts.”

Harry felt a wave of horror wash over him while Dumbledore finally wrote, A pleasant surprise. How are they progressing?

Snape wrote, “Satisfactorily” as Harry managed to say,

“But, I’ve been practicing Occlumency, and the dreams are a lot less common.”

“In learning Occlumency, you are learning to control your own mind. Organizing it and learning how to navigate your thoughts has also developed both your subconscious and dreaming mind. As such, you have had less incidents of haplessly wandering down the connection in your sleep.”

Harry wanted to protest the term “hapless” but latched onto another thought instead. “Wouldn’t developing my ability to move in my own mind make it easier to go down the link?”

“If you were purposely attempting to do so, perhaps.” He leveled a very stern look at Harry. “Which you will not do, or I will be very displeased.”

Harry nodded hurriedly, having no intention of it anyways but also not willing to listen to Snape outline various unpleasant consequences.

“Otherwise, with greater control comes greater presence of mind.” The conversation with Dumbledore over, he rolled up the parchment and returned it to its place on his nightstand.

“And the more of my mind is organized, the more control I’ll have,” Harry said.

Snape came back to the table, dragging his chair back to its usual spot and sitting down. “Which is why we have been doing lessons daily.”

Ever since the breakthrough several nights ago, Harry had been steadily picking away at the tangled mess of childhood memories and Occluding them. It never got easier, but he was finding that the more memories he sorted, the less confused he felt about them. They were his family, they had treated him poorly, and while it wasn’t excusable, it wasn’t something he wanted to let affect his relationships with other people. They had already caused him enough pain. He wasn’t about to allow them to hurt him in his own mind.

Convictions, however, while not abandoned in theory, can still be shaken in practice.

They were half an hour into the lesson when he unearthed a slew of memories he’d tried his best to forget.

Sometimes, their insults hurt less than when they ignored him.

It’d always been clear that he wasn’t wanted. They took pleasure in berating him, in giving him chores, in seeing him hurt and making sure he understood that he didn’t belong with the rest of him. Yet, they seemed happiest when they didn’t see him at all.

It was Christmas morning, and he hadn’t even been let out to cook breakfast. They had chosen not to mar their perfect holiday with the sight of their unwanted nephew, so he pressed his nose against the grate and smelled the scents of Aunt Petunia’s Christmas casserole. Afterwards, he listened to the sounds of presents being opened, Dudley’s squeals, and Uncle Vernon’s hearty guffaws at their little tyke’s enthusiasm. Aunt Petunia turned on the telly, and they watched a Christmas movie as Harry brought his knees up to his chest. He let a spider crawl onto his finger and whispered, “Merry Christmas” to it.

Dudley had come home before him, he and his friends having beat up Harry and left him to peel himself off of the pavement. Limping home had took longer than usual. He entered by the front door, moving quietly. Neither Dudley nor Aunt Petunia heard him from where they were laughing in the living room. Harry guessed that Dudley had told her the story of the presentation he and Piers had given during maths. Harry walked down the hallway and watched them smile at each other, until Aunt Petunia caught sight of him. For once, she didn’t bark an instruction; only curled her lip slightly and turned away. He almost wished that she had told him to go mow the lawn, because then she would have at least spoken to him. He walked into the kitchen so he didn’t have to see them talking to each other anymore.

He was in his room. It was the summer before third year, and Aunt Marge was over. He’d escaped the living room, and could hear them talking and laughing downstairs. Since they’d been scowling at him before he left, it was obvious that they were much happier to not see him. He didn’t know what they were discussing, but that didn’t matter. It was clear that they didn’t want him to be a part of the conversation, because he would never be a part of their family.

They seemed like such unpleasant people, but during the times that Harry was out of sight and mind, they always appeared to be happy. They were normal, just like any other family. It had made young Harry wonder if it was him that was wrong. He brought the bad out in them, and it was his fault, because they weren’t like that when he was out of the picture. If they had always been surly and mean, then it wouldn’t have felt so personal.

“They were my relatives, but never my family,” Harry said.

Snape, used to listening to whatever new revelation Harry came to during these lessons, did not startle despite having been meditating himself. He didn’t know when Snape had become comfortable with being… well, the word that came to mind was vulnerable, around him; but at some point he had started meditating during the long silence during the middle of Harry’s lessons. He opened his eyes and waited to see if Harry would say more.

“They were awful to me, but nice to Dudley.”

“They singled you out.”

“Well, yeah. I was the one with magic, and the one they didn’t want. It’d be easier if they were awful to everybody, but it was just me.”

“All that proves is their remarkable intolerance.”

Harry traced a knot of wood on the table. “If I wasn’t there, they would have been happy.”

“Do you think they deserve to be happy, after the way they treated you?”

No, he didn’t, and that made him feel bad.

“They didn’t have to be angry or hateful towards you. They quite literally chose to be unhappy.”

Snape never coddled him or patronized him. When they talked about the Dursleys—or any problem, really—he always picked apart the issue with logic. Somehow, that made it easier for Harry to talk about it. If Snape had been sympathetic or pitied him, he never would have been able to stand it.

Ha! Snape, pity a Gryffindor? Snape, pity anyone? It’s not in his nature. He was always ready to use logic to settle an issue, but doesn’t bring emotion into it.

Harry wondered if he was like that because it was part of his personality, or if it was a result of Occlumency. Knowing that Snape almost always got his way in an argument, he sort of hoped it was because of Occlumency. If Harry could learn how to stay calm during a fight and use reasoning instead of anger (“BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?” Even now, the words he’d shouted at his friends made him wince,) he was more likely to win. Containing his emotions had never been a strong point of his, but he had been better about it since the lessons began.

Another memory came to him then, of Snape in a rage, yelling at him and belittling him in class. He hadn’t been very logical or collected then, either.

The recollection made him wrap his arms around himself and look away, troubled. He’d forgotten that Snape had spoken until the man prodded, “Any stress they had about you was ill-founded and a result of their bias and prejudice.”

He’s one to talk about prejudice. The sullen thought startled Harry, as he hadn’t thought about Snape’s unfairness in a while. He blinked and nodded, not trusting himself to reply civilly.

Snape evidently decided that talking wasn’t getting anywhere, so he lapsed back into silence. Harry did several meditation breaths and forced himself to forget him for the moment and focus on the Dursleys again. He was only able to maintain this focus for another fifteen minutes before slumping back, mentally exhausted.

Normally after one of these hard lessons, he and Snape would read together or something to take his mind off of it. Finding himself unable to stay in his presence at the moment, however, Harry left the cottage to go for a walk. He could feel Snape staring at his back as he exited, but the man didn’t say anything, so Harry escaped the confines of the cottage and stood in the street for a moment, looking around.

It was evening, but the sun had not yet set. He figured he had at least half an hour before his curfew of dusk came around, so Harry picked a direction and started walking.

Things around the village were slowing down, but people were still out and about. McAullife was in a rocking chair on the porch of his store, and he waved affably to Harry as he passed. Francis, holding a small bunch of flowers, stood outside the doorway of a narrow two-story, looking nervous. Harry gave him a smile of encouragement, and Francis managed a nod before the door opened to reveal a rather pretty young woman at the door.

Harry meandered between houses, eventually reaching the stream that split the village in half. He walked down its grassy bank, hands in his pockets. Everything was so peaceful here. It was so easy to believe that there was no war, that he wasn’t on the run, that he was a normal kid without a fate and without a care. A kid with a dad who made friends with other villagers so he could have a bed, who woke him when he had nightmares and liked to make wry jokes about fish for dinner (again.)

Snape wasn’t Harry’s dad though, and he wondered when he’d forgotten that. Snape was just his professor. Not only his professor, but the professor, who mocked and ridiculed him for years.

A month of humane behavior didn’t erase all of that… did it?

He kicked at a rock, watching as it rolled through the grass and landed in the river with a soft plop. No, it didn’t.

The Snape of the village was almost like a different person from the one he’d known at school, and it was confusing him. Which one was the real Snape? This Snape was playing a role. So was the other one. There were Death Eater kids at school. Snape was a spy. It didn’t feel like a role. He was an arse, and he enjoyed it.

This line of thinking was only confusing him further, so Harry took a deep breath of sea air and lifted his gaze from his feet. The millwheel was up ahead, and he skirted around it.

The back door opened on one of the houses to the side of the river, and a young child ran out of it. Laughing her joy at life, she tumbled onto the grass, limbs splayed out, and pointed at a cloud drifting above.

Iona, who followed the little girl out, nodded and sat beside her. She was holding a sleeping baby and nodded at Harry.

Smiling a little at the scene, Harry nodded back and followed the stream all the way to the shore. He stood there at the mouth of the stream, watching the sun as it began its descent towards the sea. The wind tossed his hair in front of his eyes, and he shook it away. He probably did need that haircut that Snape kept mentioning.

A boat out on the water sailed lazily past, twin crests of water forming a wake behind it. Slowly, Harry turned to walk back to the cottage. Calmer, but no less confused, he decided to follow the time honored method of putting it off until later as he opened the door and stepped inside.