Chapter 1: digging like you can bury something that cannot die
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
On a July night three weeks after his godfather’s death, the boy who lived sat motionless amidst the scattered contents of his trunk. In his right hand rested a shard of glass, while on the underside of his left forearm was a shallow scrape, a spider’s strand of red pinpricks beading in a row.
His owl hooted softly, but he ignored her. Next to her cage, a stack of letters regarded him with silent reproach; only the topmost envelope had been opened.
Be prepared for me to retrieve you on Sunday evening, Dumbledore had written him. We shall talk, and then I will escort you to the Burrow. The coming year will be different—this I promise you.
No more games, the old man seemed to say. No more secrets. Finally, he would train Harry properly. These words promised a means to an end. An end to Voldemort, and once the obligation of prophecy was lifted…
A breeze from the window disturbed a sheet of parchment pinned beneath his elbow, which had been written upon with self-conscious neatness:
The Last Will and Testament of Harry Potter.
His floor was strewn with belongings—old textbooks, remnants of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, robes he had outgrown but hadn’t the heart to throw away, forgotten sweets that would be stale had they not been enchanted, an assortment of past birthday gifts and Hogsmeade purchases, creased chocolate frog cards and broken quills.
The entirety of his life set out in an assortment of objects, now divided between those he loved.
He needed to pack it all away again, but it was hard to focus these days. Harry would intend to go to the loo, or head down to the kitchen to assuage hunger pains, and an hour later, he would realize he was still sitting where he started, his eyes following a crack in the wall.
A rap at the front door sounded through the window, rousing him. Petunia’s voice soon followed, her whispers shrill in a way that only “freakiness” could draw from her. If that was Dumbledore, he was a day early. Harry quickly tucked the will into one of his textbooks, pocketed the glass shard, and tugged his sleeve down to conceal his cut. Grabbing his wand, he left his room to peer over the banister.
“I’m here to collect Potter,” a cold baritone spoke below, and Harry froze.
There, looming in the doorway over his aunt, was Professor Snape.
That summer, Harry had maintained a shell of numbness, a boundary between himself and the world. Colors and sounds were muted, muffled. He felt indifferent to the presence of his relatives, and as if sensing some change in him, they steered clear of him in return. He did not scrounge for news, or pore over letters. An emptiness had planted itself within his chest, and there it had resided for weeks, a seeming constant.
Now that numbness was abruptly pierced, and through it spilled a memory: Snape sneering at him to clear his mind, Snape goading Sirius for being stuck at Grimmauld, Snape’s callous dismissal as Harry pleaded with him in Umbridge’s office, pleaded with him to save Padfoot—
A dull roaring filled his ears. Harry descended the last steps as Snape pushed past his aunt; at once, they met each other in the hall.
“What are you doing here?” Harry said, making no effort to hide the hostility in his voice.
Snape’s gaze sharpened, eyes darting to Harry’s wand, then back to his face. Distantly, Harry registered that the man wore muggle clothing—an olive sport coat and pleated trousers—and had a large bag slung over one shoulder. It was a strange sight, less because of the muggle wear, and more so because it was worn comfortably.
“Muffliato,” the man muttered, then said before Harry could ask, “Our conversation will now be unintelligible to others.”
Harry refused to be impressed, but made a note of the spell.
“Death Eaters have infiltrated the Ministry,” Snape continued in a low, harsh voice. “Should you cast any magic while under the Trace, you’re as good as giving the Dark Lord permission to collect you.”
“How do I know he didn’t send you to collect me?”
Snape’s face tightened. “The wards would not have permitted me entry if I meant you harm. I am here on the Headmaster’s orders—he isn’t able to escort you, so I am. Where are your things?”
Harry didn’t move. “What happened? Why can’t he—”
Snape stepped forward abruptly, looming, and Harry realized that while the man looked composed, he radiated an urgent desperation, a wildness lurking just beneath the surface.
“The Order is compromised, and you are not safe here.” The man’s expression was blanker than ever, his voice a quiet monotone. All the hairs stood up on Harry’s arms, and it took everything in him not to step backwards. “Do you think I would be here for anything less than a dire emergency? Albus could not come because he cannot. Now, where are your things.”
Harry wanted to cling to his anger, but traitorously, his mind was reasoning through what Snape had said, and it had come to a bitter conclusion: yet again, kept ignorant of the dangers he faced, his only recourse was to adapt to the situation forced upon him.
“What spell,” Harry bit out, “did my father cast on you in the memory I saw?”
Snape went utterly still, and distantly, Harry wondered if the man might actually strike him.
Snape did not. Instead, he gritted out, each syllable pulled from him like teeth, “Levicorpus.”
“My things are upstairs,” Harry muttered in return. He felt no fear, but his body was strung tense from the confrontation, heart beating fast. “I haven’t finished packing yet—”
Snape pushed past him, taking the stairs two at a time. Harry followed, and found the man tossing the items strewn about from Harry’s unfinished packing into his open trunk.
"Your broom and cloak," Snape said impatiently. "Get them." Then he strode to Hedwig's cage, opened the window, and shooed her out.
"What are you doing?!" Harry cried, dashing to the window.
"Send her elsewhere, Potter.”
Harry glared at him, then turned to Hedwig, who fluttered over to perch on his arm.
“Bye, girl,” he said shakily, wishing Snape wasn’t witness to this goodbye. “To the Burrow, okay? Ron’ll take care of you. Stay safe.”
She pecked him affectionately, then took off into the night. Harry watched her, and thought, I should have replied to Ron and Hermione’s letters.
“Your broom and cloak.”
Harry pressed his eyes closed.
“Potter!”
Harry turned, and met Snape’s bristling rage with calm.
“I’ll get them.”
Once he had retrieved the items, Snape grabbed his Firebolt and dropped it, handle first, into a leather bag he’d pulled from his robes. The bag didn’t look big enough to fit a quaffle, but the entire broom disappeared inside.
Then he pushed the bag into Harry’s hands, and snapped, “Put the cloak in there. Hold onto that bag, and don’t lose it. ”
Harry did so, then reached inside, and thought of his cloak. At once, the silk touch of the fabric met his palm. He released it, then repeated the experiment with his broom, which came to his hand just as readily.
“Where’s the rest of your clothes?” Snape demanded. “Your shoes, winter coats?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean that’s it. I only saw one pair of winter robes. Where are your muggle clothes? In your room?”
“This is my room.”
“Wha—this?” Snape seemed to look for the first time at the ratty mattress, at the door with its locks and catflap.
“You are telling me this is not a room for your owl, and for…” His eyes traveled the shelves of Dudley’s broken toys. “...storage?”
“It’s my room, and I don’t have any other clothes,” Harry said firmly.
“Fine then,” Snape muttered, still studying the room as he spoke. He slammed Harry’s trunk closed, shrank it down, and shoved it into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
When Harry did not move, the man gripped his shoulder and tried to steer him out of the room.
Harry dug his heels in. “Wait.”
Snape did not seem to be listening. Harry ducked under the man’s arm, ignoring Snape’s angry Potter! and backed away. Harry did not want to retrieve his album with Snape watching, but his wants were hardly relevant here, were they?
Dropping to his knees, he pulled up the floorboards. His motions were rough; only with the album in hand did he slow, placing it in his bag carefully. When he rose, he saw Snape watching him, expression hard to read.
"You lose it, we're not coming back for it,” the man said.
Then he turned swiftly on his heel, and Harry followed him out and back down the stairs.
“I am going to apparate us,” Snape informed him. “If you want to keep all your limbs, you will hold onto me. Understood?”
“We’re apparating together?”
Snape’s gaze sharpened. “Have you never side-apparated before?”
Harry shook his head, and Snape huffed. “You just need to hold onto my arm. Do not let go.”
Petunia peered at them from the kitchen as they walked out the door and into the night. Almost too quiet for Harry to hear, she muttered, “Getting him killed too?”
Harry’s heart squeezed at the jab. Does she mean like Sirius? Did I even tell her he died? Why would she—
Snape thrust his arm at him, and Harry hesitantly took hold of it. The man made an impatient noise. “Do you want to get splinched?” He clamped a hand down on Harry's and squeezed, demonstrating how secure the grip should be. Harry tightened his hold accordingly. He thought that would be it, but unexpectedly, Snape grabbed Harry around the shoulders and pulled him tightly to his side as an additional measure. Harry had no time to recover from this surprise, because the force of apparition pulled at his navel, and the world of Privet Drive rushed away.
Harry had never done much traveling in the muggle world. Whenever the Dursleys went on holiday, he was left in the care of Mrs. Figg and her many cats. Beyond one memorable trip to the zoo, Harry’s recollections of travel outside Surrey were blurry at best.
It felt surreal as he hurried to keep up with Snape, fitting in right amongst the muggles in his coat and slacks. Money exchanged, tickets bought, stations navigated—the man went through the motions easily. If Harry wasn’t so familiar with that unpleasant visage, he’d assume Snape was just another passenger, a local teacher maybe, or a company man on his way home from work.
Snape kept a punishing pace, snapping at Harry whenever he was too slow, or hesitated due to his unfamiliarity with muggle kiosks and turnstiles. Once they were seated on the train, the man buried his nose in a station map, leaving Harry to endure the awkwardness in silence.
After a transfer at Reading, Harry found himself squashed next to Snape on a crowded train car. With so many muggles in close proximity, he was reluctant to ask questions, but when he saw them pass by Oxford station, he couldn’t hold on any longer.
“How far are we going?” He wanted to ask if they were taking muggle transport all the way to Hogwarts, and had only avoided London since the Ministry was there.
“Not far now,” Snape said in a low voice, not looking up from his map.
“But how long—”
The man gave him a sharp, warning glance, and bitterly, Harry swallowed his questions.
By nightfall, their convoluted path had taken them to Birmingham. The only big city Harry had ever been to was London, and then only for once-a-year trips to Diagon Alley and King’s Cross. Once, the lights rising from the horizon might have been exciting to him; now, the urban nightscape just seemed lonely and unfamiliar.
After they disembarked the train, Harry expected Snape to take them directly to their destination—a safehouse, he had imagined, where Dumbledore was hopefully waiting with explanations. Instead, Snape had them stop for a cheap dinner in the station. Looking down at his styrofoam container of greasy chips, Harry felt unease begin to coil in his gut.
Snape hailed a cab for them, and when Harry saw that they were stopping in front of a hotel, the unease grew. It continued to do so as he followed Snape inside, and silently watched him talk to the clerk.
Snape dropped his bags the moment they entered their room, and began to trace a series of complex enchantments around the perimeter. Harry wasn’t familiar with the spells, but recognized the general pattern of a ward.
Once finished, Snape turned to the desk and began to unload tome after tome from a bag that was clearly expandable, like the one he had given to Harry. Watching his back, Harry asked quietly, “What’s going on?”
Snape said nothing for a long moment, continuing to stack his books. Then he said, his back still to Harry, “It has recently come to our attention that we cannot trust everyone in the Order with your well-being.”
“You mean…a traitor?”
Snape turned then, meeting his eyes. “Yes. Any location the Order has access to—Burrow and Grimmauld Place included—is not safe. The Headmaster is cleaning up internally, and in the interim you are to stay away, even from people you think you can trust. As I mentioned before, most modes of magical transportation are being tracked. We will need to stay on the move, and using muggle transit is the safest course until Dumbledore informs us it is safe to return. Am I understood?"
The air in the room had been thinning all the while Snape spoke; by now it seemed all but depleted. “Did something happen to the blood wards?”
Snape’s face tightened. “No—”
“Then no, I don’t understand. Wasn’t the whole point of me staying there to protect me from things like this?” Against his will, Harry’s voice was rising. “Why do we have to be on the move? Even if there was something wrong with the blood wards, why wouldn’t Dumbledore just secure us a different safehouse under the Fidelius? He told me we would be meeting soon, there are things we need to—”
Snape slammed the book in his hand onto the desk, and Harry flinched.
“Do you really fucking think,” the man thundered, “that I would be here if there was an alternative?”
Heart hammering, Harry said nothing, holding himself very still.
After a tense silence, Snape said brittlely, “This is how things are going to work. You will obey my orders, without question. No running off, no calling attention to yourself, no magic. Your job is simple: do as I say unless you want to get us both killed.”
Harry drew in a ragged breath, loud in the silence.
“How long?” When Snape said nothing, he insisted, “How long until Dumbledore—”
“I don’t know,” the man cut him off, voice harsh.
In the corner, he thought he could see the faint shimmer of one of the wards. Feeling apart from himself, he followed the ghost of a pattern while trying to repress the trembling in his hands.
“Why you?” he finally spoke, voice barely audible. “You’re a spy. Surely you’d be the last available person to go into hiding with me.”
“Not anymore.”
Harry turned from gazing at the air, and met Snape’s black gaze.
“I’m not a spy anymore,” the man clarified. “My true loyalties…the traitor revealed them to the Dark Lord.”
Snape spoke calmly, but there was something lost in the set of his shoulders, an emptiness to the way he held his hands. It was this, more than Snape’s anger, that convinced him.
He’s in just as much danger as I am. We’re both fugitives.
When Harry said nothing more, Snape turned his back to him. As the man began to unload a set of thick journals, Harry felt his chest slowly constrict.
He had expected to be with Dumbledore by tomorrow, finally taking steps towards Voldemort’s death. When would he finally start his training? By summer’s end? Or would he have to be in hiding with Snape for longer than that?
Neither can live while the other survives.
Something hot and ugly surged within him, powerful, too much to contain—but Harry did contain it, swallowing it down, deep down, until it was a distant ember, until it was nothing.
Harry slept fitfully, the glass shard held loosely in his palm. During moments of stuttered wakefulness, he brushed his thumb over its smooth surface, touch just soft enough to keep shy of cutting. Finally, lured by exhaustion, he slept deeply enough to forget his current circumstances.
When he woke, the knowledge that he would not be meeting with Dumbledore today, as he had expected, trickled coldly down his spine.
Dull panic coursing through him, he flexed his fingers, and was relieved to feel the shard still sat in his palm—he would not need to hunt for it within the sheets.
Not that Snape would notice; the man was standing in front of the still-dark window, yesterday’s newspaper clenched in one hand.
Only the day before, Harry had Dumbledore’s letter to cling to. While he did not know how long the training might take, Harry knew it would begin.
I have no choice, he told himself. Get up, get up, grin and bear it, accept it and move on like you’ve done for everything else. You’ve done harder things, worse things.
“Go back to sleep,” Snape said curtly, having heard his movement. “We’ve an early start today, and I won’t have you slowing us down.”
Apparently done with staring moodily out the window, Snape returned to the desk, which was still covered in books. He pulled the fattest of these towards him, opened what looked to be a brand new journal, and began to furiously take notes.
“What are you working on?” Harry asked through the static of his thoughts. It was as if a stranger was speaking. “Is it for the Order?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Snape said sharply. “And it will remain none of your concern. This may come as a surprise to you, but I actually do have other obligations beyond babysitting. For the duration of our travel together, I expect you to leave me to work in peace. Am I understood?”
As he watched Snape write with a muggle pen—such a small thing, but it made the scene before him seem like a dream—a resolution began to fix itself in Harry’s mind. He clung to it, letting the static fade to the margins of his mind.
“I need my trunk.”
“Excuse me?” The man turned, eyes flinty. “I told you to sleep.”
“Can’t,” Harry breathed. In a more controlled voice, he added, “I need my trunk.”
If Dumbledore isn’t here, I’ll just need to do what I can on my own.
Snape fixed him with a wry look. “Eager to work on your summer assignments?” Snidely, he added, “If you’ve even deigned to start them, that is.”
“Just trying to keep out of your way, sir.”
The man stared hard at him for a moment, then retrieved the trunk from his pocket and enlarged it in the center of the room.
“Have it packed away by seven,” Snape ordered. He made to turn, but pivoted suddenly to fix Harry with a glare. “No fanged frisbees, screaming yo-yos, or any infernal Wizard Wheezes.”
Harry looked at him, not registering. Finally, he repeated, “Wizard wheezes?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Never you mind.”
Snape turned back to this work, and left to his own devices, Harry retrieved parchment and a pen, and spread it flat on the makeshift desk of his trunk—something he was very familiar with doing over the summer, as his room in Privet Drive had no proper desk.
Slowly, he wrote at the top of the page: Defense Spells to Learn.
After a moment of staring at it, he crossed it out and began to replace it with Attack Spells and Curses.
The whole point of this, after all, was not to defend himself.
It was to kill a man.
With each letter he wrote, his breathing eased, the ground beneath him feeling more solid.
Just focus on this. The sooner you kill Voldemort, the sooner all of this can be over.
Attack Spells and Curses
blasting curse, reducto
a projectile spell?
poison
full body bind, stunners, expelliarmus
none of these enough on their own, id have to rely on situation
could he break out of bind, esp if cast by less pwrfl wiz?
suffocation - is there a spell to take air out of a room?
incendio, if used under the right circumstances
conjunctivitis curse - makes him easier target
what curse did Dolohov use at the DOM?
cutting spells
entrail expelling curse
entrail expelling curse
is there a way to target something inside body?
can u vanish organs? enlarge them?
killing curse - i think i could do it
Notes:
Chapter 1 playlist:
Hanging On by Active Child
Mt. Washington by Local Natives
Small Things by Ben Howard
Keep it Out by Half Waif
Chapter 2: on the red-eye flight to nowhere good
Notes:
Chapter CW: implications of self-harm & physical abuse
This is a short one, but chapter 3 should be ready shortly, which will make up for it, I hope. A heartfelt thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read so far. I appreciate it greatly!
Again, much love and thanks to the wonderful WiCeBa. I cannot thank you enough for your encouragement and insight! Check out her work - you will not be disappointed.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Today, Potter!”
Harry’s ears heated at Snape's rebuke. The metro was congested with morning commuters, and he was being ushered through a turnstile. Compared to the leisurely train rides from Surrey, the pace of the city was dizzying.
“Hold on, I got it—” Harry began, but Snape snatched his card from him, swiping it in one go and pushing him forward.
Furious and humiliated, Harry followed the man to the platform.
Snape was following, if it was possible, an even more punishing pace than yesterday. The little recovery Harry had gotten from last night’s sleep had quickly been depleted by Snape snapping at his heels, insulting and rushing him. The man seemed to have an endless supply of scornful remarks on everything from Harry’s core character to his unruly hair. Unlike the professor, Harry had a slow temper, and years of practice tuning out comments from the Dursleys. But words from Snape were different; they had a way of burrowing under the skin.
“I don’t understand why we’re taking this route,” Harry said mulishly as they waited on yet another platform. Snape had a muggle watch on, of all things, and he was frowning at it, brow becoming more and more creased as they waited for their delayed train. “We’ve come all this way only to turn around—”
“I’m sure it would seem confusing, to someone with limited faculties,” Snape said through gritted teeth. He too, seemed to be losing patience the more time they spent together.
Good, Harry thought nastily.
The train finally arrived, and Harry took his time following Snape just to irk the man.
“I said, keep close,” the man growled. Harry ignored him, squeezing between two muggles on the other side of the packed train. Too many people were in the way for Snape to be right next to him, and as the man glared at him through the crowd, Harry just shrugged his shoulders with a small, bitter smile.
Harry’s little rebellions throughout the day did not go without repercussions. Snape “forgot” lunch, and pushed them faster. He moved like a man possessed, muttering under his breath. Was the Ministry watching so closely that he felt he needed to give them the runaround all across Britain?
During long train rides and time waiting at stations, Harry ignored Snape as best as he could and worked on adding to his list. He had packed it into his bag before they left that morning, and after some consideration, his will as well, both folded and tucked discreetly into an old textbook. Snape's unexpected arrival at Privet Drive had robbed him of the chance to look over the will once more after he had signed it, and while he doubted he would make any changes, it would give him some comfort to read through it again.
While transferring at Manchester Piccadilly later that evening, a stabbing pain raced up Harry’s right heel. Snape badgered him when he tried to stop and inspect it, so Harry distanced himself from the pain and kept going.
Fortunately, it was not long before they reached their hotel, a dismal square of bricks crushed between two larger office buildings. Harry had intended to work on his list as soon as they were settled for the night, but half-asleep on his feet, he struggled to hold this conviction as he staggered into the lobby after Snape.
The person at the front desk looked warily as Snape requested bitingly for a room, then glanced at Harry’s tired face.
“Ah, a room for you and your...son?”
“My nephew,” Snape gritted out, at the same time Harry said, “We’re not related.”
Snape glared at him. Harry shrugged with a wan smile at the receptionist, who held forth a key card with some reluctance. Snape snatched it from them, then stalked ahead to the elevator. Despite standing still and silent during the entire ascent, the man managed to emanate such malevolence that the muggle in the lift with them edged away.
As such, Harry was not surprised when, the moment they entered their room, Snape shut the door and rounded on him.
“Listen here, Potter,” he snarled, crowding Harry against the door. “I’m trying to keep you alive! The last thing I need is some suspicious muggle calling attention to where we are!”
Snape did not have Vernon’s bulk, but he was hardly a small man; this close, Harry could smell his sweat, could sense the mass of him, arms corded to swing, large hands ready to strike.
“You didn’t exactly tell me what our story is,” Harry mumbled, ducking swiftly under Snape’s arm and putting some distance between them.
“Well now you know,” Snape snarled. “I’m using the shower. You will stay here!”
Harry said nothing, possible exits in the periphery of his vision, and did not move until Snape had slammed the bathroom door closed behind him, and he heard the water run.
It took him longer than usual to take off his shoes, hands clumsy. His stomach strung with tension, he did not expect to fall asleep easily, but his exhaustion won out, and he drifted off at once. His nightmares that night were fragmented, full of half-shadowed faces and the distant sound of a woman crying.
When he awoke the next morning, his right foot was on fire, and it was only then he remembered he had stepped on something the day before.
“Up, boy,” Snape said distractedly, hunched over the desk like a vulture as he took notes. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”
Frowning, Harry slipped out of bed. He speaks to me like a bloody dog.
After locking the bathroom door behind him, he sat on the toilet and gingerly pulled off his sock. The heel felt stiff, and upon removing it, he saw that it was stained with dried blood. Biting back any sounds of pain, he investigated the wound. It looked like a puncture, but too large for a thumbtack. Maybe a nail, or an upturned piece of broken bottle? A strange focus overtook Harry, and he pressed his thumb into the wound, producing a sharp pulse of pain and a fresh upwelling of blood.
“WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY, POTTER!”
Harry jumped, heart thudding. He had half a mind to linger just to annoy the man, but didn’t want Snape barging in on him. He quickly checked for any first aid items, but finding nothing, settled for washing his heel in the sink with hand soap. He wasn’t hobbling back out there to change socks in front of Snape, so after drying the wound, he pulled the old sock back on. The injury was still painful, but not the worst he’d had to deal with during a summer. Taking a breath, he took an experimental step—good. Snape shouldn’t notice anything weird about his gait.
By the time he had exited, the books were packed away and Snape was now dismantling the wards he had put up the night before. It was like severing layered tiers of cobwebs, just so here and just so there, until they all fell away.
I need to add that to the list.
With a pang, he thought of Hermione. She was the first person he turned to when asking about new spells, but who knew when he would see his friends again?
Not that I have any right to ask her for help after almost getting her killed.
Travel that day was a haze. Even without the injury, his feet—unaccustomed to so much summer walking—were throbbing. Snape rushed them along as if Voldemort himself were at their heels, and for all Harry knew, maybe he was. He tried to keep track of the towns they passed through, but as the day went on and he grew more tired, it all merged together.
As they rode yet another train, Harry sat and closed his eyes. Snape was on him in what felt like only seconds after, snapping at him to pay attention, get up Potter, didn’t he see that they had arrived?
Harry reluctantly stood, biting his lip as pain lanced up his heel and through his calf. Muttering a curse, Snape gripped him bruisingly by the arm and dragged him to the door.
“I’m not an idiot,” the man hissed, ignoring Harry’s gasp as he pulled him onto the platform and to the exit. “I know you’re being slow to antagonize me. Keep it up and you will regret it.”
Harry was annoyed but unsurprised when Snape, despite his complaints, still stopped on their way to buy a paper.
“Weren’t we on a schedule?” Harry said sarcastically.
Snape, who had been intently scanning the front page, looked up sharply at Harry.
“Do you know what I would be doing right now, if I didn’t have to ferry an ungrateful brat around Britain? The work that still must be done for the war? The lives at risk, that I can do nothing about?” His lip curled nastily as he crunched the paper under his arm. “And here you are, playing fucking games with me.”
They had reached the stairs to the exit, and Harry paused at the foot of them, eying the lift sign. Seeing his hesitation, Snape leaned into Harry’s face and spat, “Pick up the pace.”
Harry looked at Snape balefully. It’s not my fault the traitor outed you to Voldemort. But sure, blame me anyway. Gritting his teeth, Harry gripped the railing. Step by step, he forced himself up as fast as he could bear.
“You think these theatrics are funny?” Snape was waiting at the top, hands clenched white. “Just like your father, always with the dramatic displays—”
“Fuck you,” Harry bit out.
Snape raised his hand.
Harry flinched, only to hear the man spit out, “Silencio!”
“Better,” Snape said, looking down his nose at Harry. “Keep up, and maybe I’ll let you speak again at the hotel.”
As the day wore on, the silencing charm began to prove more of an annoyance to Snape than Harry. Despite Harry’s best efforts, he lagged behind due to pain, and Snape would often turn, momentary anger flashing over his face when he realized Harry wasn’t right behind him.
Finally, the professor lost his patience on a crowded platform. A wave of students passed by, and for a moment, Harry thought he’d lose Snape—but the man seemed to have eyes on the back of his head, for he turned immediately and gripped Harry by the hand, pulling him to his side.
Tired and in pain, Harry shoved him off with more force than intended.
“That’s it,” Snape snarled, grabbing Harry’s wrist. He tried to pull away, but Snape was stronger, his grip squeezing so hard that Harry cried out. Of course, the man didn’t hear him. Not that he’d care even if he could.
“Iunge opilio,” the man hissed, then dropped Harry’s hand and stalked away.
Harry stared at the man’s back, wondering what that spell had been, when a force suddenly tugged at his sternum, causing him to fall forward to his hands and knees. The force didn’t let up, uncomfortably strong now, and gasping, Harry scrambled to his feet and hurried in the direction he was being pulled—to Snape.
The man turned briefly to give him a smug look, and Harry’s face flushed as he realized what the spell was.
Snape had put him on some kind of fucking leash.
Digging in his heels, Harry staunchly ignored the unpleasant pull at his chest. He followed Snape at a slow, steady pace, ignoring when the man sped up in an attempt to goad him. With growing fury, Snape was forced to alternate between stalking ahead, then halting, lest he lose sight of Harry. It filled Harry with a dark satisfaction, and he made sure to smile at Snape whenever the man turned to glare at him.
Ignoring the pain of Harry’s heel became second nature. He was too focused on Snape’s back, on the repeating rhythm of pull and release on his sternum. The silencing charm became an advantage; he no longer had to worry about quieting his pants, or biting back vocalizations of pain.
On their last train ride of the night, Harry all but collapsed into his seat, chest heaving. But he felt satisfied when he looked at Snape’s clenched jaw. The man sat across from him in stony silence, and made no move to cancel the spell. Stubborn git, Harry thought with bitter pleasure, closing his eyes and drifting into a feverish sleep.
All too soon, the sharp throb of his sternum startled him awake. His body ached. His chest felt like a hewn tree, split and pulsing. His foot barely felt like anything, lost in the overall feeling of sickness and pain. Blearily, he saw that the train had stopped, and Snape was standing a few meters away, arms crossed and a determined look on his face. He had clearly stepped away to wake Harry on purpose.
Snape, Harry tried to speak, although to say what he wasn’t sure.
“Get up,” Snape said, practically vibrating with hostility. Vaguely, Harry thought that maybe he shouldn’t have provoked the man so much earlier.
Without another word, the man turned and stalked away. Harry intended to wait, to get up leisurely, but the pain that hit him was massive, far worse than the discomfort of hours ago. Gasping, he fell to the floor as unbidden, his body jerked in instinct after Snape. Jarring his hips and elbows against the seats, he made his clumsy way through the aisle.
The train was completely empty, as was the platform. It was a small town station, and very late. Snape had probably waited for the muggles to disembark first before having his fun jarring Harry awake.
The man didn’t bother looking back. He made his way to the staircase, then, seeming determined to get a reaction, sped down, even leaping past the last three steps. Snape turned to look up at him the moment Harry's heel slipped on the first step, his foot contacting air. The world tilted, Snape's expression seeming to stretch in his vision, vindictive features going lax, eyes widening as Harry rushed to meet cement.
Notes:
The title of this one comes from the song London Thunder by Foals. This chapter used to be part of chapters one and three, and I find when set apart, it's hard to pair music with it. More songs to come next time, though!
Chapter 3: grow me up like a flower in the city summer
Notes:
Chapter CW: torture, graphic description of insects, animal death
Please see ending notes for where to stop/resume if you wish to avoid the above content.
As always, much love and thanks to the wonderful WiCeBa for helping me bring this chapter to light. I highly encourage you to check out her work!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry awoke to warmth, softness, and the smell of sausages. He burrowed deeper into the covers, luxuriating in this rare comfort. Had the beds at Hogwarts always been so nice?
And then his eyes snapped open, because it was summer, and this wasn’t his ratty mattress at the Dursleys, so where—
He froze at the sight of Snape, slumbering in the chair next to his bed. The air was hazy, suffused with an herbal smell, and he turned to see a cauldron in stasis on the carpeted floor, a blue potion simmering inside it, conjured fire reflecting off the television. For a moment, he was stuck trying to compromise these sights and smells with the muggle hotel room he was clearly in.
Reaching down, Harry felt his foot—it was clean, neatly bandaged, and while it twinged slightly, it was much better than the hot pain from before.
Harry took a second, closer look at Snape. Despite their travel together, he’d never studied the man’s face in sleep before, not properly. The professor’s normally sharp expression was softened, mouth open slightly, lank hair hanging over his haggard face. He wore the same clothes Harry had seen him in last, but rumpled now.
A strange discomfort entered his heart, and Harry looked away, eyes traveling to the book in Snape’s lap, then to the stack of tomes on the floor nearby. His unease was swept aside by resolve, and he slipped carefully out of bed and onto the floor.
A phantom pain pulsed through his chest, reminding him of the leashing spell, and he stilled. He didn’t want to move too far—not only would it hurt, but what if Snape also felt something from his end of the spell, and woke?
Carefully, Harry stretched out his arm, and managed to grab three books from the top of the stack without needing to shift his place. They all seemed to be master texts on potioneering, nothing of particular note. Dissatisfied, he rifled through one of them, and paused upon a gruesome illustration of a man stabbing another. Harry seized the two other books and looked inside them, and found their illustrations also didn’t seem to match the text.
Only the words are spelled to look different, Harry thought triumphantly. The pictures were grisly, depicting violent rituals, dismembered body parts, mounds of skulls… Rather than Potions, these books were clearly about defense against the Dark Arts.
Or just the Dark Arts.
There was a small sound above him, and Harry looked up to see Snape beginning to stir. Harry stacked the books as they were and dove back onto the bed. He had only just managed to arrange himself under the covers before the book on Snape’s lap fell, hitting the floor with a thunk. Snape jerked awake, and his eyes fell on Harry.
The man stood immediately, wand raised and leaning in. Harry pushed himself back against the pillows, but Snape just cast a diagnostic charm that Harry had seen Madame Pomfrey use in the past. The man scanned the results with sharp eyes, then, seeming satisfied, he waved it away.
“Are you experiencing pain anywhere?”
When Harry didn’t immediately respond, the man barked, “Potter! Are you experiencing any pain!”
“No,” Harry said, realizing in that moment that the silencing charm was gone.
Snape looked disbelieving. “Not even your foot?”
“It feels fine, mostly—”
“I said any pain, boy, that means any pain! If you’re hiding anything else I swear—”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Of course not,” Snape said, his voice strained. He grabbed the sheets and tore them from Harry, who flinched in surprise. Gesturing angrily at Harry’s bandaged foot, Snape continued, “Chronic malnutrition, sleep deprivation, and a foot infection that had you delirious with fever. And, according to the diagnostic spell, it’s been like that for two days! I knew you were a stubborn, mule-headed idiot, but I didn't think you had a death wish! You couldn’t suck up your pride for one moment and tell me you were injured?”
“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said coldly. “I recall being unable to speak at the time.”
“Don’t even try it!” Snape thundered. “You had this injury long before I put the silencing spell on you! Why didn’t you say something when I told you to stop slowing us down?”
“Like you’d care?”
“Don’t,” Snape warned, and Harry tensed. “I am not in the mood for games. You will answer me, and you will do so with respect.”
Despite his hammering heart, Harry said quietly, “Or what? You’ll treat me like you did yesterday?”
“DON’T YOU PLAY THE MARTYR, POTTER!” Snape shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “You CHOSE not to tell me about your injury! Then you hobbled around like a fool, when you had plenty of opportunities to get my attention!”
Harry felt himself retreating behind a wall of contempt and indifference.
“Okay, sir.”
“Drop that fucking tone. This conversation is not over.”
Snape moved to the coffee table across the room, and with the memory of yesterday's pain fresh in his mind, Harry found himself lurching forward. “Wait—!”
His wild lunge sent him tumbling off the bed, and he tensed for the pain of impact—
But Snape had leapt forward, dropping hard to one knee to catch him, his hand cradling Harry’s head to protect it from the ground.
Stunned, Harry looked up to see the panic on Snape’s face replaced by his usual glare. Too startled to resist, he allowed the man to slip an arm under his knees and lift him back onto the bed.
Jaw clenched, Snape stepped back. Harry stared at him. In the corridor, they heard the rattle of a housekeeping trolley being pushed. The sound had fully come and gone before the man finally spoke again.
“The yoking spell is gone,” Snape bit out, turning to retrieve a tray from the coffee table (it held eggs, sausages, and a mug of something golden), which he swiftly deposited on Harry's lap.
“Eat,” the man said stiffly. “And finish the hyssop tea. It will aid in correcting your abysmal nutrition levels.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t need that.”
Snape laughed, the sound harsh and weary. “Really? That’s not the impression I got from the diagnostic. You take miserable care of yourself, Potter.” The man paused, looking at him. “What, do the muggles let you subsist on nothing but sweets? You’re practically starving.”
The idea that Harry was undernourished because the Dursleys spoiled him was so absurd that he nearly laughed.
“Something like that,” Harry shrugged, and reached for the tray. He wasn’t one to eschew food, even if it was given under less than pleasant circumstances.
Snape glared at him for a moment, then went to sit on the floor by the cauldron. He hefted a large, leathery case from his bag, the mouth of which was barely large enough to release it. He opened it to reveal layer after layer of wooden compartments, each containing dozens of square cells, and each cell containing a delicate glass vial, or a light-protected amber bottle, or a sealed ampoule. There were hundreds of them, containing potions of every color and consistency.
In between bites, Harry watched the man aliquot the blue potion into smaller containers and place them in a row of empty cells. It still surprised him, to look up and see Snape in muggle clothes. This was another level, seeing the man sit cross-legged on the floor of a muggle hotel room as he did potions work, in wrinkled slacks no less.
Harry took a closer look around the room, noticing details he had missed before. On the side table, there was a roll of bandages, a jar of salve, and a mostly empty bottle with remnants of the same blue potion at the bottom of it. On the coffee table sat a steaming teapot sitting amidst a mess of scattered herbs.
Harry took the mug and hugged it to his chest, a smoky, almost-licorice smell wafting from it.
He must have brewed the potion last night, and the tea this morning. Did he make the salve fresh too?
Harry hunched his shoulders, discomfited. He didn’t have to do all that.
Snape stood when he was done, spelled the cauldron clean, then tapped the edge with his wand. With a pop, the cauldron instantly shrank to the size of a marble. He placed that in the potions case as well, then wrestled it back inside his bag.
With this finished, he turned to the books on the floor, and Harry tensed, wondering if he would notice they had been moved. But the man just gathered them up and took them to the desk. Harry watched the man’s back, and mulled over what he could be working on. Research for Dumbledore?
Or for Voldemort?
When he finished his food, Harry placed the tray on the side table, and the sound of it roused Snape back to his side. He sat at the foot of the bed, and Harry stiffened.
“I need to examine your foot,” the man said. Harry tried to draw his leg away, but Snape took firm hold of his ankle.
“You don’t need to—”
Snape silenced Harry with a look, then pulled the foot into his lap. Harry looked away, and tried to distance himself from his body, a tactic he used to deal with pain. But the separation was hard to come by—he felt flustered, hyper-aware as Snape’s calloused hands lifted his heel and vanished the bandages.
“Another day with the salve,” the man murmured, reaching for the jar. “I should be able to close the wound tomorrow.”
Uncomfortable, eyes on the ceiling, Harry said, “Why can’t you just—”
“Magic it away?” Somehow, Snape’s voice managed to be both soft and scathing. “The healing spell you’re thinking of only seals an exterior wound. Once an injury becomes infected, that is an issue of the body—of pathogens, and your immune response. Such things can’t be treated with mere wand-waving.”
There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class.
Harry untensed slightly, lowering his gaze to watch as Snape unscrewed the jar. The moment he opened it, a lemony scent with a musky undertone pervaded the air. The salve itself was lavender in color, with fragments of what looked to be crushed stems and flower heads.
“What’s in that?”
“Poison,” Snape said blandly, beginning to apply the salve to Harry’s heel. He braced for pain, but the man’s application was light, gentle even. “Fatal when contacted with the skin.”
Harry pressed his lips together, and Snape gave him a withering look.
“Why does it not surprise me that you don’t recognize common herbs any Second Year could identify? I’d scold you for not retaining the information, but I suspect you never bothered to learn it in the first place.”
Harry’s curiosity shriveled. That’s what I get for actually trying to ask him about potions, he thought sullenly. Frustratingly, he thought he could remember something vague about purple healing herbs from their textbook, but his brain struggled to grasp any clear details. That year had been a nightmare of Dobby’s interference, alienation from the student body, and the horror of his classmates getting petrified. He had tried to study, he truly did, but that year—well, most years, really—he found himself getting caught up in other things.
Other than Defense and flying, I’m pretty much useless. His words to McGonagall from last year, about wanting to be Auror, arose in his mind. The memory of this past ambition, once exciting, only wearied him now, and he forced his focus on Snape instead.
The man had just finished conjuring fresh bandages over the injury, and now reached to grasp Harry's heel with both hands.
“What are you—”
Harry’s foot warmed, as if it had suddenly passed through a patch of sunlight at noon.
“Reinforcement charm,” Snape explained, finally releasing Harry’s foot and standing. “It will ease the pain of putting your weight on the injury. We’ll be walking a great deal, and the last thing we need is you straining your good leg from overcompensation.”
Harry looked down, his face feeling warm. “I’m sure it would have been fine,” he muttered.
“I appreciate your input,” Snape said sarcastically. “Perhaps get your Healer’s degree first, then you can ply me with advice.”
Harry curled his hands into fists. Calm down. He just wants to get a rise out of you. Remember, you just have to get through this, like everything else—
“Now. How the hell did your foot get so injured?”
“I stepped on a screw or something."
Snape looked at him with disbelief. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Harry had tired of this conversation the first time around. “You said we had to hurry,” he said impatiently. “We’re on the run, right? Well that’s why. I’ve stepped on things before, if I’d had the time to disinfect it earlier it wouldn't have been a big deal—”
“Wrong!” Snape snapped. “Much longer and you could have experienced serious side-effects from that infection. If you were a muggle, you’d likely have lost your foot! Do you even know how serious an infection can be?”
Harry didn’t respond. Theoretically, he knew Snape was right, but it was hard to latch onto a sense of urgency when Harry had been tending to his own minor infections since he was eight.
“Well, I’m not a muggle, sir.”
He wasn’t a normal wizarding child either. According to the prophecy, he was going to die by Voldemort, or not at all.
Besides, things wouldn't have gotten so bad if Snape hadn’t escalated things. Not that he’ll ever admit it.
“That arrogance is going to get you killed.” Snape was beginning to look as angry as he had yesterday. “You are not indestructible!”
Harry was losing patience himself. “I’m surprised you think so,” he said, voice flat. “Didn’t you send me down a flight of stairs yesterday?”
Snape’s face grew pallid. Behind his defiant mask, Harry tensed, half afraid, half welcoming, of whatever punishment came next.
Go on, you hypocrite, he thought. Hurt me again, like you want to.
When Snape spoke next, his voice was low but salient in the quiet room: “That spell…it’s for shepherding, but isn’t typically considered harmful if used on people. It’s not supposed to be painful. That being said, it’s usually assumed that the target will not resist, especially not for a prolonged period…” Shoulders held tight, the man continued stiffly, “Suffice it to say, I will not be using that spell on you again.”
Harry took a moment to process this. “Yeah?” His voice grew ugly. “I suppose you’d never silence me again either?”
“I might,” Snape said. Before Harry could scoff, the man continued, “but not to punish you. I will not do that again.”
Harry’s lip curled with contempt. “When would you need to use that spell on me if not for punishment?”
“I can easily imagine,” Snape said, with a calm voice but flinty eyes, “a situation where it would do you well to keep quiet, but you would prefer to call danger right to you.”
That touched something in Harry, something wounded, and angry, and afraid.
Don’t you think you’ve got a bit of a — a saving-people thing?
“I don’t prefer to do anything,” Harry snapped. “Sometimes people just need help, and no one else is there.”
“Well, I am here and you’d do well to—”
Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed. Enjoying the look of startled offense on Snape’s face, he said, “If you say so, sir.”
“You—” Snape cut off, frowning at him. His black eyes were sharp, assessing, and Harry had to look away from them. “Never mind. Now finish your draught, we’ve already lingered here for too long.”
Harry stood with Snape in front of a muggle shoe shop, and asked slowly, “What are we doing here?”
“You can’t possibly expect to keep the pace we’ve been going in those, can you?” He gestured at Harry’s trainers. “The spells I used to fix them aren’t going to cut it.”
That startled Harry, who looked down at his shoes. He hadn’t realized it before, but he saw now that the holes had been closed, and the soles felt more cushioned. “You...you fixed them.”
“As a temporary measure.” Snape sounded exasperated, having taken Harry’s statement as an argument. “Do you not pay any attention in your Transfiguration classes? Professor McGonagall has my sympathies! A new material is superior to one patched together with magic, especially ones as worn as those sorry husks you call trainers!”
Harry took a breath. “I still don’t need—”
Snape stepped forward suddenly, and pointed angrily to Harry’s feet.
“These are rubbish. No wonder you got that injury. It’s embarrassing. Maybe you’re comfortable with wearing your shoes until they disintegrate off your feet, but I need you to be able to actually walk.”
Harry’s fists tightened. He knew the value of using something for as long as it would serve him. He’d never just throw out trainers that fit him just because of a few holes. But he doubted he could explain that to Snape.
“I don’t have that much muggle money on me,” he muttered instead.
Snape glowered at him. “I can afford to get you some damn shoes!”
Harry was taken aback. That’s not what he had meant to imply at all.
Making an impatient noise, Snape grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. Harry went, if only to avoid causing a scene in front of the muggles.
“Get one of those,” Snape ordered, pointing at a wall of trainers lined up on shelves. Not waiting for an answer, he stalked to a display of boots. Bewildered, trying and failing to redon the cloak of indifference that had served him so well these past days, Harry picked up a shoe to look at the price, then immediately set it down. Merlin, he’d forgotten how expensive these could be.
He hovered for so long that Snape came up behind him, irritable. “It’s not an exam, Potter. Just pick one!”
Harry reached for the cheapest pair on the wall—only for Snape to snatch them from him.
“These?” the man demanded, shaking the flimsy pair of drab, gray trainers. He tossed them back onto the shelf, then grabbed a far more fashionable, sturdy looking pair: black, with a red stripe running down the sides. “Here.”
“They’re expensive—”
Snape whirled on him with a fantastic glare. “If you insult me one more time—”
“I’m not saying you couldn't afford them,” Harry snapped. “It’s just, you don’t have to get me something this, this—”
“This what, boy? Speak!”
“This nice,” Harry hissed, his face warming. “Look, I know my trainers are old, but they fit, and they’ve worked fine for me for years. And you fixed them up, right? I really don’t need new ones, sir, really.”
Snape was quiet a moment. Then, Harry’s socks were suddenly exposed to the air, and he looked down to find his old trainers were gone.
Harry looked up, gaping, but the man had already turned for the counter, the new shoes in hand.
“We’ll need these in a size six,” Snape told the cashier. “And he’ll be wearing them out.”
“Nice choice," the muggle said, grinning. "Your son's a runner?"
"I should hope not," Snape said without missing a beat, "considering I'm his probation officer."
“O-oh.” The man looked past Snape to stare at Harry, who stood fuming in just his socks. Harry must have looked sufficiently intimidating, as the muggle hurriedly turned back to Snape. "I, er, I didn't realize probation officers did this sort of thing."
"I believe," Snape said, enunciating every syllable, "I asked for a size six."
"Right. Right away, sir..."
Snape soon returned and dropped the box at Harry's feet.
“You can put those on, or walk barefoot,” Snape said curtly, folding his arms. He looked briefly, to see that the muggle at the desk was out of earshot, and continued, “See how they fit. I can resize them if needed.”
Harry’s anger bled away into confusion. Snape made no sign of budging, so Harry begrudgingly sat and began to unpack the box. The fresh box, the crinkle of paper, the stiffness of being brand new… Harry couldn’t recall ever being gifted with shoes. He didn’t think he’d ever gotten new shoes at all.
“Walk around,” Snape directed once he had put the trainers on.
“They fit fine.”
“Walk. Around.”
“I said—”
“Just do it.”
Feeling silly, Harry paced in front of Snape.
“Your heels are lifting out,” Snape said critically. “Come here.”
“I don’t—”
“Do not make me repeat myself again.”
Fuming, Harry sat on the bench. Snape knelt in front of him, his back to the cashier so that his actions were hidden by his body. The man grasped Harry’s heel with his hand, and wandless, slowly shrank the shoe. Then he tapped the toe cap, and said, “You still have room?”
“Yes, it's fine," Harry muttered through gritted teeth.
“Stop being a brat,” Snape said dismissively. “When walking for an extensive period, a good fitting shoe is necessary to prevent injuries. I won’t have you slowing me down with blisters and cramps when it could easily be avoided.”
Harry stared. Snape ignored him, his eyes on Harry's other trainer as he repeated the process. He worked with practiced patience, and Harry got the sense he had done this many times before, likely on his own shoes. An image of Mrs. Weasley fussing over Ron's robes flashed in Harry's mind, and he shoved it violently aside.
I wonder what it’s like to be them, Harry thought, watching a group of muggle teens laugh as they left a cafe.
He was watching the street through the corner shop window while waiting for Snape to buy his customary paper. It was afternoon, and the commuter rush had made way for a younger crowd, enjoying their summer afternoon downtown. Harry had always considered himself comfortable among muggles, same as Hermione. But the world through the glass seemed foreign to him now, almost as strange as Diagon Alley had been when he had first passed through the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron.
The wizarding community still felt new sometimes, Harry’s place in it precarious. Feeling like a stranger here as well, Harry felt bereft, floating between two worlds without roots in either.
What did he have in common with any of these people? Their lives at school or work, their hopes and worries?
A young couple passed by, faces bright, pushing a pram in front of them.
These people have futures, he thought.
He turned to Snape, who was looking critically over his paper while waiting for the rest of his purchases to get rung up. As Harry studied the man’s pinched face, he was suddenly reminded of himself from the previous summer, digging for news in rubbish bins.
He’s checking for attacks from Voldemort. It was just an instinctual guess, but looking at Snape’s tense shoulders, he felt it was a correct one. I guess this is the only way to get news if we’re really so cut off from the Order.
Somewhere, the wizarding world would be reeling with belated shock at Voldemort’s return. Barely a month ago, this would have been important to Harry too. But he seemed to have left all his emotions in the wreckage of Dumbledore’s office; he had nothing left to give.
The idea that Snape could be so invested was strange to him, although now that he was actually thinking about it, it was stupid to have thought otherwise. No Order member could do the perilous work they did, let alone spy on Voldemort, half-heartedly.
What must it feel like, to go from having such a critical role in the war to being a fugitive?
An image of Sirius flashed through his mind, and in that same moment, Snape raised his eyes to meet his.
Harry jerked his gaze away, heart in his throat.
How could I compare him to Snape?
There was a rustling sound, and he found a sandwich wrapped in wax paper dropped onto the sill in front of him.
“Eat on the way,” Snape ordered. He was moving packages of instant coffee, tea, and jerky from the shopping bag into his satchel, and so missed Harry’s startled expression.
That explains why it took him so long at the counter. Harry placed the sandwich into his own bag. It was hefty, and he felt a twinge of discomfort.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he said as he followed Snape outside. “I have enough muggle money on me for a sandwich. I can get my own—”
“Yes, I’m aware that you have plenty of money.” Snape sounded like he was only half-listening, his eyes on the traffic light. “God knows how the muggles spoiled—”
He stopped, then turned to Harry with a blank expression. Unnerved under the scrutiny, Harry said, “We can cross.”
Snape blinked, then led the way across the street.
“You gave me enough grief in the shoe shop," the man said some moments later. "As I told you before, I’m hardly destitute. This might be difficult for you to comprehend, but keeping you alive means keeping you fed. So save your pocket change.”
“But I can—”
“I’ll take any further argument about this as an insult,” he said curtly, and Harry swallowed his words.
Snape didn’t discuss their itinerary with him, and Harry was unfamiliar with muggle Britain. Nevertheless, he could tell they had been taking a meandering path northward.
The man made for strange company. He was often distracted, his mind only ever half on Harry, the other elsewhere, calculating. He charted their route in loops and zigzags, backtracking often. He was doggedly insistent that they never stay long in the same place, and utterly refused to give a straight answer no matter how many times Harry asked why.
Days passed where they barely spoke a word to each other, which suited Harry just fine; he suspected such days were numbered. The uneasy truce they had entered after the yoking spell incident was too stretched thin to last, straining to quell their old, mutual antagonism.
Harry spent his time adding to his list, or trying to. It had quickly expanded to several sheets of parchment covered in possible strategies, training regimens, and questions for Dumbledore—after which Harry found it hard to progress. There was only so much he could do when he was unable to practice spellwork, and even if he could, it still came down to the fact that Voldemort was a vastly more powerful and experienced wizard. If Harry was to defeat him, there had to be some trick up Dumbledore’s sleeve. Some power the Dark Lord knew not.
As they left July and progressed into August, he could not help but feel that working on his flimsy packet of notes was futile. (No owls had arrived on his birthday. Unlike his twelve-year-old self, Harry knew better than to think his friends had forgotten him. He suspected Snape's wards simply didn't allow them to be found).
The days of travel in cramped subways did not help. For Harry, the novelty of the city had long faded, and all the buildings looked gray to him now, the streets litter-strewn. He ached for the color of Diagon Alley, the Weasley chatter at the Burrow, the dust mote smell of Hogwarts…
The muggle world seemed to be wearing on Snape too. He hunted through newspapers like a drowning man reaching for flotsam, and sometimes, Harry woke to find him sitting in the dark, eyes staring through the wall in front of him. There was a restlessness to the way the man paced a room, a caged hawk raring to join its kettle. The way he moved was familiar, and Harry’s mind skirted around why, refusing to acknowledge who it reminded him of.
Harry suspected the man was using a potion to stay awake.
Each night after he laid the wards, Snape would set his books on the desk—or the armchair, or the floor, depending on their accommodations—and work late into the night. Sometimes he set up his cauldron for brewing, and Harry would, out of the corner of his eye, observe the man set up a bizarre series of reactions, often testing the same thing over and over. On many a morning, Harry rose to find Snape squinting at his notes as if they were written in mermish.
Feeling stuck with his own work, Harry found his eyes straying from his notes to study Snape instead. His suspicion that Snape's research pertained to him, that it had some clue to his defeating Voldemort, grew stronger by the day.
Once, during a bored moment waiting for Snape to return from interrogating some unfortunate station agent, Harry had taken a peek inside one of the man’s journals. To his disappointment, he found the dense, spiky script was in some kind of code. I bet Bill could solve something like this easily, Harry thought. Hermione too.
The journal was snatched from his hands, then slammed down hard onto the bench arm beside him.
“Try that again,” Snape said, so dangerously that Harry felt a prickle go up his arms.
“No, sir,” Harry muttered.
Harry awoke to an all-too familiar feeling of dread. The day stretched before him like a door to an immense void, and behind that door was tomorrow, then tomorrow, then tomorrow yet again. Endless and inescapable, a series of black doors.
He wanted nothing more than to sink back to sleep and never rise again, but only nightmares awaited him on that front.
Hearing the sound of a pen scratching, he held onto it, letting it coax him to a sitting position.
Snape was working as usual. The man’s posture was hunched, one hand clenched in his hair, which was pulled into a disheveled tail at the nape of his neck. He wrote only intermittently, tapping the desk and muttering darkly under his breath with each pause.
A barb of resentment stung in Harry’s chest as he watched the man. It was August, and Dumbledore had still not contacted them, and Snape had yet to give Harry any further information.
They expect me to kill Voldemort, but keep me in the dark.
Biting back a sigh, Harry pulled his bag from the floor by the bed and took out his notes. He flipped through them without much enthusiasm, gaze lingering on the book he was using as a flat surface. It was Magical Drafts and Potions, the Potions text from first to fifth year.
Why does it not surprise me that you don’t recognize common herbs any Second Year could identify?
Frowning, Harry set aside his notes and flipped open the book to the section on healing herbs. Finding a painted illustration of purple flowers, he read:
Vervain for infection, mallow to soothe. Together, a simple but effective salve for wounds.
As for problems of digestion, hyssop tea can ease affliction.
He tried to find any description of the blue potion Snape had made, but found nothing.
Must be a NEWT level potion or higher…
Harry glanced at Snape again.
On multiple occasions, Harry had seen the man cast spells wandlessly and nonverbally. He was a Potions Master, an Occlumens, and as an Order member and former Death Eater, Harry had to assume he was adept at dueling.
All skills I could use, Harry thought bitterly. But Snape had demonstrated his inability to teach Harry loud and clear, first with Potions, and then with Occlumency. Harry doubted learning how to murder someone from Snape would go any better.
I wonder…has he killed anyone?
Almost as if he sensed Harry's darkening thoughts about him, Snape tossed down his pen.
"If you're up, don't just lie there," he bit out. "We might as well get ready to move out now. Here. Eat, then go wash up."
The man tossed Harry a parcel, which he caught instinctively—a sandwich. He thought immediately of the one Snape had bought him from the corner shop; it had been a sunny afternoon that day, but the colors of the memory seemed wan to him, soured. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his trainers lined up by his bed, still looking brand new, and the same sour feeling boiled in his stomach.
It should have been Sirius. Taking him on train rides, buying him food, making sure his shoes fit.
“The sun’s barely risen," Harry said quietly. "We usually leave like, an hour from now—”
“Don’t complain, just do it,” Snape snapped. Under his breath, he added something Harry could not fully hear, but he did catch lazy and like his father.
The words were like a spell, altering that sour feeling within him, crystallizing it into something harder, colder. He had felt this way about Vernon sometimes, especially when he had been locked up the summer after first year. It was a flat kind of vindictiveness, of knowing he couldn't hurt someone in a way that mattered, but wishing he could.
Harry opened his hand and let the sandwich drop to the floor.
Snape twisted around. The loose wax paper unraveled on impact, and they both watched as the sandwich disassembled, layers sliding apart on the carpet like a spread of cards.
Snape was silent for a long moment, then he said, coldly, “My apologies. Were you expecting a full course meal?”
"I was expecting for Dumbledore to contact us by now."
“Don’t start with me.” Despite the words, Snape had turned around fully in his chair, eyes flinty and oddly eager.
He wants to fight, Harry thought. He wants me to talk back, to give him the excuse.
Feeling apart from himself, guided by bitter curiosity—a muffled, destructive desire to see how far he could push—Harry decided to give it to him.
“No, because you seem like you want my attention.”
Snape stood. “Do you have cotton in your ears? I said get ready to move out. And because of your childish display"—he vanished the mess on the floor with a slash of his wand—"we'll need to stop for food on our way to the station."
"Don't bother. Dumbledore's not here, remember? So no need to pretend you care. I can tolerate a little starving, Professor."
The man's jaw stiffened. "I've more than lost patience with this attitude you've had."
“Funny, I feel the same. What, is the research not going well?”
Snape’s eyes flashed and his hands clenched. Harry observed from a distance. It was rewarding, in a way, how quickly he could make the man lose his temper.
“You have no idea how important this is.”
“You’re right, I don’t. It’s not like you’ve told me.”
“You do not need to know!” Snape bellowed. He began to gesticulate, something Harry had seen him do often that summer. The man had not been so expressive at Hogwarts. “You are not entitled to know everything simply because you are Harry bloody Potter! You realize not even Order members are privy to every—”
His hand knocked into his mug, steaming hot coffee splattering onto his leg, but Snape ignored this, slamming a hand down on the journal closest to the spill and flinging it away. Then he simply stood there, back to Harry, his leg undoubtedly burning.
Harry was suddenly aware of the pounding in his chest, and he held his breath. For a protracted moment, the two of them could have been statues in that silent room.
“Potter,” Snape said finally, his voice very, very quiet. “Do not make me repeat—”
Harry was already moving, slipping quickly from the bed and into the bathroom.
That night, Harry was revisited by an old nightmare: Quirrel’s face blistering beneath his hands, smoke in his nostrils and his throat, their flesh and screams merging together.
He awoke a few hours after midnight, labored breaths wheezing from his throat. He had not had that dream in years. After the incident in First Year, it had plagued him for weeks, but since then the thought of Quirrel had raised little emotion in him.
His gasps were low, but audible in the quiet room. When no snide remark was forthcoming, he lifted himself with trembling arms to look for Snape.
He saw a potion in stasis on the floor—and the man sat before it in a dead sleep, head dropped to his chest.
It’s done and over with, he thought furiously, forcing his body to stumble out of bed and lurch towards the desk. You killed someone, and you’ll have to kill someone again. So what? Focus on what you have to do now!
Ignoring the undecipherable journals, he reached for one of the textbooks. He flipped through the pages for a moment, his eyes unregistering. He could only see Quirrel’s face, his skin curling like paper in candle flame, over and over.
As a passing car sent ribbons of light arcing across the ceiling, Harry was seized by a powerful impulse to be away. Out of that stifling room, out of Snape’s radius. Maybe it was the heat, or the potion fumes, but he could barely breathe, he needed to breathe—
The book and his bag in tow, he descended to the lobby underneath his cloak, past the clerk, and into the cool night air.
There were still a few muggles on the streets, weary night shift workers and drunken groups stumbling home from clubs. Harry was grateful for his anonymity, dodging them with ease, the cloak fluttering about his feet.
I could be a ghost, he thought, breathing beginning to slow as he traced his and Snape’s footsteps from yesterday.
He intended to turn back once he reached the metro entrance, but the bitterness of returning to the hotel, to Snape, halted his feet.
He thought of the yoking spell, the unfair words, the withheld information—and all the other cruelties the man had subjected him to since he was eleven. Snape behaved the way he did, and yet still expected Harry to just obey him?
Grip tightening around the book he had stolen, he entered the station.
Silent as a wraith, he walked down the escalators and through echoing corridors. He hesitated once at the turnstiles, then hopped over to enter an empty platform. Looking into the darkness of the tunnel, he imagined what it would be like to jump onto one of those trains, to run away and never look back.
Voldemort would find me eventually, he thought. But…Snape would kill me first.
Checking to make sure he was alone, he slipped off his cloak, then claimed a bench seat to look through the book he had stolen. The words were still concealed, so he studied the pictures. They were strange, not the grisly scenes he had expected. One was a detailed illustration of what looked to be a simple bowl of water. Another was a diagram of animal bones, feathers, and stones scattered across a table. Eventually, Harry came across one of a robed woman with a star on her brow, her hands cupped around a glass sphere that looked familiar.
A prophecy, Harry realized, stomach clenching. Anger and trepidation settled into his heart. Snape’s research did pertain to him.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and his head whipped up to see Snape, his shirt disheveled and hair in disarray.
“I should kill you,” the man whispered. He looked unhinged. “Save myself the trouble.”
“You haven’t got any socks on,” Harry said, looking at the white ankles above Snape’s loafers.
Snape snatched the book from Harry’s lap.
“We’re going back to the hotel, now—”
“Your research is about the prophecy, isn’t it?” Harry interrupted, steeling himself. No matter how angry Snape got, he needed answers. “And don’t call me arrogant. That’s a book on divination, it makes sense—”
“Muffliato,” Snape snarled, concealing his wand motion between his body and the wall. Several muggles had populated the platform by now, and it was beginning to grow crowded.
“You haven’t learned anything, have you?” the man hissed. “Always poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, never thinking of the consequences! After everything I—the Order has done to keep you safe, the least you could do is stay put! Christ alive, boy, does your mother’s sacrifice mean anything to you?”
Harry surged to his feet, the sound of his mother’s screaming in his ears. “You don’t get to use that against me. I didn’t ask her to die for me. I didn’t ask to be born! I don’t even—I don’t even want to be here—”
“You ungrateful—” Snape cut off with a snarl. “If your parents don’t move you, then what of the mutt? You’d think his death would have taught you—”
“DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT SIRIUS!” Pain struck Harry like a deluge; drowning, he grasped at rage to stay afloat. His face twisted, posture corded; despite being unable to decipher his words, the nearby muggles veered away. “Don’t you fucking, stand there and talk about him like, like you didn’t ignore me when I begged, begged you for help in Umbridge’s office!”
“Ignored you?” As Harry’s voice rose, Snape’s lowered. “What a fine thing it would be, if I had announced my true intentions right in front of Umbridge? You realize I contacted the Order as soon as I left her office? That I ensured Black was still within Headquarters—and when you and your merry band of fools went to the Ministry anyway, it was I who alerted the Order to rescue you?”
“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” Harry spat. His heart was hammering, hands shaking. He felt like at any moment, he would spin apart. “You could have signaled me in some way! I found a way to communicate with you—”
Snape laughed. Laughed.
“How? We hardly have a rapport. What code could I have used that wouldn’t be immediately suspicious? You realize that, with your little display, it was already suspect that you came to me at all? That by now, Umbridge will have confirmed the name of Padfoot with Pettigrew, or any other number of Death Eaters who recognize that name from your godfather’s school days? That you already put me in a position where I had to distance myself from you to maintain cover?”
Harry could barely process Snape’s words. His fury was growing higher and higher, to a ringing, white-hot point.
“I know you don’t care that he’s dead,” he whispered. He stared right through Snape, his anger blinding, all-consuming. “I bet you’re happy. You hated him. Always goading him about being stuck in the house. If it weren’t for you, he’d never—”
“Never have gone to rescue you?” Snape spoke over Harry, relentless, each word striking like a death knell. “Spare me. You really think, for one moment, that Black would have stayed put when his precious godson was in danger? You and I both know that I was irrelevant in his decision that day. The moment a Potter decides to go and risk his fool neck, of course Black is going to follow. You’re lucky that only he died, and not your idiot friends too.”
Everything stopped. Sounds, motion, the beating of his heart. Snape was still speaking, maybe, but Harry could not hear it.
He’d known that Snape’s words were true, of course. Dumbledore had told him as much, how Snape had been the one to alert the Order. How he had even tried to keep Sirius at Grimmauld.
“Nothing else to say?” Snape exhaled roughly, and reached at his side, only to swipe air. Frowning, he patted at his shirt. "Christ...left my bag at the hotel." Hiding the motion with his body once more, he shrank the book down, and stuffed it into his pocket. “All right. Now come along, we need to—”
Harry had taken a step back, towards the edge of the platform. He could hear the train come to a stop behind him, the muggles beginning to surge to the doors. Snape looked up and froze, eyes looking at Harry, then the train.
They both moved at the same time. Snape would have caught him were it not for Harry taking advantage of the crowd. He slipped nimbly between groups, putting bodies between himself and Snape. The man shoved people aside without care, his face livid white.
“DON’T YOU DARE—”
Harry ducked through the train doors just as they closed. Snape was still caught in the crowd, and for a wild moment, Harry thought the man might attempt apparating through. It was crowded in the car, and the man was almost guaranteed to splinch himself into the passengers if he did.
In the end, the train moved away and Snape could do nothing but watch, his face contorted with fury and fear.
Harry turned away.
Harry's feet led him blindly through the city. Amidst the static of his brain, fragments of Snape's words would return, looping over and over.
Never have gone? You and I both know. You think. Black would have stayed? One moment. When his godson was in danger? Idiot. You and I both know. A Potter decides. A Potter decides. A Potter decides to go and risk his fools went to the Ministry anyway. You're lucky that not only your idiot friends died, friends died, sacrifice. Mother, ungrateful. You're lucky that only he died, he died, he died, he died—
Don't listen to him, he imagined Ron saying. Snape will say anything to hurt you, the greasy git. Don't give him the satisfaction.
Harry tried to cling to this. To remember every terrible thing Snape had done, to build up the monster in his mind. This was the man who had belittled Harry and his friends for years. Who had told Hermione he saw “no difference” when she was twelve and scared, and her hexed teeth were growing uncontrollably. Who had revealed Lupin’s lycanthropy. Who had goaded Si—
Why couldn’t Harry have been born in January instead of July? Why couldn’t his parents have been harmless muggles, instead of Order members that defied the Dark Lord three times?
You and I both know. You're lucky that only he—
Harry heard the sound of a speeding car above him, and raised his eyes to see an overhead bridge.
Maybe there was a staircase up there.
Before he could take a step forward, he heard a crack in the distance, and all at once, his mind’s fog was swept aside by sharp clarity. A prickle ran up the back of his neck, and he peered through his cloak all around him, straining to see anything.
Suddenly, a whipping sound rushed towards him, and Harry jumped instinctively. A spinning bolas hurtled beneath him, clattering against the far wall as Harry began to run. More were sent after him, seemingly aimed at random.
They know I’m here, but not exactly where.
Harry’s reflexes were good, but eventually, one of the projectiles caught his shoulder. It tangled into the cloak, revealing him. Harry immediately lunged to the side, narrowly avoiding a stunner. Two more bolas were sent his way. He dodged one, but the other impacted his legs, wrapping around them and sending him to the ground. Harry made to raise his wand—but a boot stamped down upon his hand, grinding his knuckles painfully into the asphalt.
“You’re a quick one,” spoke a gravelly voice that Harry tried to match with a face.
His wand, bag, and cloak were taken and his wrists bound before he was dragged into a nearby alleyway and propped up against the cold brick.
From there, he took a look at his captor: the hulking form, prominent jowls, and heavy lidded eyes that gleamed under the dim light.
Mulciber. Along with Bellatrix Lestrange, he had been one of the few Death Eaters to escape the Department of Mysteries.
“Silencio,” the Death Eater said carelessly, then, “Crucio!”
Harry’s mouth opened wide in a voiceless scream as his body thrashed in the muggle trash of the alleyway. His mind kept up a litany of self-reassurances, but there was no escaping from the pain.
Finally, the curse let up, and Harry lay on his side, panting. His mind rushed a mile a minute, trying to plan his escape. It never occurred to him that he could expect help; no one knew he was here, and time was of the essence. If he was taken to Voldemort, escaping would be even more impossible. And he couldn’t die here, not now.
Mulciber had his bag, with the broom and cloak, and was holding his wand. I’ve been in situations like this before, he won’t kill me, he has to take me to Voldemort, I need to find a way to escape, if I can just get my wand…
Mulciber gripped him by the hair and pushed him back against the wall. Harry fought him, but the man was stronger, striking him with a blow to the face that made his vision flicker. The man handled him with a casual cruelty that felt all the more humiliating for its laziness.
“We’ve got a little time, I think,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting, you know. The first time around, we got fresh blood every night.” He licked his lips. “At the Ministry…I got so little time with you and your friends. The little mudblood with the unkempt hair—I’m still angry that Dolohov got to her first. You’ll have to do in her place.”
Harry’s stomach sunk, goosebumps rising on his arms.
No, this is good. The longer he fools around, the more chances I’ll have to escape. I just need to wait for an opportunity. I can do this.
Mulciber whistled a disjointed little tune as he crouched in front of Harry.
“You have your mother’s eyes, you know,” he said conversationally. “Did you know she and I were in the same year at school? I always wanted to know what she sounded like when she screamed. ‘Course Snape never let us do anything.”
Snape? What does he mean by that?
“It’s a pickle,” the man mused, tracing his wand down the side of Harry’s face. “I want to hear your pretty screams, but we can’t have the muggles bring too much attention.”
A mouse scurried past, and Mulciber slashed his wand out so suddenly that Harry jerked back. There was a squelching sound, and a horrid squeak. Harry gasped mutely as he watched Mulciber pick up the red puddle of mouse-skin that was left by the tail, and dangled it in front of him.
“I’ll do this to each of your toes, I think,” he said, shaking the mouse a little so that blood flecked onto Harry’s face. “Pop them like tomatoes. Then I’ll skin your fingers. Conjure up a few maggots and give ‘em a good meal.” As he spoke, he demonstrated each promise on the mouse, its skin ribboning, then brimming with worms. “Maybe I’ll summon a few more of these little rats, have them gnaw at the soft bit, right here—”
He caressed the skin behind Harry’s ear. Trying not to gag, Harry leaned away.
It’s just pain, he told himself, distancing his focus from what Mulciber was about to do. Temporary. Whatever he does to you, you can survive it, you’ve survived worse—
“Oh, what’s this here?”
Mulciber pressed his thumb against the scar on Harry’s arm from earlier that summer, and he stiffened.
“I like them unmarred,” Mulciber said, pressing his wand to the injury. “A clean slate.”
Harry watched, tense, but the man only healed the scar, fresh skin closing over the faint, white line. He paused, then pointed his wand again, and the wound began to reform. It felt far worse this time, not the slice of a mirror, but a slow jagged drag. It was as if Mulciber were cutting him open with a blunt rock, or his thumb nail, scratching slowly, methodically.
Harry struggled within his bonds, eyes watering, gritting his teeth so as not to give his tormentor the satisfaction of screaming.
“That’s better,” Mulciber sighed. “Now—”
There was a noise at the mouth of the alley, and Mulciber turned. Harry wasted no time bringing his legs up sharply, kicking the man in the jaw and sending him backwards. Then he rolled to the side, clumsily managing to get to his feet despite being bound—and saw that Mulciber was engaged in a duel with Snape.
He found me. The man looked like a storm unleashed, eyes blazing. He managed to disarm Mulciber, and the wand flew towards Harry, who snatched it from the ground and, in a moment of vindictive impulse, snapped it in two.
Mulciber roared, tackling him against the wall. Harry was trapped against brick, knuckles pressed bruisingly into his sternum, the man’s hot breath and spittle in his face.
“You bitch!” Mulciber pulled back his arm, and Harry braced himself.
But a flash of black careened into Mulciber’s side—Snape, shoving the other man away. Breathing hard, his sport coat buttoned at the wrong holes, and still not wearing any socks, Snape planted himself in front of Harry. Mulciber tried to scramble to his feet, but Snape aimed a blasting curse right into the Death Eater’s face. There was an absurd amount of power behind the spell, and Mulciber went hurtling like a rag doll, crashing into the wall, then slumping to the floor in a rain of crumbling brick, his body motionless.
Snape whirled on Harry, who sat frozen and trembling against the wall.
"You're uninjured?"
Harry's heart was hammering in his chest. He was almost glad of the silencing spell, giving him an excuse not to speak as Snape stalked forward, freed his wrists, and hauled him up.
“Did you cast any magic?” Snape demanded. He took in Harry’s arm, then turned him this way and that, looking for additional injuries. “Potter, speak!”
Harry shook his head.
Snape huffed an angry breath, then waved his wand to cast a diagnostic spell that Harry had seen Pomfrey use in the past. “You’ll be the death of me,” the man spat as his eyes scanned the results. “Reckless, arrogant, heedless boy! Never thinking, it’s like you want to get yourself killed!”
Harry felt his own anger rise, steadying him from his former shock and terror, and he glared as the man took his arm.
“That’s a fine face to give your healer,” Snape said sarcastically. He examined the injury with narrow eyes, his hold on Harry's wrist not ungentle. “He reopened this."
Harry stiffened, mind flashing to earlier that summer. He had nicked himself on the mirror shard while removing things from his trunk, and then, he had pressed the glass to his skin again, only briefly but—
"Targeting old wounds is Mulciber's preferred form of torture," Snape said grimly. "What did he hit you with?"
The man made no mention of how Harry had obtained the cut, and he slowly relaxed. He must have seen it on the last diagnostic, but not its cause. And it's just a scrape, he wouldn't have thought anything weird about it.
When Harry failed to respond, Snape glared at him. “I asked you a question! What did he—”
The man trailed off, concern flashing through his eyes, and reached for Harry’s chin.
“Did he—is your tongue intact?”
Harry veered from Snape’s reach, mouthing silencio.
A part of him expected the man to sneer at him, to keep the spell active. I should thank Mulciber—now I don’t have to hear your insufferable voice.
Snape did none of these things. Instead, he muttered, “Of course,” and tapped Harry’s sternum softly with his wand. “Finite incantatem.”
His voice returned, Harry took a breath, then said, “Just a cutting spell. He threatened to do…other things to it, but didn’t get the chance.”
Snape looked at him closely, then took his arm again. Harry’s hand trembled slightly, an after effect of the Cruciatus, and the man glanced at it for a beat, then raised his wand to the injury.
“Sano salve,” he incanted, and Harry watched as the wound closed once more.
“No vervain this time?” Harry said without thinking. He felt cold despite the summer heat, his tongue running away from him.
Snape glanced up at him, startled, then said, “As long as there’s no infection, a simple healing charm will do the trick. ...Unless it's a cursed wound, which often requires a specific counter, and in the absence of that, should be disinfected carefully.”
Harry nodded, head feeling heavy.
“Death of me,” the man murmured again. He shoved Harry’s wand and bag into his hands and said, “We need to get out of here. And don’t use that unless you have to—”
“Sectumsempra!”
Snape whirled, a counter on his lips, but it was too late—a malevolent wave of curse magic slashed across his chest, and he released a stuttered cry.
“Snape!”
Mulciber was not dead as they had thought. Leaning heavily against the wall, he managed a lopsided sneer through the broken meat of his face, a trembling hand raised.
Snape began to slump, clutching his middle, but caught himself and snarled, “Avada—”
Mulciber twisted, a crack resounding through the alley as he disappeared—but not all of him, a chunk of unidentifiable flesh falling to the ground.
“Fuck,” Snape said vehemently, curling over with pain.
Harry moved to steady him, but Snape bit out, “No time.” He reached out and pulled Harry to him roughly. “Hold on!”
Snape apparated, and their feet had barely hit the ground before he was apparating them again, and again, and again. Harry saw a snatch of forest, a parched plain of withered grass, a muddy ravine that soaked their shoes in the instant before they moved on…
Harry slumped over after the fifth time, vomiting, but Snape hauled him up, muttering, strained, “Quickly, quickly—”
They finally stopped by a set of train tracks surrounded by open fields. It was quiet, not a soul to be seen for miles.
Snape released him and stumbled away, circling around Harry as he moved his wand in complex motions, his face wan and alert as he sensed for something. Harry waited, tense, until finally, the man’s shoulders slumped.
“We lost them,” he said hoarsely, then crumpled to the ground.
Notes:
All listed content warnings happen in one torture scene. Harry encounters Mulciber, who makes various threats of torture, and injures the boy's arm. Snape arrives before the Death Eater can do anything further. If you wish to skip this scene entirely, stop at "I need to find a way to escape, if I can just get my wand…" and resume at "There was a noise at the mouth of the alley."
If you only wish to avoid the description of insects: stop at “I’ll do this to each of your toes, I think" and resume at "He caressed the skin behind Harry’s ear."
To avoid description of animal death: stop at "we can’t have the muggles bring too much attention" and resume at "He caressed the skin behind Harry’s ear."
Chapter 3 playlist:
Burning Bridges by Willis Earl Beal
I Saw You Close Your Eyes by Local Natives
Broken Sleep by Agnes Obel
Late Night by Foals
Too Far by LAUREL
Ashes by The Bengsons
Reckless by Crystal Castles
Dangerous by Son LuxI was pretty indulgent with the songs this time. I enjoyed listening to all of these while writing, so hopefully you enjoy at least one while reading! (The titles ended up being quite on the nose, which I promise wasn't intentional!)
Chapter 4: oh, and how i long to breathe air
Notes:
Chapter CW: needles, self-harm
Thank you, so much, to everyone who has read so far, and those of you who have left kudos and comments. I had to drag this chapter kicking and screaming into the light, but here we are at last. I hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Harry was nine, he had cut open his shin on an exposed nail while climbing over a fence to escape Dudley’s gang. He hid the injury from his aunt and uncle when he returned home; past experience told him they were more likely to scream at him for getting hurt than to help him.
He awoke that night to find the wound unbearably hot and itchy. The injury had bled sluggishly in the night, and to his child eyes, the slice in his skin looked dangerously wide. Overblown fears of germs eating up his leg terrified him, and he got it fixed within his mind that without stitches, he would die.
The cupboard door opened for him, as it often would when he needed to use the loo after everyone had gone to sleep. He used to think Petunia was the one unlocking it, a small sign that she cared for him at least a little. Of course, as he later realized, it was just his accidental magic.
He had locked himself in the bathroom and retrieved the first aid kit from below the sink. Trapping his pain behind clenched teeth, he poured alcohol over the wound. He made the mistake of applying antibiotic cream, which made the area too slippery for stitches. After a few painful, ineffectual attempts, he was forced to wash the area clean and try again.
For an hour, he sat on the toilet while poking a needle in and out of his skin, jaw locked for fear of waking his relatives.
Trembling and sweat-soaked, he carefully placed everything away after he was done, then returned to the cupboard on legs that could barely hold him. The whole thing felt like a bad dream, but beneath his pain, his nausea, and his stark loneliness, a part of him had been proud of his stitches.
Snape lay as if dead, unresponsive to Harry’s calls.
He dropped to the man’s side, grabbing a spare shirt from his bag and pressing it to the upwelling of blood as firmly as he dared.
The magnitude of the night’s events threatened to crush him. He cringed at the memory of running from Snape at the station; how could he have been so stupid? A Death Eater had caught him almost immediately, and now the man Dumbledore had assigned to guard him was injured.
Snape was right, I haven’t learned anything. I don’t think about the consequences, and people end up dead because of it.
Scattered knowledge from tending his own wounds with muggle cotton swabs and stinging alcohol drifted and crashed against what he had read in his magical textbooks.
Stick to what you know. Stop the bleeding.
The moon was bright that night, allowing him to watch the black seeping into the fabric beneath his hands. Grass poked through the holes in his jeans. In the left corner of his vision, a firefly winked lazily over the train tracks, while crickets chorused from the fields to his right. His fingertips felt cold. Or were they wet?
He sat until his arms ached and his hands were stiff, until the spread finally seemed to have crept to a stop. Snape was very still, and with unsteady fingers, Harry reached for the pulse point at the man’s throat. There was a beat there, but alarmingly faint.
He raised his wand, then hesitated. He had never attempted a Patronus message, nor the spell to close a wound. Either might take him several attempts, and the moment he used magic, the Ministry—and therefore the Death Eaters—would be able to find them. And according to Snape, even the Order was not to be trusted.
Throat closing, he made a decision.
I’ll use my wand as a last resort.
The wind picked up suddenly, whipping through the grass and tossing his hair, and a familiar scent hit his nostrils: smoky, not exactly pleasant, with a note of mint.
Hyssop.
The moonlight allowed him to catch sight of a familiar cluster of herbs on the same side of the tracks as he was, but farther off, closer to where the long grass of the field began. There was the hyssop he had expected, but also vervain, and next to it…yarrow? All common herbs in the wild, but the way they were planted seemed deliberate, the way someone might arrange a brewing garden.
His instincts told him to go forward, and he had not walked five paces before a train car shimmered into existence in front of him. Startled, Harry stepped backwards—and the car disappeared.
A concealing ward—Snape had apparated them to some kind of safe house!
Stepping close once more, he saw it was a plain box nearly seven meters in width, the kind for hauling freight, not people. It looked to have been there for some time, its metal corroded, the rust-orange exterior flaking like dragon scales. The wheels and metal springs were choked with weeds, but the ladder was intact; one could climb to the roof, where Harry saw a small cauldron was set up for brewing. Outside, a fire pit had been dug, with a sun-bleached log beside it for seating.
Even in his state of urgency, Harry was not blind to the romance of it; briefly, a book from his childhood about boxcar runaways flashed through his mind.
He wasted no time investigating the inside. The side-door facing the tracks was gone, leaving an open doorway he could pull himself through. He jostled something with his elbow on the way in, and an oil lamp set by the door suddenly illuminated, casting light across the wagon’s interior.
Shallow shelves had been installed all along the wall opposite the door, stocked with tools for brewing, cooking, and gathering herbs, as well as books. In the shadowy recess at the edge of one of the shelves, he found an instructional guide on healing.
Stacked on one side of the car were bedrolls, and on the other, an open canister of water that looked too pristine not to be magical, and a crate filled with what looked like seamless, plastic Easter eggs, but were labeled rations. There were even muggle survival supplies: matches, an old portable stove, a bundle of yellowed trail maps, and notably, a hefty storage case with the words Emergency Medical printed on its side.
Harry grabbed the latter, and after a moment of hesitation, the healing guide.
The horizon was beginning to lighten as he flushed Snape’s wound with saline solution from the kit. He could see now that the injury ran along the length of the man’s chest, longer than it was deep, and he decided, with a great deal of relief, that it didn’t need to be packed. He laid strips of gauze over it as a temporary measure, then sat back, at a loss.
What now?
It was hard to assess the man’s color in the low light. A hand to his lips confirmed breath, and at his wrist was a pulse, albeit feeble. Harry imagined Snape’s heart laboring in his chest, struggling to do its work.
He’s not bleeding anymore, and he seems stable, Harry assured himself. I won’t use magic. Not yet.
He looked at Snape’s indistinct figure sprawled in the grass. When he could barely see the man’s face, it could be anyone lying there. For a moment, he saw Cedric, body splayed, blank eyes staring.
Harry jerked, willing the thought away.
Focus.
Ideally, he would get the man inside the train car. But how?
He ended up engineering a clumsy solution by cutting strips down the torso of Snape’s coat, then securing them to the handle of his broom. The result was a crude imitation of the litters used by rescue helicopters. Awkwardly, he had mounted his broom and floated upwards, lifting Snape about a foot from the ground. Slowly, watching to make sure the coat fabric did not break, he ferried Snape into the train car and onto one of the bedrolls.
Breathing hard, Harry propped the broom against the wall, then took a proper look at Snape under the lantern light. Lifting the gauze, he was dismayed to see that despite cleaning the wound, the area around it was beginning to look inflamed. Harry passed a hand over it, and his stomach turned at the heat he felt radiating.
Harry’s doubts returned full-force, along with the crushing fear of making the wrong choice: what if he had overestimated the danger of contacting the Order? What if Snape died because of his arrogance?
Harry sank his nails into his arm.
The last time he had made a choice without thinking, people died. If he decided to send a Patronus message, it couldn't be out of panic this time.
Think.
The speed with which the infection had onset seemed unnatural. Was it an effect of the curse? Harry had thought it was just a lacerating spell, but what if it was something more insidious?
Breathing shakily, Harry forced his hand away from his arm. What was it Snape had said? Something about needing a counter curse, and if he didn't have one, to disinfect?
The blue potion Snape had brewed for him rose in his mind. He hadn’t been able to find mention of it in his potions text, but it would make sense if it worked like an antibiotic. The salve had been used to treat infection too, but if Harry’s condition had been as bad as Snape made it out to be, something topical wouldn’t be enough to treat it.
It was a gut feeling, something he had always trusted. His instinct had kept him alive until now. It had directed him to answers when everyone wanted him kept in the dark.
It had also led him to the Department of Mysteries.
But was that instinct? Hermione’s voice challenged him. Or just plain fear?
Harry dragged Snape’s bag toward him and began to empty it. Books, books, one of Snape’s journals, more books, what looked to be a set of exploding flasks (Harry placed them down very carefully), hiking shoes, camping equipment, clothes for winter weather, and a large, unwieldy case he could barely wrestle from the bag—
Snape’s case of potions!
Harry opened it as he had seen Snape do, unfolding tiers of wooden shelves. He was met with a sea of unlabelled bottles, many of them blue, but no matter, he remembered the row the man had stored the vials in. Heart thudding, he plucked one of these from the case—and stopped, because he didn’t even know if he was supposed to administer it directly to the wound, or have Snape drink it.
Despair rose in him. For a terrifying moment, Harry’s mind provided nothing but white noise as he faced the prospect of Snape dying, of being left alone here with a corpse.
No. Stop. Think.
Mustering all he could remember from his recent reading, he raised the vial to the light, tilted it, and saw it had a thin consistency.
If it was meant to be applied to the skin, wouldn’t it be in the form of a salve? He made it in bulk, too…and that vial on the side table when I woke up was completely empty. If that counts as a single dose for someone my size...
Making his decision, he crouched over Snape’s pallid face, and with tense fingers, poured the potion between the man’s lips as slowly as he could. His mind raced with panicked thoughts, everything from the possibility that Snape would choke to the idea that Harry was actually poisoning him.
But Snape did not choke—even unconscious, he swallowed reflexively, and it seemed most of the dose was taken.
Harry waited with bated breath. After a moment, he thought the redness around the wound might have receded slightly. But Snape still looked worryingly pale, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible.
It struck him that the kit might have blood replenisher, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. He’d received the potion enough times to recognize not only its dark color, but also its metallic scent.
He hunted through all the red vials he could see, opening them one by one to smell, and found what he was looking for after only a few tries.
Stupid, he berated himself. This is the first thing I should have done.
He sat back after administering the dose, biting his lip. He didn't dare hope to see a change so soon, but Snape's color improved at once.
Harry sagged with relief. With nothing requiring his immediate attention, he relaxed his focus, awareness returning to his own body. To the throb of his bruises, the salt on his upper lip, the blood flaking on his arm. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to the alleyway, to asphalt on his knees and the rank smell of a nearby skip. To the things Mulciber had done to the mouse. The things he had promised to do to Harry.
Harry dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the canister. He collected water with trembling hands; it was cool, and fresh, and the moment he had taken it, the container began to magically refill.
He tried to scrub off the phantom sensation of blood from his face, the ghost of foul breath from his ear. Goosebumps prickled across his arms, and he jerked his head reflexively, as if that would shake Mulciber’s words from his brain.
Seeking warmth, he clambered out from the train car. The sun had risen above the treeline beyond the tracks, and still trying to chase away his tremors, he stepped into a pool of sunlight. The grass looked inviting, so he toed off his trainers—you still have room?—and let them sink into the damp green.
In the distance, a train horn blared, and unease hit him before he remembered that the area around the wagon was invisible. Rubbing his chilled arms, he stood waiting. Slowly, the rumbling grew beneath his feet, and then the train was thundering past, whipping at his hair and rattling in his rib cage.
He watched until it vanished into the distance, and the wailing of its horn was barely audible.
Snape's improvement proved to be short-lived. When Harry returned to the car, he saw that the man's sleep had become fitful, eyes rolling beneath his lids as his body fought infection with fever.
Desperate for guidance, Harry looked through the healing manual he had found on the shelves. It was dusty and battered, the words on the spine faded to ghost-letters he did not bother trying to parse. Inside the front cover, he found a note written in a constrained, somber cursive:
Son,
I don’t know much about healing. But my hope is that you will. Your gift in potions can be applied to many things, and I don’t have to tell you that healing is both profitable and useful.
I think of you, always.
Eileen
Eileen was not the only one to write in the book. The text was annotated, heavily, with a spiky script that Harry knew all too well from years of essays marked in red. There was snarky commentary squeezed between lines of text, drawings and speculations in the margins, and corrections—not just steps, but sometimes entire protocols crossed out and replaced.
The vandalism exasperated him at first, but he soon found himself grateful for Snape’s additions. Underneath the chapter on Curse Wound Complications, the man had written the following:
dark wounds are as spiteful as their caster. if the right counterspell is not quickly applied, the residual curse energy will attract infection. remedies given to the patient may seem ineffective, but persistence is the key. keep the injury clean, replace dressings often, and up the dose of gan-wadan as needed. once the infection subsides, any remaining dark magic will subside with it.
The guide contained a comprehensive index, including an illustrated glossary that helped him identify useful potions in Snape's kit, essence of dittany and a pain reliever among them. Gan-wadan was the blue potion, he learned, and he had been correct about its use against infection.
He navigated to the section on prescription calculations next, and found an intimidatingly dense dosage chart. Fortunately, Snape had included the following note:
your patient will merrily bleed to death by the time you finish the maths suggested here. field injuries require accuracy and SPEED - see the simplified formulas below.
Having exhausted his own stock of parchment, Harry turned to the blank pages in one of Snape’s journals and began sketching out a plan. He had been correct to give the man replenisher and gan-wadan; he just needed to continue the treatment, and for that, he needed to know how much to give, and at what intervals. Remembering the herbs outside, he added poultice to his notes as well.
Even as he wrote, he turned this course of action over in his head, second-guessing it from every angle. He was trying to do the smart thing this time, the responsible thing. He didn't want Snape to be yet another person who died because of his recklessness. But despite the assurance that so far, he had taken the right steps, he knew this could still go horribly wrong.
If he gets worse after the next dose, I'll try contacting Dumbledore.
Don't die, Harry thought, his script shaky as he began to jot down Snape's formulas. I promise to listen next time. To not be reckless, to not run off. So please, don't die.
Snape didn't get worse after the next dose, but neither did he visibly improve. Harry checked over his calculations so many times that numerals were beginning to look like alien symbols to him. A thousand fears picked at his brain like carrion crows: what if the poultice just introduced contaminants to the wound? What if there was some contra-indicator between treatments he had missed? What if he didn't give enough blood replenisher, or too much gan-wadan? What if he had misidentified essence of dittany?
And yet, Snape hadn't gotten worse. That was the metric Harry had set for himself, and if he wanted to act rational instead of reckless, he would keep to it.
Persistence is the key.
Eventually, it became impossible to ignore the needs of his own body. He found that the rations capsules would expand with a double-tap, the exterior vanishing to reveal various ingredients. Cooking was too much time and effort, so he hunched in the doorway of the car to gnaw on cold cuts and raw vegetables. If he was lucky, he'd get to see one of the trains pass before it was time to prepare the next dose or change dressings.
He'd taken to keeping the healing guide at his side. Snape's comments were a small comfort, helping Harry feel like he wasn't making these high-stakes decisions alone. It was hard to believe, at times, that the professor he knew was the person behind the spiky script. That person was irreverent. Clever. They pushed Harry when he felt like giving up, transforming steps that made him want to tear his hair out into simple directives.
Where did that person go when Snape was in the classroom?
Under this guidance, Harry filled the pages of Snape's journal with a careful treatment record, as well as notes and questions on interesting things he came across while reading. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, learning all of this wouldn't be terrible, he thought. It almost made him wish Hogwarts had a healing course.
In rare moments of respite from tending to Snape, he watched the sky. The rest stop was tranquil between trains; there was only the hum of insects, the rustling of distant trees, the tall grass swaying. Under different circumstances, he could almost imagine spending a summer here, flying over the fields by day, and stargazing from the train car roof by night. Faintly, he thought of the many fireflies that winked in the grass after sundown, but even his daydreams were not carefree enough to entertain catching them.
“It's like you're the one healing you,” Harry told Snape as he finished applying fresh gauze. The man's brow was furrowed, expression stressed even in sleep. "Because of your notes, I mean." He reached for Snape’s wrist, turning it so he could see the watch-face and jot down the time. "You're almost funny in them. Do you only have a sense of humor in writing?”
The jest seemed to wither the moment it left his lips. It had been four days since their frantic arrival at the train car, and Snape still hadn't woken.
He thought of the man’s mother, Eileen, and wondered where she was now. It felt strange to try and picture her, as he had always viewed Snape as being alone. It was the sort of thing the Gryffindors joked about.
Greasy git. I bet he’s still a virgin. I mean, who would want to sleep with that?
I bet he doesn’t have any friends, either. He’s not exactly pleasant to be around!
Ha, not even his mother could love him!
Shame ate at him as he remembered laughing along.
Who else was in Snape’s life? What friends or family would the man be leaving behind if he died now, and all because of Harry’s recklessness?
His chest felt tight, suddenly. His hand crept for the shard at his pocket—then halted, remembering the sting of Mulciber reopening his scar. Was he really going to hurt himself in the same place a Death Eater had? Despite Snape's stupor, Harry imagined he could feel the man's eyes on him. He just healed this, too.
Harry sat frozen with shame, but also with a nervous energy clawing inside him for release.
I'm such a freak.
He compromised by digging his nails into his right arm, avoiding his left.
If he’s not better by morning, I’ll try sending a message to Dumbledore.
It was hard to look at the man, but Harry forced himself to do so.
The night passed slowly.
The lantern light had attracted a cloud of moths, tap-tap-tapping their bodies against glass, their wings beating small shadows across Snape's face. Harry sat with his legs curled, chin-on-knees as he watched, and watched, and watched. Each rise of the man's sternum, each fall. Every finger twitch, every dreaming-murmur. One moment, he was trying to tell if Snape's pallor had worsened, and the next, he was lifting his chin from his chest, prying open muzzy eyes.
He could hear birds, and it was no longer dark in the car.
Snape was very, very still.
The floor sank from beneath Harry. Stomach twisting, feeling as if a void was pulling him in from below, he crawled forward. He had broken his promise. Snape had died in the night while he slept, and now the man's hand would feel as Cedric's had, like touching the wax of a lightless candle—
Snape's skin was no longer hot to the touch, but it was still warm.
The fever had broken.
Liquid-limbed, Harry checked beneath the dressing, and saw that all the redness had gone. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the width of the injury looked smaller.
Relief hit him hard, and too exhausted to second-guess these hopeful observations, Harry finally allowed himself a true sleep, curled up on the floor of the wagon.
When he woke, the sun had traveled past the ceiling of the train car, leaving the interior dim. He checked on Snape, and confirmed the wound was indeed smaller, likely aided by the man's magic. With the infection beaten, Harry suspected the man was merely sleeping now, catching up on what he had lost to the city.
Feeling light enough to float, Harry left the train car. The grass was soft, warm, and deliciously rugged; he always had enjoyed walking on uneven ground. He circled the car to look across the field, shimmering yellow under the afternoon light.
A few stray bees were buzzing about the yarrow, and the air was heavy and sweet. He watched them for a moment, then knelt to tug a bundle of herbs from the ground.
Harry's fingers were lemony from crushed vervain, green beneath his fingernails and in the grooves of his skin. It was a bright smell, and he wondered what the herb would be like to cook with.
He was following Snape's modified recipe for blood replenisher that he had found in the healing guide. As it looked doable, and none of the steps required a wand, Harry had decided to try replacing what he had used from Snape's kit.
Brewing atop a train car was markedly more fun than doing it in the dank, cold dungeons. Without magic, the process was laborious in a distinctly muggle way: chiefly, Harry had needed to haul water up the ladder, and start the fire with matches. None of this was a hardship; now that Snape's condition was stable, time itself felt slower, less urgent. Working beneath open sky, the breeze soothing cauldron heat from his legs, Harry could almost relax.
Snape should host classes on the grounds, he thought as he added crushed termite to the cauldron.
The last step of the potion was an extended simmering phase, so Harry let the fire burn low before climbing down from the roof. As he entered the train car to get more water for clean up, he saw Snape beginning to sit up.
“Professor!” Harry said, dropping the stirring rod and scrambling forward.
“How long was I out?” Snape said groggily, face tight with discomfort as he examined the poultice on his chest. Bewildered, he plucked at one of the ruined threads of his coat, but seemed to decide it wasn’t worth remarking upon.
Harry knelt beside the man, keeping some distance.
“Five days.”
“Five—!” The man tried to stand, but the arm he braced against the floor folded beneath him. Harry caught him, and helped guide him back to the bedroll.
“Are we alone?” the man demanded, his eyes fixed upon the door.
“Yes,” Harry said quickly. “Trains go by from time to time, but I haven’t seen any people.”
“Have you used your wand?"
“No, sir, I—”
“Not at all? Do not lie to me about this.”
It wasn’t fair that Snape, even lying feebly on the floor, could still look intimidating.
“No! Not at all, I swear.”
Snape searched his eyes for a tense moment, then huffed, seeming to accept the answer.
“I shouldn’t be this disoriented,” the man muttered, clutching his head. His eyes widened, and he fixed a blazing gaze on Harry. “Did you drug me?!”
Harry’s heart leapt. “No just—I figured since you were out cold—if I’d known you’d wake today I would have waited! It’s just a minor side effect of using a pain reliever so soon after the gan-wadan—”
“I do not need the potions lesson,” Snape hissed. “I am asking why you saw fit to give me potions when I was unconscious! Do you have any idea the damage you could have done?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. Guilt was surging within him, and he struggled to keep his voice from trembling. “I, you, you said I couldn’t cast any magic so, so I thought, sending a Patronus message should be a last resort—”
At the mention of Patronus, Snape’s eyes flashed. “And did you?!”
“No! Like I said, no magic.” God, Snape didn’t trust him at all. But why would he? “Just flying and brewing potions, but only ones that didn’t need any wand motions. That’s it.”
“Of course you’ve been flying about,” Snape muttered harshly, looking at the Firebolt propped up in the corner.
Harry bit his lip; he hadn’t flown other than to bring Snape into the train car, but he had thought about it.
“All right boy, what the hell have you done to me?”
Harry took a breath. “I used vervain and calendula—”
“Yes, I can identify the herbs here,” Snape said coldly, peeling the poultice from his chest and vanishing it with a flick of his wrist. Harry flinched. “What potions did you give me while you were playing Healer?”
Harry could have sunk into the floor. “W-well, the gan-wadan—”
“And the pain reliever, as we’ve covered! What. Else.”
“Just, just blood replenisher. That’s it.”
“That’s it, is it?” Snape said snidely. “Should I be impressed you haven’t killed me from poison or overdose, a level of skill you’ve heretofore failed to display?”
Harry said nothing. Snape glared at him a moment longer before letting his head fall back, muscles going lax, his energy entirely spent.
"I guess I should be grateful you’re even here, instead of miles away on that broom of yours," he muttered, exhaustion sapping any bite from his words.
He said nothing more. Afternoon light spilled into the car from the open doorway. Somewhere in the distance, a bird trilled.
“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.
Snape turned his head, eyes narrowed and mouth severe.
“And I’m sorry.” Harry forced himself to meet Snape’s gaze as he relayed words he had practiced during long hours alone. “You almost died because of me. I was stupid, and reckless, and, um, didn't think about the consequences. Dumbledore assigned you to keep me alive, and I almost ruined everything. But I know how important this is, I swear, I do. I know, uh, I know saying sorry doesn’t mean much but, from now on, I’ll try my best to show you that I take this seriously.”
Snape openly stared at him. Nervously, Harry flattened his hair over his scar.
“If you truly wish to thank me,” the man said finally, his voice rough, “go away. Go sit by the firepit and just…stay put.”
Harry wasted no time scrambling to his feet.
He was poking at the tinfoil wrapped potatoes he’d placed in the fire last night when Snape emerged from the train car.
His coat was gone (truly not worth salvaging), and from the fresh look of him, Harry suspected he had done some magical washing up. Harry looked at Snape’s repaired shirt, and wondered if the man had healed the wound beneath. Either way, he strode forward with power and ease, as if he’d never been hurt at all.
Harry felt his hands tremble a bit. He had been fairly sure Snape would survive, but now he had proof.
“The potatoes are ready to eat,” Harry offered, to cover his lack of composure. “They’re cold by now, but still good.”
Snape frowned, but sat on the other end of the log, grabbed a foil packet, and dug in. Ravenous after five days of nothing but Harry dribbling water into his mouth, the man ended up eating two more.
Harry, who had been perched on the log like some kind of strange bird, moved his legs down to sit properly. He had stopped wearing shoes at some point, and he didn’t even want to think about what his hair looked like. He felt like an awkward animal, so used to prowling the train car in wild solitude that he’d forgotten how to be perceived, or the duration of eye contact one was supposed to keep with others of his kind.
Actually, now that he thought about it, where did he leave his shoes—
“What’s brewing up there?”
Harry whipped his head around to stare at Snape, then to the roof of the train car where he was pointing.
“Oh! Right. I, er, I used a lot of the blood replenisher from your kit, so I thought…”
The man scoffed. “You needn’t have bothered. Waste of your labor and the wagon’s supplies.”
That…hurt. Harry thought of the lonely hours he had spent with only annotations for company. How, for the first time, potion brewing had not only become lucid to him, but magical—just as Harry imagined it would be when he first stepped in Snape’s classroom, and the man spoke of bottling fame, brewing glory, and stoppering death.
Now, these moments seemed fake, flimsy—crumbling in the face of Snape’s derision.
“I’m fairly sure I managed it,” Harry said quietly. “It’s just simmering now.”
“Of course,” Snape said in monotone, so obviously dismissive that Harry’s chest constricted. “Were you hoping to continue Potions next year, to meet the Auror requirements? It’s a little late for that, Potter. The OWLs are over, and I only accept Outstanding marks in my NEWT class.”
Harry shrugged, not looking up from his feet. “I doubt I’ll live long enough to become an Auror, sir.”
“Planning to die?” Snape’s voice was brittle, and Harry recognized that the man was on the edge of losing his temper.
“Not until Voldemort is gone, don’t you worry.”
“Do not say that name!”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said dully.
Snape glared at him, then his eyes shifted.
"That," the man said, and the venom he could put into a single syllable was staggering, "is my journal."
Harry stiffened, seeing the book at his side. He had left it on the log after taking notes by the firepit yesterday.
“I see that you went through my bag while I was sleeping," Snape snarled, rising to his feet and snatching up the journal.
“Only to see if there was anything in it that might help you!”
“Using my potions case, I understand. But how, exactly, was snooping through my research supposed to help me?”
Harry shot to his feet, hands clenched. “I wasn't snooping. I just needed paper, and it’s not like I could expand my trunk by myself, and there wasn't any other—”
“Spare me! As if you didn’t jump at the chance to look through my things! Tell me Potter, was it before, or after, I finished bleeding out on the ground that you started playing detective?”
Harry had emptied Snape’s bag while the man was bleeding out, and while it hadn’t been to snoop as Snape was accusing, he still felt a pang of guilt. There was truth to what the man said, wasn’t there? Had the journals been decipherable, Harry would have read them.
Guilt and anger overcame him, and he snapped, not minding his words, “What’s it matter! It’s all in code anyway—”
That did it. Snape flung out an angry hand, unaware or uncaring of Harry’s flinch, and spoke with icy vitriol.
“Why am I even surprised at this point? You’ll do what you want, and damn the consequences. So much for your apology. What was it you said? I’ll try my best to show you that I take this seriously? What a joke! To think, I was going to spare you the lecture! Not only do you run off—and do you have any idea how dangerous Mulciber is? What he could have done to you if I hadn’t gotten there in time?—but then you violate my privacy while I’m unconscious—what? What are you saying, speak up boy!”
“You were dying,” Harry spat, then burst into tears.
Snape jerked back, and in another situation, Harry might have found the man’s stupefied expression funny.
“I didn’t know what to d-do!" He scrubbed furiously at his eyes. "There was a lot to keep track of and, and I had to make sure I d-didn’t fuck up. I wanted to make sure not to give t-too much with the blood replenisher but too little would’ve been bad as well and I couldn’t d-decide if you looked thirteen or fourteen stone—”
It became difficult to breathe, as if the air had thinned around him, and a buzzing sensation clawed through his insides like a horde of doxies.
Snape moved closer to him and said something. Probably more yelling.
“Y-you never fucking listen! I did the best I could and I d-didn’t mean—”
Harry could feel his fingers going stiff, as if under a slow-moving petrification spell that began at the extremities. His vision began to go dark at the edges, and he wondered if this is what dying felt like.
“I’m sorry, okay?” he babbled. “I’m sorry. I’m so…”
The ground rushed towards him.
Harry woke slowly, his mind foggy and confused. It was not until he looked to the side and saw Snape, sitting on the floor of the train car next to him, the journal sitting open in his lap, that Harry remembered what had happened.
His entire face went hot, and he would have pretended to go back to sleep if Snape had not looked up then, and locked eyes with him.
“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted.
Snape’s face tightened briefly, before smoothing to a neutral expression.
“I read this,” the man said, closing the journal. His movements were slow and deliberate, his voice calm.
“I’m sorry?” Harry repeated.
A trace of annoyance slipped through Snape’s mask.
“Before,” the man said, and Harry knew better than to interrupt, “you expressed gratitude over my actions with Mulciber.” The man tapped the journal twice, and said meaningfully, “I should say, we are even.”
Harry just looked at him, and a glare began to form in Snape’s eyes, as if to say, I swear to god, boy, if you make me spell this out for you.
“Erm, right, understood,” Harry said quickly. “We’re even.”
Snape gave a short, sharp nod, then stood. “There is food outside.”
Harry followed him out, realizing that Snape must have carried him into the train car after he had collapsed. Unbidden, the memory rose of the man slipping an arm under his knees and lifting him back to bed. Ears red, Harry hoped Snape had just done the normal thing and levitated him.
What was that spell he cast, anyway? He seemed surprised by how it affected me.
Well, Harry reasoned darkly, this was hardly the first time Snape had punished Harry with a spell, then regretted the effects.
He wondered what it would be next time.
Not that he was going to call Snape out on it. They had returned to a temporary truce, and after the stunts Harry had pulled, that was good enough for now.
There was a pan of eggs and bacon at the firepit, slightly burned. It was novelty enough that Snape had cooked, and Harry kept his critiques to himself as he dug in. He was halfway through the pan when the man spoke.
"You do not understand how the Trace works."
It was a statement of fact, not a question. Harry frowned, wiping his mouth as he looked up at Snape. The man had turned to look at the trees behind the tracks, his fingers steepled in his lap.
"Given your penchant for trouble," Snape said slowly, "and your friendship with Granger, I assumed you would have figured it out by now."
Harry continued to eat slowly, his ears piqued.
"Slytherins are often schooled in ways to evade the Trace by their parents; that cannot be helped. For the rest of you, we typically like to encourage some ignorance. The earlier a student learns to flaunt this particular law, the earlier we have to contend with a whole host of troubles. You, being in such peril, are the exception. For you, knowing how to evade the Trace is a matter of survival."
Another pause.
"The Headmaster...no one told you how the Trace works? Explicitly, how it works, yes?"
Snape sounded as if he already knew the answer. When Harry shook his head, the man merely nodded, jaw tightening. He faced Harry suddenly, his posture straight and eyes sharp, and Harry stopped eating at once.
"The Trace can be tied to locations and to people," the man said. "These are the methods that underage wizards are most familiar with. In actuality, location-based monitoring is reserved for muggleborn households, while individual monitoring is extremely rare, illegal in most cases. The Ministry endeavored to apply such tracking to you, but Albus shut it down. No, the primary way the Trace works, is through wands."
Harry placed a hand on the pocket where he kept his wand. "The Ministry can track me through this?"
"If you use it, yes. But this monitoring only works until the moment you become seventeen. After that point, any connection to the Trace is severed. This is an ancient, contractual magic between wandmakers and those that govern; the Ministry cannot simply change it as they please. Therefore, the dissolving of the Trace at adulthood is one of the few inalienable rights we have."
As Harry absorbed this, a queasy realization had begun to form in his mind.
"I could have just used your wand." Harry hunched over the pan, his appetite withered. "When you were injured and unconscious. I could have just used yours."
"And what would you have used it for?" Snape said in an odd, neutral voice.
Harry stared at him. "I could have healed you! Or, or, gotten—well, I know I couldn't have gotten help but I—”
"It would have been highly dangerous to contact the Order, yes," Snape interjected. "As for healing me, I wasn't aware you were so adept at healing spells, Mr. Potter."
"I'm not but I could have—”
"Attempted a spell you have never done before on a life-threatening wound?"
Harry clenched his hands into fists. The man's words were infuriatingly mild. He couldn't tell if Snape was mocking him, or what.
"Your healing work was cautious, thoughtful," Snape said, conjuring a plate. He began to load it with the remaining eggs from the pan. "You stuck mostly to what you know, extending only to the treatments you could attempt with a wide margin of safety. This seems to be a superior strategy compared to inexperienced wand-waving, wouldn't you agree?"
Such things can’t be treated with mere wand-waving.
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. Something foreign crept through his self-recrimination, a quiet sunburst of feeling that left him warm. He had no time to identify it, because Snape resumed his lecture.
"There are three main ways an underage wizard can evade the Trace. Firstly, an adult wizard's wand. Should I become incapacitated in the future, you have my explicit permission to use mine. If reviving me is too dangerous, or not possible, I expect you to take my wand and flee."
Snape relayed this between bites of egg, with little emotion, as if he were reporting the weather. Harry had several questions about this, but Snape barreled on:
"Secondly, use an unregistered wand. Off-Trace, they are also called. Very illegal, very expensive, but possible to acquire if you know the right places."
Knockturn, I bet.
"Thirdly, wandless magic."
If Snape's goal was to distract Harry from the steal my wand and flee bit, it worked.
"I can get past the Trace with wandless magic?"
Harry's voice had held intense excitement, and Snape actually rolled his eyes upward.
"Yes," the man said, looking supremely sour to have handed Harry such exploitable information. "It would avail you to have a set of spells you can cast wandlessly. A wandless summoning is only of moderate difficulty, and will allow you to retrieve your wand should you be disarmed. Priori incantatem is also critical, but highly difficult. Even the Headmaster and the Dark Lord cannot wandlessly dismantle all enchantments; it depends on the type and power of the spell in question. Nevertheless, I recommend learning how to undo at least minor charms without your wand. A silencing spell, for example."
Harry was already compiling a list of wandless spells to practice in his mind, his fingers itching to write them down. He hadn't touched his list of curses since Mulciber's attack, and his chest constricted with anxiety.
"I took it upon myself to aliquot your batch of replenisher. A pity you've never shown this level of adequacy in class."
This non sequitur dragged Harry from his thoughts. He looked atop the train car to see that the cauldron fire was no longer lit, then turned to stare at Snape. It was hard to picture: Snape adding a potion Harry had brewed to his kit, right alongside the many vials prepared by the Potions Master himself. He felt an indignant rush—how was he supposed to be adequate in Potions with the man breathing down his neck all the time? But there was that sunburst feeling, too, tangling up his emotions and leaving him torn between replies:
You really trusted my brewing enough to add it to your stuff?
I could do this well in class if you didn't target me all the time!
You're such a git.
Thank you.
Harry cleared his throat, and said instead, "What is this place?"
Snape looked at him, then to the train car, a carcass of rust slowly being consumed by the wild.
“A safehouse for travelers,” the man said quietly.
“For the Order?”
“The Order doesn’t know of it. It’s not really a secret place—anyone can stumble upon it—but they must stumble. Those who have lost their way, or find themselves in need of food and shelter.”
“Who made it? Are there other places like this?”
“Sanctuaries like this are not made; they are found, and then built upon. They lie at well spouts of the land’s magic; this is but a small one, and its nature is to keep itself hidden. Larger veins of power cannot escape notice; they become the building sites of fortresses and cities.”
“Like Hogwarts?” Harry asked, thinking of the Room of Requirement.
The man nodded.
"How did you know about this place?"
Snape was silent for so long that Harry thought the man wouldn't answer.
"My mother," he said finally. "She traveled often. One summer, I traveled with her. We came across this place when we had need of it."
Eileen.
Harry almost wanted to mention the guide then. To acknowledge, in some way, the glimpse of the person he had seen in the margins of a book. Snape likely knew Harry had referred to it; it’s not like it was a secret. Did you ever want to become a Healer? Why did your mum travel so much? Where is she now? The possibility of such questions hovered in the air, like a silver line already taut with tension, ready to snap the moment it was crossed.
“Are we heading back to the city soon?” he asked instead, voice subdued.
Snape was quiet for a moment, looking at the fields. “No…no. We’ll travel in the country for a while.”
Harry straightened.
“How long are we staying here? Couldn’t we just…stay here until Dumbledore contacts us?”
He couldn’t quite hide the hope in his voice.
“No,” Snape said, and his heart sank. “We cannot stay in any one place for too long. There are magics that can be used to locate your approximate location, and my wards can resist them only for so long. We’ll most likely move out tomorrow morning.”
Harry pressed his lips thin. There was that vague excuse again, that insistence they had to constantly be on the move.
As early as tomorrow...
Harry looked over the fields beyond the train car.
“Do you think, I mean, would it be all right if I flew around for a while?”
Harry had wisely left his broom untouched since Snape had woken up, but had found himself sorely bitter that he hadn’t taken the chance to fly before then.
“So you can run off again?” Snape spat. “Or fly so far that you’re spotted and get us both killed? I think not.”
Harry’s face fell. He should have expected as much. He sighed quietly, and watched the breeze gently push the stalks of yarrow into motion.
I’ll probably be dead before I get to visit this place again.
“Fine.”
Harry looked up. Snape was looking at the firepit, his face irritated. “Stay within sight,” he ordered. “And don’t go higher than twenty meters.”
Harry’s heart lifted, and he jumped to his feet.
“Pull anything, and you will be sorry,” Snape growled.
With his back to Snape, Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He couldn’t stay irked at Snape’s attitude for long though, because soon he was speeding across the field, the grass tickling his knees. He ascended, wind whipping past his face, and whooped. It was a blue-sky kind of day, with brilliant white clouds for miles.
Every so often, a train would pass by. Harry would swoop to the ground, lying flat in the tall grass to hide. It was a fun game, but as evening approached, Harry found his spirits falling. He lay on his back in the field, grass waving above him, and felt a familiar numbness wash over. Moments, places like this, always seemed so fleeting. He never belonged there, not for real. He could never call them his own.
If Voldemort were gone…
Snape’s head appeared above him. “Enjoying yourself?”
Harry shrugged.
Snape frowned at him. “Come back to the car. We need to prepare for catching the freight train tomorrow.”
A spark of curiosity warmed Harry’s numbness. “The train?”
“That’s right, Potter.” Snape smirked a bit. “We’re train hopping.”
Notes:
After doing a little research on American vs British terms, I decided to use the terms train car, car, and wagon interchangeably here. I hope it didn't cause too much confusion! As for the "skip" Harry remembers smelling, that means "dumpster."
chapter 3 playlist:
Oh Ana by Mother Mother
Surveillance by George Ogilvie
FoolFor日記 by Kaho Nakamura
Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens
Agoraphobia by AutoheartI love the songs I've chosen for every chapter, but I am particularly attached to these. If you have any thoughts or imaginings as to how these complement the story...please don't hesitate to comment about it. It would make my day!
Chapter 5: you spoke my language and touched my limbs
Notes:
Organization, my old enemy, really came after me this chapter. Revising this felt like solving a sliding tile puzzle from hell. I ended up splitting it in half, a choice which will definitely not bite me in the ass later. Anyway, thank you all for patiently waiting, I hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron loomed, unfriendly and unmoving, as Harry tapped it with his wand yet again to no avail.
“That’s the right pattern,” Hermione said impatiently. "The problem is you."
“Yeah, something's wrong with your magic, mate,” Ron snickered. “Sure you’re a wizard?”
Hermione reached past him to tap the bricks herself, and the wall unfolded at once. They shoved him through, and instead of Diagon Alley, he found himself in the cramped darkness of his cupboard. Heart lurching, he whirled around, but the door had been locked behind him.
“Ron! ‘Mione! Wait! ”
Through the slatted window, he could see they were now in their school uniforms, trunks dragging behind them as they crossed the platform to the Hogwarts Express.
“Who’s that, there?” Mrs. Weasley asked them.
They looked back, eyes meeting Harry’s without recognition.
“No idea,” Ron shrugged, then turned back to board the train.
Harry tried to scream after them, but his throat produced no sound. He felt the cupboard sink, black earth rising to block the window. It sank and sank, until Harry was cold and unable to move. While he lay in that blind, silent dark, he somehow felt the chill of Voldemort crossing his grave above.
“Potter! Potter wake up!”
Harry jerked awake. He opened his eyes to see Snape above him, a black shape against a sea of stars. He could barely make out Snape’s expression, but he could feel the man’s hands on his arms.
It took him a moment to remember he was on the train car roof. He had squeezed a bedroll next to the cauldron, fashioning a comfortable nest in which to read the healing guide by lantern light. He must have fallen asleep, then had a nightmare.
Dread pooled in his stomach as he tried to quell his ragged breathing. Screaming at night was normally a problem he only experienced during the school year, but there, he could cast imperturbable charms on his bed curtains. During summer, living with the Dursleys had conditioned him to sleep only fitfully, his body too tense to vocalize as he passed in and out of nightmares. Since he had gone this entire trip without an incident, he had hoped that would remain true.
“What did you see?” Snape demanded, still holding onto Harry’s arms. “Was it a vision?”
“No, just, just a normal dream—”
“Just a normal dream?” the man repeated incredulously. “You were screaming bloody murder!”
“Sorry, I don’t usually make this much noise,” Harry murmured. His body trembled, the air cold against sweat-damp clothes. “It won’t happen again.”
“You don’t usually make this much noise,” Snape repeated flatly.
A tense silence fell, then the man shuffled away, allowing Harry room to sit up.
“Do you require a potion?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“No, I’m fine,” Harry said hastily. He was mortified, and wanted this interaction over as soon as possible.
Snape regarded him for a moment, then, mercifully, dropped the subject. “Go back to sleep, if you can. We have an early start tomorrow.”
He climbed down the ladder and returned to the firepit. Frustrated, exhausted, Harry curled up where he was. He wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, so he’d just have to hang tight until it was time to leave—
A rustle from the field had him veering towards the ladder, braced to rush down and enter the safety of Snape’s radius. A rabbit revealed itself, leaping under the moonlight and scampering across the tracks, and Harry forced himself to relax.
You’re a Gryffindor, get it together.
“What’s wrong?”
Snape was looking up at Harry, who sat frozen where he was with one hand on the ladder rail.
“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “Just…can’t sleep.”
Too embarrassed to reverse direction, Harry clambered down as if that had been his plan all along, and awkwardly joined Snape by the fire. The man paid him little mind, his attention on the various sheets of parchment and open journals spread before him. Harry didn't look too closely; he felt too rattled to try spying, not that Snape would let him get away with it.
Knees hugged to his chest, Harry tried to focus on the fire's warmth, but couldn't shake the vestiges of dread left from his dream.
His friends would have received their OWL results by now; maybe they had even gone to get school supplies already.
His chest twisted sharply at that. He was better off not seeing his grades, but his annual visit to Diagon was special to him. It had been the first magical place Hagrid had taken him all those years ago, the place he had met Hedwig, and it had marked his escape from the Dursleys every year since.
I have other things to focus on, he told himself. My friends will be able to live normal lives once I finish the war. Isn’t that worth it?
“Your writing project.”
Harry blinked, and looked up to find Snape gazing at him.
“Those notes you keep tucked into your potions text,” the man clarified. “You could work on them. You worked on them furiously at the beginning of the summer.”
Harry bit back a sigh, but stood to retrieve his bag from the car. As he pulled out the sheaf of parchments, one of the sheets was tugged from his hold, and he watched it fly to Snape’s beckoning fingers.
“Hey,” Harry snapped. Hyper-aware of the will tucked beneath the back cover, he curled his arms protectively around his book.
Snape glanced at the page, brow creasing.
“What…is this for, exactly?”
“Voldemort,” Harry snapped.
“Don’t speak—”
“Don’t snoop through my things, then!”
Harry braced himself for a row, ready to ride the crest of anger he felt. But like a switch had been turned inside him, Snape’s ire vanished, leaving an unsettling mask.
“Would you care to clarify?”
“What?”
“You said this is for the Dark Lord,” Snape spoke, the cold emphasis making it clear he wouldn’t tolerate another mention of Voldemort. “What do you mean by that?”
Feeling rattled and irritated about it, Harry crumpled his notes back into his book.
“Gotta kill him,” he muttered.
Snape turned fully to face Harry.
“And what gave you that impression?” he said scathingly.
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He could answer in so many ways. The prophecy. Dumbledore. All the years Voldemort came after me. What was the point?
“You’re right,” Harry said, smiling without warmth. “I’m just being arrogant.”
“You—” Snape began, snarling, then exhaled. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t, don’t do that. I’m trying to…”
“Trying to what?”
Snape glared out at him from lowered eyebrows before turning back to the page. He looked at it more closely now, lips thin and eyes sharp, and Harry prepared himself to be eviscerated.
“This is more thorough than I expected," Snape admitted.
Harry had no time to recover from this almost-compliment, because Snape continued, “This is material you covered with that little army of yours, isn't it?" He held out a hand. "Let's see what else Professor Potter deigned to teach."
Snape's tone oozed imperiousness, and scowling, Harry hugged the notes tighter to his chest.
"Why? It's none of your business."
Snape swatted the paper he held. "You focus too much on combat when your priority should be avoiding and escaping capture.”
Harry scowled further. "You mean running away—"
"Yes I do," Snape said, so sharply that Harry fell silent of his own accord. The man was bristling, and Harry expected him to say more on the subject, but instead he snapped the fingers of his still outstretched hand and demanded, "Well? These spells won't record themselves."
Harry stared at him, then slowly, hesitantly, pulled the notes from the book.
“You...have spells to suggest?”
Snape conjured a pen in answer.
Harry watched as the man crouched over his mess of parchments, scribbling with face intent. Like this, he almost looked like a student...but without the insecurity Harry had seen in the pensieve. There was a self-assurance in the man’s posture now, solid in the set of his shoulders and in the movement of his arms. In the hazy firelight, it was easy to see Snape in simple brushstrokes. Not a wizard, not an adult, but a child's idea of one—someone who knew every potion, every spell, every answer.
He doesn't though. Never forget, in the end, it's going to come down to me to protect myself.
Harry tried to hold onto this thought, but found himself drifting into the peace of the crackling fire. Amidst the sussuration of crickets and stars, the soft scratch of Snape's pen in his ears, he could almost say that spending the summer like this wasn't so bad...
The sky was still dark when Harry awoke. It was chilly, the air holding the unmistakable snap of coming autumn, and Harry pulled his jacket more snugly around him as he sat up. The firepit had been extinguished, and the seat beside him was empty, the research papers gone. His notes sat next to him, the loose parchments charmed together. He picked it up, running a finger along the new binding, then stood to look for Snape.
Finding the car empty, he climbed to the roof as quietly as he could. Ears strained and body tense, he peered into the night. He swept his gaze over the field twice, and on the second pass he caught movement: a dark head rising above the grass, moving steadily away from the car.
Where is he going?
Harry climbed down the ladder and entered the field.
Unlike Snape, Harry was barely tall enough to look over the grass. Stars and fireflies winking overhead, he struggled not to sneeze as plants tickled his nose. Several times, he feared he had gotten lost, and had to rise to his tip-toes to check on Snape’s location.
Finally, he stepped onto the path of trampled stalks the man had left behind, and carefully closed the distance between them. He kept his wand close, reminding himself not to use it unless it was truly life or death—
He sneezed.
Snape whirled around, wand raised, and Harry threw up his hands in defense.
“It’s just me!”
Snape stared at him, then past him, his expression difficult to make out in the low light.
“Snape?” Harry began, uncertain.
He must have sensed Harry’s wariness, because the man tucked his wand back into his sleeve and said, with some acid, “Levicorpus. Happy?”
Harry felt a little ashamed now for choosing that question at his relatives’ house, but not so ashamed that it dispelled his suspicion.
“What were you doing out here?”
Snape exhaled.
“Retrieving this,” he said irritably, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a wand. He twirled it deftly around and offered it to Harry handle-first. “Rosewood is stubborn, but you’ll have to make do."
Staring, Harry reached for it, but Snape didn't let go, instead tightening his grip and leaning in.
“This wand is free of the Trace, but that is not an excuse to be foolish with it.” Snape loomed, his face like thunder, his voice a whip. “No flashy displays, no risk-taking, no contacting your friends. Am I understood? ”
“Yes sir,” Harry blurted, back straightening of its own accord.
The man released the wand to him, then took his shoulder and turned him, not ungently, to face the way they had come.
“Don’t use that as an excuse to not practice your wandless summoning. Now hurry up. We need to leave before sunrise.”
“Wait, hold on, where did you get this?” Harry turned the wand over in his hands, a thrill of excitement coursing through him at being able to cast magic again. It was not a wand he had seen before, warm in color, almost red, with waves of darker grain.
Snape was quiet for so long that Harry assumed he wouldn’t answer. They waded through the dry sea, firefly stragglers moving indolently away as they passed, the whisper of grass and crickets filling the silence.
“Another way to acquire an off-Trace wand is to take them from the deceased,” the man said finally. “Many wizards are buried with their wands.”
Harry halted. “You dug this out of a grave? ”
“You are welcome,” Snape bit out, prodding him forward, and not so gently this time. “Move.”
Harry ran his fingers over the wand, imagining he could feel the grit of graveyard dirt. Not that it bothered him so much; having a wand again felt like regaining a limb. His excitement tempered as he remembered his notes; there was no excuse to avoid practice now.
“The temperature will vary where we’re going,” Snape informed him once they were back inside the car. He retrieved his bag, and pulled the clothing and camping equipment from it. To Harry’s surprise, he pushed a pair of boots, two jackets, a coat, and a stocked backpack towards him. “Put these in your bag. I’ll resize them on the road.”
These were for me?
The boots were of good quality, made for long-lasting wear in difficult terrain, and the coat looked warmer than anything Harry had ever owned.
“This is too much—” he began, but Snape had already left the car to dismantle the wards outside.
Harry examined the rosewood wand again. It felt much more inflexible than his own holly wand, and he could swear he could sense a sullenness from it. He considered using the pack spell he’d once seen Tonks use, but the image of the train car’s contents flying everywhere discouraged him.
“Accio,” he tried, pointing at a stray rations capsule that had rolled into the corner.
It promptly exploded, egg yolk splattering against the wall.
Frowning, he stuffed the wand into his sleeve and placed the gear away by hand. Fortunately, he had packed everything else the day before, and all that was left was to say his goodbyes.
He retrieved the healing guide and slowly flipped through the end pages he hadn't gotten to read. Something silvery fluttered out, and he caught it: a snitch's wing, the calamus thread-tied to a strip of leather. A bookmark?
Hearing Snape finish up outside, Harry stuffed the bookmark into his pocket, then placed the book back on the shelf where he had first found it. As much as he wanted to keep it, someone else might stumble upon this place, and it could save their life.
As he and Snape walked from the car, Harry turned to take one last look at the safe haven, overgrown with rust and tangled greenery. Then they were across the barrier, and it was gone, replaced by empty fields.
Goodbye, Harry thought. And thanks.
“The rail yard isn’t far,” Snape said as they hiked through the morning dark, dewy grass wetting them up to the knee. “We’ll board when the night crew switches with their replacements.”
As exciting as this sounded, the venture was ultimately anti-climactic. They boarded a car with little fanfare, using Disillusionment charms to slip past the few muggles. There were several heavy crates inside that Harry worried might crush them once the train set into motion, but Snape vanished the lot without hesitation.
The man began to spell the interior—orbs of light that floated and bobbed on the ceiling, a simple muggle repelling spell, and the usual set of wards. Harry forced his attention away; this wasn’t the time to be distracted. He settled against the wall and took out his notes, remembering as he did that Snape had bound them into a book.
He swallowed a thank you, and said instead, "I need a target. Can you transfigure a practice dummy?”
“Start small, Potter. Practice regulating your lumos.”
“Lumos?” Harry said, offended, then flinched as the rosewood wand sparked in his hand, the light sputtering out as soon as it had come.
“It’s responsive,” Snape said, unconcerned. "That's a good sign."
At Harry’s glare, the man exhaled. “I told you, rosewood is stubborn. And we're in an enclosed space. I won't have you setting the wagon on fire, or something else equally stupid. Start with lumos."
Not having much choice, Harry begrudgingly followed this advice. To his supreme irritation, the rosewood proved stubborn just as Snape said it would be: it burst and fizzled, its power dwindling or spiking unpredictably. Used to the easy flow of magic from his holly wand, Harry found himself clenching his teeth with frustration as he cast lumos again and again.
Of course Snape gave me the worst wand possible. He was truly sick of being curbed by the adults around him. I can be a soldier or a kid, but I can't be both, he thought bitterly. I don't have time for this. I need to get stronger. I need...
Harry felt his head nod, and he jerked himself to alertness. Snape looked at him, then conjured a sleeping bag in the corner.
“Sleep if you must,” he said curtly.
“Not tired,” Harry mumbled. He blinked, then hastily raised his arm, realizing his latest attempt had scorched the floor of the car.
Snape gave him a look, and muttering, Harry crawled into the bag (it was soft and squashy). He did not truly expect to sleep, but he drifted off almost at once. His dreams were hazy, lacking their usual clarity; he recalled the taste of something bitter, or was it sweet? And then he was waking to the rumble of the train in motion.
The air felt oddly humid, thick and aromatic, and Harry looked up to see that Snape was brewing in the middle of the train car. He had the door cracked to keep the interior from getting too stifling hot, a line of sunlight splitting the floor.
“What’s that spell?” Harry murmured, sitting up. His limbs felt loose, their former tension completely gone. “The one to keep the cauldron fixed to the floor?”
Seeing Harry had woken, Snape swept his arm over the cauldron surface, banishing the fumes.
“Binding charm,” he said shortly.
“Does it keep the potion from spilling out as well?”
“No. Containment spell. Go back to sleep.”
Harry ignored him, and stood to walk towards the door.
“Can I open this?”
“Very well,” Snape snapped. “If I’m fortunate enough, you’ll fall out and then I can brew in peace.”
Ignoring the man’s grumbling, Harry gripped the handle with both hands and pulled. The door resisted at first, then abruptly slid open. He was struck by a rush of air and light; hair flying about his face, he clung to the doorway as his eyes adjusted. It felt as if the entire world was opening up before him: forests and hills and pastures and lakes of pure blue, all rushing past.
Now this is an adventure, he thought, heart racing. Sirius would love this.
The thought caused an upwelling of sadness, but it was bittersweet, and could not eclipse his joy. Harry embraced the feeling in his chest, then released it to the wind. He spent the morning sitting in the doorway, legs dangling as the landscape sped past. He continued his lumos practice; his head cleared from sleep, it was easier to regulate the intensity of the light. Snape produced capsules he had taken from the safehouse for lunch, and after Harry had eaten, he turned his attention to the cauldron behind him. Harry’s eyes traveled from Snape’s stained hands, to his arms, to where his injury had been.
“What’s the counterspell to sectumsempra? I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
Snape slowed as he lowered the cauldron heat, his hesitation almost imperceptible. “That spell was invented fairly recently. You will not find it published in any book.”
“Invented by a Death Eater?” Harry guessed.
Snape nodded, and his reticence was telling.
“Invented by…you?”
The man’s face tightened. “How rare, for you to be this astute.”
Harry looked at Snape with a repulsion he couldn’t hide. “So that was your spell that Mulciber used against—”
“Mulciber,” Snape said, wrenching open a shell with a violent motion, “inherited his family’s gift for wandless magic, but is nevertheless a second rate wizard. The wound he inflicted amounts to a papercut. Properly cast, it should have split my torso in two.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I split his wand in two, instead,” Harry said coldly.
Snape removed the stirring rod, taking his time cleaning and drying it, then set it aside with a slow, deliberate motion.
“Well go on, Potter. I can see you have some words of moral condemnation to bestow upon me.”
Only last week, Harry would have risen to these fighting words. How could you make a spell like that, and give it to the Death Eaters? What else did you develop for them? But as he looked at the man over the cauldron—this stranger with bedraggled hair pulled into a tail at his neck, cuffs rolled up to just above the wrist—his anger became muddled.
“So…” Harry cleared his throat. “The counterspell?”
He glanced at Snape’s face, and enjoyed the rare moment of seeing the man look taken aback.
“Vulnera sanentur,” the man said finally. “Used to heal deep wounds.”
“What’s the wand motion—”
“Perhaps,” Snape said, “you should start with the spell for closing common wounds, first?”
Well, Harry did want to learn that. He nodded, and watched curiously as Snape put his finished potion in stasis, then turned to face him. He rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, touched his wand to it, and cast a cutting spell.
Harry tensed. It was a small, controlled cut, barely bleeding, but he hadn’t expected—
“Pay attention. While this spell looks simple, even basic healing charms are considered advanced spellwork.”
Snape followed the shape of the wound with his wand. “This spell merely requires you to point at the wound, but beginners will find it easier to trace it. The incantation is sano salve, repeated until the wound is closed. The difficult part is mindset; most healing work requires an emotional element. In this case, one must will the wound to close, and express a genuine wish for the patient to heal. It is for this reason that healing spells are easiest to use on those close to the caster.”
“Kind of like a Patronus,” Harry said. “Or the spell to repel Boggarts.”
“They all require an emotional component, yes.” Snape tapped his arm, spoke the incantation, and the wound closed instantly.
Harry felt a determination rise within him. I want to learn that.
Snape performed the cutting spell on his arm again, and seeing Harry’s expression, he said, “Don’t be squeamish, boy. If you’re going to heal, you must be comfortable with wounds.”
“It’s not that, I just, you could have done the cutting spell on me. You didn’t have to do that.”
Snape scowled, and thrust out his arm. “Spare me, Potter, it’s a papercut.”
And I know what you classify as a papercut, Harry thought, shuffling forward.
"Is this going to be okay with the rosewood...?"
"I saw you regulating your wandlight, earlier. Avoid casting when distracted, and you should be fine."
Easy for an Occlumens to say, Harry thought, not much assured.
After a moment of hesitation, he grasped Snape’s wrist, and pointed his wand at the wound. With a fixed will in his mind, he spoke, “Sano salve, sano salve, sano…”
He heard a sharp intake of breath and opened his eyes, only realizing he had closed them as he did so. The wound was gone, and Snape was looking at him with intensity. Harry released him, stomach flipping.
“Did I, did I mess up the spell or—”
“Let me see your arm,” Snape said.
Harry offered it, assuming the man had taken him up on his offer to be cut instead.
“Look here.” Snape pointed out the faint bruise near Harry’s elbow, the remnant scrapes from brewing and travel. The man held out his newly healed arm for comparison; he had a collection of old scars, especially on his hands, but considering what they had been through that summer, his remaining skin looked strangely clear. To further emphasize the difference, Snape held up his left hand, rough with hangnails and fresh callouses.
“Were you intending to rid me of every nick and blemish? To return my arm to that of a newborn babe’s?”
Snape’s face was dour as ever, but his eyes were laughing.
“I just, I mean, you said to will the wound closed—”
“So I did. You powered that spell like you meant to add years to my lifespan.”
Harry felt his face redden all the way to the tips of his ears. “I just, I wasn’t thinking about—I didn’t do it on purpose! ”
Snape leaned back to regard Harry with low-lidded eyes. “Hn.”
The man raised his wand to his arm again, and Harry found himself reaching forward, grabbing the man’s wrist.
“Don’t…” He knew Snape had excellent control of the cutting spell, that he was only doing this for practice, but it felt intolerable to Harry for reasons he could not explain.
“Are you certain you wish to be an Auror?” Snape looked irritated, but he lowered his wand, and Harry let him go. “With that bleeding heart of yours, you’d fare better as a Healer.”
“Sure,” Harry said. This was the second time that the man had brought up his future career, and he did not care for it. He would be lucky to graduate, let alone go to any sort of training program afterward. Thinking so far ahead was beyond him; simply trying to imagine tomorrow made him feel hollow.
Harry turned to where his notes sat on the floor. By this point, he had a long list of unfamiliar spells he had seen Snape cast, including ones the man himself had written down. Harry had intended to go through them on his own, but maybe, he could just…
“Could you…would you mind teaching me that muffliato spell? Sir?”
For a protracted moment, the man merely looked at him.
"The motion is as follows," he said, lifting his wand.
“All right, Potter, time to jump.”
Hesitant, Harry stood with Snape on the edge of the doorway as grass sped past them in a blur. Snape had already cast a charm that would reinforce their bodies, cushioning their fall, but the man still looked far too nonchalant about the idea of leaping from a moving train.
“Surely you know how to fall, after all the quidditch tumbles,” the man said archly.
“Uh, try to fall over my shoulder and through the hip, and...roll?”
Snape shrugged as if to say, good enough, then leaped. Heart in his throat, Harry followed.
A dizzy whirl of grass and impact, then he was on his back, staring up at the sky. Snape’s head appeared over him, a leaf poking out from his disheveled hair.
“Come along, Potter.”
They went on foot from there, Snape leading them northwards into the Yorkshire Dales. The man directed Harry to change into the boots and one of the jackets he had been given, then resized them as promised. Snape knelt down to examine the fit of the boots, and Harry's chest felt oddly tight as he remembered their visit to the shoe shop.
They walked through acres of rolling heather cut by low stone walls and the elm trees of distant fields. Above them, the skies grew heavy, thunderheads looming in the distance. The suffused glow of the sun was intense through the clouds, like the peering of some cosmic being through a veil to the land below. Anticipating the coming rain, the muggles they passed dwindled to none, and it seemed to Harry that he and Snape were the only two people who walked through a vast, muffled world.
They were surprised by bogland not long into their trek, Snape cursing as his boot sank into what had looked like any other patch of grass. Harry stifled a laugh as the man tried to fish the boot out—before his own foot was sucked up by the ground, and he fell onto his hands and knees in mud. Snape had to help him up, and they awkwardly squelched their way back to solid ground. This mishap ensured that Snape was in a foul mood for the rest of the morning—although, Harry reasoned, he probably would have been in a foul mood regardless.
As beautiful as the landscape was, hiking behind an irritable, silent Snape had little charm; Harry was bored, his feet hurt, and the strap of his bag dug into his shoulder.
“Where are we even going?” Harry called to the man ahead of him. He was impatient to make camp again so he could continue his spell practice; every minute he spent doing otherwise was precious time wasted.
He had to ask twice more before Snape would answer, and he merely grunted, “North.”
Git.
About an hour past noon, they finally stopped to take lunch in a field of velvety sedge interspersed with low outcrops of limestone.
Harry sat his arse on the grass at once. He ate one-handed while he looked over his notes, determined to get something done before Snape rushed them off again. He had already skimmed over the spells Snape had listed for him; frustratingly, most of them dealt with warding and extrication, but he circled anything he could adapt for offense. The gecko charm, for instance, made the caster's hands stick to walls; Snape might have recommended the charm for escape, but Harry could easily imagine using it for an ambush.
Training on his own was going to be difficult, he thought, sorely missing the DA. There had been no shortage of dueling partners there, not to mention the Room of Requirement could provide anything he needed, from moving targets to practice dummies. Not for the first time, he thought bitterly of the note he had received from Dumbledore during the summer.
If he had offered to train me earlier, I wouldn't be scrambling like this.
His arm jerked as his wand was torn from his sleeve, and he looked up sharply to see Snape snatching it from the air. Harry waited, tense, but the man made no additional move, just sitting a few meters away in the grass.
"Go on," Snape challenged, spinning the wand in hand. "Take it back."
Harry's anger flared, then ebbed as he realized the man's expression held no mockery. Trying to push down feelings of foolishness, Harry raised his hand and said forcefully, "Accio."
Nothing happened, and his face heated. Snape made no comment, just looking at him levelly, and Harry mustered himself to try again. He tried to remember what it felt like to cast the summoning charm with a wand, the sensation of magic traveling through his arm and into the conduit of the wood.
"Accio!"
Nothing again, and Harry dropped his arm in frustration.
"Giving up already?" Snape said snidely, and all at once, Harry felt like he was back in the dungeons, being told over and over to clear his mind.
"You could try teaching," Harry said hotly. "How am I supposed to know what to do?"
The man narrowed his eyes, and Harry braced himself for harsh words. He had sounded petulant even to his own ears; maybe Snape would even take the rosewood wand from him permanently.
"When you envision the flow of your magic, what is its source?"
Harry stared; he was so shocked to get genuine advice that it took him a moment to process it.
"I...I'm not sure. I was just imagining it flowing down my arm, and then into my wand..."
"Some wizards visualize the source as the heart," Snape said, tapping his chest with his fist, "or the mind. Others picture a well source from the ground, coursing through the feet and up the body. Once it reaches the hand, try forgetting the wand, and focus on the hand itself as the conduit."
Harry absorbed this, touching a hand to his sternum. If he had to choose a source... He imagined a warmth at the center of his chest, spreading outwards like water, or light, flooding into his hand, waiting to be directed. He fixed his gaze on the wand and half-mouthed, half-mumbled the incantation.
The wand twitched, prompting Snape to clench his fingers in reflex.
"Better," Snape said. "Again."
Snape turned their course to Fountains Fell that evening, intent, for some reason, to make camp on its summit. It was a steep ascent that required Harry to scramble with his hands as they approached the peak, by which point he was wheezing. Snape made some comment about the limits of quidditch training, and Harry spent the last of the climb fantasizing about pushing the man back down the hill.
The summit revealed itself to be a swathe of windswept heather; despite his poor mood, an impulse to run across it struck Harry, and his body took a few eager steps forward before he quashed it.
“Take care!” Snape barked. “The last thing I need is you falling down a mine shaft and breaking your neck!”
The signs warning them of abandoned mine shafts had been very obvious on the way up; Snape had remarked upon them, multiple times.
“I know,” Harry said sullenly.
Snape’s eyes flashed, and Harry quickly added, “Sir.”
They were not alone; a few muggles bearing backpacks and walking sticks were taking pictures. Snape had informed him that wild camping was not exactly allowed here; as such, they would wait for the crowd to clear before settling in. Why Snape insisted on camping here was a mystery; Harry's best guess was that the man had wanted to torture him with the climb up.
Harry bided his time by investigating the summit. Some of the mine shafts had obvious stone entrances; others were merely pits in the ground, easy to miss were they not marked. Harry leaned quite far over a wooden barricade to peer into the darkness of one of the steeper shafts, earning him another bark from Snape.
“Mind yer da,” a woman with graying hair and a sun-weathered face told him. “It’s dangerous up here.”
Harry wanted to protest, but felt awkward under her smile. A child consumed by a puffy jacket held her hand, or rather hung from it, swinging with his full weight and giggling. Despite being meters away from any potential falls, she pulled him close whenever his swing veered in the direction of a shaft.
“Right,” he said, feeling embarrassed and not knowing why.
They lingered as everyone else began to depart; as she passed them, the woman who had spoken to Harry said, with some concern, “It’s getting dark. Yer da plan to stay up here much longer?”
Harry glanced at Snape, who was closely examining a stone pile. As he studied the man’s back, it struck Harry that as irritated as he was, he wasn't anxious, despite being in an unfamiliar landscape with little idea of the path ahead.
“He knows what he's doing,” Harry said, and found he meant it.
Once they had the summit to themselves, Snape cast (with unnecessary zeal, Harry thought) a muggle repelling charm, as well as a spell to prevent their camp from being seen. Now that it had fallen dark, there were few hikers left, and any stragglers who wandered too close to the summit got a glassy look in their eye before ambling away.
Snape had chosen a spot between several stone towers, which Harry glanced at curiously. There wasn’t much to help with—Snape did not erect a tent, merely laying out sleeping bags. But he did instruct Harry on how to build a tinder bed. Harry had never done anything outdoorsy in his life; the Dursleys were not the camping type, and even if they had been, he likely would have been left home for such trips. Snape was terse but not unkind with his teaching, and as Harry watched the man light a fire with a prod of his wand, he had a fleeting thought—the kind he used to dwell on as a child—that this is something he might have done with his parents if they had lived.
Good kindling was sparse on the fell; Snape summoned a swathe of dried grass and plant matter, which he wove together with a charm.
"These will still catch easily," Snape explained, arranging the grass braids around the tinder bed. "But packed like this, their density will increase the burning time, allowing them to produce more heat."
It went without saying that they could have simply used bluebell flames, which required no fuel. Knowing the value of getting by without a wand, Harry listened closely anyway. The job of adding kindling to the fire was passed to him while Snape set up the remaining wards around them. Harry could recognize some of them now, and he mouthed along with Snape's incantations, committing them further to memory.
The fire was soon blazing away, and his task done, Harry left it to look over the summit’s western edge at the sweeping view of the moors below. The sun cast a warmth over everything as it dipped past the horizon; Harry felt as if he stood on a promontory within a sea of hazy color.
They ate dinner as the sky populated with stars; Snape finished quickly, and Harry watched as the man returned his attention to the rock towers. He examined them with close interest, tapping individual stones with his wand here and there. At seeming random, he would pluck a stone to lay on the ground before him.
“What are they?"
Snape glanced at him briefly. “Cairns.”
“Those are like, old burial mounds, right?”
“...Markers for them. These are relatively new, however, built by fellwalkers to signify their ascent. But there are genuine grave cairns dating back to the Bronze Age not far from here, and sometimes, people will take stones from these sites to place them—aha. Here we are.”
Snape picked up another stone that looked no different from the rest, and added it to his collection. Apparently he had enough, for he twisted away from the cairn to reach for his bag.
“You could tell that came from a grave?"
Snape lugged his potions kit from the bag, as well as the fat stack of journals he had been filling throughout the summer. He opened the kit, and began to retrieve empty vials from the topmost shelf.
“I can assess its age, and the residual magic it contains," Snape said as he began to set the vials down one by one, making a neat row in the grass.
Harry shifted closer. He had a wand now, and there were some spells he might try to decode those journals...
“So," he began casually, "why are you trying to find these cairn stones?”
“Now that,” Snape said, clapping his hands together, “is where this ceases to be your concern. Byōen.”
With this strange incantation, he sharply parted his hands, a gray screen of smoke forming between his palms and spreading until it had formed a wall between them.
“What—” Harry tried looking around the screen, but it shifted sideways to block his view. When he stood to look over it, it grew taller, then shrank back down when he sat.
Harry cautiously raised his hand.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he heard Snape say from beyond the smoke.
He can see me, but I can’t see him, Harry thought sourly. Figures.
Fueled by irritation, he poked the screen with a finger, and immediately flinched back at the cold, slimy sensation. It felt as if his entire hand had been plunged into an icy bucket of something…wriggling and sticky.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying to force your way through,” Snape said. Harry could hear the clinking of glass, and burned with curiosity over what the man was doing. “The feeling only gets worse, and the more you expose yourself to it, the longer it lasts.”
Not for the first time, Harry was split between finding Snape’s odd spells incredibly clever and incredibly irritating.
“You’ve done your research in front of me before, plenty of times,” Harry grumbled. “Don’t you think this is overkill?”
“With you, Potter? Absolutely not.”
Harry was alone in the dark, unable to speak, unable to move. He was dreaming, he knew, but it was not a vision; sometimes he just had nightmares like this, with nothing but himself. Unease crawled over his skin as he stared, unable to close his eyes, into the shadows around him. Something terrible was coming, and knowing that it was a figment of his own imagination did not make it better. It would be something he could not withstand, but he would be forced to, frozen and unable to escape. Just as his nightmare approached this unnameable fear, he found himself being shaken awake.
Snape withdrew his hand, looking down at Harry with an expressionless face. Behind him, the sky was still dark.
“We’ll leave after sunrise,” the man said simply, then went to sit by the fire. The smokescreen he used nowadays was gone, and any evidence of the man’s research from the night before had been vanished away.
Harry sat up, and tried to quiet a squirming mix of feelings: gladness at being spared his dream, embarrassment for needing it, and annoyance over his many still unanswered questions. Avoiding Snape's eye, his gaze traveled instead to the steaming kettle that sat over the fire. Harry recognized the scent of hyssop, and Snape, seeing where his attention had been drawn, wordlessly poured him a cup.
The man had chosen to use the fire instead of simply heating the kettle with a charm, as Harry had seen Mrs. Weasley do on numerous occasions. But Snape used magic now to strain the leaves, and the capriciousness of this felt familiar. Harry was often guilty of it himself, as was Hermione, reaching by habit for the muggle method even when their wands were right there. Harry had only caught a glimpse of Snape's childhood, of Eileen fighting with her husband in a modest home, but he felt certain that the man's upbringing had been at least partly muggle.
As Harry drank his tea, each new sip of mint a balm for the bitter aftertaste, he reflected on his traveling companion.
Snape was different in the country.
From Reading to Manchester and every detour in between, he had been a whirlwind of paranoia, urging them on the moment they set down their bags. Here amidst the heath and hills, he was content to meander. Once they covered ten miles in a single day, and often they covered none, keeping the same camp until Harry felt restless to move. Snape let fog and rain dictate their route; with how they drifted across the land, Harry felt more hill than hillwalker, as if they had melded with the very currents guiding them.
That afternoon found them following a dry stream bed that snaked through the billowing landscape, leading them to the edge of a ravine. The collapsed cavern was massive to Harry's eyes, carving across the land for nearly a hundred meters, verdant moss sloping into its dark mouth.
The sun was high in the sky, its heat tempered by the fog, and they dropped their bags by the gully to take lunch. As was his habit, Snape ate quickly before getting out his research materials; crouched over his potions kit with elbows splayed, he looked like an awkward bird.
As much as Harry had joined his classmates in insulting Snape's looks and hygiene in the past, he had always privately considered the man fastidious with his appearance. Robes pressed and sharply buttoned up to the chin, boots polished and posture straight, Snape was a person who clearly maintained himself. Of course, it had been more fun to make jokes about his nose, and teeth, and hair. Those remarks felt all too like Dudley now. Like Malfoy. Like James.
Snape was not so fastidious now: his hair frizzed in the damp, his boots were caked with mud, his trousers were ever grass-stained at the knee, his socks were frequently mismatched, and there was always earth beneath his fingernails. He slouched over his work, paced while brushing his teeth, chewed the tips of his pens, and muttered to himself, a lot, as if he'd entirely forgotten he was traveling with someone. Harry had once watched the man rip the lid off a soup can with his teeth while levitating a set of vials. The image stuck with Harry: Snape surrounding by floating glass, glimmering in the firelight, all while looking his most muggle.
He was beginning to realize how much of Snape's deportment at school had been manufactured.
Gray smoke abruptly obscured Snape from Harry's study, and scowling, he stood to pace around the ravine's perimeter, speculating as he went. It hadn't been lost on him that the smokescreen indicated a change: the man's work had been theoretical before, and was now entering the experimental stage. If Snape felt the need to hide it, he must think that Harry could learn too much just by watching him work.
Why the cairn stones? Harry recalled looking at Snape's books, which dealt with dark ritual and divination. Maybe Snape was testing a ritual, and he needed the stones for it? But how did that relate to the prophecy?
Harry looked over the cavern's edge. Gravel overgrown with greenery coated the bottom, and although the walls cut vertically downwards, there were a few jutting shelves and boulders that could possibly afford a way down. Seeing this, he remembered the gecko charm he had wanted to try. He looked towards the gray cloud that obscured Snape and gave it the finger. No chastisement was issued, and he could only assume that meant Snape was absorbed in his work.
"Palmas lacerte," Harry murmured, casting on each of his hands.
Nothing seemed to happen, but when he tried to lift his palm from the ground, it took additional force, like separating a magnet from metal.
With one last look at Snape, he began to descend. Emboldened by the security he felt in his attachment to the wall, he barely paused to judge distances and footholds, trusting to magic. He felt a light patter of rain on his skin as he went, the damp livening the cavern with rich, dark color. He made it most of the way down before his foot slipped on wet moss, and the full force of his weight tore his hands from the rocks; his heart leapt with regret, this was so stupid, why didn't he lay down a cushioning charm first—
And then he was landing on his side in the gravel, intact except for a jagged scrape down his arm.
“Idiot!”
Snape appeared over the edge, his face taut. The anger in his expression couldn’t hide his concern, and Harry felt a pulse of guilt and embarrassment. The man muttered angrily; Harry saw his Firebolt appear, flying to Snape’s hand, and the next moment, the man was alighting next to him on the cavern floor.
“I’m all right—”
“Don’t move,” Snape bit out, crouching by his side. He cast an impervius charm over their heads, the rain instantly lifting from where they sat. He cast a diagnostic charm next, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he scanned the results. “What were you thinking? You could have broken your neck!”
Enclosed in a circle safe from the rain, Harry felt intensely sheltered from the world, and Snape’s voice seemed closer, more intimate. Harry looked away.
“I need to practice,” he muttered.
Snape breathed hard from his nose with irritation.
"Then practice your healing charmwork," he said harshly, gesturing at Harry's wound. “Healing yourself can feel very different from healing others. If nothing else, your stupidity has afforded you a good opportunity.”
He cast drying charms on them both with two sharp flicks of his wand, then planted his elbows on his knees and subjected Harry with a flat stare.
"Fine," Harry said shortly. He wasn't pleased that Snape was redirecting his attention, but the sooner he cast the charm, the sooner he could get back to the spells that mattered.
He pointed his wand at his injury, closed his eyes, and tried to repeat what he had done to heal Snape on the train. On the far wall, a stream of rain-fed water had begun to flow into the ravine, and the sound of it against the ground competed for his attention.
“Sano salve, sano salve, sano salve…”
Opening his eyes, he found his arm looked much the same. Frowning, he repeated the process again, and again, and again.
“I’m doing the same thing!” Harry spat.
He bristled in anticipation of Snape's ridicule, already forming a retort in his mind—and so was utterly thrown off balance when the man asked, “Are you struggling to focus?”
“I—yeah," Harry said, flustered into honesty. "I mean, uh, it's...my mind keeps wandering."
“To what?”
“Oh, uh…the sounds around me. That waterfall—”
Snape reached over, and pressed his hands over Harry’s ears. Harry froze, watching as the man mouthed an incantation he could not hear. The ambient sound grew suddenly quiet. Harry could still hear the rain, but only faintly, as if Snape had submerged him in water.
This should have been weird, it was weird, but strangely, a calm fell over Harry’s limbs like a comforting weight. He grew lax, and despite feeling awkward, he allowed his eyes to slip closed. Snape’s hands were rough and warm; Harry let his attention linger there, then travel to the beat of his own pulse, to the rise and fall of his own chest.
Pointing his wand to his arm, he murmured the incantation. It felt easier now, but the magic still did not flow as it had when he healed Snape. His eyelids feeling heavy, Harry opened his eyes, and saw his skin close slowly over the last edge of the scrape.
Snape lifted his hands, and the sounds of the world came rushing back. Harry shivered, feeling a sense of loss.
“What was that?”
“Just a simple sound-barrier charm,” Snape said dismissively. He was frowning at Harry’s newly healed arm. “It’s not unusual for Healers to be more adept at tending to the injuries of others compared to their own. But for there to be such a degree of difference…”
Harry shrugged, discomfited. Another thing he was bad at, not exactly a surprise.
“I have more important things to practice than healing, don’t you think?” he said bluntly.
Snape didn’t reply at once, instead sitting back and regarding Harry with that blank mask he adopted so often these days.
“Why do you think it’s unwise to use a curse without knowing the counter-curse?”
Harry frowned. "Because it’s irresponsible? Maybe the effects are more severe than you expected, or you cast it on the wrong person. And it’s just good to know?”
“All true. But it’s more than that. All magic is in relation to other magic. Curse and counter, harm and heal. I cannot understand a poison completely until I know its antidote.”
“So healing will make me better at combat?” Harry said skeptically.
Snape narrowed his eyes with annoyance.
“Let me put it in practical terms, then. Healing yourself or your allies on the battlefield is obviously an asset. Understanding how your enemy might restore themselves gives you insight on what spells to prioritize.”
Harry absorbed this. “I rely too much on disarming,” he said. “I need to focus more on curses that actually incapacitate people.”
Snape frowned, as if he didn't exactly disagree, but this hadn't been the conclusion he wanted Harry to come to.
"You realize," he began slowly, not with sarcasm, but as if he were choosing his words with care, "there is an entire organization dedicated to bringing down the Dark Lord?"
Harry's jaw clenched, eyes rolling upward. Snape was always trying to push his practice in a defensive direction, and he knew this conversation would come up eventually.
"I've had to fight him almost every year," Harry said through gritted teeth, trying and failing to sound civil.
If Snape was attempting civility, he failed as well. "You chased him," he hissed. "First the Stone, and then the Chamber—"
"I didn't chase him to the graveyard!" Harry shouted, his sudden spike in volume echoing along the rocks. "I ran away as soon as I could, and it wasn't fast enough!"
Snape didn't respond, and Harry sighed raggedly, rubbing his eyes. In a lower voice, he said, "If you really think I'm being stupid about this, then why are we here? You're not a spy anymore, but you're an essential member of the Order. If I'm not a critical part of this, then why did Dumbledore say he was going to train me this year? Why would he send one of his best men to protect me, when there are so many better things you could be..."
Harry trailed off, looking up at the man. How much of the prophecy did Snape know, really? He couldn't know all of it, if he was being this thick about things.
"I know enough," Snape murmured.
Harry jerked his gaze away. "Can you not do that?" he snapped.
"I wasn't trying to. Your surface thoughts can...leap out to me, in a way."
A heavy silence hovered between them.
"I do not know the full prophecy," Snape said, his tone impossible to read. "And I do not know what Dumbledore has told you of it. But divination is hardly an exact branch of magic. I personally don't believe—"
"Tom believes in the prophecy, and that's what matters," Harry said tiredly. "He's not going to stop. I need to know how to fight, and it'd be even better if I knew how to kill him, so that"—I can take him with me—"all of this can finally be over."
Snape's brow creased. "What did the Headmaster—"
Harry felt a coldness lap against his ankle, and he started, realizing the cavern had accumulated enough rainwater to flood. Snape fell quiet as he glanced at the growing pool; apparently deciding that his question could wait, he stood, and held out the broom to Harry.
"Head up first."
Once Harry alighted at the top and handed the broom down, he turned to see that the smokescreen had vanished. Or not exactly, he realized, as he walked over to see a puddle of gray sludge on the ground. Beyond it was what Snape had been hiding: the cairn stones, and a set of vials with wispy strands of silver glowing inside them. They were lined up side by side, a stone for every vial.
“Fuck,” Snape hissed, hurrying past Harry. He glared at the smokescreen puddle, prodding it with his wand. “Byōen!”
The gray sludge rose to reform a liquid window in the air, hovering for a moment before splattering back to the ground. Muttering, Snape cast another impervius charm above him, then clapped his hands together in preparation to cast a new smokescreen.
“Those are memories, aren’t they?” Harry said.
Snape dropped his hands.
“Christ, you’ll make an annoying Auror,” Snape said with disgust, stooping to gather up the vials and stones. “I pity any criminal who tries to hide something from you."
Harry was only half-listening, more focused on this new clue.
What did memories, cairn stones, dark magic, and prophecy have to do with each other?
There had been several stones and vials, the same amount of each. Maybe Snape needed multiple pairs, so he could attempt the ritual multiple times? In case it failed, or he needed to make adjustments? But how did that relate to the prophecy?
He tried to picture the tombs the cairn stones had come from...they served to guard the dead. Maybe the ritual was to trap Voldemort, or at least his soul? To seal it away?
"Sickel for your thoughts?" Snape said, waspish.
Harry blinked up at him, then away, so that the man wouldn't be able to look into his eyes.
“I’ve never seen water ruin a spell like that before," he said casually.
“I’ve never tested it in the rain," Snape retorted.
Harry looked at the sludge with increased interest. The oddness of the spell made more sense now, knowing that Snape had invented it. A privacy screen that was disgusting to the touch was just so...Snape-ish.
"Muffliato," Harry said slowly. "That's yours too, isn't it?"
Snape looked at him with knitted brows, then past him. Harry turned to see smudged forms approaching through the fog: muggle hikers, who had decided to brave the weather in order to check out the ravine.
“You'll have to save your detective work for later,” Snape said shortly, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Harry was certain he had never seen so much sky before—it swept from one end of the earth to the other like a massive breath the heavens held and never expelled. Were it not for the ever changing canvas of cloud-cover, it would have been more overwhelming.
They had roughly followed the Pennine Way, temperatures dropping as they gained elevation. Every so often they crossed paths with muggle backpackers, but Snape had an uncanny knack for avoiding them. Seemingly on a whim, he would step off trail to follow a set of animal tracks, or guide Harry through a break in a drystone wall, and suddenly the land was not as flat or predictable as Harry thought. They would enter some shadowed gully or limestone riverbed full of rocks to traverse, then come out on the other side exactly where Snape had intended them to be.
In the evenings, they settled in their respective sides of the campfire, and Snape would work on his research while Harry practiced spells. Even in the midst of his work, Snape didn't hesitate to comment on Harry's wandwork, which was annoying but helpful (and all the more annoying because it was helpful). And on occasion, Snape would sweep the smokescreen aside, discarding his work entirely in favor of teaching. They fell to bickering often during these times, but both were too intent on the lesson to let it hold them back; their arguments always wandered back to Snape insisting he try the last spell again, if Harry didn’t insist first.
As they ascended their highest fell yet, it became necessary for Harry to don the heavy coat Snape had given him. As he felt the fleece lining settle over him warmly, a thank you rose in his throat. He held it on his tongue until it dissolved. The slopes ahead were covered in swaying tall grass and foxglove, and in the distance, Harry could see pastures dotted with sheep. The hike was long, but Harry's lungs had grown strong over the past weeks, and he found himself enjoying the exertion. He stumbled once, catching himself with a hand to the ground, and he looked up to find Snape extending a hand to him. Harry took it after only a little hesitation.
The peak was a stone-capped ridge that extended northwards, like the back of some leviathan surfacing from a heather sea. Fire and wards had barely been raised before Snape said, “Let me see the strength of your protego.”
Blinking, Harry placed his half-eaten sandwich down and stood.
Snape had set the boundary of the wards much farther this time, affording them most of the summit to move and cast spells without being seen from below. The man stood some twenty paces away, not rigidly straight like a formal duelist, but slightly crouched, knees bent in preparation to move.
It had been many days since their argument in the ravine, and the man hadn't revisited it once. Now, this invitation felt like an olive branch, an acknowledgement of Harry's desire to fight.
Harry planted his feet, running through the new spells he had learned. Looking at Snape in his windbreaker and cargo trousers, he reminded himself that his opponent had once been a Death Eater.
Cooperate with me, he thought to the rosewood wand, and cast the whipping bolas spell.
Harry was in the Department of Mysteries. The Veil flattened and grew until it was a gray sea, and he watched as his friends were swallowed within it.
As he felt hands shaking him awake, Harry recognized that he was dreaming, and he let out a gasping sob, abject relief running through him. They’re fine, they’re not dead, it’s just a dream…
Still in a half-sleep state, he reached out to grasp at coat sleeves, anchoring himself in the warm solidity of the person waking him. And then Harry was awake, and found himself clinging to Snape. Blinking back tears, he released the man as if he’d been burned. This was far from the first time Snape had woken him from a nightmare, and he was grateful when the man stepped back without comment.
Harry assumed that was that, but as they descended from the fell some fifteen minutes later, Snape said, “You’re not sleeping enough.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry said bitterly, “I can’t make myself sleep.”
Snape halted, almost causing Harry to run into his back.
“I am a Potions Master,” the man said, turning to glare at him.
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you are.”
“Don’t be smart with me." Snape folded his arms, looking at him with reproach. “Why have you not asked for assistance?”
Harry frowned. “With what? With my sleep?”
“Your brainlessness never ceases to amaze. Dreamless Sleep, Potter. It’s a potion they cover in third year, I believe. Color me surprised that you weren’t paying attention—”
“I know what Dreamless Sleep is,” Harry said sharply. It had been a while since Snape had taken a knock at his school performance, and he couldn't say he missed it. “The real question here is why you think I would ask you to brew something to help me sleep.”
“I thought I made it clear. You can neglect your health all you want at your relatives', but on my watch—”
“I don’t want to neglect my health.”
“With your insistence on not telling me anything, I’d think otherwise! This is how many times now, that you’ve failed to come to me?”
Harry stared. Was the man serious?
“I’m sorry,” Harry said slowly. “All these years, did you think you were giving your students the impression that they could go to you for help? For anything?”
“You’re not just any student, Potter!”
Harry’s eyebrows climbed. “You’re right, I’m not. Out of all of them, I’m probably the one least likely to come to you when I need something.”
“I’ve saved your life you ungrateful brat!”
Harry’s expression flattened. “Yeah? And my dad saved yours. Would you go to him when you had trouble sleeping?”
“Jesus Christ,” Snape snapped. “As if that’s even remotely the same. I am your professor—”
Harry felt his restraint snap, anger boiling over. Since the train car, he and Snape had managed to coexist in relative peace: Harry followed directions (more or less), and stopped demanding answers that Snape would not give. In turn, Snape left him to his own devices, and had even helped him with spell practice. It was a functional truce, one that had nothing to do with their past, something Snape should have understood, instead of fucking it all up like this.
“You’ve treated me like rubbish for five years,” Harry snapped with such sharpness and volume that his words cut right through Snape's. "Sure, if I was bleeding out on the floor, you’d save me. But why would I expect you to care about me being able to sleep? When Hermione was twelve and Malfoy cursed her teeth to grow out, she turned to you, terrified, and you said you saw no difference. On my first class with you, you ridiculed me for being famous—when, you know, I’m famous for my parents dying—because I was taking notes instead of looking at you. And don’t get me started on how you treat Neville—”
A group of muggles passed them a few meters away, staring, and Harry shut his mouth. He waited for Snape to tear into him, audience be damned, but the man just looked at him, jaw clenched, before spinning around and stalking down the path without another word.
Harry watched him, still fuming, but somewhat gratified.
I finally put him in his place for once.
Notes:
Chapter 5 playlist:
The Last Of Us by Gustavo Santaolalla
Crosses by José González
Dear Fellow Traveller by Sea Wolf
Your Protector by Fleet Foxes
ELM by Pierre Bensusan
The Shrine/An Argument by Fleet Foxes
Chapter 6: give me something i haven't seen
Notes:
Chapter CW: self-harm, description of animal death, panic attacks
Thanks for your patience everyone! I was hoping to finish the next chapter before posting this one, but as usual, revision is taking longer than expected. I hope you enjoy this in the mean time. Wish me luck and wish me speed - I'll need it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a rabbit in the brush.
Its nose twitched, so active that it seemed to be its own animal, and as Harry watched the flex of muscles beneath fur, the aliveness of the rabbit felt unusually striking. He imagined what it would look like still, muscles gone stiff and blood gone cold.
Harry might not be as powerful or experienced as Voldemort, but if he could master the Killing Curse, he wouldn't need power or experience—all he would need is an opportunity.
He thought of fake-Moody's lesson: the flash of green light, and the dead spider curled up on his desk. You could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. He thought of the momentary fear on Bellatrix's face, so quickly replaced with mockery when his Cruciatus had failed.
If I can generate enough hatred for anyone, surely it would be Voldemort.
He gripped the rosewood wand tightly, angling it towards the rabbit. He thought of Voldemort, and all that Voldemort had stolen from him. He gathered all his old rage, and resentment, and loathing, and settled deep within it.
I eat meat all the time. This isn’t so different.
He held the wand for so long that his arm began to ache. Any moment now, any moment, he would speak the words…
The rabbit nibbled at a bit of clover.
Harry slumped. Heart pounding and feeling foolish for it, he lifted his head to check if Snape was still preoccupied with the cairns on the ridge above.
A cloak of stony silence drawn around him, Snape had led them north and west, leaving behind windswept hills as they descended. Never before would Harry have called Snape approachable, but this new frigidity put things into perspective: before their fight, the man had been almost easy to talk to.
Not that Harry wanted to talk to Snape. He had said his piece, and meant every word, and had no desire to revisit the subject of his nightmares with the man. He had begun to zip his sleeping bag entirely closed during the night. It felt somewhat suffocating, but ensured that there would be no gaps in his imperturbable charm.
Harry turned back to the rabbit. It was in the process of grooming, paws grasping one floppy ear the way a person grasps their hair to wring water from it.
Maybe the Killing Curse had been too ambitious. A burning or cutting curse would be easier…
Harry raised his wand once more—then quickly lowered it, stomach turning. If he couldn’t even bear to visualize the result, there was no hope of casting the spell.
Harry slashed his wand at the grass instead, his magic splitting the earth. The violence of the motion must have caught the rabbit’s peripheral vision, for it bounded away. Harry repeated the spell, cutting in parallel lines. The last one caught the edge of his trousers, and for a long moment, Harry stared at the small nick in the fabric.
Slowly, he rolled up his trouser leg, and aimed his wand at the skin above his ankle.
He made a small, controlled cut, just as Snape had done on the train. It hurt, but less than it would have with his glass shard.
Harry attempted the healing charm on it, and found the wound unresponsive despite multiple tries. Feeling foolish, Harry checked to see that Snape was still engaged, then pressed a hand to his ear. Trying to focus on the warmth, on the dampening of sound, he tried the spell once more.
Nothing.
Disgusted, Harry dragged a palm across his shin to catch a trickle of blood. The pack of supplies Snape had given him contained healing items, but it was too much of a bother to retrieve. Instead, he aimed his wand at a patch of unmarred skin, now smeared faintly pink, and cast the cutting spell once more.
The rations capsules had run low, and they were forced to go into one of the valley villages to restock. The village roads were narrow, without sidewalks, the stone houses walled off by scrubby gardens spilling over low walls. Telephone lines flossed between roofs and distant poles, sectioning the sky with faint lines.
They found the shop at the road’s end, its front painted white, an old telephone box sandwiched against its side. Off license, the sign said, and Harry idly wondered if Snape drank.
He’s probably miserable enough to turn to the bottle. This thought was immediately followed by a prickle of discomfort. Their last altercation had dredged up his habit of thinking of Snape uncharitably, a pastime he found he could no longer fully revel in.
Newsagent was listed on the sign too, and he was unsurprised when Snape made a beeline for the stand of papers just inside the door.
Harry had taken care to first scrape his boots on the ground outside, but after weeks of mucking about in the wilderness, he still felt somewhat monstrous stepping inside.
The man behind the counter was wiry, with a salt-and-pepper beard and prominent crow’s-feet. He looked very stern until he smiled at Harry, the expression revealing a friendly face. Harry smiled back, knowing as he did so that his face was far too stiff, but unable to correct it.
“Ey up, you two have walked a ways.” The man waved a hand in a circle, and Harry saw that it was wrapped in bandages. “Doing the Skipton trail? That long one?”
“Something like that,” Snape said, flipping through the paper.
“Thirty pence for that,” the muggle said, and Snape grunted, closing the paper and slapping it down on the counter.
“We’ll be purchasing some supplies as well,” Snape informed him, and Harry could swear that he sounded different, less posh, his vowels suddenly emphasized.
“All right. Well, if you plan on camping out here long, I wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ve seen the weather report? Bad storm tomorrow. Wouldn’t be out walking in that.”
“Hm.”
Snape’s face was neutral, but Harry knew the man was likely pleased by the news; poor weather meant less people to avoid.
While Snape did the shopping, Harry sidled closer to the paper on the counter. He hadn’t looked at the news in months, and the thought of knowing what was going on gave him equal parts dread and curiosity. He also feared the muggle would try to make conversation with him; after spending weeks with Snape, who had no manners whatsoever, he struggled to remember how one talked to civilized people.
The man winked at him, and nudged the paper forward. Nodding his head towards Snape's back, he rolled his eyes a bit, as if to say, I gave him a hard time, but you go ahead.
Lips curving a little, Harry took the paper and began to leaf through it, knowing better than to just look at the first page. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, at first, but a line about London caught his eye.
Scientists continue to be baffled by the persistent fog beleaguering London. As occupants of a city in a natural basin, Londoners are no stranger to such weather, but not to this extent. “Getting to work has been impossible,” said Mary Chuffingham of Battersea. “I can’t see the road at all.” While many are comparing the current phenomenon to the Great Smog of 1952, experts at the Met Office state that pollution doesn’t seem to be the cause…
“Don’t dwell on it too much.”
Harry quickly loosened his furrowed brow, looking up at the muggle.
“Lots of awful in the world we can’t do anything about,” the man continued. “Best we can do is help the people closest to us. And that’s enough, I reckon.”
“I guess,” Harry muttered.
The man scratched at his injured hand, and seeing Harry’s eyes upon it, he said, “Ah, this? Got bit by my sister's dog. A real temperamental animal, she's having a hell of a time training him. Been meaning to get it checked out, but my doctor's out in Manchester. I'm picky about my doctors, I dassn't see anyone else. I'll go see him soon. Just haven't had the time to make the drive lately.”
As Harry looked at the redness around the bandages, the healing kit in his bag felt suddenly heavy. After grappling with himself for a moment, he pulled it out and placed it on the counter.
The man whistled. “You fit that in there? Your pack's bigger than it looks.”
“Yeah,” Harry said nervously, opening the kit. The muggle looked at the assortment of bottles and jars with great interest, and Harry hastily grabbed the vervain salve before shutting the lid.
“Here,” he said, pushing it forward. “The, um, the salve can help fight infection, you can apply it directly to the wound.”
The man’s brows raised, and Harry tensed. The man probably thought he was weird, or trying to scam him or something—
“My grandmother used to make remedies like this.” The man unscrewed the jar and gave it a sniff. “Ah, that’s a good smell. Nostalgic. She had a gift, you know? Real in touch with nature. Always regretted not learning more from her.” He smiled at Harry. “Nice to see a young person like you interested in that. Any useful plants here in the Dales?”
“Um, yeah, actually.” It was true; he had recognized many plants here that had been listed in the healing guide. Snape had even stopped to harvest some of them. “I saw a lot of gentian, it’s good for abdominal issues, like loss of appetite. And mountain everlasting can alleviate cough, and fairy flax can work as a laxative—”
“But is poisonous in large doses,” Snape finished, placing his groceries on the counter.
Repressing a glare, Harry sidled away from Snape. Realizing the shopkeeper was still looking at him, he put some effort into softening his expression. With one last smile at Harry, the muggle turned to ring up the purchases with professional briskness. As Harry and Snape made their way out, he said after them, “Ta for the medicine, young man. You two stay safe out there.”
Harry half-expected Snape to berate him for giving the muggle a salve, but the man was quiet as they left the village. He did not speak on the subject at all until later that evening, after they had made camp on the leeward side of a crumbling wall. Sheltered by stone and ward, Snape's quiet words were easily audible over the muffled wind.
“You seemed surprised.”
Harry, who had been in the process of organizing his notes, stiffened. “About what?” he asked shortly.
“That the muggle at the shop appreciated your gesture,” Snape clarified.
Harry considered ignoring him, but eventually answered, “Well, it was a weird thing to do. I mean, weird to him.” He shrugged. “Muggles don’t…they just find that kind of thing strange.”
“Hm.”
Snape said no more, turning to the spread before him: the grocery haul from earlier, over which he was casting various storing and preserving charms. Harry could swear he heard a sense of disagreement from that little hm, and felt irked. What did Snape know? He didn’t even like muggles.
“What’s the fog in London about?” Harry asked abruptly.
Snape didn’t respond at once, and Harry insisted, “Well? Does it have anything to do with us?”
The wind dwindled for a moment, the silence pronounced as Snape looked at him, sizing him up.
“It does,” Snape said finally, and Harry could see a weariness cross his eyes. “That kind of fog is produced when Dementors breed.”
It took Harry a moment to process this, and when he did, a chill of horror skittered up his spine. He had always thought of Dementors like nightmares, conjured spontaneously in darkness. To think of them multiplying in some organic way was awful; to think of them doing so in a city full of people was even more so.
“It’s something the Order anticipated would happen," Snape continued. He conveyed this so calmly, so matter-of-fact, and the familiar bitterness of not being told important information coated Harry's tongue. "The Ministry only ever had tenuous control over the Dementors. With the Dark Lord's return, it was only a matter of time before the alliance shifted." The man paused, then continued in a quieter voice, "We can assume the Death Eaters imprisoned after the Ministry attack have been free for some time.”
Harry's stomach turned. Another Azkaban breakout did not exactly surprise him, but Dementors overtaking Muggle London?
“Do you know the death toll?” Harry asked, nails digging into his palms. “I mean, how many muggles have been…Kissed?”
“...I do not." Snape's next words were halting. "There are measures in place regarding threats to the muggle world. I would not be concerned with—”
“I didn’t ask for reassurance,” Harry interrupted, and Snape fell silent.
Harry was surrounded by cold fog. It pressed against his eyes, and nose, and mouth; he could see only white, and each breath felt like drawing water into his lungs. He was carrying someone, struggling to get them to safety. He kept crying out for his wand, but it would not come to him. Finally, he tried to apparate, but he knew it must have failed, because the body in his hands began to crumble.
Harry gasped awake to find Snape shaking him. The man had unzipped the sleeping bag, and he looked furious.
Harry pressed palms to his eyes to hide his tears, and hissed with aggravation. "Look, it won’t happen again—”
“You’re right, it won’t,” Snape snarled. “Explain to me, Potter, why I saw you thrashing about in your sleeping bag, and when I discover the barrier charm, and undo it, only then do I realize you are screaming in your sleep? ”
“So?” Harry snapped, sitting up and shifting away from Snape. “I’m allowed a little privacy. If I don’t want you hearing—”
Snape flung out his hands in agitation. “I won’t tolerate any more self destructive behavior!”
“Self…? ” Harry laughed a little, incredulous. “A dream isn’t going to kill me, Professor.”
Snape gritted his teeth. “Do not argue with me. You will not be putting a barrier up when you sleep again.”
Ignoring Harry’s stare, the man produced a vial from his pocket. “I took it upon myself to brew you Dreamless Sleep. Now, take this—”
Harry turned his face from the vial, and the man snapped, “Don’t be difficult! You need sleep, boy! I won’t have you lagging behind and tripping over your feet, wasting my ti—”
“Have I?” Harry cut in, voice calm. “Been lagging behind, sir?”
The man stared at him.
“Then it’s not a problem, is it?”
Snape’s hair was in disarray, eyes bloodshot. He looked like he might start shaking Harry.
“You’d rather have insomnia and nightmares than take a potion from me?”
“We’ve been over this. It’s not that bad, anyway. It’s always been like this, and with the barrier you don’t have to hear me—”
Snape slammed a hand down on his knee. “Enough. You’ll take it whether you like it or not!”
“I don’t need—”
“DON’T,” Snape thundered, “piss me off. Take. The damn. Potion!”
When Harry just looked at him, Snape raised his wand. “I’ve half a mind to petrify you and just pour it down your throat—”
Quick as a flash, Harry had rolled to his feet, wand snatched up and leveled at Snape. A part of him raged to fight; here was his target practice opportunity.
“Don’t point that at me unless you mean it,” Snape said, his voice low and dangerous as he moved to rise. “I’ll be faster, I can tell you that.”
Snape looked livid, and distantly, Harry felt a tremble of apprehension. His heart beat faster, adrenaline kicking in at the prospect of real violence between them.
Snape’s eyes traveled over his face, and he lowered his wand, the darkness abruptly fleeing from his demeanor.
“I shouldn’t say things I don’t mean,” he said.
A moment of hesitation, then Snape returned to sitting on the ground, so that he had to look up at Harry.
“I…I was waiting for you to come to me.”
Snape’s soft words didn’t fully register; still on edge, Harry didn’t move from his fighting stance.
Snape sighed, and slipped his wand back into his sleeve.
“For the sake of argument,” he began, his voice so abruptly neutral that it made Harry tense. “Let’s say I agree with you. You do not need this potion. You can cast a barrier when you sleep, and endure your nightmares in silence. May I ask, however, why you are so insistent on refusing my help? Despite our past, you have no issue taking spell instruction from me. It is only this, in matters that pertain to your well-being, that you are resistant. The only logical conclusion I can come to, is that you have some masochistic insistence on suffering. Is that it, Potter? You wish to suffer?”
“No,” Harry snapped, lowering his wand. “I just don’t need—”
“You say that often.” Something was unraveling between them, unspoken words unearthed, a tension at its breaking point. “Do you think you only deserve a good night’s sleep if you desperately need it? And what of medical care? Treatment for your injuries? Or proper shoes, and warm clothes? Do you think you don’t deserve those things?”
Annoyance roiled through Harry, disturbing the calm he tried to erect around himself.
“I don’t need those things from you.”
“It’s spite then, is that it? You’d resist my help on principle? Or perhaps, so that when all is said and done, you can go to Dumbledore and tell him I neglected you?”
“Fuck off!”
“Why were there locks on your bedroom door?” Snape asked suddenly. “Why was there a catflap?”
Harry’s throat closed. The numbness he clung to was shredded, and he felt like an exposed wire, humming, sensitive, furious.
“Like you haven’t seen it all in Occlumency lessons,” Harry said coldly.
“I saw glimpses, things I had assumed were the exception to an otherwise happy and uneventful childhood. Was I wrong?”
“What, you think poor little Harry Potter needs someone to talk to about his relatives? Like I don’t have worse problems to deal with?” Harry barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re a little late, Snape!”
Snape leaned back a little at Harry’s vitriol, his black eyes wide. “I…your relatives, they—”
“Even if they do, why the hell would I trust YOU with it!?” He felt so angry, angrier than he had since that night in the metro station. “Why are you even doing this? Why the fuck are you acting like you care?”
“Regardless of our past, you are my responsibility—”
“AND?” Harry shouted. “You need to keep me alive, that’s it. What does this have to do with it? Asking about my relatives, wanting to know when I have nightmares. What’s it matter to YOU?”
“Your safety is—”
Harry laughed again. “Right, right! Merlin knows you need to keep Dumbledore’s weapon safe! Can’t have me dying before Voldemort now can we—”
“Potter,” Snape warned quietly.
“What? It’s true! That’s what this is all about, isn't it? Dumbledore’s orders?” A thought occurred to Harry, and his tone grew ugly. “Or maybe it’s more personal? Maybe it’s about the prophecy?”
Snape blanched, and Harry’s lip curled in contemptuous triumph. “That’s right, only I can kill him. You need me. Do you resent it? That you need a fucking kid, a Gryffindor, and James Potter’s son at that, to set you free from the mistake you made? That without me, you’ll always be a fucking slave to that mark on your arm—”
Snape stood, towering over him easily. He made no other move, his face blank, but all the hairs stood up on Harry’s arms.
“That’s enough,” the man said softly.
Snape’s tone had held no anger, but that somehow made it worse. Face warming, hands shaking, Harry held his tongue.
“You were right.”
Harry froze.
“You were right, last time, when you said that I’ve mistreated you for five years.” Snape spoke so blankly he might as well have been an automaton. “It is understandable—healthy, even—for you to mistrust and resent me.”
Harry dared to meet Snape’s eyes, which revealed nothing.
“And I am sorry. For the yoking spell, for smashing the vial of invigoration draught you had brewed perfectly well last year, for…” Snape took a breath. “I am not fit to care for a child, let alone... But right now, you are in my care. Will you depend on me to meet your needs? Can you do that? Is it possible?”
Harry’s anger faded, leaving only a cold bitterness. Under different circumstances, Snape’s apology might have moved him. But it all felt far too little, far too late. All Harry could think about was Sirius being dead, about the Dementors in London, about the things he still needed to do.
“No,” he said, not trying to be cruel or disobedient. He was merely tired.
Snape cast his eyes down.
“I am here if you change your mind,” he said quietly, placing the vial down next to him.
Harry didn’t touch it.
Harry watched a hawk tear into a carcass on the ridge above. The dead animal was too mauled to identify; a stoat maybe, or a weasel.
I’ve transfigured mice into teapots, he thought. I killed Quirrel with my hands.
He had heard, many times, that using dark magic was corrupting. That casting the Killing Curse would leave a permanent mark upon the spirit.
That wouldn’t be so bad. As long as Voldemort comes with me, it doesn’t really matter what happens to my soul.
The news he had heard of London weighed heavily on him. While he sat here doing nothing, innocent people were being preyed upon by monsters they couldn’t even see. What were they being forced to hear? How many people had suddenly found their friends and family members struck dumb and unresponsive? To lose someone, and not even understand how or why…
Harry reached beneath the hem of his trousers to trace the raised welt just above his ankle. Scars healed cleaner on his arm compared to his leg, he thought. Or maybe he had just cut these deeper.
He glanced towards Snape, and found the man looking right at him. Scowling, he turned away.
He wanted to try the cutting spell again, to see if he could increase his casting speed without sacrificing control. He was starting to get the hang of it nonverbally too, but even wordless, it was frustratingly hard to practice under Snape’s nose. With the exception of Harry’s fall into the ravine, the man seemed to have a sixth sense for when he was being furtive.
Not that he should care, Harry thought savagely. It’s none of his business what I do.
Their fight had planted an anger in him that refused to subside; every time he remembered the man’s apology, the fury would resurface hotter than before. How dare the man bring up the Dursleys? He didn't get to act like he cared about that, not when he didn't care to give Harry a chance in class, or listen to his side of the story with Malfoy. Not after years of making Harry's life harder than it already was. Where was Snape's care and concern then, when Harry had needed it?
Seeking an outlet for his angry restlessness, he reached for the shard in his pocket, and his fingers brushed against something unexpectedly soft. He pulled out the winged bookmark, only remembering in that moment that he had taken it from the healing guide.
He rubbed his thumb over the worn leather, and saw as he did so that a design had been etched into it: a series of points connected to form a limbed kite, one of its arms reaching upwards. There was a mystery on the silver wing, too; a black stain on the fletching that, upon closer inspection, he saw spelled out letters. He pressed the barbs flush together, bringing the fragmented words into clarity:
Lionsherd.
A nickname, his gut told him. Lion… would Snape have had a Gryffindor acquaintance?
Suddenly, Mulciber’s words trickled down his spine like cold water: ‘Course Snape never let us do anything.
Harry rejected the possibility even as it formed. Just because Snape had been in the same year as his mum didn’t mean they had been friends. He had called her a slur for fuck’s sake. Harry would never do that to a friend. It wasn’t just a matter of principle; he didn’t think the word would even come to him in a moment of anger.
Mulciber had been messing with him. Maybe Snape had been something of a voice of reason for his dorm mates; maybe he had tried to discourage them from bullying muggleborns in general.
Mum did go to help Snape, though.
Harry had always assumed she had done so because it was the right thing, that she would have done it for anyone. Now he was second-guessing, trying to recall the nuances of the memory: the exact words Lily and James had exchanged, the expression on Snape’s face as he had dangled in the air.
He hated even the idea of it.
Snape’s a bastard, but he’d have to be something else entirely to treat a friend’s son the way he’s treated me.
Harry had always imagined the boundaries of rain as fuzzy, indefinable. The approaching wall of water was anything but; the line between storm front and clear sky was discrete. Standing amidst the vast plain as the storm pressed forward, Harry felt incredibly small.
They were not unprepared: earlier, Snape had produced two large flasks filled with a black, fizzing liquid. He charmed the contents to float as a fine mist, and directed Harry to walk through it several times.
“Make sure it coats the bottom of your shoes as well.”
Curiosity overcame his aversion to following Snape’s direction, and he did so. The droplets coated his skin and seemed to disappear, but when he shifted his arm, he could see a faint golden gleam.
“Pasmibi elixir,” Snape had said, taking his turn through the mist. “It will shield us from lightning strikes for a duration of two to three hours.”
Now they faced the storm. Harry flexed his hand, watching the gold shimmer across his knuckles, then turned back to the tempest. He had no doubt a potion Snape brewed would be effective, but it was still strange to think that something so insubstantial could guard them from lightning.
Snape was saying something behind him, but he ignored it, watching the rain close the distance.
Harry gasped as the storm made impact, battering him—there was water in his eyes and mouth, a cold shock down his neck, a sudden weight clinging to his clothes.
The rain abruptly stopped, and he looked up to see the blurry image of Snape, who had just cast an impervius charm above his head.
“Why didn’t you cast it yourself?” the man demanded.
He raised his wand to dry Harry’s clothes, and Harry stepped backwards, flinching as the rain outside the charm’s radius struck his back. It had been a cold afternoon even before the storm; with his jacket soaked through, he couldn’t stop himself from shivering.
“I can d-do it myself,” Harry insisted through chattering teeth.
Something twisted in Snape’s face, and he grabbed Harry by the shoulders, pulling him back beneath the impervius.
“Assa,” Snape said forcefully, and steam began to rise from Harry’s clothes as they warmed and dried.
“Hate me all you want,” he said, shaking Harry a little. “But for the love of God, child, let me help you.”
“I don’t—”
“Forget need! What about pragmatism? I am begging you to show me some modicum of Slytherin!”
“Well I’m not—”
The world went white and hot. He felt Snape cover his ears, and through them, heard a muffled boom. Head pressed to the man’s chest, blinking the spots from his eyes, Harry stared down at the black ground as white branches skittered across it.
Then it was dark, and quiet, the sound of the rain slowly filling up the space left behind.
Harry pushed away from Snape, and the man lowered his hands. On the ground, about two meters away, a dendritic scar tore through the grass.
“All right?” Snape asked quietly.
“Fine. Yeah.” Harry looked away. Casting his own charm to keep out the rain, he walked over to inspect the strike site. A scabrous tube of welded soil, almost coral-like, was embedded in the ground.
Snape crouched next to him, conjuring an empty flask. Delicately, he began to levitate pieces of the fossilized lightning into it.
“Fulgurite,” Snape said in explanation.
There was an open pause at the end of this word, as if he held back from saying more, inviting Harry to ask.
Is that a potions ingredient? What are its properties? Is it useful for healing?
Harry wrestled his fascination down. Drawing a coldness around himself, he watched Snape in silence.
Moody clouds hung low over the grassy sea, so low that they seemed to drink from the lakes in the distance. As he sat amidst green waves and scrubby sedge, Harry felt far removed from the world outside. But he could not ignore what was happening out there, not when the prophecy bade that he put a stop to it.
Come find me already, he thought. Whether his plea was for Dumbledore or Voldemort, it didn't matter. Come find me, and let’s end this.
He heard the sound of flames being doused behind him, and he turned to see Snape stand from his now empty cauldron.
“I need to see to something,” Snape said curtly. “I will be back within half an hour.”
Fucking finally. After weeks of being under sharp watch, Harry longed for some time alone. Not to mention, here was his opportunity to practice spells as he pleased.
“Where are you going?” Harry asked neutrally, taking care to keep his posture nonchalant.
Snape pointed eastward. “Not far. Just to the cairns we passed the day before. The wards will protect you, but if there is any sign of danger, or you feel insecure for any reason, send me a Patronus message. I will return at once.”
Harry felt his face warm, anger rushing through him. Snape was talking to him like he was a kid or something, in need of reassurance—as if he hadn’t fought Death Eaters. As if he hadn’t faced Voldemort time and time again.
“You don’t, I didn’t—” Harry hissed, then stopped. “Nevermind. How do you even cast a Patronus message?”
Snape’s languid posture straightened, his eyes snapping into focus upon Harry.
“Excuse me?”
Harry just frowned in response. Snape had clearly heard him.
“Do you mean to tell me,” the man said, “that all this time, you did not know how to send one?”
“Yeah?” Harry said, annoyed. “That’s what I just said.”
“Lupin never taught you? He taught you how to cast a Patronus, did he not?”
“I mean, yeah, but I didn’t know sending a message with it was even a thing until after you got him sacked.”
Snape didn’t even acknowledge Harry’s baiting. “You were only thirteen,” he murmured. “But he did not teach you later? Or anyone else in the Order?”
“No.”
“What of the Headmaster? Surely, after the Dark Lord returned, he gave you a way to contact him?”
“No.”
Snape was becoming increasingly agitated, and he was looking at Harry as if he were a stranger.
“He gave you nothing? No communication spell, or perhaps some enchanted object…?”
“The answer’s no, Snape,” Harry snapped.
He expected some kind of rebuke for disrespect, but Snape just barrelled on, “So, when you chose to treat me, at the train car—rather than get help—it was not only because of the Trace, or my warning to you about the Order being compromised? It was also because you were not confident in being able to contact them at all?”
This turn of conversation caught him off guard, and uncertainty cutting through his irritation, Harry nodded.
Snape stared at him, then he lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. A long moment passed before he lifted his face.
“I have been remiss with you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I had assumed…well, I assumed too much, clearly.”
He looked…sincere through his anger, an expression Harry had never seen him wear before, and he knew for certain that the anger was not for him. It disarmed Harry entirely, and he was glad the man continued, saving him from scrambling for words.
“A Patronus message is not very difficult,” Snape began, and Harry realized a lesson had begun, “as long as you have already mastered a corporeal form. You merely need to summon it, then speak your message, and the name of the recipient. A first or last name, or even a nickname, will suffice, as long as you are holding the correct person in mind.”
Harry was about to ask if Snape wasn’t going to demonstrate first, but seeing Snape’s weary posture, he held his tongue. Still resentful towards the man, a part of Harry bristled at taking this instruction, but he could not deny that this was something he wanted—needed—to learn.
Closing his eyes, Harry tried to summon a happy memory. It was difficult these days, but it always had been difficult, hadn’t it? He thought briefly of his parents in the mirror, then of Ron and Hermione, but his memories quickly shifted to that day in Grimmauld, when he and Sirius laughed in the wake of a spell mishap on the part of the twins. The memory was laced with grief, but those were the memories that had always worked best for Harry anyway.
“Expecto Patronum!”
Harry opened his eyes, and there, leaping and rolling playfully over the heath, was the silvery form of a large, shaggy dog.
“Sirius,” Harry choked out, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. He dropped the rosewood wand and held out his hands; the dog trotted up to him, tongue lolling, and pushed its happy face into Harry’s chest. Hands trembling, vision blurring, Harry gently circled the Patronus with his arms. The dog partially passed through Harry’s hold as it wagged its tail, and each time it happened Harry felt his heart constricting.
When the Patronus began to fade, a sob left Harry’s lips.
“No, no, don’t—”
He reached for his wand, but a hand pressed down on his, and he whirled on Snape, furious, “Just once more! It’s not like it’ll take much time—”
Snape’s face was neutral, which Harry abruptly realized was the man’s way of being gentle with him.
“You may cast it again,” Snape said. “But do not lose yourself in illusions.”
“I know it’s not him, I just—”
“Right now, do you feel better, having seen his form?”
“Of course I do, I just want—”
“Do you? Feel genuinely happier, more at peace, more healed?”
Harry felt like his chest was being split in two.
“No,” he sobbed, letting go of the wand. He hated Snape in that moment, hated him, more than he ever had before. “I just—I just want him back.”
Snape took the wand, and left Harry crying on the grass. When the man returned, he carried with him a steaming mug.
“I don’t want a fucking potion!” Harry snarled, knocking the mug from Snape’s hand. It fell to the ground, spilling its contents into the dirt.
Visibly battling to control his temper, Snape said, “A calming draught would—”
“I don’t—need—to calm—down!” Harry gasped, furious.
The doxies were clawing through his insides again, the air thinning. “What, what are you doing to me!?”
“I’m not doing anything, you stupid—” Snape wrestled himself under control, and knelt, placing his hands on Harry’s arms. “Listen to me. You are hyperventilating.”
“Get—off—” Harry spat breathlessly, pushing him away.
Snape released him, his face tight. “You need to slow your breathing.”
“There’s—no—air!” Harry wheezed furiously. Couldn’t Snape see that?
“I assure you, there’s plenty of oxygen here. You don’t see me gulping air like a dying fish, do you?”
“F-Fuck y-you!”
Harry curled away from the man, struggling to quiet his panicked gasps. He felt his limbs grow stiff, and he found he could no longer uncurl his fingers. What was happening to him? If Snape wasn’t doing it, then had he been cursed by someone else? Mulciber? Or Voldemort, reaching through the scar?
“Potter, can you hear me? No, don’t turn away, listen. I know it feels like there’s no air here, but there is. I need you to slow. Your. Breathing. It will help ease your symptoms.”
Through the haze of panic, Harry locked eyes with Snape. There was no mocking in the man’s gaze. Straining, Harry paused before his next breath, holding until he couldn’t, then gasping.
“Good,” the man said strongly. “Try to exhale for six seconds.”
Harry tried to comply, but six seconds felt so long, and his vision was blurring at the edges—
Snape snatched up Harry’s hand and pressed it to his own chest, and it rose as he took an exaggerated inhale.
“Follow me,” the man ordered, and continued to breathe slowly, in, and out.
Feeling the rise and fall beneath his palm, Harry struggled to follow. He punched out a breath as Snape exhaled, waited an agonizing six seconds, then sucked in raggedly with Snape’s inhale. Then they did it again, and again. Slowly, Harry’s vision cleared, the buzzing faded, and his limbs loosened.
“I think—think it’s getting—better.”
Snape didn’t release his hand. “Just keep breathing with me.”
Harry obeyed, their matched breaths the only sound, Snape’s chest solid and warm under Harry’s hand.
Eventually, Snape loosed his hold, and gave Harry some space.
Face reddening, he sat up, looking away from the man. “Sorry,” he said lowly. “I don’t know what…”
“Don’t you know what a panic attack is?” Snape said, exasperated. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen you have one.”
“That’s a panic attack?” Harry had thought panic attacks just meant…feeling really anxious. What he had just experienced felt more like dying. “I thought, I thought the last time was just you cursing me.”
“What?” Snape looked appalled. “All this time…you thought I put you under a spell that made you feel life-threatening panic, to the point you passed out?”
Harry just shrugged. He didn’t say, you did once put a spell on me that ended up with me falling down the stairs, but Snape seemed to read enough from his silence.
“Let me amend my previous vow,” Snape said stiffly. “I will not, under any circumstance, use a curse on you for punishment.”
That seemed excessive. “What will you do if you need to punish me, then?” Harry frowned. Did Snape intend to use physical force?
Snape threw up his hands. “Are you expecting to do something that warrants punishment?”
“I mean, no, but—”
“Then back to the topic at hand,” Snape snapped. “You really thought I’d curse you right after you discovered that your Patronus had taken the form of Sirius Black’s animagus? I know you think me a monster, boy, but why would I do that?”
“I don’t know!” Harry snapped, his heart feeling bruised. “How am I supposed to know why you, or anyone, chooses to hurt me?”
Snape fell silent at that.
“Why am I having panic attacks, anyway? I don’t…I wasn’t even in danger!”
“They aren’t rational,” Snape said quietly. “Some people have them without any trigger at all. In your case, I expect it was the sight of your Patronus.”
“But why…would that…”
The man looked skyward. If Snape were a religious man, Harry would think he was asking for some god-given strength.
“A panic attack is your fight or flight response activating at an inappropriate moment,” Snape said. “A moment that, your body believes, requires a burst of adrenaline to survive. And sometimes, it is not actual life-threatening danger that makes us feel the closest to death.”
Harry took this in. Not a memory, but the suggestion of one, came to him: the motion Sirius' body had undertaken as it fell through the veil. The image was gone almost as soon as it had come, but it left him swallowing bile.
“Since you thought I was cursing you,” Snape said, in a suffering voice, “can I assume that panic attacks are a recent development for you?”
Embarrassed, Harry thought back. Other than in the train car, there were the foggy moments with Cedric’s corpse, when he was trying to convince his friends to help him floo to Grimmauld from Umbridge’s office, and when he had wandered the city after running from Snape.
“I think I’ve been close to it, a few times in the past,” he admitted. He looked up at Snape, his face tight, “How do I stop it from happening again?”
“You don’t,” Snape said bluntly. “You manage them.”
The man began to list various strategies—breathing exercises, noting five objects in the space around him, focusing on the other senses—then stopped when he saw the frustration on Harry’s face.
“When you went to the wo—Lupin to learn the Patronus, that did not stop you from fearing Dementors, did it?”
Harry frowned at the subject change, but shook his head.
“But it did allow you to fight them,” Snape continued. “To respond to that fear. You cannot eliminate your fears, your anxieties. You can try to suppress them for a short time, but they will return when you least expect it. You must learn to regulate them instead. These grounding methods might sound meager to you, but they can help. You cannot always anticipate a panic attack, or make it so that they never occur. But understanding what they are, and preparing a strategy to deal with them when they come, will stop them from controlling your life.”
Snape had relayed this speech clinically. To a stranger, his tone might have even come across as insensitive, but Harry clung to each word. Out of the many problems he had faced in his life, very few made any sense to him. He had grown accustomed to battles without explanation, to suffering without reason. That Snape could explain the panic attacks so clearly, making them smaller, making them normal—transforming them into something Harry could actually face—was extraordinary.
“Have you had them? Panic attacks, I mean.”
Snape's expression closed off, and Harry nearly regretted his daring before the man spoke again.
“I’ve had them,” Snape said, looking upwards. “But rarely, and only when I was younger.” He paused, fingers tightening in the grass, then loosening. “I knew someone. A friend, who struggled with them often. I was poorly equipped to help him at the time. Later, I made a point to read the muggle literature on how to manage them.”
Him. Perhaps Lionsherd hadn’t been Lily after all.
Silence fell between them. Limbs still feeling weak, Harry made an effort to breathe slowly as he looked at Snape's profile. His former anger ebbed and flowed, and he sifted through it, searching for what might have settled beneath.
“You need real sleep,” Snape said quietly. “I am not asking you to forget the past, but I—”
“Okay.”
Snape’s gaze snapped to him.
“Dreamless Sleep,” Harry said. “I’ll take it.”
Notes:
Chapter 6 playlist:
Slow Motion by Kalandra
Kid Gloves by Liza Anne
Village Song by Paris Paloma
The Waiting Game by Kalandra
Give It All by Foals
Chapter 7: where the clumsy wind is overturned
Notes:
Chapter CW: mention of self-harm
Much gratitude to Jenetica, whose keen eye was essential in getting me past some serious revision block. And my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has shared their thoughts, feelings, encouragement, and overall kind words. Your comments often have me dancing around my room with excitement that someone has resonated with these characters, and the journey I've set them upon. This update was a challenge in its own way - after the success of the previous chapters, I hope this one does not disappoint.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Like sunlight. No—like lava.
Harry imagined heat flaring in his chest, spilling out and over his shoulder, molten threads carving their way through his veins and converging at a point where rosewood touched skin.
It was like catching a torrent with a thimble. Magic spilled wastefully from his palm, and what little entered the wand released itself as a feeble accio. It was just enough to send the stone jerking from Snape's hand, however, and Harry snatched it from the air.
"Again," Harry demanded, tossing it back.
Snape had warmed up to the idea of teaching him again, dead set on filling, as he called it, the atrocious gaps in the caricature of a defense education Harry had received. Harry had never considered that being irritable could be fun, but spell practice with Snape was exactly that. He spent the time sweaty and frustrated and impatient, and he never wanted to stop.
Snape, apparently, had other sentiments.
"It's late," the man said, looking critically at his watch. "We'll pick this up again tomorrow."
"Give me the stone back, then. I'm going to practice some more."
Snape just frowned at him. Still running high, Harry barely kept himself from bouncing on his feet as he amended, "Give it to me, please and thank you. Well, never mind, there's a good rock right there that I can use—"
"Potter."
The grim tone was enough to stop him, but only just.
"I'd like to think we're past arguing over your need to sleep."
Harry went properly still, feeling chastised.
"It's the wand. It's..." His words sounded childish even to his own ears, and he stopped.
"Even you should expect nonverbal magic to be difficult," Snape sneered, and Harry frowned. He wasn't sure what was being implied—something about him being arrogant, probably.
The sneer made way for a more considering look, and the man's eyes shifted to the wand in Harry's grip. Sensing an opening, Harry insisted, "It's like I've reached a plateau. It was getting a lot better in the beginning, but these past few sessions, I haven't made any progress at all."
"Your defensive spellwork is typically more powerful than this," Snape admitted.
Startled—and pleased—by this acknowledgement, it took Harry a moment to reply.
"Yes, so, I need to work harder, to make this wand work..."
Snape looked at him in silence, and Harry could practically hear the calculations running in his mind.
"You cannot brute force it," he said simply.
"So...that's it then? That's as far as I go with this wand?"
"I did not say that. Besides, it has been perfectly serviceable for learning new spells, has it not? Nor would I blame the wand for your struggle with nonverbal work. Silent casting is supposed to be hard, and I would expect your progress to look like this even with your holly wand. Your power may be attenuated, but that does not mean your spells are weak compared to that of others."
"Just compared to my own past performance?"
Irritation crossed Snape's face. "What is it you wish me to say? It is not ideal, no, but it is better than having no usable wand at all."
Harry looked down at the rosewood, its cherry gleam seeming almost malicious under the firelight.
"Fuck this."
"Potter."
"Sorry, fuck this, sir."
Snape's eyes flashed. Immediately contrite, Harry made to speak, but the man thundered over him, "Is this how you're going to be? Perhaps, the next time I go grave robbing, I'll settle for the first thing exhumed, and you'll just have to make do with it!"
Harry could not help but imagine Snape rifling through a grave, pulling out various objects and tossing them over his shoulder, cartoon-style.
"You think this is funny?"
"Apologies, sir," Harry said quickly. The man looked tired through his anger, and Harry's guilt grew more acute. "I really am grateful for the wand. Especially now that I know...I could have easily ended up with a knuckle bone instead. Or some cursed heirloom. Or some cursed knuckle bone heirloom."
Harry swore he saw Snape's lip twitch slightly, which he took as a win.
"It is late," Snape said, pointedly repeating his earlier words. "We will pick this up again tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"Good," Snape sighed. "Now. Sit. I have something for you."
If Harry didn't know better, he would have thought the man was making a threat.
"Am I getting a cursed heirloom?" Harry asked as he sat by the fire.
"One most dreadful."
Snape loved a straight delivery, leaving Harry to guess whether he was being sarcastic or not. Split between wariness and curiosity, Harry watched as Snape retrieved a small parcel from his bag and placed it on the ground between them. It was wrapped in a thin roll of scuffed leather, and looked quite unremarkable sitting in the dirt.
At the man's nod, Harry hesitantly unfurled it to reveal a set of small knives.
“These aren’t…brewing knives, are they?”
“They’re for whittling,” Snape said, and, bizarrely, pulled an entire branch from his bag. He foisted it towards Harry, who had no choice but to grab the end to save it from falling.
“What, why…” Harry stammered, as they held the branch between them.
“It is my opinion, as little as you may value it, that it would do you good to focus on something…other than your spell practice. Considering your behavior just now, I would hope you can understand my reasoning.”
Harry felt resentment prickle to the surface, but took the branch and propped it against his side. Looking down once more at the knives, he touched one of the smooth, rounded handles. While humble in appearance, the blades looked flawlessly sharp.
On the night of his Patronus change, Harry had learned something about Snape: the man may have been acting on Dumbledore’s orders, and he might dislike Harry, but he still cared. Not about Harry specifically, of course, but in the way people care about other people.
If another professor or Order member intervened like this, Harry would be equally exasperated, but he wouldn’t doubt their sincerity. While Snape’s past cruelty played a role in that, Harry had nevertheless been holding a heartless, unfeeling perception of the man in his mind—a dehumanized caricature.
Now that he saw the man’s compassion for what it was…Harry could at least humor him.
“How do I start?”
Snape stared at him. “What makes you think I know how to whittle?”
Or not.
With what he felt was a heroic level of patience, Harry took a breath through clenched teeth.
“Maybe later,” he lied, and placed the branch and leather parcel into his bag.
Despite his initial skepticism, Harry opened the whittling kit the following night. He found that each knife had a different blade—flat, rounded, angled, and even one shaped like a half-circle. He spent some time picking them up and putting them down, and even after he settled on one at random, he waffled over the branch, holding it this way and that.
“Try smoothing it down first,” Snape suggested, and Harry looked up to find the man had put down his pen to watch him. “Make a simple shape, like that of a wand.”
Hesitant, Harry put the blade to bark, and after one last moment of pause, made his first stroke.
Whittling, he soon found, was really an exercise in healing charms.
Hissing as he gave himself yet another nick, he threw the branch down.
“I can’t do it,” he groused.
“Then keep practicing,” Snape said, not sounding very concerned, his eyes back on his work.
“I mean the healing charm, not the whittling.”
Snape turned a page. “And?”
Harry’s face flooded with heat. Swallowing embarrassment, he tried to cling to anger instead. Somehow, he had not expected Snape to be so indifferent to his physical injuries, even if they were small.
Stop being a baby, he thought harshly as he reached for the branch. Since when do we rely on Snape?
He winced slightly as he agitated the cuts on his fingers, and Snape sighed, putting aside his book.
“What?” Harry said defensively, shoulders hunched.
“Remember, tracing an injury makes it easier.” Snape spoke with barely restrained impatience, and Harry felt even worse.
“I know that,” Harry muttered. “There’s barely anything to trace, though.”
“If the injuries are so small, the charm should be that much easier.”
"You said the rosewood wand—”
"You've used that wand to close my injuries before. Whatever limitations it has set for you, healing charms are not one of them."
When Harry just sat there, glowering, Snape mocked, “I didn’t realize Gryffindors gave up so easily.”
“Shut up.”
Snape closed his book sharply, his eyes becoming slits. Harry hunched further, heart thudding.
“I will not be disrespected, Potter.”
He said Potter like it was an invective. It had been a while since he had uttered it so coldly, and Harry felt his chest clench.
“Sorry,” Harry said, and hated how his voice shook. He could feel heat behind his eyes, and he dug his nails into his palms. What was wrong with him? Snape had said worse things to him in the past; this was nothing.
“I’m waiting,” Snape said, exasperated. “Heal yourself—”
“I don’t want to!” His body rocked from the force of his outburst, his yell echoing into the dark. Not daring to look at Snape, he continued, “Can’t you…can’t you just…”
“Can’t I what?”
“Heal it for me,” Harry mumbled.
There was no reply for a beat, then Snape said, “Come here.”
Harry glanced up, and found Snape gazing at him with a neutral expression. Cautiously, he shifted closer, and placed his hand in Snape’s offered palm.
The man began to heal each nick with quick efficiency, and said, business-like, “I would prefer that you use occasions such as this to practice your healing charm. However…”
Harry, who had been about to argue, stopped.
“However, if you wish for me to heal an injury, I will do so at your request, regardless of severity or circumstance. Do you understand?”
“So…if I don’t want to practice…”
“Yes, even then,” Snape said calmly, closing the last of the cuts. Still holding Harry’s hand, he looked him in the eye. “Do you understand?”
Harry nodded mutely.
Harry came awake slowly. He heard the familiar clink of vials, and knowing Snape was nearby, he nestled deeper into his sleeping bag. There was a memory of lavender on his tongue, and he remembered taking Dreamless Sleep after Snape had healed his hand.
He should have been embarrassed—he was embarrassed—but the shame was muffled, unable to quite penetrate the haze of warmth that cocooned him. He was still getting used to the feeling of sleeping well. The goodness permeated his limbs; relishing in it, he stretched within the sleeping bag. Snape only gave him the potion on certain days (an addiction countermeasure, the man had explained), but what nightmares Harry still had were shorter, less vivid, and he rarely had to be shaken awake.
He was hesitant to face Snape, but the smell and sound of rashers sizzling roused him; he pushed his face out from the bag, cold air on his cheeks. Snape, who sat attending to the pan, pushed a mug towards him.
“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, avoiding the man’s eye as he drew the cup of hyssop tea close, letting the steam waft over his face.
Snape hummed in reply. There was no snide remark, no chastisement for last night’s drama. He merely faced eastward, and Harry followed his gaze to where the sky was beginning to lighten.
Shivering, Harry tucked himself back into his sleeping bag to watch. When several minutes passed without a word, he slowly began to relax. It occurred to him that he could take out his notes. But the outside was cold, and at that moment, it did not seem so urgent.
The rashers were slightly burned, but it didn’t detract from their taste. Harry ate them with oily fingers as he watched the sun rise. Once it peeked over the horizon, it flung bands of fire and shadow across the moors, the fells shrouded in mists of gold. The sunrise at Hogwarts was beautiful, but this was something else, and his eyes savored it like parched soil to water.
“The countryside affords us both a low profile and freedom of movement,” Snape said without preface, and Harry blinked up at him. “I would prefer to steer clear of the more populated towns…but otherwise, there is little restriction to the route we take.”
He pulled out a crumpled walking route map—one of several they had picked up in the past weeks—and unfurled it flat upon the ground. It was creased and water-stained, making it difficult to read, but with two taps of his wand, Snape not only enlarged it, but caused the ink to look more saturated.
“I’ll show you later,” he said, before Harry could even open his mouth to ask about the spell. Snape’s lip was quirked slightly, as if Harry’s predictability amused him. Harry’s instinct was to take offense, but the smile wasn’t mocking, and it left him feeling bewildered instead.
“This is the path we’ve taken, so far.” Snape traced a line that started in the south, and snaked back and forth northwards. “We’ve barely touched the north and east, but there’s a good deal of southern land we skipped over.”
As he followed along, Harry tried to figure out what Snape was getting at.
“We could retrace our footsteps, but I don’t want to become familiar to the locals. Otherwise…” Snape held his eyes. “Where would you like to go?”
“What?”
“Where would you like to go?” Snape repeated patiently.
Harry blinked at him. “I…I mean, I dunno. Don’t we have to…” No, Snape had just said their exact route didn’t matter. “Well, it doesn’t really matter to me…”
“These falls are less popular than the Aysgarth site,” Snape said, tapping a point on the map. His tone made it clear he thought this was a positive. Sliding his finger west, he continued, “If we go further, the limestone features grow fairly impressive. And here…”
He stopped, and at Harry’s look, continued with growing agitation, “Some of the muggles partake in caving, although that is not an activity I would recommend. It’s a dangerous pursuit for the inexperienced, and knowing your luck, Potter, something will go awry. I cannot stress how uninterested I am in the prospect of going into some dark forsaken place to wedge you out—”
“I’m not going caving,” Harry said, bewildered. Although, the thought did sound kind of fun. “I don’t understand why you're telling me this.”
Annoyance crossed Snape’s features, instantly making them more familiar.
“As I said, there is flexibility in our travel,” Snape ground out. “As such, there is no reason to exclude you from…planning our itinerary.”
Snape’s fists had tightened, and Harry suspected that were the man a less competent Occlumens, his expression would be openly suffering.
He’s trying to include me. Were Harry not so irritated, he might have smiled. A part of him wanted to mock: is it that painful to be nice, Professor? But the impulse was eclipsed by less comfortable feelings.
“I’m not here to sight-see,” Harry said, voice low and adamant.
“Nor I,” Snape said, his tone clipped. “Let me put it this way: you can have a say in where we go, or not.”
Harry frowned, picking at a hangnail as he mulled over Snape’s words.
“The falls...don't sound awful."
Harry craned his neck back to view the massive arch towering several hundreds of meters above him. It was one of many, supporting a bridge that extended across the length of the the valley floor. A recent rainfall had broken, and the silhouette of the viaduct stood stark against sunlight shafting through the clouds above.
The landscape of the Dales often made Harry feel small, but never more than now, as they walked in the shadow of the looming structure. Out of the places they had seen, now with Harry's input, this was one of the most impressive.
Harry looked at Snape’s back, tangled hair spilling from the collar of his muggle jacket, his boots covered in the dust of many roads. The question only half-formed in his mind, Harry asked, “That flower, it’s used in a healing potion, isn’t it?”
Snape turned to him, then to the cluster of star-like yellow flowers Harry pointed to.
“Bog asphodel,” he said. “And yes. It’s useful in bone-strengthening potions.”
“What about that one?”
“Sneezewort.”
“Useful for treating sneezes?”
Snape eyed him, and Harry couldn’t tell if the man was amused or losing patience. “It causes them. It is an ingredient in tooth-ache salve, however.”
They continued in this vein as they walked, the conversation meandering from plants, to identifying animal tracks, to orienting oneself in the wilderness.
"Why does it grow on the north side?" Harry asked, as Snape described how moss tended to congregate on solitary trees.
"The sun stays mostly in the southern half of the sky in the northern hemisphere. Just as a south-facing window is desirable in a home, the north-facing side of a tree trunk—"
"Is desirable for moss," Harry finished. "And it has to be a solitary tree, otherwise other trees would cast shade on each other, and the moss could grow wherever."
"Precisely."
"Hm. Moss would make a good bandage, wouldn't it? Or for packing wounds? I just feel like the moisture...what?"
Snape had made an odd snorting sound. "Nothing. You're not wrong. Sphagnum moss has been used for wound dressing, actually, during World War I..."
The land grew steep once they left the viaduct behind, and when they finally stopped to rest, Harry immediately dropped his arse onto the grass, catching the rations capsule Snape tossed him by reflex alone. They had hiked for hours since that morning; the exertion left his mind empty and body drained. For once, it was easy to not think. There was only energy left to sit, and eat, and feel the wind on his face. Snape looked equally tired; they refueled in silence, watching the clouds drift.
When his hands grew restless, Harry considered asking Snape to do spell drills, but ended up reaching for his knives instead. Despite the rough beginning, he found himself picking up the branch the next night, and the next. He’d stripped it of twigs and leaves, and had begun to test different blade heads on the surface. Each cut the wood in a different way, although it was still hard to control. He found himself glancing at Snape’s wand, which had a simple shape, but bent slightly in the middle.
The branch kind of bends at the same angle. Maybe I could carve it into a similar shape?
“What’s fulgurite useful for, anyway?”
Walking beside him, Snape only needed to half-turn to meet his eyes.
“It has different properties depending on its makeup.” Their route that day was gentle, meandering into another valley, and it was easy to converse without minding their feet. “The sample we collected is largely made of soil…derived from limestone, I assume, as much of the grassland here is calcareous. Assuming I am correct, it will increase the longevity and potency of most brews.”
“That’d be useful for extending gan-wadan, wouldn’t it? And essence of dittany.”
“Precisely.”
“What about—”
He trailed off as a couple came into view, walking up the trail towards them. A tow-headed child walked between them, her hand held in both of theirs. The mother said something that made the girl smile toothily. They produced a chorus of good mornings as they passed, to which Harry mumbled in reply, and Snape ignored.
She looks happy, Harry thought, thinking of the little girl’s face.
“We’re here,” Snape said quietly, and Harry looked ahead.
A village had come into view, sat amongst meadows and scree, and beyond it rose cliffs cut with limestone scars. It was still the sleepy hours of the morning when they entered, shopkeeps rustling to open as guests remained dead to the world in their beds. This was a larger village than the one they had last visited; the road was cobbled, with gable-roofed stone houses of white and coral standing cheek by jowl on either side of it.
As they passed a cafe with a sign too faded to read, Snape took his hand and pressed a wad of bills into it.
“Get us something to eat.”
Harry stared as Snape released him and went to sit at one of the outdoor tables.
“Well?" Snape demanded when Harry just stood there with his palm still outstretched. "Go talk to someone who isn’t me for a while.”
The man got out his journal, making it clear this was the end of the discussion, and Harry turned on wooden feet. Other than Snape, the last person he had said more than a few words to was the man he had given a salve.
Just act normal. It’s not that hard.
Taking a breath, Harry entered the cafe. There was a group of people around his age crowding the counter, chatting loudly as they waited for their orders. He felt a pulse of annoyance looking at them, thinking of Dudley's gang, who had no qualms about taking up space in doorways and queues. Just as he was preparing to push around them, the tallest of the three, a heavyset boy with wavy black hair, caught sight of him. There was a flash of blue as he turned, and Harry realized that his right ear was pierced, a teardrop gem trembling from it.
"Oh, go ahead," the stranger said, revealing a round face and dark eyes. The moment he spoke, his two companions—a girl with short hair and a freckled nose, and a gangly blond boy—noticed Harry as well, and were quick to step aside.
Thrown by the courtesy, Harry mumbled a thank you and approached the counter.
The middle-aged woman at the till was polite, in a perfunctory and unsmiling way. Her straightforward manner put Harry at ease, and he muddled through his order—a simple breakfast platter for two, and after a moment of indecision, a side of coffee and toast for Snape.
Stop being so self-conscious, he told himself as he stepped to the side to wait. They're not staring at you. They've probably forgotten you exist.
He chanced a look upwards, and found the girl staring right at him. She smiled the instant their eyes met, and Harry quickly dropped his gaze, embarrassed.
Fortunately, the group's orders arrived then, and after a chorus of thank yous, they made their exit. Harry looked up to watch the tall one's back, and an image of Bill flashed through his mind.
Maybe I should get an ear piercing.
The stray thought flooded him with embarrassment the moment it came, and he was grateful when the food arrived to take his attention.
He brought the tray outside to Snape, and began to get the change from his pocket.
"Keep it," the man said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Normally, this wouldn't cow Harry in the least, but the memory of their last argument over money gave him pause.
You gave me enough grief in the shoe shop.
Chest tightening, he pulled his hand from his pocket.
He's been assigned to keep me alive, Harry rationalized, and the thought was like trying to fit a foreign shape into the familiar slots of his mind.
Still, he doesn't have to pay for me.
Although, it's not a lot of money, and he can afford it.
Even so, I can pay for myself.
But...insisting on it is more for my sake than his.
It was a strange thing to wrap his head around, but he was starting to see how refusing Snape's money actually made things harder for the man.
I guess it's not as big of a deal as I was making it out to be.
Snape continued to read as he ate, bowed over his journal with a single-minded focus. Harry finished off his food quickly, then sat back to watch the street come alive with the approach of noon. He could smell baked bread, and across the street, he overheard a woman speak excitedly about a nearby lake. The silence at their table was surprisingly comfortable, and he was suddenly reminded of the summer he had spent in Diagon Alley, perusing shops and eating ice cream at Fortescue's.
That was the summer Sirius escaped prison.
The thought sobered his memories, and suddenly restless for a distraction, he said, "When are we heading out?"
Snape, who was still working through his eggs, glanced at Harry's empty plate.
"You should eat more slowly," he said idly.
Snape was not the first person to say so, and Harry suppressed an urge to clench his jaw. He had picked up the habit of eating quickly and furtively at the Dursleys’, and it wasn't an easy habit to beat. As far as Harry was concerned, it was nobody's business, anyway.
"I'm not done here," Snape continued, turning back to his book.
Harry tapped a foot with impatience.
"Can I walk around then? I want to check out the lake."
Snape looked up with a frown, but didn’t immediately say no.
“I won’t go farther than that,” Harry pressed. “And I’ll make sure to come home”—before dark.
Harry barely had time to hear the echo of the slip in his own ears, for the moment he uttered the word home, Snape barked, “Do not call it that.”
The rebuke struck Harry like a slap; a sting crept over him in the wake of it, hot on his face and ringing in his ears.
Snape exhaled harshly, pressing palms to his eyes.
“Yes, you can…walk around town, or go to the lake. I trust that…you won’t go far.” He looked up to catch Harry’s eye. Behind the man’s frustrated gaze was something pained. “I will be here.”
The if you need me was loud and clear, the softness jarring after such brutality.
“Right.” Harry stood mechanically from his chair. “I’ll…see you.”
He turned and walked away on numbed feet; he did not stop until he had rounded the bend in the street, and Snape was no longer in view behind him.
He found himself shaking, and, stiffening his face into something neutral as best he could, he turned his feet towards the lake.
He hadn't meant to say it. It hadn't meant anything either. It was nonsensical. What was home? The patio table? It was just a pattern of words that had fallen from his lips, unthinking.
He called the Dursley residence home all the time—an empty word for something that was familiar but held no real significance. He’d had similar slips regarding primary school. It wasn’t like he went to many places; it didn’t take much for a location to become a focal point in his mind.
Hogwarts was the exception; when he called the castle home, he meant it.
It would have been cruel enough if Snape had ridiculed him for misspeaking, but to get genuinely angry? To look like…the way he had? Why—
Someone stepped unexpectedly from a side street, laughter cutting off as Harry knocked into them, hard. There was a tangle of hands as he reached out to steady himself, and others reached out to steady him. They were the people from the cafe—the boy with the earring was fumbling with a thick folder he carried, its front plastered with stickers, while the other two were looking at Harry with startlement—
The folder dropped, falling open as it hit the ground, loose pages tearing away in the wind. For a frozen moment, they all watched the paper sheets soar down the hill towards the lake. They were art pieces, twirling too fast to capture the subject matter, but Harry could see they were covered from margin to margin with vibrant color.
"Oh," the tall boy said faintly, standing very still, eyes fixed on the sky.
As if animated by the same spark, his companions both moved. The girl leapt past, her bag tossed onto the grass without hesitation, undercut flashing at her nape. The blond boy, all shaggy hair and lanky limbs, reached wildly to catch the pages that had flown high.
But Harry sprinted faster than them all, and was soon downwind of the spiraling pages, his hands outstretched as he hissed the incantation under his breath—
They flew to him like so many jeweled birds, filling his arms with wings of garnet, malachite, sapphire, and amber.
The wind had done most of the work, but it was still his most successful wandless summoning yet. Breathless, he looked up, and saw the stranger atop the hill was staring at Harry with wonder.
Swallowing, Harry carefully tucked the sheets together; they had a sweet wax smell, with visible brushstrokes, textured in some places and glossy in others. He could see the boy making his way towards him in the periphery of his vision, and he studiously kept his gaze on the art: one depicted a close up view of a fenestrated leaf, another of a tubular red flower...
"Thank you." Brown hands reached towards him, taking the pages and assembling them into a stack with far more confidence than Harry had. “If it weren’t for you, my portfolio project would have gone full fathom five."
"They very nearly did," the blond boy panted as he approached, and Harry looked up to see that his trousers were soaked up to the knee. "Had to leap into the lake!" He mimed a dramatic lunge. "Caught them seconds before they hit the water—"
"Alex, please, less flapping of the pages, and more handing them to me."
Alex handed them over with a pout. "No thank you for my heroic efforts?"
"I will remember your most valiant swim for the rest of my life."
"Now, that almost sounded sarcastic—"
"That got my adrenaline up," the girl interrupted, joining them with her arms full of color. Moving in the fluid, unspoken way of old friends, she helped hold the folder steady as the pages were safely filed away. "You should take your work flying more often. They looked like Autumn leaves up there, but huge."
"Thanks, Iseul, but I think I'll save the experimental art for something I don't need to graduate." His work finally assembled, the stranger looked to the sky, then to Harry. “That was incredible, by the way. It’s like you read the wind. They flew to you.”
“Lucky catch,” Harry said, heart thundering in his ears.
The stranger laughed, rich and unfettered. It was a golden sound, one that made Harry feel lifted at the thought of being the cause of it.
“I’m Ranveer,” he grinned, extending his hand. Despite being sweaty and out of breath, he exuded a calm self-assurance.
“Harry,” Harry said, realizing a split second after that he should have used a false name. Ranveer’s hand was larger than his, his grip firm but not crushing, and Harry found he couldn’t quite regret the lapse.
"You doing the Skipton trail?" Alex asked.
"You're, uh, not the first person to ask me that."
Ranveer laughed again. "Makes sense. After all, you look..." He gestured at all of Harry, and Harry, who had begun to smile, felt his expression falter.
“I do look a mess,” he said awkwardly, suddenly aware of his mud-splattered shoes. Why hadn’t he charmed them clean? And how bad was his hair? Oh Merlin, did he smell?
“What?" Ranveer waved his hands. "No, no. I just meant...you look hard-core. Experienced. Like you’ve been walking the wilderness your whole life."
Harry just blinked at him, and Iseul clarified, rolling her eyes, "He's saying he thinks you look cool."
"Oh, uh, thanks," Harry said to Ranveer. "I, um, I like your earring."
Stupid, stupid, I sound so stupid….
But Ranveer just smiled and flicked the blue gem.
"Thanks. Got it from the Ren faire."
Harry’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Ranveer quickly amended, “Renaissance faire, I mean. Like one of those medieval fairs they do in America?”
“Oh, right, I’m—”
He had been about to say stupid, but Alex had cut in with an exaggerated imitation of Ranveer’s voice:
“Oh, I got it from the Rennn faire. It’s short for Renaissance, you know.”
“You know,” Iseul joined in, affecting an over-the-top posh accent. “The ones they host in America.”
“I didn’t say it like that,” Ranveer hissed, eliciting an undignified shriek as he poked Alex in the ribs.
“He calls it that all the time,” Iseul said loudly to Harry as Alex danced away from Ranveer’s tickling attempts. “Ren faire this, ren faire that. No one ever knows what he’s talking about.”
“It’s a thing!” Ranveer insisted. “They called it that in—”
“In AMERICA,” Iseul and Alex shouted together, then burst into laughter.
“Don’t listen to them, they’re nuts,” Ranveer told Harry, who could see him struggling to hide a smile behind feigned irritation. “ANYWAY, we were about to walk around the lake. Wanna come with?"
Harry looked sideways at Iseul and Alex, but they seemed unbothered by Ranveer’s suggestion.
A part of him wanted to say yes, while another quailed, already scripting polite refusals. He imagined retreating back up the hill, back to town....
Back to Snape, who was angry at him for reasons he couldn't begin to parse out.
"Sure, sounds fun."
They spent the afternoon tracing the shoreline, skipping stones and pointing out fish. Iseul seemed especially excited about the wildlife in the pond; she had discarded her socks and shoes to wade, stooping over to pick up handfuls of squelchy green plant matter.
“Disgusting,” Alex said, veering away.
“It’s not nasty, it’s nature,” Iseul said matter-of-factly, eyes glued to the water. More to herself, she muttered, “There’s a ton of organic life here. Totally different profile from the lakes in Yosemite.”
“Who’s talking about America now?” Ranveer teased. To Harry, he said, “Iseul’s a wildlife biology nut. She’s applying to a program and everything.”
“I’m trying to,” she grunted, elbow-deep as she sifted for something. “If Van Gogo wasn’t hell-bent on distracting me…”
“Van Gogo?” Harry asked.
“My evil, evil cat,” Iseul said, pulling up a long, glistening pond-weed, not unlike a magician producing an absurdly long scarf. “He likes to sit on my keyboard whenever I sit down to work, the absolute menace.”
The end of the weed finally surfaced from the lake, and she took a bow as Alex clapped.
“He’s got a little nick on one ear,” Iseul continued. “Hence the name.”
“You should get a bunch of cats and name them all after artists,” Alex suggested.
“Ha. I’ll name one Picasso, another Monet—”
Ranveer made a gagging noise. “Not Picasso. God. And if you have to do an Impressionist, at least choose Cassatt or something.”
“The guy who did the dots,” Alex suggested.
“Michelangelo?” Harry said.
“Ooh, I could do all the ninja turtles,” Iseul grinned.
“I know!” Ranveer said, snapping his fingers. “Paz! After Errázuriz!”
“Is she that one photographer you like?” Alex asked. “I thought we were doing painters.”
“I’m not naming my cat after a real person,” Iseul said.
“What?” Ranveer laughed. “What does that even mean? Van Gogo’s named after a real person!”
“I mean Van Gogh’s dead, and Errázuriz is still alive and kicking. It’s different.”
“It is kinda different,” Alex agreed. “Van Gogh died like, a century ago. Names are free real estate at that point.”
“Yeah! Errázuriz is like, still walking this earth. What if I met her? How could I look her in the eye, knowing that I’ve named my cat after her?”
Ranveer threw up his hands. “When are you going to meet Errázuriz?”
“Oh, so it’s fine as long as Errázuriz doesn’t know?” Alex said, brows raised. He tutted, shaking his head. “And here I thought you had respect for her.”
“You think I’m gonna take this shit from a guy who collects bricks?” Ranveer grinned. “Huh, motherfucker?”
“You collect bricks?” Harry asked, bemused.
“I do,” Alex said with a great deal of dignity, drawing himself up. Behind him, both Ranveer and Iseul snorted. “Now, a weak mind will ask, how many bricks does a person need? But! A strong mind will understand the pivotal difference between sand lime and fly ash.”
“A strong mind?” Ranveer teased. “Or a deranged one?”
“He was almost arrested once,” Iseul whispered to Harry dramatically, “for trying to take a chunk out of a municipal building.”
“The brick was practically falling out!” Alex protested.
“Alex has normal feelings about masonry and architecture,” Ranveer grinned.
“Uh huh,” Alex said, unimpressed. “Wanna talk about your normal feelings about art, Ranveer?”
“Now this is cute,” Ranveer said to Harry. “Alex here thinks he can embarrass me. As if—”
“When Ranveer was twelve,” Alex began, and Ranveer whirled on him.
“When he—was—twelve,” Alex gasped through laughter, dodging Ranveer’s attempts to get him in a chokehold. “He visited—an art museum—on a class trip—”
Ranveer caught him, and Alex spluttered out the rest of the story from the pincer of his friend’s arm: “And he saw this nude painting—and he was so—overwhelmed by—the art—so—overcome with feeling—”
“I cried,” Ranveer said, lifting his chin. “And it was very embarrassing.”
“It was a Renoir, I think you said,” Iseul added. “We looked it up once. The lady in it, she had these huge, white buttocks.”
“Overcome—with feeling,” Alex choked out.
“I’m picturing it,” Harry said. “Ranveer, but, you know—” He made a gesture at his hip, to indicate a small stature. “Standing in the middle of the aisle…”
“Bawling my eyes out,” Ranveer finished in a suffering voice. Resigned to their teasing, he released Alex. “My teacher had to sit me down.”
“That’s really sweet, actually,” Harry said, smiling.
“Not another word,” Ranveer demanded. “Out of any of you.”
Evening arrived all too quickly, and as they sat by the lake, watching the warming hue of the sky reflected in the water, Harry contemplated the strangeness of hanging out with muggles his own age.
He often felt that he did not make friends, but fell into them. Had it not been for Mrs. Weasley’s kindness on the platform, would Ron have ever turned his way? Had it not been for the troll, would he have ever bonded with Hermione? Neville, Ginny, and Luna too—he felt he had not done much to earn their loyalty. He was grateful for it, but when he thought of these relationships, he felt continually surprised that they had come to be at all.
Helping Ranveer recover his lost art was like the troll in the bathroom, Harry mused. Without that rare circumstance, this encounter would have never occurred.
Watching the sun burning low across hills, Harry felt tempted to stay out longer…but didn’t seriously consider it. Snape would be expecting him, and whatever spat they had earlier wasn't worth compromising safety over.
"I should head back," he said, standing.
"Oh?" Ranveer looked a little surprised, but the expression soon made way for his easy smile. "All right then." He patted the folder at his side meaningfully. "And thanks again. Really."
Harry hesitated, then said, "Thanks to you, too. I had fun today."
The words were vastly inadequate for what he wanted to convey, and his heart clenched a little as they sent him off with a chorus of friendly goodbyes.
Snape was waiting for him at the edge of town, standing in the pool of yellow lamppost light.
Do not call it that.
The words echoed in Harry's ears as he approached, and he tensed slightly, trying to sift for anger beneath the man's neutral gaze.
"Peanut caramel or chocolate almond?" Snape asked.
Harry stared at him a moment.
"Peanut caramel," he said slowly.
He watched Snape pull a carrier bag from his pack, and retrieve two granola bars, one of which he handed over. Harry took it, and as he looked down at the glossy wrap, he felt the tension begin to release from his shoulders. They hadn't been fighting, exactly, nor was this exactly a resolution. A part of him was still angry, still confused, but the feelings rested beneath a stronger current.
I trust you, Snape seemed to say. Trust me?
"Eat as we go?"
"Sure."
As they made their way up and down the landscape, Harry had found himself falling into yet another rhythm with Snape. After so many nights under the stars, locating Polaris became second nature. He had liked night classes on the Astronomy Tower well enough, but applying his knowledge to the outdoors turned what was dry and academic into something exciting and new.
When they made camp for the evening, Snape would set out his books while Harry set out his knives. He had to admit that whittling was absorbing work. When he really got into it, his mind was focused on the wood only, everything else fading out of existence. Snape lent him his brewing whetstone for sharpening, and Harry learned to use it often. He also learned to go with the grain of the wood, not against it. He still wasn’t comfortable with the different blades yet, so he stuck to the simplest one, and practiced with only that. His attempt at a “wand” had soon snapped, and he collected more wood to try something easier—rounded shapes, like eggs, or just testing out different cuts and patterns.
While his ability to heal his own injuries had barely improved, the same could not be said of his dexterity, and he nicked himself less and less.
“Told you this way was faster!"
Breathing hard, Harry stood triumphantly atop the fell as he called down to Snape.
“As you’ve said,” the man said dryly, taking his time walking up the trail. “And as I said, there's no need for climbing when there's a perfectly good path over flatter terrain—”
“Scared of a few rocks, Professor?”
The man looked up at him with narrow eyes. “Unlike you, I have no desire to scramble up the side of a mountain like a mad goat."
Mountain's a strong word. Harry flexed his callused hands as he looked down the jagged slope he had just clambered up, which really, hadn't been that steep. Although, this would have given me trouble when we first came here.
There was a trapezoidal monument at the summit's center, and while he waited for Snape, Harry brushed his hands over the cold lines of oxidized copper inlaid at the top. The metal formed a triradiate shape, like a pall reversed, but with a circle in the center. They had come across several of these monuments during their travels, some of which looked like solid concrete, others cobbled together with stone bricks. Trig points, Snape called them, and had explained that they had been used for triangulation by map surveyors during his parents’ time.
"Found another one!" Harry shouted.
"No need to yell," Snape said witheringly, his voice closer than expected, and Harry turned to see the man had joined him on the peak.
"Oh, sorry." Harry tapped his nail against the copper piece. "What is this?"
"A three point kinematic mount, I believe," Snape said, stepping beside him. At Harry's expression, he amended, "Also called a spider. This is where a theodolite would be placed. Do you know what that is?" Harry shook his head. "Picture a telescope, but mounted so that it can be rotated both horizontally and vertically. The older models look not dissimilar to a microscope, but instead of examining the small, a theodolite is used to measure angles between different visible points. In this case—”
"The trig points," Harry cut in. He half-expected Snape to be angry at his interruption, but the man merely nodded at him.
“On a clear day,” he said, peering to the horizon, “you would be able to see at least three other trig points from here.” He pointed into the distance. “Only two visible now. The others have likely eroded, or were lost to farming and development.”
Harry's eyes tried to follow the direction of the man's arm, but the horizon was just a soft blur.
"I guess I can't see it," he said, moving to step away.
Snape caught his elbow, pulling him back. "Let me see your glasses."
Harry blinked up at him before he hesitantly removed the glasses and handed them over. He wouldn't put it past Snape to have some kind of far-seeing spell, or maybe a charm that made glasses act like binoculars.
However, the man did not immediately cast any magic. Instead, he carefully examined each lens, turning them this was and that. When he finally used his wand, he made an odd tapping motion on the frame, first the right side, then the left, then the right again.
Nothing seemed to be changing, but when Harry leaned in, he realized the man was making minute changes to the curvature.
"My glasses work fine," Harry protested, forcing Snape to stop as he grabbed the man's arm.
“Try this,” Snape demanded, pushing the glasses back onto Harry’s nose.
The world blurred into a mishmash of color, and Harry felt his chest tighten. His expression must have made his dismay clear, because the man took the glasses off just as quickly.
"You ruined them," Harry accused. "I only have the one pair!"
“I just needed a baseline,” Snape muttered. “Here. Try again.”
The image was clearer now, but Harry couldn't really tell if it was better or worse than how it was before.
"Look—”
Snape ignored him, snatching the glasses back and repeating the process. The moment Snape returned them, Harry stepped backwards, holding the frames to his face protectively.
"Just leave them alone. My glasses were fine before—”
He blinked, staring past Snape, then down the slope; he could see the crisp outline of distant trees, and what he had thought was a blob of pale sedge was actually a flock of sheep, each animal its own distinct shape. The walls of a distant farm now had individual stones, and atop a far off fell, he could see the smudge of an unmistakably familiar shape.
“I can see it...I can see another trig point!”
The moment he had spoken, the implications of what had just occurred sank in.
His glasses were the same ones Petunia had resentfully fitted him with back in primary school, and while he had the vague awareness that his prescription ought to be updated, it had never seemed urgent. Sure, he worried sometimes about missing the snitch across the field, and he tried to avoid sitting in the back of classrooms....
Shame roiled in his belly. He was loath to see the judgment on Snape’s face, or worse, pity. The man hadn’t mentioned the Dursleys since their last argument over Dreamless Sleep, but even unspoken, it was clear that he had put two and two together about Harry’s homelife.
“The muggle surveyors had to navigate to many of the trig points on foot,” Snape said, and Harry looked at him cautiously. There was no judgment or pity there; he was still leaning casually against the pillar, eyes on the horizon. “No brooms. No feather-light charm to help them carry their equipment. We still use the maps today, but few wizards ever take the time to think about what it took to make them.”
After some hesitation, Harry stepped back in to lean against the point as well, forearm pressed against Snape’s. Despite the elevation, he barely felt the chill, warmed by their mutual proximity.
“To be fair," Harry said, "most muggles don’t think about it either.”
Snape shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps."
It occurred to Harry that he may have miscalculated Snape's dislike of muggles.
Maybe he just dislikes people in general.
Looking at the trig points in the distance, Harry imagined what it would have been like to trek across the land carrying heavy equipment—the days and hours spent in the countryside, taking painstaking measurements that would one day make a unified map of the land.
“Let’s go to that one,” Harry said, pointing. “Then we can see this trig point from there.”
“An exciting venture, I'm sure,” Snape said. Despite his deadpan tone, he had already produced the map, and unfurled it flat across the spider. As Harry pointed out potential routes and discussed them with Snape, he imagined that he stood in the ghostly footsteps of some past surveyor, who had once stood here with a map less precise than their own.
One night, Harry finished what he considered a proper project. It was a crude imitation of a snitch, the wings more like nubs on either side, but he was proud of how rounded the shape was, and he thought the carved fletching in the wings even looked elegant.
Holding it up to the light of the campfire, Harry felt like he could have stared at it for hours. It was almost hard to believe that he had made it. It hadn't even required magic.
Sensing eyes upon him, he turned to see a blank look shuttering over Snape's face, obscuring whatever expression he had worn seconds before.
Judging me, probably.
“May I see?” the man asked, holding out his hand.
A little embarrassed, Harry handed him the snitch.
Snape turned it over in his hands. “Very on brand,” he said. The words might have seemed mocking, but there was a softer note to the man’s usual flat tone.
They came to another village the following afternoon. Cut into the cliff side, the buildings looked stacked like bricks, lopsided layers jutting from the crags. As they approached the cobbled street at the town’s entrance, the sound of music and voices became audible, and Harry tasted honey on the air.
“I didn’t expect this to be a popular area,” Snape frowned, glancing at their map.
Harry peered down the path. Several people were walking deeper into town, towards whatever event was obscured around the bend. One of the muggles dropped something, and as he turned to pick it up, he stopped and began to wave.
“Harry!”
It was Ranveer, and beside him was Iseul and Alex, as well as a pair of blond adults that Harry assumed were Alex's parents. Studiously avoiding Snape's gaze, Harry waved back.
Grinning widely, Alex left the adults behind to bound up to them.
“You guys here for the bonfire festival, too?” he asked.
“Bonfire festival,” Snape repeated, his voice dire.
Alex gulped, and Harry intervened, “We didn’t realize there was an event going on. We hoped it wouldn’t be too crowded, actually.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Ranveer said as he and Iseul joined Alex’s side. “The place is pretty packed with tourists. But I hear the festival is a really nice experience regardless. There’s tons of good local food, and at night, they’ll be hosting a candle ceremony to honor the equinox and the dead.”
The equinox, Harry thought, startled.
September had come and gone without him noticing. Time had seemed suspended while he and Snape traveled the Dales; perhaps Dumbledore would be collecting Harry any day now, and his time with Snape would be over.
Before, the thought would have been relieving, but it now brought a strange pang he could not put words to.
“Why don’t the two of you stay?” Iseul suggested. Uncowed by Snape’s grim expression, she went on, “There’s live music and dancing by the bonfire. Could be a nice change of pace after walking all day.”
Harry opened his mouth to say no, they couldn’t, but found himself faltering. He did want to stay. But he couldn’t ask Snape to—
“Very well,” Snape said, and Harry stared as the man pulled out his wallet.
“Go amuse yourself,” the man instructed him, handing him some cash. Harry was beginning to think Snape was transfiguring muggle money out of leaves. The man pointed at an inn rising above the other buildings, a rustic number built of lichen-tinged stone.
“Find me in the lobby by six, or I will find you.”
He spoke mildly, but Harry knew a threat from Snape when he heard one.
“Edwardian,” Alex said sagely.
They all stared at him, and he clarified, “The inn, I mean. Edwardian. You see those gablets? And the drystone walls?”
Mentally urging Snape to ignore this instead of saying something unkind, Harry looked to the man—and saw the exact moment Snape’s expression shifted from annoyance, to consideration, to decision.
“That is very interesting,” he said blandly. To Harry, he repeated, “By six,” then stalked off without another word.
It was not until Alex spoke again that Harry realized he was still slack-jawed, staring after Snape.
"Mum, Dad, this is Harry, the one we met at the lake.” He gestured to the two adults who had caught up with them. “Harry, these are my parents, the lovely Mr. and Mrs. Forrester."
Mrs. Forrester, who had been watching Snape’s retreat, turned to Harry and said, smiling, “Hullo, Harry.”
“Hello, ma’am,” Harry said softly, hoping he didn’t look as awkward as he felt. “Hello, sir,” he added, nodding to Alex’s father as well. They were both dressed in walking clothes, looking perhaps over-prepared for a day in the village. While the mother was long-necked and gangly like her son, the father was even taller than Ranveer, although not as broad, and had Alex’s genial features in his face.
“Oh, you’re sweet,” Mrs. Forrester said.
“Think you could teach our Alex some manners?” Mr. Forrester asked, his voice jovial.
“Oh my god,” Alex groaned. “Didn’t you say you were going to go sit down? Go, go.”
As Alex ineffectually tried to push his much larger father down the lane, Mrs. Forrester said to Harry, “Was that your father just now? I saw that he went ahead…?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. He dragged his eyes from Mr. Forrester, who was looking down at the struggling Alex with a look of indulgence. “He’s my…mentor. My research mentor. We’re here doing research in the Dales. And er, he just went ahead to the inn.”
“Out here? Just you, no other students? What kind of research?”
He could see the thread of suspicion in her eyes, born out of concern, and Harry fixed a smile on his face.
“Plant research,” he said, affecting his best casual voice. “There’s a lot of herbs in the Dales with healing properties, and we’re…doing a survey on them.”
“I haven’t heard of a program like that before. You’re a bit young, aren’t you, to be doing that kind of field research?”
Harry felt himself tense, and had to consciously loosen his fingers from curling into fists. He tried to imagine what Snape might look like in Mrs. Forrester’s eyes. What had the man done to earn her suspicion?
“Iseul’s applying to a research program, Mrs. Forrester,” Ranveer said.
“I am,” Iseul confirmed. “If I get in, I’ll be matched with a mentor at an American college, and work with them one on one.”
“But that’s for the summer, isn’t it?”
“There are programs during the school year too.” Iseul looked at Harry. “Lots of plant species can only be studied during certain seasons. I bet that’s why your survey has to be now, right?”
Her smile gave nothing away, but he knew in his gut that she knew he was lying, and was helping him regardless.
“Right,” Harry nodded, wracking his brain for facts Snape had told him. “Different kinds of juniper bloom in the fall. And uh, we’re interested in looking at late-season bilberries too, to see if their…nutritional value changes with ripening.”
“He’s fine,” Mr. Forrester said, looking at his wife, then to Harry. “Forgive her, she just worries. But you’re all right, aren’t you son?”
“I am,” Harry said firmly.
“There I go, prying again,” Mrs. Forrester sighed. “I think it’s time we get out of your hair. Alex, your father and I are going to find a place to sit. Be good, all of you. Stick together, all right?”
“And don’t spend all your money at once,” Mr. Forrester grinned.
As Harry watched them leave, his irritation subsided. He had assumed Mrs. Forrester had judged Snape by his appearance, but perhaps she had just seen him stalk away, and felt concerned.
“They are so embarrassing,” Alex groaned.
“I think they’re nice,” Harry said quietly. He glanced at Iseul, worried she would say something about his deception, but she just stretched her arms behind her head.
"I'm peckish," she announced. “Food?”
“Food,” Ranveer and Alex agreed in unison.
The path opened out into a large, unpaved clearing at the town’s center. Festival staff members milled about a giant woodpile that stood in the middle, and all around the perimeter, vendors were in various states of setup.
A mouth-watering smell pervaded the area, and they all agreed to sniff out the source.
“All of them have their own character,” Alex was saying as they navigated through the crowd. “You can practically see the history in the buildings—”
He stumbled a bit as someone clipped his shoulder, and Ranveer quickly steadied him.
“Careful,” Iseul said. “It’s packed here.”
Leading the way, she grabbed Alex’s hand, and he, in turn, reached for Harry’s. From behind him, Ranveer grasped his other hand. They did so casually, without any hesitation, and Harry felt his face warm as he was pulled along between them.
“The inn is bothering me,” Alex continued. “Those walls—what are they made of? It’s gotta be local stone, for sure, but I need to get a closer look to tell what kind.”
“Limestone?” Harry suggested, still struggling to overcome his embarrassment. He tried to imagine holding hands with Ron and Hermione like this, and couldn’t. With Luna and Neville, maybe. “I feel like all the cliffs we’ve passed have been limestone.”
Alex turned to look at him with a glowing expression.
“You genius,” he crowed. “That’s what it is! And you know, I’m pretty sure I don’t have any limestone in my collection.”
“You are not vandalizing any historical buildings today,” Iseul said firmly. “Look! That’s gotta be where the smell is coming from—they’re roasting a whole pig over there.”
Armed with skewers of roasted pork and cider to wash it down, they sat on the grass by the woodpile to eat.
“So, a plant survey, huh?” Ranveer said.
Harry stiffened. Iseul said nothing, seemingly focused on her kabob.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Lots of identification, some harvesting…”
“Tell us more,” Iseul prompted. Harry gauged her expression, and only saw genuine interest in her eyes.
“Well, uh, did you know that sneezewort causes sneezes?”
With growing confidence, he found himself describing, in detail, the various herbs and flowers in the Dales that had medicinal properties. It was like drawing from an empty well, only to realize it was brimming with spring water. He talked so much his throat ached and his tongue felt heavy, unaccustomed to so much use.
“You sound like Iseul,” Alex grinned. “You’re a total nut for this stuff.”
Harry stopped, belatedly hearing the echo of excitement in his own voice.
“Shut me up if I’m prying, but…are those injuries from gathering plants?”
Harry's heart lurched. He hadn't practiced the cutting spell in ages—
Ranveer was gesturing not at his shin, which remained safely concealed by his trousers, but the fresh scars on his hand.
“Oh, no," Harry said, weak with relief. "That’s from whittling.”
“Whittling?”
At their insistence, Harry soon had his knives spread in front of him while his more recent work was passed around.
“I’m still learning,” he said sheepishly as they oohed and aahed over his rough attempt at a bird.
“What made you get into it?” Alex asked.
Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Um. My mentor, actually. He said I could use a way to…get my mind off things. He suggested this.”
“Oh, so he’s actually a big softie,” Iseul said.
“Er,” Harry laughed. “I don’t know about that.”
Harry would have been late to meet Snape if Iseul hadn’t been on top of the time, and he had to book it. Snape sat at a table in the lobby, and raised a brow when Harry entered, panting.
“Um, they’re lighting the bonfire,” Harry said as he watched Snape gather his books up from the table. “I—I was hoping to go meet up with the others there…”
“Lead the way,” Snape said.
Harry, who expected Snape to insist they hide away at the inn for the rest of the night, blinked in surprise.
“Don’t worry, Potter,” Snape rolled his eyes. “I won’t be hovering over you and your friends. I’ll keep my distance.”
“Not that, I just, we can go? Really?”
Snape put a hand on one of his shoulders and steered him towards the door. “Better hurry up before I change my mind.”
Harry glanced sideways at Snape for a long moment.
“Thanks for being decent to Alex,” he said.
Snape made an irritable humming noise, and Harry wisely dropped the subject.
From the sizable woodpile, Harry had imagined the bonfire to be large, but it surpassed his expectations: it was massive, its flames licking seven feet into the air, heat washing over them from yards away. The area around the flames had been cleared for dancing, and outside that circle were rows of logs for seating. Alex’s parents were seated on one of these, holding hands.
By now, the perimeter of the clearing was packed with colorful displays, the air heady with smoke and spice. The sounds of a live band could be heard from the other side of the fire; they had just wrapped up a song, and the crowd was cheering. To their right, a chorus of drunken laughter rose up, and Harry felt decidedly overwhelmed.
He had never been to a festival of any kind. The most comparable experiences he could think of was the Quidditch World Cup, and the post-game parties sometimes held in Gryffindor tower.
“I, uh, I don’t see them. They’re probably not back at the fire yet.”
He felt a hand on his back, and startled, he looked up at Snape.
“Do you wish to look around while we wait?”
While Harry processed this request, Snape regarded him patiently. He looked around them, and saw that many of the vendors that had been setting up before were now actively selling their wares.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “If you don’t mind.”
Snape gave a short nod, and immediately made way to the nearest display. While Harry and his friends had weaved through the crowd, Snape cut through it like a hot knife through butter, using height and utter disregard to his advantage. He kept Harry close to his side; had Snape been wearing his teaching robes, Harry imagined he would be practically tucked inside the man’s cloak.
They passed stalls toting beaded jewelry and glass-blown ornaments, beeswax candles and bars of honeycomb, handcrafted soaps and sugared pastries.
They lingered at a leather book-binding stall; Snape examined the fountain pens while Harry looked for journals Hermione might like. They came across an apothecary display of herbs and essential oils, citing such claims as repels negative energy and attracts wealth and love. Snape paused to look at one of these labels with consternation, and Harry coughed to cover his laugh.
Harry passed by the woodworking stall twice, stopping both times to linger, until the vendor finally roped him into what ended up being a pleasant conversation about whittling, wood burning, and carving.
“Harry!”
Harry, who had been pointing out the carved details in a chair leg to Snape, looked up to see Iseul waving at him from the fire.
“Go on,” Snape said, pushing him forward. “I’ll be on one of the benches.”
His heart light, Harry jogged ahead. Iseul was sitting in the grass, and he plopped down next to her.
“Where are the others?” Harry asked.
“Ranveer’s getting us more cider, and Alex is making a new friend,” Iseul said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. Harry turned and saw the blond speaking animatedly to a girl by the cider barrel. He struck a dramatic pose, and she doubled over with laughter.
Iseul leaned into his shoulder and said in a low voice, “So, when I helped you lie to Alex’s mum, I wasn’t actually covering up a kidnapping situation, right?”
Harry tensed.
“We know you’re hiding something,” she continued casually. Alex waved to her from where he was, and she smiled back with ease. “And that’s okay. Your business is your own. But if you’re not safe, you can tell us.”
Harry released a slow breath. “I’m…the person I’m with is keeping me safe.” He gave a low, snorting laugh. “Sorry, I know that doesn’t sound super convincing. But yeah. I’m okay.”
She looked at him, studying his eyes for a long moment. Seemingly satisfied by what she saw there, she leaned back with a smile.
“Ranveer was too chicken to give this to you himself,” she said, and slipped a scrap of paper into his hand.
Looking down on it, he saw two sets of phone numbers.
“The second one’s mine,” Iseul said. “Hey, welcome back!”
Flushed to his hairline, Harry shoved the paper into his pocket, and looked up to see Ranveer balancing three mugs of cider.
“Did y’all see Casanova over there?” Ranveer laughed as he distributed the drinks. He sat down on the other side of Harry, sandwiching him between them. Ranveer had shed his outer shirt, and both of their bodies felt warm, brushing slightly against either side of Harry, and he felt himself melting down, relaxing against them.
They were in view of the band, and Harry took some time observing the musicians. There was a vocalist, a cellist, and a fiddler, all of them working together to produce a fast-paced folk tune. Harry would have expected to find the sound old-fashioned, cheesy even, but he found himself wanting to tap his feet to the rhythm.
“I saw that,” Iseul sang, nudging Harry’s foot with her own. “Let’s go dance!”
Harry looked at the empty circle around the fire. “Oh, well, it looks like they haven’t started yet.”
“That’s why we’ll start it,” she said, jumping to her feet and extending her hands to him.
“Okay, okay,” Harry laughed, feeling swept up in her joy. He looked back at Ranveer. “Are you not coming?”
“Oh, Ranveer doesn’t dance,” Alex said, coming to join them. The girl he’d been talking to had come with him, their hands clasped, and she waved to them shyly. “He’s too cool to dance with the likes of us.”
Harry raised a brow at Ranveer, who, very slowly and deliberately, put his drink down.
Iseul and Alex whooped, and the five of them stepped onto the grass. Iseul kicked off her shoes and started spinning with abandon, all hips and tossed hair and bare feet. Ranveer joined her, moving flawlessly to the beat, his movements somehow both easy and controlled.
“You’re gonna catch flies,” Alex grinned at him, and Harry flushed, realizing he’d been staring.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” Harry admitted, remembering his awkward opening dance at the Yule Ball.
“Oh, me neither,” Alex said, and did a ridiculous body roll that had Harry and the girl laughing. “We’ll make up for it with sheer enthusiasm. Or, we’ll just make those two look more awesome because of how much we suck. Win-win.”
Buoyed by Alex’s goofiness, Harry joined the muggles. The crowd cheered them on, and soon enough, other people were joining them.
Someone grabbed Harry’s hand, and he turned to see the vendor from the woodworking stall, her face red and hair tousled from dancing. He saw that she had added him to a line of people with linked hands, and looking at her nose scrunched with laughter, he found he didn’t have the heart to wrench himself away.
Harry reached out his other hand, and found it catching Ranveer’s. They shared a grin, and Ranveer stretched to grab Iseul, who grabbed Alex, who grabbed his companion. The girl closed the circle, and soon they were spinning.
The band was reaching a fast peak in the music, hands reaching out to grab more people into the ring. A frenzied energy hummed through the bodies around him; the fire was hot and bright, faces blurring with the flames as Harry was pushed and pulled. While it was all he could do just to keep up, the woodworker holding fast to his hand was somehow managing to step to the beat as they spun. He could hear Iseul laugh loud and wild behind him; turning, he saw flashes of her bare feet skipping through the grass. He kept losing his balance, and each time Ranveer pulled him back up, anchoring him with an easy strength. The third time this happened, Harry burst out laughing, the sound hoarse from disuse.
The music ended, and everyone stumbled to a stop. Feeling dizzy and breathless, Harry pulled his sweaty hands away to applaud along with everyone else. He found himself searching the crowd for Snape, and saw him seated on one of the logs, arms folded. He looked like a somber crow perched amidst the merriment, and Harry had to stifle another laugh.
“I’ll see you guys in a bit,” Harry said, patting Ranveer on the arm as he passed.
He was still short of breath as joined Snape, collapsing onto the bench beside him.
Possessed by some bold spirit, he dared to say, “What, no dancing for you?”
“I think not,” Snape said dryly. He hesitated a moment, then offered his cider. It was still piping hot, and Harry pulled it to him eagerly. The first sip was oddly sharp, reminding him of a tincture, and Harry grimaced.
“Uh, is this spiked?”
Snape snatched the mug back.
“I forgot,” he muttered. “Hold on, I can neutralize it.”
He leaned over to reach for his bag, and Harry said, “Don’t worry, I’m not actually thirsty. My hands are kind of cold, though.”
He reached out.
“Cross my heart, I won't sneak another sip.”
Snape handed the mug over, and Harry sighed, cradling it close to his chest as the aroma of citrus, cinnamon, and cloves drifted over his face.
They sat in comfortable silence after that, watching the muggles dance. Harry felt heavy and warm and satisfied in a way he had not in a long while, his mind content to watch the flicker of flames and moving bodies. Snape’s presence was steady beside him, and lazily, distantly, it occurred to Harry that he felt safe.
Eventually, the band switched to a quieter number, and the dancers made way for a group of people bearing baskets of candles which they dispersed among the crowd. Harry watched people light their candles from smaller fires that had been set around the bonfire, then carry them from the clearing.
“Where are they going?” Harry asked.
“They’ve likely set up an altar down the hill,” Snape said. “This must be the candle ceremony your friend spoke of. We typically honor our dead later in the season, but some muggle traditions associate ancestral rituals with the equinox.”
“Oh…” Harry watched as a couple approached the fire with their child. Careful, he heard the boy’s mother say, taking the candle from him and lighting it.
Snape glanced sideways at him, then placed his cider down and stood. Harry stared as the man flagged down the nearest basket bearer. He returned with two candles, one of which he held out to Harry.
When he hesitated, Snape placed it down beside him, and said, “Put your whittling skills to use, perhaps.”
He turned to go to the bonfire on his own; Harry watched as the man knelt to light his candle, and wondered who he was lighting it for. The candle-bearers walking down the path formed a line of flames; Snape joined them, becoming another will o’ wisp in the night.
Feeling mixed emotions, Harry picked up the candle Snape had left for him. It was short and made of plain beeswax, undyed, and came with a wide, flat base.
Taking Snape’s advice, Harry reached into his pocket for his favored knife, fingers brushing past both the glass shard and the paper Iseul had given him. After a moment of thought, he began to etch, and continued until he had the likeness of a dog leaping through tall grass.
He rose to light his candle; many around him were doing the same, and he felt a bittersweet kinship with these people who also had someone to mourn. As he knelt, carefully holding his candle forward so the wick could catch, he thought of the first time he had talked to Sirius properly. That starlit walk back to the castle, as they exchanged soft words about a cottage in the countryside.
That future is gone, Sirius. But maybe I can still—
A murmur of confusion erupted ahead of him, and Harry looked up to see people facing the sky, fingers pointed upwards. The light in the clearing seemed wrong all of a sudden, and his heart was already plummeting as he followed their gazes.
Overhead, limning the clouds with smoky green, was a giant skull with a snake writhing from its mouth.
Screams rose in the distance, and Harry saw them—Death Eaters in white masks, cutting through the crowd. The muggles, families and children and couples, screamed and scrambled back. Sick horror rose in Harry, but it was quickly superseded by a lucid fury.
He drew the rosewood wand; it felt surly and hostile in his palm, and he pulled his holly wand from his bag with the intent of placing it in his sleeve. He shouldn’t use it, he knew, but the Death Eaters were already here, and if things truly became bad—
“Harry!”
Harry turned to see Iseul, who was struggling to push in the opposite direction of the fleeing crowd to reach him.
“NO, JUST RUN! ” he bellowed at her. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT—”
A force impacted him from behind, an arm gripping him around the waist as a pull tugged at his navel. The last thing he saw before the town rushed away were Iseul's eyes, dark and wide and fearful.
“What the fuck—” Harry sputtered, pushing Snape off and backing away. They were back in the city, in a narrow side street, the sound of muggle chatter and loud traffic from the road outside.
Snape was wild-eyed, his chest heaving. “Put that down!” he hissed, referring to the holly wand Harry still grasped in his left hand. His right was empty, and Harry realized he must have lost the rosewood as they apparated. “I swear, if you bring the Ministry down on us—”
“All of those people!” Harry shouted. “How could you just leave them? We need to go back!”
“We need to get moving,” Snape snapped, “before one of them follows our trail. We’re lucky some idiot cast the mark prematurely—”
“Iseul is in danger!” Harry screamed. “And Ranveer, and Alex, and his parents—! They’re defenseless! Who knows how many could be hurt—could be dead already!”
“And what are you going to do!?” Snape bellowed back. “Why do you think the Death Eaters were there, Potter? What good will you do the muggles by going back?”
Harry froze. If Snape said more, he didn’t hear it. Sensations passed through his mind: the silhouette of a couple dancing in front of the fire, a woman saying careful to her child, a smaller hand pulling him to the sound of music.
“Look, I’ve already alerted the Order of the attack,” Snape said with forced restraint. He took a step towards Harry. “Please, we need to go.”
Harry lowered his wand. Snape didn’t hesitate, closing the distance between them, and apparating them once more.
Notes:
Chapter 7 playlist:
Dissolve Me by alt-J
fuwarin by Ichiko Aoba
Holocene by Bon Iver
Heavy Feet by Local Natives
Restless Song by Shadow Community
Summer's On The Ground by Leah Senior
Wonderland by Kalandra
Chapter 8: i am humbled by breaking down
Notes:
Chapter CW: suicide ideation, self-harm, dissociation, description of animal injury*
Please mind the tags and content warnings—take care of yourself and read safely. This chapter describes the perspective of someone who is self-deprecating about struggling with suicide and self harm; please note that Harry's thoughts do not reflect my views.
*To avoid description of animal injury, please see end notes.
As always, my sincere thanks to everyone who has engaged with this work. I'm so excited that we are finally here! This chapter is near and dear to my heart, so I hope you like it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
July 1996, two and half months earlier
Harry hadn’t seen the floor of his trunk in years. Among the dust and glittering grit, he found a battered folder from his muggle primary school days squashed flat at the bottom. A wave of melancholy hit him as he leafed through the contents: old drawings, permission slips where he had forged Petunia’s signature, an assignment he had done well enough to earn a nice comment from the teacher...
And a piece of looseleaf creased in half that he had not thought about in five years, but recognized instantly. He slowly unfolded it, and took in the scrawl of his ten-year-old hand. He tried to read it, but could not make it past the first line, cringing. He had been deeply miserable at that age, finally old enough to know that the Dursleys would not change their minds about him, and that no one was going to magically appear to whisk him away.
Of course, someone did arrive to magically whisk him away. But before Hagrid, before his acceptance letter, he had written a suicide note. In it, he apologized to his relatives, and told them they didn’t have to worry about taking care of him anymore. The note oozed with plaintiveness; that he still cared what they thought of him at that age, that he would apologize to them, rankled.
Intending to throw it away later, he tossed it to the ground beside the draft of his will. Side by side, his ten-year-old and sixteen-year-old scrawl, both written by boys trying so hard to be neat.
Snape had brought them into Scotland, and as they ascended past woods and sheep pastures, Harry vaguely wondered how close they might be to Hogwarts.
“We’re high enough to see the whole of Glasgow,” Snape said at one point. “Farther north, and we’ll be able to look down on Loch Lommond.”
Harry turned to gaze behind them, and saw the path looked far steeper than it had on the way up. A misstep could send him tumbling down the rocks to great injury, maybe even death.
“Come here,” Snape said. “The trail is more difficult above us; walk ahead of me.”
Harry continued to put one foot in front of the other.
“Put your coat on.”
“Hm?” Harry looked up from the ground, and realized the sky had gotten considerably darker. Had so much time passed?
“Your coat,” Snape said sharply. “Don’t you see you’re shivering?”
Harry looked down and saw his trembling hands. Odd. It didn’t feel cold.
“Maybe we should camp here,” Snape muttered. “All right, boy, get your coat on, then help me set up.”
Several minutes later, Snape stood from the fire he had made, and looked at Harry.
“No questions today? Tired of your training already?” he asked snidely. When Harry just shrugged the man’s face tightened, but he said nothing more and set out his books. He didn’t use the byōen spell, which was unusual, but Harry didn’t comment on it. It’s not like Snape would give him a straight answer, anyway.
He looked into the fire instead, letting himself sink into the glow. Sweeping his fingers over the flames until his skin was uncomfortably hot, he thought of those witches and wizards caught during the witch trials. As a first-year, he had accepted the story about the freezing charms, but now he wondered if some of those wizards hadn’t actually died. Harry hadn’t known the freezing charm until a few years in at school, after all. Surely wizards who were just children, or hadn’t gotten any schooling, or were simply taken by surprise, had died that way?
The fire snuffed out, and Harry blinked, turning to see Snape lowering his wand.
“Potter,” the man said, his tone hard to read. “Go to sleep.”
“You were too eager, Mulciber,” Harry hissed at the man prostrating before him. “Your morsmordre allowed Snape to apparate the boy away.”
“I am sorry, my Lord. This new wand is hasty, hard to control. I did not mean to—”
The man’s voice shook with fear, but beneath it was a preoccupied anger. Harry’s lips twisted with displeasure. How dare his servant split his attention between his Lord and another when Harry was speaking to him!
“Crucio!”
Mulciber writhed on the ground, the leathery scarring of his face flashing in and out of view. Harry released the spell after a protracted moment, and trembling, Mulciber crawled to his feet and kissed his robes.
“Th-thank you, my Lord…”
“Do not fail me again. Bring him to me, and I will break his wand to avenge you.” Harry leaned forward and caressed his follower’s face. “When Harry Potter is finally dead, I will permit you to heal this. Until then, let it be a reminder of your shameful failure—”
Hands were shaking him. The dark room before him blurred, and Harry became aware of the chill, the smell of vegetation, and pain. He curled onto his side, palms pressed against his throbbing scar, his eyes watering. He heard Snape hurry away and return.
“Move your hands, here—”
He applied something cool to Harry’s forehead, and he caught the familiar smell of dittany.
“That won’t work,” Harry said thickly. “He’s really angry…”
“Ground yourself,” Snape snapped. “Focus on the sensations around you.”
Harry tried to focus on his breathing, on the cold, on the feeling of the ground beneath him—but the pain was splitting his skull, the sight of Mulciber’s scarred face fresh in his mind. And beneath that, he felt a current of strong emotion pushing to be released. Screams in the distance, fearful brown eyes locked on his as Snape apparated them away—
Snape grabbed one of his hands. The man’s palm was large and warm, rough from years of brewing. Harry found himself focusing on that hand, on the sound of the man’s breathing, on the thread of heartbeat he could feel through Snape’s palm.
The pain receded, and slowly, Harry untensed his muscles.
“There we go,” Snape said, relief softening his harsh voice.
“You’re warm,” Harry murmured, not really thinking about his words.
Snape drew his hand back. “You were trying to scratch at your scar,” he said defensively, as if Harry had demanded some explanation.
Harry said nothing, focusing on breathing in and out, keeping his mind in a floating state. He had no desire to return to his scar pain, or revisit the emotions roiling beneath.
“What happened in your vision?” Snape asked.
“Mulciber was the one who cast morsmordre,” Harry relayed clinically. “His new wand is hard to control. Voldemort was punishing him.”
Snape stiffened at Harry’s use of Voldemort’s name, but for once, didn’t snap at him for it.
“Was there anything else?”
“He won’t let Mulciber heal his face until I’m dead.”
Snape winced—whether at the words or Harry’s blank tone, he didn’t know.
The man regarded him for a moment before stepping away. Harry heard him rekindle the fire, and the familiar sounds of him preparing a cauldron for brewing.
“Come here,” Snape said. “It's time we dealt with the fulgurite."
A flicker of interest warmed Harry’s numbness, and he joined Snape by the warmth of the cauldron fire.
The man led him through a series of extractions, the goal of which was to remove impurities from the fused mass. Snape demonstrated more trust in Harry than he would have expected; he was not only tasked with preparing solvents, but with filtering the solid product from each phase. Under different circumstances, Harry would be peppering Snape with questions. As it was, Harry let the man’s murmured instructions wash over him as his hands got lost in the work.
They resumed their hike as the sun rose over the crags, and over the course of the next two evenings, they continued their work. By the time they reached the shores of Loch Lommond, the fulgurite had been fully refined, dried, crushed to a fine powder, and finally, aliquoted as a liquid concentrate.
The loch itself was enormous, extending nearly forty kilometers to the blue hills rising on the other side. It was a popular area, replete with cafes, an aquarium, a cruise boat service, and various other tourist attractions. Watching the muggles mill about, Harry felt himself grow tense.
“Should we be here?” he muttered to Snape. “There’s so many people. What if we’re attacked?”
“Easy,” Snape said, studying him. “We won’t stay long. There’s a ferry across the loch in half an hour. We’ll take that across, then continue on foot.”
Waiting for the shuttle felt torturous. Harry found himself searching the crowd for any glimpse of white masks, and every so often he would glance at the sky, just to make sure it was still blue.
Finally they were able to board the waterbus, a well-loved ferry with a yellow roof. Harry squeezed in between Snape and the tourists and kept his head down for the ride. He felt intensely withdrawn, as if his body was a shield between his mind and the outside world. He kept his eyes on the water rippling past the boat’s side, and found himself thinking of the Second Task. What if something had gone wrong, down in the murky depths of the lake?
Drowning would probably be terrible, he thought.
“Come on, we’ve stopped,” Snape told him, and Harry looked up to see that they were the last to disembark.
True to the man’s words, they went on foot after that, separating from the tourists and hiking into the hills. Lochs split the land like sheets of glass, banked by steep slopes alternating with more gentle glens. Each morning they woke to mist over the lochs, which receded as the sun rose to warm the water’s surface.
They continued their way north, passing by peaks capped with snow. The days grew colder, and on a particularly frigid night, Snape transfigured a small hut for them out of the bloated remains of a giant, hollowed tree. While adept at many things, Snape was not exactly an ace at transfiguration on this scale: the hut was awkwardly shaped, its walls still sporting the odd, needle-covered branch.
It served their purposes well enough, however, especially after Snape had gotten the fire going. As Snape set out his books as usual, Harry looked outside the hut, considering whether he should brave the cold to hang out outside. He didn’t really have much else to do....
Snape noticed his restlessness and said, “You haven’t worked on any wood projects in a while.”
Shrugging, Harry got his knife and wood block, then paused, remembering the last time he had taken them out. That afternoon sitting on the grass, the feeling of hands as a wooden bird was passed around, the candle he had etched with an image of Padfoot, and then—
Willing himself to forget, Harry gouged into the wood. He worked quickly, carelessly, and as his knife grew blunt, he simply pushed on with brute force.
Snape had passed his wand to him, but Harry ignored it, letting the nicks and scrapes accumulate. Eventually, a paring cut sent the knife sinking into his thumb, and blood spilled over the wood block. When Harry pressed on, cutting through the slick, he heard Snape drop his book.
“Potter, I gave you my wand for a reason!”
Snape snatched up his wand and knelt, grabbing Harry’s wrist and healing his wounds, starting with the most severe.
“Insufferable, reckless,” Snape muttered under his breath. “Give me that!” He grabbed the wood block, cleaning it of blood, and slapped it back into Harry’s hand.
He sat back and stared at Harry, who looked listlessly back.
“We had to leave,” the man said finally. “You understand, don’t you? There was nothing—”
“I understand,” Harry cut him off. He reached for his knife again, but Snape grabbed it first.
“I thought you wanted me to work on my wood projects.”
“It was a suggestion.” A strained silence. “What about your notes?”
Harry just shrugged, and making an impatient noise, Snape reached for Harry’s bag. As he watched Snape retrieve his potions book, Harry distantly recalled how protective he had once been over it.
Snape tried to press the book into his hands, but it slipped from Harry's numb fingers, sheets of parchment spilling as it hit the ground. He watched, feeling like a ghost, like less than a ghost, as Snape reached to collect them, and his hands fell upon the will.
He stared at it so long that Harry thought he might not comment on it at all.
“According to the date,” Snape began, sounding very calm, “you signed this in July.”
When Harry said nothing, he continued, “It’s…competently made.”
“Asked the goblins at Gringotts in Second Year.”
“Sec…” Snape clenched his hand, paper crinkling.
Distantly, Harry felt an ember of vicious enjoyment at Snape’s shock.
“It makes sense for me to have. Considering what my life is like.”
It was subtle, but Harry saw the momentary stutter of Snape’s breath, the involuntary flex of his hand.
“Have you shown this to anyone?” Snape asked.
Harry rested his chin on his knees.
“Just you.”
The silence stretched. Snape’s chest rose and fell more quickly than usual; Harry assumed the man must be angry, but it had never quite looked like this before. Watching with cold curiosity, Harry pushed.
“I’ll leave my whittling stuff to Luna, I think. I’m sure she’ll make good use of it.”
Snape said something inaudible.
“Sorry?”
“Your arms,” Snape repeated. “Would you show me your arms, please?”
Harry froze. With sound muffled by the outside snow, the quiet inside the tree took on a new, stifling weight.
“Never mind,” the man said. For an instant, Harry thought the topic would be dropped, and he began to relax.
Snape cast the diagnostic charm.
The transparent scroll unfurled in the air between them, displaying Harry’s medical data for both of them to see. He had taught Harry how to do a rough reading of it, and so he knew exactly where the man’s eyes would fall. Heart racing and face hot, Harry read the lines along with Snape.
laceration, mild, left sura
laceration, mild, left sura
laceration, mild, left sura
The list went on, each entry accompanied by a date and timestamp: the exact same injury, over and over, and all incurred within seconds of each other.
Harry inhaled, anger and shame competing in his veins. “You’re misunderstanding.”
Snape didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed to the tiny blue print floating in front of him.
“I’ve been practicing the cutting spell.”
“Practicing on yourself?” Snape said faintly. His voice sounded wrong, like it belonged to someone else.
Harry had come to trust his ability to read Snape, but his instincts could make neither head nor tails of the man’s current behavior. He had thought he had seen Snape at his most livid, but maybe he had just never pushed the man to this level of anger before. The not knowing, more than anything else, was terrifying.
“Y-you cut yourself so we could practice the healing charm, before.” Harry’s voice shook despite himself. “This is the same thing. You can’t tell me cutting twigs and grass is the same as learning to control cutting flesh. You know it’s not. And, and because of my practice, I can almost cast it nonverbally, now. ”
Snape clasped his fingers in front of him.
“Potter.”
Harry had heard Snape speak with feigned calm many times before. This was something else—his tone was so perfect, so natural, that goosebumps rose on Harry’s arms.
This is how he talks at Death Eater meetings.
“I am the adult. I was a consenting partner to your study. Practicing alone, on yourself, when you’ve yet to master self-directed healing charms…I should not have to explain to you why that is so dangerous.”
The man still had not looked at him. Harry waited for him to continue, to pry further, to question if it really had been practice. The possibility of it hovered in the air.
There was an odd sound, and with a slow shock, Harry realized it was the sound of Snape’s breathing.
“Sir, are you…hyperventilating?”
Snape abruptly stood, the diagnostic spell shimmering out of existence. He lurched towards the entrance to the hut, then stopped, snatching the knife from the ground. He splayed his hand, and Harry’s holly wand and the whittling kit wrenched themselves from sleeve and satchel respectively, both flying to the man’s hold.
Snape finally looked at Harry, his black eyes wide and burning.
“Do you have any other knives?”
Harry’s heart had risen to the roof of his mouth.
“N-No—”
He felt Snape enter his mind, cold and assessing. It was not a painful intrusion, there and gone for but a fraction of a second, but the shock of it was like being doused in ice water.
It was only after Snape exited the tree that Harry remembered the shard sitting in his pocket. The man had not given him time to think of it. Harry had been telling the truth, or so he thought, and that was what Snape read from the surface of his thoughts.
Harry looked at the patch of night visible through the entryway, the night that Snape had entered, and worked to take a long, slow inhale. The last time he had felt panicked, Snape was there to help him count. But the man couldn’t do that now, could he? Not if he was out there in the snow, struggling to control his own breathing too.
Did I do that to him?
A shame like molten lead crushed his heart. He had hurt people before, but never like this. It felt as if the wrongness inside of him had become infectious. It was not enough, apparently, for him to have panic attacks. He had to give them to other people too.
The secret of the mirror shard burned in his pocket.
I’ll tell him, Harry thought. Once he comes back, and interrogates me about all of this. I’ll tell him.
Snape did not interrogate him.
He reentered the hut at dawn, and the only word he spoke was the incantation to the diagnostic charm. Harry flushed at the clinical disregard with which Snape read the results; he might as well have been an object.
Once he was satisfied that Harry had not cut himself in the night, Snape held forth Harry’s wand, handle-first.
Unable to read anything from Snape’s gaze, Harry took it. The man did not give back the knives; instead, he knelt, and began to roll up his untouched sleeping bag.
Slowly, Harry began to roll up his own.
Eventually they reached the sea. Snape had taken a difficult path to a desolate shore, empty of footprints. It was a moody coastline of gray sands and grayer skies, the ocean tossing against dark cliffs.
While Snape set to fortifying the remains of an old fisherman’s shed, Harry sat and watched the tossing waves. After some time gazing at dark water, he noticed that the sounds of Snape’s transfigurations had ceased, and stood to investigate.
The shed was small, with barely enough space for the two of them to lie, but it would retain heat well. Harry saw that the collapsed roof had been repaired, and the door, which had been refixed to its frame, was cracked open.
Peering through, Harry saw Snape sitting against the wall, chin dropped to his chest.
This would make the third time he had caught the man asleep.
He must have been exhausted.
Eying the wand held loosely in Snape’s grasp, he quietly edged inside. After taking the wand with light fingers, he turned to Snape’s bag to retrieve the whittling kit. He had no desire to use it, but it irked him to think of Snape withholding it.
Returning to sit by the water, Harry studied Snape’s wand. It was dark, slightly crooked, and completely lacked the hostility the rosewood wand had emanated. He cast an experimental lumos, and was bitter to find that his magic flowed readily.
Snape didn’t think it was the wand, but I bet the healing charm would work with this.
He reached for the glass fragment; his guilt over keeping it had all but faded. If Snape really cared about the possibility of Harry hurting himself, he would have said something by now.
As he withdrew the shard, he suddenly recalled that this was the same pocket he had placed the numbers Iseul had given him.
Unable to know if they were dead or alive, he had been avoiding all thought of them—but he could simply call. The simple, muggle solution he had so foolishly overlooked.
Heart thudding, he fished through the pocket, then the other, turning them inside-out, but came up with nothing but lint. He shed his jacket, scouring every pocket and flap and loose thread, shaking it out and picking at the seams. Excitement twisting into trepidation, trepidation twisting into nausea, he looked everywhere. He looked again, and again, and again.
Bare-armed and shivering, his frantic hands slowly dropped to his sides.
I lost it. They gave me a way to contact them, and I lost it.
He remembered how roughly he had stuffed the paper into his jeans; so hasty, so careless, not once appreciating how precious that string of numbers could be.
He looked down at the shard in his palm, the piece of Sirius’ mirror he had forgotten when he needed it most.
How many times would he lose contact with someone through his own carelessness?
He didn’t even know Iseul’s and Ranveer’s last names.
A wetness filled his palm, and he realized he had squeezed the shard tightly enough to cut. Blood slid down his hand, a stray droplet falling to darken the sand by his feet.
I wish the prophecy were different, he thought, a cloudiness filling his brain, fingertips buzzing. Instead of needing to kill him, I wish I could just die, and take him with me.
As the first droplets of rain hit his face like shards of ice, Harry pointed Snape’s wand at his palm.
“Sano salve. Sano salve. Sano salve!”
The injury remained unchanged. The continuous trickle of blood seemed to mock him, and he was suddenly, incandescently furious.
“Vulnera sanentur!” he tried instead, recalling the incantation Snape had said was needed for deeper wounds. “Vulnera sanentur! VULNERA SANENTUR! FUCK, WHY WON’T YOU HEAL!”
Slippery with blood, his fingertips lost purchase on the glass shard, and it tumbled onto the beach. One moment it rested safely by his feet, and the next, it had vanished with the tide.
“NO!”
He lunged after it, the vision of Sirius falling into the veil playing on repeat behind his eyelids. The water was like a beast; it battered his chest, knocking the air from his lungs and the steadiness from his feet. Choking, blind, he tumbled into the tumultuous cold.
He felt Snape’s wand get torn from his hand, and moments later, his body was rushing to the surface of its own accord. As his head breached air, arms wrapped around his chest, dragging him back to shore.
“NO!” Harry screamed. “I lost it, I have to find it, Sirius gave it to me!”
“Potter, what, you’re bleeding—”
Harry didn’t listen, couldn’t listen. He flailed and punched, and Snape made a grunt of pain when a hit met its mark. Snarling, the man lifted him and threw him onto the beach. He blocked Harry’s path when he tried to hurl himself back into the sea, and gripped him by the arms.
“POTTER!” Snape shouted, shaking him slightly. “Christ, child! I knew you were reckless, but I’m starting to think you have a death…wish…”
Harry dragged his eyes from the ocean to finally look at Snape. He was soaked in seawater, hair clinging to his face. His grip on Harry was desperate, and so were his eyes.
“I need—” Harry gasped out, his words dissolving into coughs. “I dropped something in the water, something important.”
Snape’s hands squeezed his arms. “Very well,” he said roughly. “What is it? I’ll summon it.”
“It’s a, a piece of mirror.”
Snape looked at him with consternation. “Why were you—” He cut himself off. “I need more than that, unless you want me to summon all the broken glass on the seabed.”
“It’s f-from a two-way mirror,” Harry said, beginning to shake from cold and adrenaline. “S-Sirius gave it to me.”
Snape took that in, then released one hand from Harry to point his wand at the ocean.
“Accio Harry Potter’s two-way mirror shard.”
Harry waited, breath held. A glittering thing sped from the water, and he would have intercepted it had Snape not pushed in front of him.
"Give it to me!"
Muttering quickly under his breath, Snape lifted the shard high out of reach, and Harry watched as a sphere enclosed itself around the fragment, the same kind they used to store food rations. Lunging, Harry managed to snatch the capsule from Snape's hand, and tapped it to open. When it refused to budge, Harry was about to demand that Snape lift whatever ward he had placed on it—before realizing the plastic seam had actually been melted together.
It was a hasty, clumsy solution, so unlike Snape. Had he used magic to literally heat the capsule in his hand as Harry accosted him?
Harry looked up, and he saw that a livid bruise was forming around the man's right eye. Seeing it, Harry's fury fled him, replaced by a stabbing guilt.
“I'm sorry,” Harry chattered, clutching the capsule to his chest. “I, I don’t know what—”
“Follow,” Snape interrupted.
Biting his tongue, Harry trailed him into the makeshift hut.
He assumed Snape would interrogate him about what the hell that had been about, but instead, he dried Harry’s clothes and hair without a word, and placed a warming charm over him. He gestured for Harry to sit, and clasped his still bleeding palm within his two hands. Snape did not speak the incantation for vulnera sanentur as Harry expected. Instead the man bowed forward, eyes closed, and sang it. It was a strange, beautiful tune, meandering up and down. A warmth spread through Harry’s hand, traveling up his arm.
Snape’s song came to an end, and when he pulled his hands away, the wound was gone.
Soundlessly, Harry began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know—I keep doing this—reckless—keep just—getting people killed—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Should never have gone, so stupid—”
“You’re panicking again.” Snape took his hand back, brushed it with his thumb. “Breathe, like we practiced. Can you hear me?”
“You were right, you were right, I killed him, it was my fault…”
Snape abruptly stood. He returned with a calming draught, which he brought to Harry’s lips.
“Drink this,” he said, his other hand on the nape of Harry’s neck. “Please.”
Harry did. Calm washed over him, muscles relaxing of their own accord. He fell sideways, vision going black even as he felt Snape catch him.
“Why are you doing this?” Hermione asked him.
Harry carved his whittling knife into the plank in front of him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop now. The prophecy made it clear—it has to be me.”
“But you’re killing us,” Ron said somberly, eyes devoid of his usual humor.
“Harry,” Hermione said, “look at us. Look at him.”
And Harry saw that the two of them were bleeding from their throats. Harry’s hands were wet, and when he turned to look at them, he saw he had not been carving into a plane of wood, but into the neck of Sirius Black.
Harry awoke from Snape shaking him. The man looked frantic, his eyes sharp in the low light.
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Was I loud?”
“No, you…you were crying.”
Harry touched a hand to his face. “Oh. Sorry.”
Snape hovered a moment before his face set, and he turned to a kettle of water he’d set over a fire. A few moments later, he returned with a mug of hyssop tea, and one of the rations capsules.
“Here, eat.” Snape sat and glared at him until Harry obeyed, and continued to glare until Harry finished the ham and cheese sandwich the capsule had revealed.
“We are going to talk,” Snape groused.
Harry looked up at him. The five o’ clock shadow the man had been sporting was actual stubble now, darkening his upper lip and jaw. His hair was tangled and stiff from his impromptu swim, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“You haven’t got any shoes on,” Harry observed, looking at Snape’s bare feet, covered in sand.
“Listen,” Snape said, looking ready to shake him again. “We need to talk about yesterday.”
Grounded by sleep and food, Harry was now able to look back on his behavior. Knowing how he must have appeared to Snape, his stomach twisted with embarrassment.
“I’m not a basketcase."
“I do not think you are.” Snape drew an unsteady breath. “And struggling with self-harm doesn’t make you—”
“I don’t self-harm. I said I was practicing my spells, and I meant it. I get how important it is that I stay alive. I’m not going to run off again. I’m not going to hurt myself. I know I lost it a little yesterday, but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. So you can ease off, Professor.”
“Very reassuring,” Snape breathed, eyes flashing. Harry welcomed the show of temper—this was familiar territory, this was the Snape he knew.
Go on, get angry. Drop the caring act and show me who you truly are.
But Snape calmed, and spoke in a quiet voice, “What did you mean, when you said ‘you were right, I killed him’?”
Harry stiffened, looking away. “It’s what you said at the station,” he muttered. “When I’d gone out with my cloak. That Sirius never would have gone to the Department of Mysteries if I hadn’t.”
“I said…” Snape shook his head. “Do you remember my words? What I said, exactly?”
“I mean, something like…how I don’t think of the consequences, and act like I’m entitled to information.” Harry pulled his mug close, voice growing softer. “You…reminded me that my mum and Sirius died for me, and I was lucky that was it. That I hadn’t gotten my friends killed too.”
Snape stared at him before looking away. “That sounds like me, doesn’t it?” he muttered.
“I’m not lying. You did say that.”
“I believe you,” Snape said, sounding tired.
“I mean, you were right.”
“What do you mean? Right about what?”
Harry frowned. “All of it? It wasn’t fair to blame you for what happened. Dumbledore told me—I know you helped. I just blamed you because it was easier than blaming myself. I know in the end, it was my fault.”
“For your mother’s and godfather’s deaths?” Snape said, incredulous. “Which part? The part where the Dark Lord targeted you as an infant, and orphaned you? Or the part where he lured you into a dangerous trap, and the adults in your life chose, as they ought, to protect you?”
“But I was reckless. Arrogant. I didn’t think about the sacrifices you all were making to protect me, and I just had to go sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, and people died because of it.”
Snape pressed his hands to his temples. “More of my own words, I expect?”
Harry said nothing, which was answer enough.
The man let out a long sigh. He raised his eyes skyward, and said, pulling the words from himself like he was pulling teeth: “Potter. I am an idiot.”
“...Sir?”
“You heard me.” He continued, his words stilted, difficult: “I was…angry when I said those things. They are not factual. I can understand now, why you made the choices that you did. The Order did not give you a reliable way to contact us. And…I do not blame you, for not realizing I would act on your plea for help. I have not exactly established trust between us these past five years.”
Harry listened, but the words felt foreign, slipping away as he tried to grasp them.
“When I said Black was going after you no matter what, I did not mean for you to blame yourself. I was saying that Black’s actions were his own. He chose to go after you. Just as Bellatrix chose to kill him. Just as the Dark Lord chose to instigate all of this, including the deaths you currently blame yourself for. You…do not always make good decisions, Potter. But these mistakes you are suffering over are ultimately the mistakes of the adults who have failed you.”
“But I could have—”
“Child,” Snape cut him off, and finally met Harry’s eyes again. “It is not your fault. It is not. You were right. I should have found a way to communicate with you. If I could go back, knowing my cover would no longer be important to maintain, I’d have killed Umbridge then and there, and just spoken to you directly. For Christ’s sake, go back to blaming me before blaming yourself.”
Beneath Harry’s numbness, an anger began to writhe. “But you weren’t to blame,” he said in a strong, flat voice that had Snape staring at him. “I could have done so many things differently. I didn’t know how to send a Patronus message, but I had Sirius’ mirror. You were right when you said going to Umbridge’s office was stupid. I had a way to contact him all along and I had just forgotten it. I as good as killed him.”
A hand fell onto his, and he realized he had been digging his nails into his arm.
“Imagine if Granger or Weasley had made such a mistake. And one of their loved ones died as a result. Would you blame them?”
“We both know that’s different.”
Snape’s brow creased. “How? They are not under the pressures you are, that is true. But taking on the weight of such consequences—”
“They don’t have a prophecy hanging over their heads," Harry said impatiently. “It doesn’t matter how old I am. It doesn’t matter if it’s fair. As long as Voldemort is alive, that’s just how my life is going to be."
A silence fell.
“I…know it can be easier,” Snape said quietly, “to blame yourself in an unfair situation. Acknowledging the truth, that you do not deserve this, only to have nothing change, is painful. But blaming yourself in this way, it is a slow death. And doing so lifts responsibility from the Dark Lord, from Bellatrix. We all must own our choices. Would you excuse theirs and emphasize your own, to avoid pain?”
“I’m not avoiding pain—”
“It must hurt, to know we should have done more to help you, but we did not. Dumbledore should have told you the prophecy earlier. The Order should have given you a way to contact us. The Ministry should have listened to you when you told them of the Dark Lord’s resurrection. Umbridge, the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord—none of them should be targeting you in the first place—”
“And you,” Harry cut in, because Snape was dragging a horrible truth to light and he had no right. “You should have taught me Occlumency properly.”
Snape’s face tightened. “Yes. I should have taught you properly.”
Harry clenched his hands. "Well," he gritted out, "why didn't you?"
Snape turned, glaring into the distance. “I am not a good man—” He stopped. “And that’s an excuse,” he murmured bitterly. When he continued, his words were curt, forced out in a detached manner. “My actions are indefensible. Occlumency, ideally, should be taught by a trusted mentor. That was not the situation with us, and I thought the only way was to be aggressive. I meant it when I said the Dark Lord would not be easy on you. I had seen you, time and again, respond to antagonism with fire. I had thought...I had thought this would be the same. I should have known better, not just when the lessons were unsuccessful, but from the beginning.”
“I kept telling you I didn’t understand what to do. And you just legilimized me over and over."
“Yes. I should have listened. I am sorry. For how I handled Occlumency lessons, for how I have treated you in the past…and for my careless words about your godfather.” Snape swallowed. "And I am sorry for my silence these past few days. When I first saw your injuries…that is not how I should have reacted."
Harry felt that the words and feelings within him were too much for one body to contain. He wanted to protest—I told you, I was just practicing the cutting spell! He wanted Snape to let it go; he wanted him to push and pry until Harry confessed every fear and confusion. He wanted to demand that Snape never speak of this again. He wanted Snape to apologize, and keep apologizing, in itemized detail, until every wrong the man had ever done to him was fully acknowledged and repented for. Harry felt dizzy with rage as he recalled one, and then another, and then another. The cruel words, the small injustices—they were innumerable.
Watching Harry struggle with what to say, Snape continued softly, “You understand...you don’t have to forgive me, yes? I apologized because you deserve that apology. But what I’ve done, it’s not your obligation to forgive me, or anyone. It would be entirely normal for you to still resent me for how I’ve treated you—”
“Get out."
Snape’s eyes widened.
“I need to be alone,” Harry insisted, hunching inwards.
Please.
He heard Snape stand.
“I’ll be on the shore if you need me,” he said quietly.
Harry heard his footsteps leave the hut, then fade.
He buried his head into his knees and screamed, and when he was done screaming, he cried.
For what could have been minutes or hours, he sat in a ramshackle hut on a Scottish shore and cried.
They stayed by the shore. Harry felt drained, but also lighter. He was stripped bare, his emotions pulsing at the surface. His mood fluctuated wildly, from calm to irritable to needing to cry again, all within a matter of hours. Snape gave him plenty of space, letting him sleep as long as he liked, and eat when he pleased.
They spoke little, which suited Harry just fine. Snape spent his time gathering ingredients from the ocean, and brewing at the cauldron he had set up on the beach. Harry stayed in the hut, or walked about the windswept rocks, finding the occasional gull nest. When night fell, and Harry’s mood darkened, he would sit a ways off from Snape and watch the cauldron flames, and let the sounds of the man brewing wash over him like waves over sand.
Snape had tried to be discreet about it, but Harry knew he had placed some kind of monitoring charm on the shed. Used to recognizing the man’s warding spells, Harry knew how to look for the tell-tale shimmer of magic strands when the light hit just so.
They were likely set to alert Snape if Harry hurt himself again.
He wasn't sure how to feel about it. Annoyed maybe, but when he imagined Snape not doing such a thing at all, that was somehow worse.
He kept the capsule containing Sirius' shard close, often turning it over in his hands. Now that its sharp edges were encased by a barrier, the fragment seemed to bid Harry pause, to look at it properly. When he held the sphere to the light, he could glimpse the sparkle of glass within: piercing, cold, beautiful. It had survived a mirror shattering, and days of travel tucked precariously into a worn trouser pocket, and of course, Harry's misuse of it.
I'm sorry, Sirius, Harry thought as he held the shard close to his heart. You never meant for me to use it that way.
The rocks on the bank weren’t hard to traverse, but they were large, with sharp planes and fissures of varying depth between them. Climbing them required just enough concentration to occupy his mind, and he lost himself in the placement of hands and feet.
Every so often he felt Snape’s eyes upon his back, but the man never called out to stop him. Harry had come a long way since his fall into that ravine, and a scramble like this was well within his abilities.
As he reached the top of the incline, the sparse pine groves they had passed on their way here rose into view. Several meters away, about halfway between himself and the trees, he spied an odd lump in the grass.
He moved closer, and experienced the disquiet of realizing the shape was alive. A rabbit—no, a hare, its body stretched upon the ground, ribs heaving.
His mind flashed back to the rabbit he had failed to target before, and he stopped, uneasy.
Its left hind leg was torn, and the blood matting the tawny fur of its abdomen seemed to indicate further injury. Its eyes were wide and luminous, teeth exposed as it panted.
It was like the prophecy had sent him an offering. An omen, warning him of the destiny he was neglecting.
When was the last time he had practiced in earnest? He had been in a fog since the Death Eater attack, and before that, he had spent his time whittling and pouring over maps.
The prophecy seemed to speak to him through the hare’s gaze:
There is no better chance than this.
Killing it would be a mercy.
If you cannot put an animal to rest, how do you expect to kill a man?
I thought you wanted to end the war?
Is this the extent of your resolve?
Do you not care for the safety of your friends?
How many more people need to die because of your inaction?
As if he and not the hare were injured, Harry’s heart revolted in his chest, and he bowed over, pressing his eyes closed.
Four in, six out, he reminded himself. Four in, six out.
Obligation and reluctance fought within him, the pressure intensifying. The two conflicting forces could not coexist; something had to give.
I really, really don’t want to do this.
Harry drew a strangled breath. It felt like a metal band around his chest had been abruptly cut. Limbs feelings like jelly, he continued to hunch over, just breathing.
Hold on…I lost the rosewood. I don’t even have a wand to cast the Killing Curse with.
Harry released a breathless laugh that had no joy in it.
Admitting the truth to himself left him feeling relieved but defeated. After all, he could run from this hare today, but Voldemort would still be waiting for him tomorrow.
Harry raised his eyes to look at the animal again, and felt a piercing sympathy for it.
He turned to where Snape was sifting through the shoals, and began to make his way towards him. Against his will, his mind was already predicting how the man would respond: What is it, Potter? Can’t you see I’m busy?
Seeing Harry’s approach, Snape straightened, brushing the sand from his palms.
“What’s wrong?”
Harry faltered.
I found a hare. It was absurd, bringing this problem to Snape, and he couldn’t bear to say the words aloud.
He glanced back at the rocks, and Snape followed his gaze.
What? Just spit it out, boy. Stop wasting my time.
“Is there something you want to show me?”
Harry exhaled.
“Yes,” he said, speaking the first word he had in days.
He led the way back to the animal, and watched for Snape’s reaction with clenched hands. The man looked down at the hare with a blank expression before turning to Harry.
“I want to…put it out of its misery,” Harry said stiltedly.
You want to what? Don’t bother me for such stupid things.
“You want me to kill it for you?”
Snape spoke bluntly, and Harry blinked up at him, startled. For a wild moment, he wondered if he had deeply offended the man. As if Harry had asked him to do his dirty work. He had assumed Snape wouldn’t think twice about this—only that he might be annoyed to be bothered at all.
Can’t you do this yourself, Potter? Don’t be such a child.
Snape didn’t seem angry, though. Just oddly intense.
Seemingly done waiting for a response, the man turned from him and crouched over the hare. Harry tensed as Snape raised his wand, but the man merely cast a diagnostic charm. It looked slightly different than Harry was used to—the scroll was smaller, and pink instead of blue, although the readout looked similar.
“Kill it,” Snape said, “and miss an opportunity for healing practice?”
Harry stared.
“You…you’re saying we could save it instead?”
Snape shrugged, as if it was nothing. “If you are amenable.”
Harry felt like his brain was looping. It had not occurred to him that healing the hare was even an option.
“Yes,” he blurted. “Yes, please.”
Prepping for an animal operation was not something Harry ever expected to do, but here he was, lining up potions while Snape assembled a bed of herbs.
“Let us be clear from the start,” Snape said as he set the herbs to smolder. He fanned the smoke over the hare, and Harry watched its muscles go lax and its breathing slow. “There is a possibility the animal will not make it. Based on the diagnostic, however, I’d say we have a fair chance. Blood replenisher.”
Harry snatched up the vial and handed it over.
Snape administered the potion using a small glass stirring rod, depositing it drop by drop on the hare’s tongue.
“I know a little bit about dosages for rabbits,” the man said idly. “Hares are not so common in potions research, but I’m assuming they are comparable. Disinfectant.”
They continued in this vein, with Snape telegraphing each of his steps, and Harry handing him potions on request. The man’s calm commentary, as if this was a casual lesson and not a procedure on a living animal, only made Harry feel more agitated. Just when he was on the verge of pleading with Snape to stop talking, the man did so of his own accord.
He bent low over the hare, and with a steady hand, directed his wand at the interior of the abdominal wound. Quietly, more humming than song, he began to cast vulnera sanentur.
Harry held himself tense, counting the seconds as Snape wove tissues back together.
“There,” Snape said with satisfaction, straightening. “Here, you do the rest. The minor healing charm should suffice.”
He held his wand out to Harry, who veered from it.
“What? No,” Harry said, going cold at the idea. “No, you have to do it.”
“This part of the process is very low stakes. I am right here—”
“No,” Harry repeated, voice raised, hands shaking. “I’ll mess it up. What if I, what if—I’m pants at healing anyway, I can’t do it for shit—”
Snape blinked, staring at him with some bewilderment.
“What are you talking about? You have an aptitude for healing.” With some sarcasm, he added, “Along with defense, flying, and a general knack for figuring things out you shouldn’t. All qualities the Auror program will look favorably upon—”
“Will you stop bringing that up!” Harry snapped. “Just heal it, please!” His voice cracked, eyes wet, and Snape’s humor fled his face.
“You have an aptitude for healing,” Snape repeated, slowly and seriously. “I do not flatter. It’s merely a statement of fact. I promise you, no harm will come of you trying. Just once, and if you are unable to, I will do it.”
"You said, you said—regardless of severity or circumstance—"
He watched Snape waver a moment before his eyes hardened.
"For your injuries, yes. But that promise only applies to you."
With these last words, Snape’s tone had become unyielding, and Harry knew it would be faster to abide and fail than to argue.
Mouth dry, hands unsteady, he took the wand.
Please, don’t hurt it, he thought as he pointed the wand at the pink, hairless site of injury on the hare’s belly.
Stomach roiling, he shut his eyes and spoke, “Sano salve. ”
Please don’t be hurt. Please just be okay, be okay—
“Potter. Potter, open your eyes.”
Harry did, and saw that the wound was gone. The hare was still breathing slow and steady, and Harry released a shuddering exhale.
“You did it.”
Harry lowered the wand, holding himself tense so as to suppress the shaking in his hands.
“You’re panicking,” Snape said quietly.
“Yeah, well, you forced me to do that, and I didn’t want to d-do that.”
“Breathe—”
“I know.”
“Breathe,” Snape repeated, and after a moment of hesitation, placed a hand near Harry’s and began to tap a slow rhythm. One, two, three, four…
Harry let the sound guide him, and gradually, he calmed.
“You would not know this,” Snape said after a moment. “I realize now I should have told you…but your efficacy with that charm is on par with Healers in training. If you wished to go into that field, I have little doubt of your success…what?”
Harry had laughed, shaking his head.
“Luck,” he said bitterly. “Every time I’ve tried to heal myself, this entire trip, I’ve never been able to do it. Well, I could in the ravine, but you were helping me. Only that time.”
Snape took on an expression that, by now, was familiar: the look of recalculating his overall assessment of Harry. The blatant examination was both annoying and unnerving, and Harry glared at the ground.
“Listen to me. Healing yourself is a different matter. Struggling to do so doesn’t detract from your abilities overall.”
Despite his upset over being forced to heal the hare, Harry felt some of his resentment fade.
“Why is it different?”
“Healers—and this is a generalization of course—but healers tend to be very patient oriented. They enter the field for the sake of others, and most of their training deals with focusing that outward desire. Healing the self requires an internal focus instead. It taps into self preservation, the desire for one’s own well-being.”
Harry struggled to absorb this.
“My sense of self-preservation…can affect my magic?”
“Yes.” Snape looked deeply vindicated. “Your mental and emotional state, the condition of your spirit…some branches of magic will be more affected by these things than others, but yes.” Eyes severe, he added, “You cannot do much to help others if you, yourself, are hanging by a thread. You need to be more selfish.”
Harry followed the grooves in his palm with his thumb. It had not occurred to him that his mental state could bar him from effective spellcasting. He considered how he had been the past few days. How he had been the past year.
When Snape had broached the subject of self-harm, Harry had shut him down. The man had given him space since then, which Harry had been glad of, but he felt some doubt now. He didn't want Snape's help for that...
But maybe he needed it.
The hare sprung to life suddenly, scattering herbs and vials as it bounded so high that Harry had to lift his head to see it. The moment it landed, it sprinted for the trees, its legs full of renewed vigor.
On their third day by the sea, Harry awoke to the sensation of a blanket being pulled over him. He kept his eyes shut as Snape murmured above him, and a toasty warmth closed over his limbs. He kept his breathing slow and even until he heard Snape’s footsteps recede to nothing.
Experimentally, Harry prodded his wounded heart; it was still sore, but tolerable, and his mind felt more clear than it had in days. Getting up, he peered through the doorway at Snape’s back. The man looked like a castaway on some abandoned island, a stranger despite the familiarity of his face. From behind, walking barefoot in the sand, he almost looked approachable; then he turned to face the sea, and his fierce, hawk-like profile shattered the illusion.
Harry tried to compromise the cruel professor of his memories with the man he saw now. The Snape he had built up in his mind would have screamed at Harry for his stunt in the ocean, would have sneered at him for his guilt over Sirius’ death. Instead, Snape had apologized to him, had healed the hare for him, and was now tolerating Harry’s lazing about on the beach.
As he watched the man fishing through the shallows with his trousers rolled up to the knee, salt-stiffened hair tossed by the wind, it occurred to Harry that he didn’t hate Snape, and hadn’t for a while now.
He liked him, even, which was strange, considering that he hadn’t quite forgiven the man.
Or had he? A part of him wanted more apologies, but when he thought of Snape’s face etched with guilt, it made his heart clench.
It’s like I want him to be sorry without feeling bad.
He couldn’t hope to untangle any of that right now. Harry took a breath, let the thoughts pass away, and crossed the sand to where the man was.
“Need help?”
Snape looked up at him, then held up the wriggling thing in his hand. “Beadlet anemone. Preferably green, if you can find any. You’ll find them wedged between the rocks here.”
Harry got down on his haunches and reached for one of the red, tentacled blobs. It was oddly sticky against his skin, and he watched with interest as the tentacles retracted upon exposure to air.
“Don’t touch other anemones with your bare skin,” Snape cautioned him. “The venom in these can’t harm you, but that can’t be said for others.”
They mucked about like this for an hour. It was absurd doing this with Snape of all people, but it felt entirely natural. Snape did not seem to be in any hurry, and spent just as much time squinting at shells and muttering over sea urchins as he did gathering ingredients. Harry had never visited a beach in his life, let alone explored a rock pool, and he took his time poking at the snails, limpets, crabs, and other strange creatures he found burrowed in the sand.
Harry poked one of the mollusks with his finger. “Wanna try cooking these?”
Snape looked dubious.
“I think we’ve got a few capsules left with odd stuff in them, like herbs and white wine. Useless before, but they could actually help now.”
The man raised his brows. “Well, far be it from me to discourage your culinary ventures.”
Harry combed the sand for cockles, and Snape showed him how to twist mussels from the rocks. They soon had a heaping pile of mollusks, which Snape cast a sterilizing spell over.
“Pollutants,” he explained.
Snape removed the byssus from the mussels while Harry rinsed and cleaned. The cooking was left to Harry, who decided to steam the cockles (they did indeed have some white wine). For the mussels, he decided to try something he’d read about, and gathered pine needles from the scant woods above the crags.
Snape watched curiously as Harry spread the mussels beneath the bed of needles, then lit the whole thing on fire.
“It’s a French thing,” Harry said with more confidence than he felt.
It all cooked relatively quickly, and soon they were prying open mollusks and eating them with their hands, making sure to toss the ones that hadn’t opened while cooking. The mussels were surprisingly good, smoky and pleasantly resinous in flavor, and they soon had a pile of empty shells.
Sated, Harry licked buttery fingers and sat back on the sand, watching the waves.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “For…well, losing it. I know I’ve been a mess lately—”
“I’d find it a comfort if you were more of a mess.”
Harry turned to stare at the man, who sat stiffly, glaring at the ocean.
“I don’t think you realize how stoic you’ve been. I show up on your doorstep without warning and drag you across the country, and you’ve barely complained.”
“...There’s a few things you’re forgetting,” Harry said, amazed and somehow angry. “How about the part where I ran away and nearly got us killed? Or the constant panic attacks, and waking you up at night with my screaming?”
“Anyone would have run away from me. I could not have provoked you more severely had I tried to drive you away. And having a panic attack upon being screamed at for no reason, upon seeing your Patronus change to the form of someone you recently lost—these are all natural reactions. Thank Merlin. Most of the time you endure everything in silence.”
Stunned, Harry took in these words. They hit him slowly, as did a realization—like a muted crash, a soft collision that had been building for a while now, as simple as it was startling:
Snape didn’t hate him either.
Snape liked him, even.
“Do you think you’re ready?” the man asked after a moment of quiet. “To try the Patronus again?”
Harry tensed.
“It’s all right if you’re not,” Snape said, looking at Harry with a level gaze. “I’m not concerned about your ability to send a message. That, I know you can do. I was merely asking.”
The man spoke with a simple confidence that had Harry’s face heating. Reeling from both the words and his recent epiphany, Harry scrambled for something to say.
“Um, thank you, by the way. For healing my hand.”
Snape didn’t reply, and Harry continued, “I didn’t realize you were supposed to sing the incantation.”
“You don’t have to,” Snape said quietly. “We take speaking an incantation and waving a wand for granted, but those are just choices of expression. In some cultures, magic is cast primarily through writing, or images. In Bulgaria, the Patronus is often taught in song, to make it easier for the caster to channel joy. For the branch of healing magic that vulnera sanentur hails from, singing was thought to be the chief vehicle through which a healer could best express their emotion and will. It does not have to be sung, but I find it more effective to do so.”
A peaceful silence fell. The sun had set by this point, horizon lost as black sky pooled into black sea.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…have you traveled a lot in the past? You seem, um, experienced with navigating the muggle world.”
Snape frowned, looking surprised at Harry’s questioning. “Other than the summer I spent traveling with my mother? Not really.”
A pause. “I always did want to travel. To see the wizarding communities on other continents, the different ways of magic and brewing.” The man shifted, his hair falling to curtain his expression. “I never saw myself staying in Britain my entire life…but that is how it turned out.”
Because he took the mark, Harry thought, filling in what was left unsaid. But why couldn’t Snape travel after the first war? Was it Dumbledore’s order? Or was it…self-imposed?
As Harry pondered these questions, Snape reached into his pocket and offered a familiar object: Harry’s candle, the image of Padfoot etched into its side.
“I forgot about that,” Harry said quietly.
“You never did get to release yours,” Snape said, still holding it out.
Harry looked at the carving of Padfoot he had made; it was rough, the line-flow interrupted by wax shavings, but there was something alive in it, as if at any moment the dog would leap into motion.
He reached out and took the candle.
After lighting the wick from their beach fire, he walked to the ocean’s edge, the tide lapping at his ankles. Snape came to stand beside him, a quiet but steady presence.
Just a month ago, Harry would have hated to have Snape witness this, but now, as he knelt to place the candle on the water’s surface, he found himself glad that he was not alone.
“It was not your fault,” Snape said, so softly that Harry might have imagined it.
Harry closed his eyes, and thought not only of Sirius, but of Iseul, and Ranveer, and Alex, and everyone else in the village they had left behind. Of Cedric, and his parents. Of all the people who had fallen to Voldemort in the past, and all the lives the war had yet to claim.
I'll try to believe that, he thought, and let the candle go.
Snape murmured under his breath, and ignoring the sweep of the tide, the candle was propelled from the shore by magic. They watched it go, until it was a tiny flicker of light against a plane of mirrored stars.
The next morning he found Snape, still barefoot and without any supplies, climbing atop the crags. He was headed away from the shore, and Harry frowned, calling to him. The man didn’t reply, and with anxiety growing in him, Harry followed.
It wasn’t until he grasped Snape’s arm that the man stopped, and turned with confused eyes.
“Sir,” Harry began, wary. “Where are you going?”
The man’s eyes darted from Harry’s face to the shore behind him, then back.
“Sea thrift,” Snape said, pointing to a cluster of flowers at their feet. “Also known as sea pink. Useful in mind-clarifying potions for people with sleep deprivation.”
Harry studied Snape’s face. Slowly, he relaxed, releasing the man’s arm, and knelt.
“You look like you could use it,” Harry said. “How do I gather these?”
“We won’t need much,” the man said quietly, kneeling beside him. “Here, grasp at the base and try to get as much of the roots as you can.”
They didn’t gather for long, and after returning to camp with flowers spilling from their pockets, Snape directed that they begin packing up.
“We couldn’t stay one more day?” Harry asked. “I wouldn’t mind having mussels again.”
“We’ve been here too long already,” Snape said, speaking more sharply than he had for days.
Harry felt a pang of hurt, but quashed it down as he moved to help gather their things. They were still on the run, he understood; Snape was only ensuring they didn’t linger too long, to their own danger.
“For an old wood,” Harry mused, “there aren’t many old trees.”
He had collected a few shells as keepsakes, and he turned one of these over in his hand as he followed Snape northwards through scant forest broken by pastures.
“Scotland’s forests are in a sorry state due to overgrazing. But there are magical preservation efforts—pockets of expanded space—where the forest can continue to grow undisturbed.”
“And that’s where we’re headed?”
“Soon, we should reach the entrance, yes. Your wand is holly?”
“Yes…?”
“Hm,” Snape frowned, looking at the trees around them. “Oak, pine, birch…more oak. Come along, the entrance is just ahead.”
The trees thinned, and where the forest ended, there was a small, bubbling spring, running down a slope of moss covered rocks.
“Cup the water in your palm,” Snape instructed. “Then, before you drink, say these words: Laleocen, Laleocen, let me enter the woods where you found your peace.”
Feeling a bit foolish, Harry followed the instructions, and suddenly, he was no longer at the edge of the forest, but deep within it, surrounded on all sides by trees.
Snape joined him a moment after, and looked around with approval.
“That’s more like it. All right, I’ll keep a look out for holly, but in the meantime, try the oak. Put your palm against it, and see if you feel anything.”
“What is this for?” Harry insisted.
“You need another wand that isn’t registered with the Ministry. Now go commune with that tree.”
Does Snape mean we’re going to make one?
Intrigued, Harry went to the oak Snape had pointed out, and pressed his hand against it.
“Um, is it like Ollivander’s? Just…feeling for a spark?”
“Something like that. Anything?”
“No…just feels like…a tree…”
Snape rolled his eyes, then pointed to another. “Try spruce.”
They walked through the forest, Snape pointing out different trees for Harry to try. The woods grew thick around them, the sounds muffled. The Forbidden Forest was Harry’s only reference for woods like this; the trees here were large and aged, shading the forest floor and blocking most of the sun. It was slow going over the hilly, green-blanketed ground; they paused often to step around tree roots and curtains of moss.
After Harry had failed to connect with rowan (Snape had been really insistent on that one), the man gave up on picking trees, and told him to just approach ones that caught his eye. Harry suspected the man was improvising at this point, but shrugging, he picked trees at random. One because it had a bird’s nest in it, another because of its gnarled roots, another because of how the light shone on its leaves…
A warmth sparked beneath his palm, as if the tree had a beating heart within. Startled, Harry touched it with both hands, and closed his eyes. If he listened closely, it almost felt like the wind through the leaves was singing.
“Ash,” Snape informed him. Harry opened his eyes and turned to see Snape looking up at the tree with a dry expression. “The famed tree of life. Very on brand, Potter.”
Harry frowned, lifting his hands from the tree. He heard Ollivander’s voice in his head, saying, Terrible, but great…
“According to our folklore,” Snape continued, more softly, “it is also a healing tree. It suits you.”
The tree swayed in the breeze as if waving to him, and a branch fell from its boughs to the grass below.
“A sign if I ever saw one,” Snape said, sounding more put-upon than amazed.
Once they had made camp below the ash, Harry picked up the branch and took stock of its structure. Harry thought of a creek they had passed not far off; it would be a good place to sit while he whittled. He dug through his bag for his knives, to no avail. Had he not moved them from his inner jacket pocket? He had thought—
“You are looking for your whittling supplies?”
“Yeah,” Harry said with frustration, looking up. “I can’t find—”
He stopped, seeing Snape take them from his own bag.
Like a missed note, something shifted between them. A breath withheld, the pull of some vacuity seeking equilibrium.
It was the familiar tension that preceded their fights—something Harry could only see now, after days of uncharacteristic peace. The possibility of conflict between them had become an old but unwelcome acquaintance; carefully, they circled it.
Harry took a breath, and said as evenly as he could, “You took them back?”
“I did,” Snape said, equally careful.
Harry frowned, wondering when Snape had done so. Had he checked Harry's bag while he slept? The thought irritated him, but he retrieved the tools without questioning the man. “I’ll just be at the river,” he said, and turned to go.
“I’d prefer you to work here.”
Snape’s voice was neutral, too neutral, and Harry felt a sharp pulse of irritation.
“It’s only just down the trail,” Harry said flatly.
“Potter,” Snape warned. The show of authority was too much, and Harry’s temper snapped.
“Just say what you mean! You think I’m about to cut up my leg, don’t you? Well, I’m not! I’m not mental—”
“And I did not say that you were,” Snape said, expression tight. “But you cannot blame me for—”
“I know we’ve been getting along,” Harry said stiffly, “but you don’t have to do this. I’d prefer you didn’t, actually.”
“Oh, you prefer? You certainly like to pick and choose, don’t you?” The man’s tone was suddenly nasty. This was the old Snape, angry and cruel, and Harry felt a rush of bitter vindication…and disappointment. “Defense instruction, digging you wands out of graves, lending you my wand even when you don't deign to use it, tolerating your constant recklessness and disrespect—that is all acceptable, yes? But simply asking you to reassure me of your safety, suddenly that is too much!”
“If you didn’t want to give me those things,” Harry said, voice shaking, “then why did you? If I’d known you were just going to guilt trip me—”
“I gave you those things so you could protect yourself!” Snape shouted, getting to his feet. “So you could be safe! You cannot blame me for worrying that—”
“It’s not your place to worry about me! I don’t need you to—”
“DO NOT PRESUME TO TELL ME WHAT YOU NEED,” Snape roared.
Harry fell silent, heart hammering in his chest.
“If you are using your knives,” Snape said, his voice icily quiet, “then you will do it here, or not at all.”
“If I wanted to hurt myself,” Harry said, furious, “you know I could do it without these, without a wand. You can’t watch me every minute of the day—”
Snape was suddenly closing the distance between them, rough fingers grasping Harry’s jaw and lifting his face.
“Are you threatening to kill yourself so that I give you what you want?” the man asked, his voice soft and his eyes terrible to look at.
Harry swallowed. He tried to turn away, but Snape kept a firm grasp on his chin. “Not kill! Just—”
“Just inflict harm upon yourself?”
“N-No, I was just, I’m saying that it’s, that it’s pointless to—”
“You are saying that no matter how hard I try, I cannot protect you from everything, least of all yourself.”
Harry pressed his eyes closed. “I’m s-sorry,” he choked out.
Snape released his jaw. “You will stay here,” he said tonelessly. When Harry didn’t reply, the man snapped, “Potter?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
Snape stalked away and stopped with his back to Harry, his frame cordoned with tension. Harry barely dared to breathe as a frozen silence stretched between them; his chest felt like it was being crushed.
“Fuck,” Snape said quietly. Harry tensed as the man abruptly turned, his expression fierce. He stopped in front of Harry, his hands raised, hesitating for a moment before they came to rest on Harry’s forearms.
“I’m sorry,” Snape said roughly. His hold on Harry was firm but careful, supportive rather than capturing. “How are you feeling, right now?”
Harry stared at him. How did he feel?
“I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to pull away. Snape loosened his hold, but instead of releasing, simply shifted to hold Harry’s hands instead. Harry’s face warmed. “Look, you don’t have to…”
“We haven't talked about this, not properly. In truth, I've been…you've been through a great deal this year. And that is on top of the ordeal of last year, and every year before. It would only be natural for you to need an outlet for anger, or grief, or hurt.”
“I’m not angry,” Harry denied. “Or hurt. I told you, I was just practicing! There's nothing to talk about.” It was true, or he thought it was. The emotions within him were a murky tangle; he tried to grasp at them, and they slipped through his fingers, revealing nothing but a void.
“Avoiding this—”
“I’m not,” Harry snapped, tugging away. Snape pulled him back, calloused thumbs brushing over his skin, soothing, patient.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
“Nothing! I just—I just feel. Empty.” Harry’s voice wavered on the last word, and he finally tore one arm away to cover his face.
“It’s natural to feel that way. It’s called dissociation, when we separate from our feelings. It’s a survival mechanism, something you would have needed far too often—”
“I don’t want a lecture.”
“I do not mean to,” Snape said, and Harry hated how gentle he sounded. “But it’s important for you to understand this. Learning to regulate your emotions in a healthy way, instead of turning to hurting yourself—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. After everything you have been through—”
“It doesn’t matter!” Harry exploded. “What good does being angry do me? So what if I’m grieving, or afraid?”
The culmination of years tumbled over him, roiling in his chest and bubbling up his throat, choking him.
“Do you know how long I waited for—”
Harry clamped his lips shut, keeping his intended words tightly back: someone to take me from the Dursleys.
“Waited for what?”
What does that have to do with anything? Why am I even thinking about that? Shut up, shut up, shut up!
He felt as if his soul was a tangled root; for years it had grown deep into the earth, twisting itself into a mass. All the things he wanted to say, he couldn't unbury them without grasping the heart of it all and wrenching it out. It was too much to even attempt thinking about, let alone speaking it.
“Tom’s not going to stop until he kills me, or I kill him,” he said instead. He felt a tinge of guilt for how often he had said Voldemort in front of Snape in his recent moments of upset. He had not failed to notice how it made the man flinch. “What’s crying or yelling about it going to do? It won’t change the past, it won’t bring anyone back, and it won’t stop…” He wavered, steeled himself, and continued, “It won’t stop the fact that more people are going to die.”
His voice broke on the last word, and suddenly Snape’s hand was on his nape, pulling him in.
“I am going to keep you safe,” Snape swore, his breath warm against Harry’s temple. “I do not expect you to take my word for it; I know your past experience tells a different story. Just watch me. I will show you.”
His cheek pressed against the man’s sternum, Harry felt these promises rumble from Snape’s chest. The situation was surreal, but the fingers against his scalp were warm, the nylon of Snape's windbreaker cold against his face.
He could not really believe Snape. What could he do amidst the forces that swarmed around them? In the face of more powerful wizards and encroaching war? But the hold around him was solid, enveloping. It chased away his fears; it beckoned him to be weak, to let go.
Slowly, he raised his hands, closing his fingers to grasp at Snape’s jacket. He leaned in, and felt the man tighten his hold in return. Harry's eyes slipped closed as he felt his worries muffle and fade, the world reducing to a steady heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered after a protracted moment. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Snape murmured. “It’s like I said, you’ve been through a great deal, and not just this year. Anyone in your position would be struggling. It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”
Harry swallowed, feeling overwhelmed, pushing back the urge to cry.
“I really wasn’t going to cut myself.”
“I believe you,” Snape said, his arm tightening around Harry’s back. “But that’s not a simple promise you can make me. Even if it really was just for spell practice, injuring yourself, without supervision, when you have yet to master the healing charm—it was self destructive."
Harry stiffened, and Snape carded his fingers through his hair until he relaxed.
"It's not like I have the cutting disease," Harry muttered into Snape's chest. "It's not like an addiction. I don't have to do it. I can stop."
"Hurting yourself doesn't have to follow a strict pattern to count as self-harm," Snape explained gently. "And actively injuring yourself is only one form of self-harm. I’ve noticed the way you disregard your own safety. Do you understand?”
Harry swallowed. He didn't want to admit it; it felt like there was something wrong with him.
But his behavior hadn't been normal, had it?
He needed help.
And Snape was offering it.
Snape ran his fingers through his hair once more before stepping back, moving his hands to Harry's shoulders.
“So please. If you are going to use your knives, I want to be present.”
Face warm, looking at a point on Snape’s chest, Harry nodded.
The man exhaled softly. “Thank you.”
For the remainder of the evening, Harry carved the branch down under Snape’s close eye. “You need to learn to process your emotions instead of turning to destructive modes of coping.”
“Are you a therapist now?” Harry joked dully, embarrassed by Snape’s frank assessment.
“Far from it,” Snape said dryly. “You’ve been subjected to my charming personality for five years now—tell me, Potter, does emotional regulation seem like one of my talents to you?”
Harry smiled slightly.
“As a spy for the Order, it was necessary to undergo severe dissociation for long periods at a time. To make fulfilling such a role sustainable—survivable—I needed to reliably process my emotions once I was outside an Occluded state. Brewing was my choice of remedy. For you, whittling seems to be effective.”
Harry had to admit, the work did help him feel steadier, especially after the high emotions of their confrontation. He paused to examine the branch, turning it to different angles.
“Don’t think too hard about it,” Snape suggested. “Follow the lines of the wood; do what feels right.”
Rich words, coming from someone who had never whittled in his life. Thinking of his last attempt at a “wand,” which had snapped, Harry said suspiciously, “Have you ever made a wand before?”
“I have not,” Snape said, unbothered.
“Well, it’s not easy,” Harry muttered, eyes fixed to the wood as he cut in careful motions. “What are we even going to use for the core?”
“I have a selection of rarer ingredients that might do, although no Phoenix feather, I’m afraid. I'll set them out for you to peruse."
Despite his complaints, Harry soon got absorbed in the work. It was a beautiful piece of wood. He sharpened his knife often, cutting into the ash like butter, following its curves and patterns. The motions felt good, felt right, and Snape let him work through the night, undisturbed.
As the sun rose, Harry finally slowed, smoothing the surface and doing finishing touches. Hands aching, he placed his knife down, wiped away the dust, and examined his work. It was a simple shape, longer than his holly wand, with a pale color interspersed with darker grain. The handle was larger, and there was a crook in the middle. Harry only realized then, looking at it, that he had subconsciously mimicked the shape of Snape’s.
He looked to the man, who was dozing with his back against the ash tree, his face soft in the dusty light filtering from above.
That makes four, Harry thought.
He turned to look at the ingredients Snape had set out for him. There was unicorn hair, an iridescent shimmer to the white strands, and dragon heartstring, coiled tightly in a dark bottle. In addition to these, Snape had also set out the blood, talons, and teeth of various rare creatures. With the exception of the unicorn hair, they were all dire looking ingredients, and Harry suspected some of them were not entirely legal.
Harry ran his hands over the spread, lingering on the dragon heartstring before drawing away. A cloud passed by overhead, and as its shadow lifted, Harry saw a flash in the corner of his eye. He turned, and saw his capsule in the grass, the interior glittering under the beam of a new dustmote.
Harry picked it up, and could swear it felt warmer than it should, as if magic thrummed within.
Gently, he shook Snape's shoulder. The man stirred with a low groan before his eyes snapped open, taking in their surroundings.
I wonder when he started waking up like that, Harry thought. Like he expects to be surrounded by enemies.
Snape's eyes settled on the finished wand in Harry's hand, and his voice still fuzzy from sleep, he said, "May I see?"
Feeling a little self-conscious, Harry handed it over.
“It’s well made,” the man said, real appreciation in his voice. “Have you thought about the core?"
Harry shifted nervously. “Actually, I was thinking…what about my mirror shard?”
Snape’s brow furrowed. “It is an object of great import to you, and has been…infused with your blood,” he said slowly. He caught Harry’s eyes. “You have harmed yourself with it.”
Harry nodded. “I know it’s a weird choice. To be honest, a part of me doesn’t want to let it go. But using it as a core doesn’t feel like a bad thing? It feels right to…to transform it. Sorry, I’m not making much sense.”
Snape turned to the ingredients he had spread on the mossy ground. “I must be crazy," he muttered as he retrieved a vial Harry had overlooked. It was full of a dense, metallic liquid: the fulgurite concentrate. "What do you think of a dual core?"
Harry looked at the dark vial, and recalled the lightning strike that had produced it: the shock of thunder in his ears, the electricity bolting across the dark ground. What would it be like, to combine such power with his glass shard?
"I imagine the resulting wand will produce an even more powerful Patronus than you currently can."
"Really?"
Snape nodded. “Keep in mind, it may not be as easy to control as your current wand. Any wand you make by hand can have an unwieldy learning curve, but it will excel in aspects of magic that reflect its core.” The man smiled a little. “This mirror was originally a device that transmits messages across a distance, yes? I suspect it will make an ideal core for apparition.”
Harry looked up so quickly his neck protested. “You’ll teach me to apparate with this?”
Snape looked at him intently. “You are sure?”
Harry looked down at the capsule in his hand. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“I only have a theoretical knowledge of this,” Snape explained as they began the coring process. “You are supposed to hollow out the wand, carefully…”
Snape lent him his wand to transfigure one of the knives, as Harry was a better judge for the shape he would need. He fashioned a long, narrow screw, which he used to slowly hollow out the wand. Once this was done, Snape opened the capsule, and Harry held the shard in his palm to look at it for the last time.
"Ready?" Snape asked quietly.
In answer, Harry placed the shard into the prepared crucible. Snape taught him the incantation to liquefy glass, and he cast it, watching as the fragment softened like melted ice. Snape took back his wand, and Harry watched him levitate the glass and fulgurite into the air. He began to wind the strands together, a mesmerizing dance of transparent silver and dark gunmetal, the liquid ribbons growing luminous every time they passed through a shaft of light. Harry lifted the hollowed wand, and held it as steady as he could as Snape guided the liquid braid to its final resting place.
While the fulgurite-glass was still hot, Harry closed the hole with a cork made from the remains of the ash branch. Snape cast a chilling charm over the wand, cooling the mixture inside, then Harry smoothed and shaped the base until the cork was so seamless as to be invisible.
“Give it a wave,” Snape said.
Heart lifting with both excitement and trepidation, Harry raised his wand and spoke in a strong voice, “Expecto Patronum!”
Silver burst forth from his wand like a river, and a dozen Padfoots bounded into the woods around them. Harry and Snape were stunned silent—until one of the silver dogs rolled right through Snape’s feet, its belly splayed and tongue lolling.
“Of course you couldn’t start with a simple lumos,” the man said, his voice long-suffering.
A laugh shocked its way out of Harry, turning into a bright peal of sound.
Snape looked up, startled, and Harry wondered if this was the first time he had laughed so freely in front of the man. He felt too joyous to be self-conscious, however. His new wand felt like sunshine in his hand. The Patroni glimmered gold and green as they passed in front of the trees, and it seemed to Harry as if the world had suddenly become clearer, more vibrant.
“I should have ensured your possession of an off-Trace wand from the start,” Snape said softly as the Patroni faded. “The rosewood was a poor substitute. I did not have much time to plan for your retrieval from Privet Drive, otherwise I would have attempted to acquire a black market wand that was a closer match to your original.”
“Wait, really?”
“You’re safer with one. With Mulciber, and then later, at the train car…you never should have had to choose between casting magic and alerting the Ministry versus forgoing magic and staying undetected. I apologize.”
“Mulciber wasn’t your fault. I ran away. That one was all me—”
“We’ve gone over this,” Snape cut him off, conveying kind words in a harsh voice. “To be clear, if you ever pull such a stunt again, I—” He cut himself off, grimacing. “At sixteen, had I been in your shoes, I too would have run, and for far less.”
“I still shouldn’t have run. And when you were injured, I was too stupid to realize I could have just used your wand—”
“You are not stupid,” Snape said sharply, looking at him. “You had never been instructed on how the Trace works, or what to do if you find yourself in need of evading the Ministry’s detection. That is our failing, not yours.”
Harry’s heart lodged in his throat.
“But now, you have a safe way to cast magic undetected,” Snape said, gesturing at the new wand. His voice suddenly brusque, he continued, “Of course, that wand means new ground rules. Break these rules, and you won’t see it again for a long while.”
As the man began to lecture, Harry found himself looking at a Snape who seemed different and new, but was also utterly familiar.
“What are you staring at me for?” Snape demanded.
“Nothing,” Harry said, and reached down to push his whittling knives in Snape’s direction. “Just…thanks for holding onto these for me.”
After the third night of apparition practice, Harry managed to do it—only to reappear in the same spot, nowhere closer to the circle Snape had designated.
Snape was on him in a flash, and it was only after the man was pouring a potion on his arm did Harry realize he was missing a small slice of it.
“Ow,” he said, more out of surprise than actual pain.
He understood now, why the man always set out an apothecary’s worth of potions before these practices.
“You didn’t lose too much,” Snape said, frowning at the wound. “I’m going to close it.”
“Can I try first?”
Snape glanced at him before nodding.
The glass-core wand prickled and hummed against his palm; holding it felt like he had dragged his feet across carpet and reached for a doorknob. He was still learning to control it, but unlike the rosewood, its volatility felt warm and eager, responding almost too readily to his magic. He loved it. While he still had a strong attachment to his original wand, he would be hard-pressed to say which was the better match.
“Sano salve.”
Nothing.
Snape had already told him that his wand wasn’t the issue, but it was still disheartening.
“You could try again,” Snape suggested.
Harry just looked up at him, and without another word, the man moved in to heal it himself.
“I don’t understand why it’s so much easier to heal your wounds and not mine,” Harry said, frustrated as he watched Snape close the wound. “I mean, you explained why, it’s just…”
“Give it time,” Snape said simply. “You’re not the first aspiring healer to struggle with such things.”
“Aspiring healer,” Harry scoffed. Snape seemed serious though, and Harry asked, “You really think I could be one?”
“Yes."
Harry blinked, startled at how immediate Snape's response had been.
“I’d be surprised if you had no interest, considering you mention it so often.”
“Mention what? Healing?”
Snape’s brows raised. “Yes. It’s the focus of almost every question you ask. Healing herbs, healing potions, the healing applications of this or that spell…you redirect our conversations often.”
Harry thought furiously back on their talks. Had he really been doing that?
“Then again, just being a Healer might be too tame for you.” Snape placed his chin on his hand as he regarded Harry with low-lidded eyes. “You’d excel as a field medic, I’m sure, scaling mountains and combing the jungle for rare herbs. Or perhaps a climbing instructor, encouraging impressionable souls to share your love of all things dangerous and gravity-defying.”
Harry bit back a laugh. Who did Snape think he was? Indiana Jones?
“Sure, sure."
Despite this dismissal, the man’s words stuck with him. He usually struggled to imagine himself after Hogwarts. But Snape had no such qualms; he spoke of Harry having a varied future as utterly natural and expected. Hearing the man talk, the world looked larger than Harry was used to seeing it, especially when he considered both the magical and the muggle.
Ranveer, Iseul, and Alex came to mind. He felt grief when he thought of them, but it didn't temper his realization: he hadn't expected to fit in with them, but he had, and easily at that. With so many places and so many kinds of people, maybe it wasn't so strange to think he could belong somewhere.
Harry awoke to an uneasy but familiar stillness. He almost expected it when he looked and found that Snape was nowhere to be seen. The man's research materials were out, and Harry knelt beside one of the open journals. He was surprised to find the pages on display were mostly covered in diagrams as opposed to text. There was an illustration of a complex glass apparatus, and what looked to be the cairn stones.
Harry looked away, heart thudding in his chest. He was certain these pictures would give insight into the rituals Snape kept hidden behind the smokescreen spell; he was surprised the man hadn't charmed the diagrams to be obscured somehow.
I bet he usually does, Harry thought, looking once more at the abandoned campsite. It looks like he left in the middle of things.
He turned back to the journal. This is what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To finally find out what Snape was hiding, and how it connected to the prophecy?
And yet, as his hand hovered over the journal, Harry found himself reluctant to look through it.
I don’t know if I forgive him, Harry thought, closing the book instead. But I trust him.
In the past few weeks, he had utterly broken down in front of Snape more than once. Thinking of it should fill him with embarrassment, but Harry merely felt pensive. Perhaps it was because Snape had broken down right along with him.
He had seen the man uncertain, panicked, and fearful; he had seen black eyes try and fail to hide concern behind a shield of anger; he had seen Snape stand helpless in bare feet covered with sand, his clothes and hair drenched in seawater.
Much about Snape was still a mystery to him; and yet, he knew how the man sounded when he snored, knew how he liked his coffee, knew the tones of his singing voice, and at this point, he could probably identify the man from the brewing scars on his hands alone. It was strange, scary even…but it also made him feel warm.
Standing with resolve, Harry raised his wand and spoke, “Homenum revelio.”
The spell detected a presence at once, and donning his cloak, Harry followed it. It did not take him long to find Snape, who stood just beyond a copse of trees. The man stood still, looking from side to side as if he were lost.
Dropping the cloak from his face, Harry spoke, “Professor?”
Snape whirled, and Harry caught the momentary relief in his gaze.
“Potter. I was just—”
“Gathering sea thrift?”
The man’s posture tightened, jaw going rigid.
“It’s a curse, isn’t it?” Harry said, and got his confirmation in the weary irritation that crossed Snape’s face.
“It’s none of your concern,” he said, and the acid in his voice was all old Snape. “Head back to camp. We’re packing up.”
Snape didn’t move, clearly wanting Harry to lead the way back. He had behaved similarly in the fields outside the train car.
It's almost like he can’t get back on his own.
“Stop thinking,” Snape snapped. “For once in your life, leave it be!”
That hurt, but Harry swallowed it down. He could see a desperation through the man’s fury, and with some effort, he quieted the part of his brain that itched to pick apart the situation.
“Okay,” he said, and began to walk back.
He had taken several steps when Snape spoke low from behind him.
“As easy as that?”
Harry turned to find the man staring at him, his dark eyes incredulous.
“Yeah,” Harry said simply.
Snape continued to just stand there, as if waiting for Harry to blow up at him.
“It’s not like I don’t want to know,” Harry said. “But if I needed to know, you’d tell me.” He looked away, flattening his bangs. “I’m sure you have your reasons.”
There was no response, and frowning, Harry raised his eyes. The look he saw dawning on Snape’s face was one he had never seen before; it was open and somehow young, and expressed a stark, unmitigated gratitude.
Flushing, Harry dropped his eyes back to his shoes. He had shocked Snape into candor before, but never so completely as this. It felt wrong to look at him.
It was a moment before Snape spoke again.
“You are not wrong. It is...the cost of my betrayal, you could say.”
A punishment from Voldemort, Harry thought with concern and alarm.
Snape cleared his throat. “And it is something you should know. Need to know. I will explain it to you. Soon. Just…not today.” Eyes glinting, he added, “I can only hope you won’t figure it all out before then.”
Harry's lip quirked.
“I’ll try really hard not to have any epiphanies.”
"As if that's even possible for you."
Their walk that morning was awkward, but not unpleasant. Harry found himself watching Snape’s back even more than usual.
“I was thinking,” Harry said, the sound of leaves soft beneath their feet, “if...when everything is over, maybe I'll try for a Healer’s program after all.”
“The profession would suit you,” Snape said simply.
The warmth of these words enveloped Harry like a cloak, and it remained even as they reached the exit, another natural spring.
“Say the words, Laleocen, Laleocen, let me exit the woods where you found your peace, then drink from the spring,” Snape instructed.
A bloom of liking rose within Harry, and he didn’t hold it back as he smiled at Snape. The man looked startled, and Harry ducked to drink from the spring and speak the words, his smile turning into a grin.
The trees receded, replaced by empty moorland, and Harry felt in his heart as if there had been a loss of magic. But he had no time to mourn, for right in front of him stood Albus Dumbledore.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the headmaster said.
Then he sent a stunner over Harry’s shoulder, right at Snape.
Notes:
*Re: animal injury: Harry comes across an injured hare. He wants to put it out of its misery, but unable to do so, enlists Snape's help. Snape suggests healing the hare instead, and they do so. Snape insists that a reluctant Harry cast the final healing charm. Harry does so successfully. To avoid this section entirely:
stop at: As he reached the top of the incline, the sparse pine groves they had passed on their way here rose into view.
resume at: “Potter. Potter, open your eyes.”Chapter 8 playlist:
Hope in Hell by Otzeki
ONARA (Theme of Dae Jang Geum) by YANAKA
Show you a Body by Haley Heynderickx
Notion by Tash Sultana
Bare by WILDES
マホロボシヤ by Ichiko Aoba
Swimming in the Flood by Passion Pit
Chapter 9: each road you know is mine
Summary:
CW: death, loss, child abuse (physical), alcoholism, homophobic slur
This is a very emotionally heavy chapter that deals with familial loss. Please take care as you read♥️.
My sincere thanks to my beta WiCeBa!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eileen had smelled of cigarettes and patchouli. Her overcoat was long, the leather of her boots cracked and worn. Her fingernails always had dirt beneath them, and her hair looked ever-windswept.
When Severus thought of her, he always pictured her with a bag on her shoulder and one foot out the door.
The Dark Lord had been dead for a year when Severus found her. On impulse, he asked Dumbledore—he only became Albus later—to go with him. To his shock and relief, the old wizard said yes.
In a clinic in a small town he had never been to before, Eileen Snape sat in a bed with a blank expression.
“I had only ever heard stories of the wanderer’s lament,” Dumbledore said softly while Severus held his mother’s hand for the first time in five years.
“I found a few documented cases, although I had to dig through fairy books and children’s stories to find them,” Severus said, and his voice was surprisingly calm. “In its late stage, it looks much like a botched Obliviation might.”
His mother looked at their clasped hands, and frowned up at him.
“Are you one of the new nurses?” she asked.
Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.
"So the boy…the boy must die?"
"And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential."
A long silence. Albus’ withered hand rested on his desk, a slant of moonlight cutting across the vial Severus had brought him, now empty.
"I thought…all these years…that we were protecting him for her. For Lily."
"We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength," said Albus, his eyes still shut tight. "Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he sets out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort."
In another time, another life, Albus would open his eyes to find Severus Snape looking at him with horror.
But in this time, in this life, Severus looked at him with calm, his face betraying nothing.
There was an old and familiar despair to Severus' nightly research. Potter was not the first person he had sought to rescue from their fate—nor the second, nor the third. As Severus followed the crumbs that Albus left (a midnight hunt for Slughorn, old orphanage records, a Dark text sequestered away), he felt like a younger man, hunting for cures where none existed.
The symptoms developed slowly, just gradually enough that he didn’t recognize them for what they were.
But as he stood on a grass lawn, blinking in the sunlight, with no memory of how he had come to be there, he could not so easily dismiss lost time. A horror crawled up Severus’ throat as he thought of his uncharacteristic memory lapses over the past days. The way his feet kept bringing him upstairs—where the front door was. The way he kept getting turned around on the way back from shopping trips, the failed apparitions.
Severus apparated to C̶̻̒̄ǒ̶͙k̶̫͌͜ȇ̸͍̪ŵ̸͍̃o̵̱̎̀r̸̡̝̓͗t̵̤͎͗̓h̷͕̅͜.
Or at least, he tried. He ended up two neighborhoods over. He had to walk there, and it took him three attempts to stop going to the wrong corner.
Albus was in his sitting room.
“Were it under different circumstances,” the old wizard said, “I could take some satisfaction in my theory being correct. I had read the curse is affected by sentiment, and considering how little time you spend here, I thought you might still be able to enter. But not for long—isn’t that right, Severus?”
Nausea rose in Severus. He felt dizzy.
All of his research was back at the...where was it again? The safehouse. The place he just came from. It was unusable now, and if he could not return to it, so were his carefully prepared supplies.
Albus read him like he always did, no Legilimency needed.
“Do you think you can find your way back to that secret ▚̵̲̇̊▂̷̫̳͂̋▒̸̰̐▞̸̖͊ ̴̩̼̊ of yours? The protections you’ve put on the place are impressive. If only the Fidelius Charm did not require two people… What a curious case that could be—a place inaccessible even to its Keeper. And being unable to remember the address, you wouldn’t be able to share it with anyone, even if you wished to.”
“How could you do this?” Severus whispered.
He expected all kinds of retaliations from both the Dark Lord and Albus should he be discovered. But this…this possibility never once crossed his mind.
The reality of the years with nowhere to rest stretched ahead of him like a dark maw.
“How could I?” The levity was gone from Albus’ voice. “You are about to risk everything we have ever worked for. And for what? Your selfish guilt? An obsession?”
When Severus tries to remember this moment later, he won't be able to see where they are. The walls, if there are walls, will blur in his mind. When he tries to cheat by thinking of scent and timbre and temperature, to logic out his surroundings through guesswork, even those details will slip away. Eventually, he will not be able to recall how Albus looked in this moment, only his voice, because even the look of light on the older wizard's face gives too much away.
“You choose to go this far," Severus said, and it was amazing he could even speak, "when you could let me try to save him?”
“You have forced my hand. I’m actually astonished with you.” Albus showed only a fraction of his fury, but that was more than enough. If Severus had not already been devastated, there might have been room for terror. “With both of us investigating the horcruxes, the risk of Voldemort discovering us increases exponentially. And you know this, but did it anyway. Did you think I wouldn't find out? What you have been planning since I confided in you about Harry's fate? You insisted I trust you...and I did."
Albus had crossed lines with Severus before—hiring Lupin, restraining him from rescuing Potter during the third task, and most egregious, revealing that all along, the boy was to be a pig for slaughter, and their original agreement had been a lie. And Severus had forgiven him, because Albus received him when he was a Death Eater. Guided and sheltered him, and gave him purpose.
But this? This was beyond lines.
“Using the curse against you was extreme, I admit. With your competency, I could not risk you taking Harry and disappearing. With this, even you cannot hide from us for long." Albus' voice softened. "Your plan has failed, Severus. Come home.”
Home? Where is home?
“It is not too late. Your cover is not yet broken.”
Severus’ emotions were locked down tight, but he could not stop his physical response. Heat rose behind his eyes, and the pulse in his throat jumped. He recalled being younger, when everyone he loved had died, and Albus had been there, with his arms outstretched as they were now.
There was nothing left to say.
Except for a single word—the prepared, one-time-use spell that would activate the compound in Albus' bloodstream.
Severus whispered it, one syllable under the breath.
The effects were immediate: Albus' eyes flew wide, wand slipping from his fingers and knees buckling. Severus stepped forward swiftly to lower the man to the floor; beneath the voluminous robes, his mentor's body was frail.
The compound was a soporific as well as a magical tourniquet, cutting off flow from the core. Severus knew it was working, too, because he could feel it. He had not noticed it before, but now that Albus' magic was blocked, the air around them felt depleted. It was not meant to have such an attenuating effect, however, and Severus' heart clenched to realize that in Albus' old age, his body's magic likely contributed to supporting his frame.
“Even when I think I haven’t underestimated you,” Albus said faintly, his breathing labored. There was a trace of laughter in his voice, and even now, he grasped at Severus' sleeve with trust, unresisting as he was guided to a lying position.
"It will only put you to sleep," Severus said quietly. "By the time you wake, you should be fully restored."
“How long?” Albus asked, and Severus knew what he meant.
“In the golden potion. Since the first dose.”
A single drop. Tasteless, odorless. His own formula, an accidental byproduct of years of experimentation. A precaution he had long come to think he would never need. And Albus had drunk it. Soft and old in his bed, looking at Severus with the eyes of long-time confidante, he had drunk without hesitation each and every time.
“So prepared.” Albus looked up at him from the floor. “It’s only a matter of time before I find you. You’d be better off killing me, you know.” His arms were almost crossed over his chest, and Severus had to restrain himself from moving them. “Perhaps you are hoping for my arm to kill me before I can find you? You know I will suffer without your aid.”
That the older wizard would resort to guilt-tripping was ironic in a way only Severus knew.
"Exploiting my love once was enough," Severus said, and he had never shut Albus up faster.
He stood. Few brewers could make the golden potion as he did. It would be hard for Albus to find one on such short notice, and it was possible the delay could cost him days, even weeks of the time he had left.
Fortunately, Severus was practiced in delaying remorse. The compound was designed to work for hours, but Albus could not be underestimated. Severus had to move.
Dispossessed of his last surviving friend, Severus turned and apparated.
When he sees Albus again, the Headmaster will be aiming a Stunner at his face.
The boy didn’t trust him.
It was only natural. Severus had been spending the past five years cultivating that distrust and then some. But now, as the boy followed him through train stations and sat next to him in the backs of cabs, Severus found himself stretched thin with anxiety. Any moment, he expected Potter to make a run for it, or do something stupid, like cast a spell and bring the Ministry down upon them. Severus barked and bit and threatened, and James Potter’s face looked back at him unmoved, Lily’s eyes scathing.
Severus just had to hope that the boy obeyed, because his mind was needed elsewhere. He pieced together his lost research in cramped hotel rooms, his cauldron setups hasty and piecemeal, the speed of their travel often forcing him to halt his progress and reconstruct it the day after.
He thought of the war, and the cost of his choice. He thought of Albus with rage and regret.
And often, he thought of his mother, and how he now stood in her shoes. With the boy in tow, he felt her ghost in each of his footsteps, and for the first time, he was glad of her death.
She would never have to know that her son shared her fate.
He had vague memories of his mother from when he was young, so young that he recalled mostly sensations: the warmth of being carried, smells both bright and foul as he sat on a counter watching her brew, a lullaby sung in a low, deep voice that was similar to his own.
he's a boy in love, a love so sweet,
alas his love he cannot meet!
oh wander-boy-wander, why do you wander boy?
alas! he has the wayfaring feet.
At some point, she had left. Severus spent much of his pre-Hogwarts years sitting by the window, searching for his mother’s face among strangers.
She's traveling, his father would say. She'll be back soon.
She did return for Severus’ birthdays, and on odd days without warning. Dad would always leap to his feet to greet her at the door, and press his forehead to hers. They’d stay that way for a long moment, breathing each other in, before his father pulled away, and turned back to Severus.
It was like a magic spell. When his father turned around, his smile would be alive and his face transformed, as if touching foreheads with his wife reanimated him.
Severus thrived on these moments. As a child, he had often fixated on Eileen’s return. Because he missed her, yes, but more so, he missed who his father was when she was around.
He had told her welcome home, once. It had been a longer than usual spell of sighing at the window, and he could barely contain himself when he saw her walking up the path.
His parents both froze the moment he said it, and he knew he had done something wrong, although not how or why. When his father turned to him, his expression was stiff and unsmiling.
I broke the magic, Severus thought.
Eileen was not there for his Hogwarts letter, nor for the trip to get his school supplies. He could still remember standing alone in the shops as an eleven-year-old, his list crinkling in sweaty fingers as people pushed around him. While Dad waited nervously outside the Leaky Cauldron, Severus had watched other children get led by their parents around the shelves.
When they got home, his father sat him down on the sofa and knelt on the floor in front of him. Still in his going-out shoes, the shopping bags sitting unopened on the kitchen table, Severus nodded along as his father explained that his mother was under a curse.
We had hoped to take care of it long, long ago, his father said, hands on Severus’ knees and eyes beseeching. We never told you, because it was never supposed to come this far.
It was complicated, his father said, and Severus devoured his words. It was a convenient explanation, and Severus had wanted to believe it.
When Eileen finally showed up the night before term started, Severus was so relieved to see her that forgiveness was not even a question. She had never been very expressive, but she held him close then, murmuring apologies into the crown of his hair. He had been so afraid he would board the train tomorrow without seeing her at all; he held her back as tightly as he could, as if through pure strength alone he could defeat the curse.
Later, he would feel differently. Curse or no, if only she had been there to barter with the tailor, or at least help him with the charms to fix up his secondhand robes. Maybe then his dorm mates wouldn't be so condescending, and when the Marauders doused his uniform with ink, or singed the hem, he would have a spare to wear.
When Severus was thirteen, Eileen disappeared for a year. Dad didn't take it well; more than once, Severus found him wandering drunk in the road. Fearing the man would get himself killed through self-neglect or recklessness, Severus almost decided not to return to school.
When the woman finally showed up the summer after, Severus refused to let her inside, yelling at her from the stoop.
He could still remember the hand on his shoulder, hauling him back, and the sharp impact on his face.
His father had rarely struck him, and even then, only when he’d been blackout drunk. That had been the first, and only time, the man had hit him while cold sober. It was enough to shock Severus to stillness, heart thudding loudly in his ears.
His mother’s face had contorted with rage, eyes livid and disbelieving. She shouted at Dad, words Severus could not remember, and she stepped inside the door to place her body between him and Severus—
When her eyes had gone dull, and with a smooth, mechanical motion, her foot withdrew. The moment it planted itself back onto the cement, her eyes cleared. With a stupefied expression, she looked down at her feet, at Dad, and finally at Severus, who held a hand to his stung cheek.
She burst into tears.
Tobias had been an emotional man; he cried at sad movies, and when a nostalgic song came on the radio. But Severus had never seen his mother’s grim, statuesque face crumple like this.
Severus, she had said, reaching her hands out to him. Baby. Please, come out here. Come here, to me.
Face hot with shame, frightened of her sobs and unable to even look at his father, Severus turned and fled back to his room. Secretly, Severus hoped she would stay, even if it meant standing outside the door. She had just seen his father strike him; surely that, if nothing else, would compel her?
But she departed as she always did, leaving Tobias to explain to their son, in halting words, what she must have once explained to him. The man spoke of pureblood parents who could never accept their daughter marrying a muggle, and of familial curses that couldn't be taken back even if the caster regretted them. Concepts from a world foreign to a muggle man, but nevertheless had the power to intimately destroy his life.
Finally, Severus had answers to questions he had asked for years: why Eileen had been cursed, and why the curse still remained.
With his mother gone and his cheek still smarting, Severus found he no longer cared.
As Severus was wrapping up his sixth year, Dad sent him a letter. Your mother wants you to spend the summer with her, he wrote.
Severus was angry, at first. How dare she? Did she even know who earned the money that Dad gave to her? If she had time to spend with him that summer, then she should work instead. Give back some of what she'd taken, or pay a curse-breaker to get herself fixed.
For a while now, Severus had doubted this curse was as hard to dispel as Dad made it seem. His parents were the kind of people who stayed with their lot instead of trying to improve themselves and their situations. Just as Dad spent years ignoring a leak, waiting for his son to fix it, Severus could easily imagine Eileen putting off breaking her curse in favor of enjoying their charity, free of any familial obligation herself.
She's out traveling, and has the gall to ask me to join her.
He planned to refuse, but waffled when it came to writing as much to his father. A part of him, the part that remembered waiting for hours by the window, couldn't let go of the idea.
She had asked for him.
When Dad dropped him off at a station in Leeds that June, the woman who greeted him was a stranger. As he looked at the lines on her face, the silver strands in her hair, it hit him just how much distance the years had put between them. It was hard to compromise the warmth of his early childhood memories with the person who stood before him, in her mud-caked boots and worn coat.
He had to admit, he was curious about her.
Eileen had taken him to the Dales. He’d seen it on maps before; it was much bigger in person.
They were cautious at first. Neither of them were talkative people. Severus could not remember the last time he spent with her alone; he was used to his father being there to fill up the silence. It was irritating—and strange—to see that he inherited things from someone who was rarely there.
They found in each other an innate curiosity and joy of learning, and while Eileen didn’t know how to talk to him, she did know how to teach.
She taught him to fish, and to navigate by the stars, and how to make kindling when wood was sparse. She taught him to read the magic in the land, following its current to stay out of muggle sight. She was quiet and unobtrusive around others, and she taught him how to be invisible like her. With her coat trailing behind her, eyes seeing paths others could not see, she seemed to walk a different world than he did.
Severus' resentment had not gone, but he could not help but look at her broad back, and the way her black eyes—just like his—glimmered in the sun.
Gradually, he began to talk to her.
You can get used to anything, given enough time, she told him while gutting a rabbit with bloodied fingers. Traveling in the wilderness is a difficult life, but it has its own rewards.
The first time he showed his sarcasm in full, he expected to be berated. But she seemed to barely notice his tone, taking it in stride. She had sharp edges just like he did.
Stop being a brat, she said calmly when he bristled at her for adjusting his boots. Shoes are life or death out here. And you want to keep up with me, don't you?
He had not spent much time in nature; even at Hogwarts he mostly stayed indoors, working late nights in the library or his dorm. After years of feeling like he was treading water, he found a quiet and space here he did not know he needed. He adapted quickly, learning to read the sky and ground as she did. They spent one moment arguing over the uses of hellebore, and the next sitting in silence as the skies changed color above them.
You know how when you go back to the dorms, you sometimes say, I’m headed home?
When Eileen took out her cigarettes, she was careful to sit downwind of him, and put up a barrier charm just to make sure he wouldn't breathe in the smoke. It was overkill, just like the way she held him too tightly when they apparated together. He didn’t hate it.
It’s surprisingly easy to get used to a place. It doesn’t even have to be based on real sentiment, just familiarity. You lay your head down in a place long enough…
It took him embarrassingly long to realize that he'd never seen her step inside a building. Even at the station where he met her, she had seemed oddly avoidant of going beneath the platform canopy. Later, he would spend many sleepless nights imagining how quickly someone forced to wander might become attached to a place.
Perhaps out of a desire to make up lost time, they withheld their tempers for most of the summer. Later, Severus thought that they waited too long to fight. That maybe, if they had gone for each other's throats from the start, things could have turned out differently.
He did something stupid; he thought he spied a rare flower in a deep gully, and he climbed down for it while Eileen was sleeping. He returned to camp covered in scratches, a fistful of mountain everlasting in his hands.
“I thought it was aeglos.” He grinned at her, expecting her to just shake her head at his foolishness.
She yelled at him instead.
“What were you thinking!? Climbing at night, like that? What if you had fallen? Christ, Severus, I didn't raise you to be a fool!”
That was the first time Eileen ever screamed at him, let alone scolded him at all. It was authoritative, and parental, and it set Severus' blood to boil.
She hadn’t been able to visit them in years, so Dad would go to her. Severus had stopped accompanying his father on such trips long ago, but back when he had, they would meet outside, at cafes or on random side streets. Dad would bring her food, and money; each time, she looked a little worse for wear.
When Dad embraced her, had she smelled the whiskey on his breath?
Severus forgave his father, because Dad was the man who had once read him to sleep. Who had cleaned his scrapes and taught him how to cook and socked Jacob Carter’s father in the face when he’d called Severus a fag. While Eileen was off fuck-knows where, Dad had been there.
Many times in the past, he had thought about saying something to her. You know Dad’s a drunk, right? You know that I’m the one paying for the house, right?
But as he watched his parents stand on street corners with their foreheads pressed together, hands clinging, the words had always died on his tongue.
Not now.
“You didn’t raise me at all.”
He spoke of summers he had come home to unchanged light bulbs and late payments and bottles on the floor. Dad cleaned up for her, he put on his best face for her, but when she was gone?
He spoke of school, and what it had taken for him to survive there. The wards on his trunk, and the way he screened his every word lest the Cokeworth—or worse, his muggleness—show through. The hours spent trying to predict how the Marauders might strike next, a futile effort that cost him sleep and peace of mind. The morning stomach pains and nausea, the alopecia, the headaches, the daily indigestion. The way he had kept himself from failing his classes at the expense of his body.
He spoke of juggling part-time work, of pinching knuts and pennies so he could keep the house and still afford his school supplies.
“All that money you take from Dad,” he told her. “Who do you think earns it?”
And underneath every scathing word, his heart was speaking too. I've been struggling for so long, it said. I needed you. I need you.
Eventually, the words ran out, and he stood there, shaking.
“I haven't taken your Dad’s…your money, in years,” his mother said quietly. “You see how I live, Severus. I get by.”
Severus wanted to rail at her for being a liar, but as much as he resented her, Eileen had never once lied to him.
Dad had, though.
And Severus always had been exasperated as to how his father kept funding his addiction.
The woman he met that summer had been exacting, methodical, and industrious. Not lazy. Not irresponsible. She survived out here because she had to, not because she wanted to, or because she was running from something. From them.
As he looked at his mother’s boots, patched over and over again with repairing charms, it occurred to him: would it really be so bad? If she had taken their money?
Severus had been making excuses for his father for so long, but in truth, he was angry at Dad too. He had wanted them both to do more. He had needed them to do more.
But they had tried, hadn’t they?
She had tried.
His eyes blurred.
Eileen stepped towards him, and his heart lifted. Mum, he began.
She stopped, her eyes going blank. Just like they had years ago, when she tried to step across the threshold of their home.
Before he could understand what was happening, she turned, walked three paces, and apparated. The crack resounded in his ears as he continued to stand there, frozen.
It would be five years before he saw her again, and when he did, she wouldn’t know his name.
It started like this.
Severus stood beneath the quidditch pitch bleachers. Above him, the crowd murmured with fright as they wondered where Potter and Diggory had disappeared. His mark was burning for the first time in fourteen years, and he could not move.
“It is too early,” Albus murmured from beside him. He stood relaxed, keeping Severus’ petrified body propped up against the wall. Should someone pass by, they would assume they were merely talking. “Go now, and your cover will be destroyed before we even begin.”
He could not speak, but Albus knew him well.
“Go now, and die at the hands of a dozen of your former comrades. And in the unlikely event you succeed, what then? Without you as our spy, the war is lost, and the boy will die anyway.”
They stood like this for what seemed an eternity, before a murmur rose through the crowd. Someone cried out Potter’s name, and a flash of triumph appeared in Albus’ eyes.
“And there he is,” the man said, turning.
Severus was released. All at once he felt the hammering of his heart, the gasping of his breath. His face was hot and his hands trembled. He raised his wand to Albus’ retreating back, and for a moment, he thought the hatred in his heart was enough.
He didn’t cast anything.
And Albus never looked back.
The next day, Severus began to search for properties. He did not know about the horcruxes yet, or have concrete plans to spirit Potter away. All of that developed over the next year, as he researched, watching Albus from the shadows.
But this was how it began.
Severus could not remember the safehouse. He only knew he must have prepared one. This plan had been years in the making, and preparing a property—perhaps several properties—was the first thing he would have done.
If he tried very hard, he could remember bits and pieces. He usually spent the summer at…where was the school again? He had to reach it by train—or was it by boat? No, that was only when he was younger. There was a forest nearby, or was it mountains? The students always had to bundle up in winter…or had they?
His past held a wealth of clues, but trying to piece them together only caused his memories to muddle further.
Dumbledore’s place, he thought. Wherever or whatever it was, it was Dumbledore’s place.
He usually stayed there, he thought, and not…his home. Parents’ home? The place he grew up.
All the lines of logic he tried to follow evaded him. Where his father had worked, the man’s accent, how the trees looked in fall, the nearby subway lines…all of it faded, until he stopped trying for fear of what other memories he would lose.
He usually passed the summer at Dumbledore’s place, but once he acquired the safehouse, he must have spent considerable time there.
He must have gotten attached, for the curse to erase it.
If the place had a name, it was gone from his mind, as was its address and appearance. He could retrace the steps he would have taken to find it, however. Something with a potions lab would have been ideal, but such facilities took money, and it would hardly be discreet to buy up the former residence of some declining pureblood.
No, he would have looked for something muggle, with an open basement, and room for a ventilation system to be installed, and perhaps some yard space for those ingredients he would require fresh.
A place to conduct his research outside of Albus’ aegis.
A place to secret Potter away, if the worst of his fears turned out to be true.
He could not think on it for long. As his mind circled closer to the memories he had lost, his temples would begin to pound. If he persisted, the pain would become a lance through his cranium, blurring both his vision and the coherence of his thoughts.
Careful, the curse seemed to say. Fight me, and we will take yet more away, until there’s nothing left of you, just like there was nothing left of her.
Severus side-stepped, Albus’ stunner glancing off the shield he had cast just in time. Praying that Potter would cooperate, he reached out with his hand—and almost at once, he felt the boy’s fingers close around his.
“I’ve already warded the area against apparition, I’m afraid,” Albus said.
Potter could likely feel how damp Severus’ palm was, could see how he stood before Albus with all the tension of a fox cornered before a hound. He would be wondering if the old wizard before them was an imposter, but knowing Potter, not for long.
“Stay close,” Severus bit out. He flung one of his exploding flasks at Albus’ feet, black smoke and hissing snakes of fire exploding into the clearing.
Holding fast to Potter’s hand, he broke into a dead run. The flask would only serve as a momentary distraction—
Their path was blocked by a blur of color that resolved into the Headmaster, his purple robes singed. Severus had another vial prepared, but with a slash of his hand, Albus sent it flying to the side. Almost instantaneously, he also sent an unknown spell Severus’ way, and he was forced to go on the defensive, raising his strongest shield. The force of Albus’ magic was battering; Severus was forced to let go of Potter's hand as he stepped backward, heels digging into the ground.
“In your first year,” Albus said, speaking to Potter as he upheld his assault against Severus with ease, “you asked me what I saw in the mirror of Erised. I told you I saw myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”
And that was it. Now Potter knew this was no imposter—
Severus’ shield failed him, and the full force of the spell sent him backwards. The air was punched from his lungs as his back impacted something—a tree?—pain radiating through his spine. Not giving gravity a chance, the magic seized him first, colors streaking in his vision as it crushed him to the ground at high velocity. Dirt in his mouth and body screaming, he struggled against the weight bearing down on him from above, a bug pinned beneath the giant hand of Albus’ magic.
Through ringing ears, he heard Potter shouting something. Dragging his face across the ground, Severus shifted enough to see the boy standing in front of him. Beyond him, Albus stood calm, radiating a quiet, immovable power; with just that gaze alone, the boy’s wand arm faltered.
“What are you doing?” Potter demanded. His voice was shaking.
Severus tried to tell the boy to run, but all his mouth produced was gasping wheeze. Albus didn’t so much as look his way, blue eyes fixed on Harry.
“You must be confused, so I will get to the point.” Albus’ voice was quiet but clear. “Severus defected from the Order. He abducted you, and, I presume, lied to you that it was under my directive.”
“But I thought, he said…he’s been…protecting me…" Potter seemed to hear the emptiness of his words as they hit air, and Severus was grateful that the boy wasn’t facing him. “He rescued me from Mulciber."
"He was not acting on Voldemort's orders, no. But that does not mean he was right."
Albus spoke with pure conviction, effortless in mien, in self-belief, and in the careless way he held both conversation with Potter and Severus in the dirt.
"Come here, Harry. I will explain everything once we are safe at Grimmauld."
Albus spoke ever so softly, and Severus’ hatred spiked. The old man loved the boy, and still he—
Potter turned for a moment, and Severus’ thoughts stuttered as green eyes, bright with confusion, met his own.
“This…this has to be a misunderstanding. You said—” The boy faced Albus again. “He said there was a traitor in the Order.” Severus’s heart constricted, winding tighter and tighter with each word. “He said the traitor had outed him to Vo—to Tom and…”
Even now, Potter thought to spare him from hearing the Dark Lord’s name. The simple kindness, especially in the face of Albus refusing to extend the same courtesy, was a punch to the gut.
“Severus has always been adept at the art of lying through truths.”
Resent him, Severus chanted to himself. Hate him. The difference in power between them was laughable, but Dark magic had far more subjective units of measure than pure strength.
“Everything he said coincides with reality…he only neglected to mention that the traitor, in this case, is himself.”
Shaking with the effort, Severus lifted his arm against the crushing weight to point his wand at Albus. All he needed was for one curse to hit while the old man was distracted. It wouldn’t be enough to bring the Headmaster down, but it would stagger him, giving Severus time to cast again.
“When he failed to report to Voldemort’s calls this summer, that, of course, revealed his true loyalties—”
The older wizard’s eyes sharpened, zeroing in on Severus. He did not even see Albus’ shield, but he felt it, his spell shattering mid-air. Severus dropped his arm with a gasp, succumbing once more to the weight of Albus’ magic, temples pounding.
Potter had turned to stare at him with a face etched with concern, and Severus grappled with an impossible choice. Revealing Albus’ plans could very well backfire. But if he could not protect Potter here, the boy would need the knowledge with which to protect himself.
He wondered if this is what his father had felt that day, the day he had struck his son in front of his wife, and his only meager recourse was to finally explain the curse in full.
“He means to kill you,” Severus rasped. “From the beginning, he’s intended for you to die—”
The weight on him abruptly intensified, pulverizing him, a choked cry forced from his throat as the earth cracked around him.
Albus had inflicted upon him the same curse that had broken his parents’ lives; in the face of that, this assault should have meant nothing. And yet, beneath the Occlumency, something in Severus trembled. Not only at being subjected to such powerful anger, but at Albus’ capacity to be this brutal with him in the first place.
“STOP IT!”
Potter’s voice. The crushing eased, and Severus sucked in a breath, fingers flexing. He cast a silent summons for his wand, and was unsurprised when nothing happened. Albus must be holding it.
Potter was still planted in front of him, his wand now firmly trained on Albus, who gazed at the boy wearily. He did not look like a wizard who had just showcased terrible power; he merely looked like an old man with sad, tired eyes.
“I owe you many explanations,” Albus said, soft and strained. “But you hardly deserve to be told here, like this. Let us return to Grimmauld, Harry, please.”
Hating how his hand trembled, Severus tugged on Potter’s sleeve, causing the boy to look down at him.
“You don’t have to do as he says,” he whispered.
Potter’s face set, and he turned to Albus.
“No. I want to know what’s going on, now.”
No, run away, Severus tried to say, but found himself voiceless.
“As you wish,” Albus said to Potter, who could not see Severus shake with horror and fury behind him. “I am sorry, Harry. This is not how I wanted to tell you.”
Severus felt the ground begin to tilt beneath him.
“I could not bear to tell you this before, and in truth, were it not for Severus forcing my hand, I might have kept it from you for at least another year.”
When Severus had first collected Potter that summer, he had intended to protect the boy from those who would threaten his life.
“That night, when Voldemort killed your mother, a piece of his soul broke from him. An evil act such as murder can fracture a soul, you see, and Voldemort had already been dabbling in such magics. Purposefully, so that even if he was killed, the other pieces of his soul could ensure his return.”
“That’s why he could come back…”
“Yes. But that night, when he killed your mother, a fracture occurred that he did not intend. The piece of soul—the horcrux—latched onto the only living thing in the room at that time.”
It hadn’t occurred to Severus that other than Albus and the Dark Lord, he would also have to contend with a far closer threat to the boy’s life.
“Me,” Potter whispered.
“Yes, you. It is the horcrux inside you that underlies your connection to Voldemort. Your ability to speak Parseltongue, your visions…”
I promised him, Severus thought.
“The only way to destroy a horcrux,” Albus said quietly, “is to destroy the vessel.”
The boy was silent for a moment, and when he did speak, the calm in his voice made Severus’ stomach turn.
“I have to die?”
I’ll protect him, I said. Just watch me, I said.
“Yes. For Voldemort to die, so must you. This is the true meaning of the prophecy.”
Rage, desperation, hatred, love—Severus did not know from where the magic was born, and he didn’t care. It shattered out from his soul, freeing both his body and his voice.
“True meaning?” His voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Only way? ”
Severus rose to his feet. Even now, Albus’ magic hovered around him, ready to ensnare him the moment he made a wrong move.
“Do you think I wished for this?” The coldness in Albus’ voice was unworldly; the air in the clearing seemed to tremble with it. “That I did not seek alternatives?”
“How should I know!” Severus laughed, wild and bitter. “You lied—”
“You lied to me,” Potter said, and Severus felt as if the boy had struck him. The boy turned on him, eyes electric with anger and confusion, and beneath it all, a clamorous pain that needed an out.
"I knew your research had to do with me!” the boy exploded. “You had no right to keep this secret!"
Severus held Potter’s eyes.
“Can you blame me?”
The boy went still, staring at him, and Severus conveyed to him a silent message that Albus could not begin to understand, a reminder of things only they two had shared. The self-inflicted wounds Severus had healed, the nights Potter had spent contemplating death while Severus watched over him, the violent sea that Severus had dragged him from.
Can you blame me, when you already place such little value on your life?
For a brief moment, Severus thought he glimpsed understanding in Potter’s eyes.
“After years of cruelty, you now choose to defend him?” Albus said very, very softly. “How noble of you, Severus.”
“I’ve never claimed nobility,” Severus snarled, and even he felt shaken by the hostility in his voice. He had never spoken to Albus like this, not even after the third task. “But you—even now you’ve come to twist the situation, to manipulate him—”
“And what are you doing, if not trying to influence his actions?”
“I am trying to save him!”
“And had you the actual ability to do so, perhaps I could forgive you for abandoning your post, risking lives, and jeopardizing all that we have worked for.”
Severus flinched, a full, involuntary jerk of the face and body. Words had long lost their power to hurt him, but in the face of Albus’ blunt indictment, Severus felt like a child again, sitting across the Headmaster’s desk as it was explained to him, in a gentle tone, that Lupin’s education meant more than his very life.
And Severus knew that Albus meant every word; he believed, in his deepest heart, that Severus could not do this, and had betrayed him for a futile effort.
You think so little of me?
“He had no right to give you false hope, Harry,” Albus said.
He spoke as if he was already grieving the boy, and Severus grasped at anger, letting it recover him.
“Why false? Because you, alone, decided that he has only one course of action?”
“I have done no such thing. I intend to respect Harry’s decision in this matter. Why don’t we ask him, instead of talking about him as if he is not here?”
"Potter,” Severus said quickly. The boy looked to him at once, green eyes turbulent, and Severus felt certain that he could reach him. “Listen to me. Giving your life to win this war is not your responsibility. Your parents wouldn't have wanted—”
“His parents, Severus?” Albus’ voice was quiet and sharp, the teeth of a hunting trap snapping closed.
Severus shut up, his body going cold.
“In the interest of full transparency—and forgive me, but you did criticize me just now for lying to him, did you not—shall we tell Harry what this is truly all about? The reason you feel guilt so acutely? Why you are so desperate to keep him alive, no matter the cost?”
The boy tried to catch his eyes, but Severus could not look at him.
“When Severus first came into my service, I swore to never divulge the true reason for his defection. However, he has broken the terms of our agreement first, and I am not so charitable as to continue keeping his secrets for free. I am sorry, Harry. But this, too, is a difficult truth.”
Severus held very still. He felt not like a being of flesh, but of some brittle material instead; with just a single twitch, he could fracture. He knew he should attempt to stop this, to defend himself. But he did nothing. He just listened, and waited.
“On that night, when I witnessed Professor Trelawney relay the prophecy, Severus was there too, listening outside the door. He did not hear it in full, but he heard enough. 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. Severus relayed these words to Voldemort. He is the reason your parents were targeted in the first place. He is, partially, to blame for their deaths.”
Albus had never spelled it out in words before. Blame. He had expressed a general reprobation for Severus’ acts as a Death Eater, and had been tough on him when he spoke of suicide. What good will your death do, for anyone? Live instead. But he had never held Severus responsible for what had happened to the Potters. If anything, he had encouraged Severus to forgive himself, and remember that in the end, the Dark Lord had been the one to cast the Killing Curse.
He’s saying it that way to sway the boy, Severus told himself, but this understanding did not make it better.
Potter had turned away; Severus could not see his reaction. Albus placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Potter,” Severus whispered. His voice was openly pleading, but what would be the point of pride, now? “Your life has value. Not because of what others have done to protect you, or because of anything you can do.”
“The Order will collect you shortly,” Albus said quietly. He began to lead Potter away, and the boy didn’t resist.
“Your life has value simply because you exist,” Severus forged on. Whether Potter hated him or not, none of that mattered now. The boy needed to hear these words, not just to face Albus, but to face himself. “Because you are you, and you deserve to live. So please…don’t just throw it away.”
Potter didn’t look at him.
Instead, he leaned towards Albus as the older wizard apparated them away.
Once he had secured a flat, Severus had taken Eileen home from the hospital. He had only stopped at Cokeworth to grab a spare coat on the way. When he turned back to where he left her on the stoop, he found her standing in the sitting room.
The curse had taken all memory of home from her, he surmised bitterly. With her mind a blank slate, perhaps she was now free to go anywhere.
Sometimes, he imagined a recognition in her eyes when she touched a door frame or looked at a photograph. Then she would ask for his name again, and he put his fantasies aside.
She lived peacefully in Cokeworth for three years before succumbing to a simple flu. Both her body and magic were ravaged by years spent in the wilderness, and what recovery she had made under Severus' care had not, apparently, been enough. Severus, who had spent every spare moment trying to find a way to cure her, had thought he would have more time.
A witch her age should have had more time.
It had been a peaceful death. Severus remembered her smiling at him through a mild fever as he put her to bed. He checked on her a few times throughout the night to find her sleeping quietly.
She looked the same the next morning, eyes closed and face restful. But he knew. The moment he saw her, the moment he stepped into the room, he knew.
He went mad for a little while.
Years ago, he’d had neither the money nor forethought to secure the plot by his father’s grave, so one night he went and dug him up. A series of Obliviations and altered records later, Tobias and Eileen Snape rested safely side by side in the northeastern corner of the Cokeworth Cemetery.
When Severus came home, his clothes soiled with graveyard dirt, Dumbledore was waiting for him with tea ready on the table. Severus could not speak, but the older wizard didn’t need words. Takeout was secured somehow, and they sat eating with the radio on in the background. Dumbledore stayed with him all night.
He became Albus, then.
Notes:
Chapter 9 playlist
Pachad by Yael Naim
In Dreams by Ben Howard
Beautiful Crime by Tamer
Maybe by London Grammar
Caged Bird by Jennah Bell
Avalanche by Maja Lena
Dorian by Agnes Obel
Ren Sheng Ruo Zhi Ru Chu Jian by Hai Lin
Hyperballad by Björk
Chapter 10: unfold me and teach me how to be
Summary:
Chapter CW: self-harm, suicide ideation, dissociation, animal death (in a dream), implied drug abuse
I lost my grandmother recently, and had to put editing on hold for a while. I appreciate everyone's patience. I can't express enough how encouraging everyone's feedback has been. Your words expressing both praise and hurt are invaluable; they help me understand how my story is coming across, and encourage me so much. Please stay safe all of you; I wish you all many opportunities to breathe deep, and be warm, and loved, and joyful❤️❤️❤️
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Previously:
[Harry] pulled out the winged bookmark, only remembering in that moment that he had taken it from the healing guide. ...There was a mystery on the silver wing, too; a black stain on the fletching that, upon closer inspection, he saw spelled out letters. He pressed the barbs flush together, bringing the fragmented words into clarity:
Lionsherd.
A nickname, his gut told him. Lion… would Snape have had a Gryffindor acquaintance?
Harry opened his eyes slowly, and didn’t react when he saw Dumbledore sitting on the bed, leaning over him.
“Forgive me,” the old wizard said, straightening. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Harry didn’t reply for a moment. Tasting calming draught on his tongue, he murmured, “Did you give me a potion last night?”
“You asked for it,” Dumbledore said softly.
“Right…”
Harry turned to gaze at the wall. Fragments of yesterday came to him: arriving to the clamor of Grimmauld, the awful look on Mrs. Weasley’s face when he flinched from her, and Dumbledore’s protective, possessive hold on his shoulder, which Harry had both wanted to lean into and away from.
“I…should inform you that Grimmauld Place is yours now. It is now up to you whether it continues to be Order headquarters.”
Through the numbness, Harry felt a stab of unexpected grief.
“Of course,” he whispered. He slowly sat up, reaching for his glasses. Dumbledore beat him to it, handing them over.
They faced each other. The last time Harry had seen him, he had destroyed the man’s office. Amidst the pain of Sirius’ death, their conversation that night had become muddled in Harry’s mind, although he could recall the basics.
Dumbledore had claimed the fault for Sirius’ death, and apologized for withholding information. He had confessed to knowing what he sentenced Harry to by leaving him with the Dursleys, and explained why he had done it.
He had told Harry that he cared about him, far too much.
Dumbledore looked away first.
“You must have questions.”
“Snape,” Harry said, clinging to what basic facts he could pull from the mire. “He kidnapped me.”
Dumbledore nodded, his expression solemn.
“I told him of the prophecy this summer, and what it means for you. He had doubts before then, I can see that now, but I believe that was the incident that triggered his decision to defect completely.” Dumbledore looked down at his hands. “I cannot be sure what his logic was in taking you. Delaying the inevitable? Perhaps there was no logic, just desperation. Perhaps he hoped to prevent you from fighting, so that he might bargain with Voldemort to let you live. As a slave, in thrall—but alive.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry said, fisting his hands in his hair. “You said he’s the one who gave the prophecy to Voldemort. So, that’s why he did all this? He was guilty?”
The words sounded ridiculous even as he said them. Snape’s protection had always been begrudging—a product of owing a life debt to Harry’s father, and presumably, loyalty to Dumbledore. If Snape was so beholden to guilt, how could he have treated Harry the way he did?
Dumbledore was not looking into his eyes, but he seemed to read Harry’s thoughts regardless.
“You are not the first person Severus has tried to save. As unaffected as he appears, the deaths of others weigh on him heavily. This quality made him a devoted spy, albeit a tormented one.”
“He hated my father. He hates—hated—me. Even if he felt guilty, to go this far…”
“Is it so unbelievable that Severus could be cruel to you, but also want to save you? Whether it be out of remorse, or resentment… He is a complex man, and his motivations are equally so.”
Harry bounced his leg with agitation. He remembered sitting beside Snape on the beach, of being held in the woods, and his heart clenched.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said roughly. “He killed my parents. I don’t care about the rest.” He looked up at Dumbledore. “He’s been researching, everyday. About dark rituals, and prophecies…”
“Yes,” the older wizard said quietly. “An attempt to sunder you from your fate. I wish I could say that I support this path, but I cannot. Severus would seek to study the horcruxes, delaying their destruction—thus giving Voldemort more time to discover us. Once he does, he will hasten to hide his horcruxes elsewhere, or even make more. And the consequences of trying to remove the horcrux from you are dire, Harry. I do not merely speak of death, but the disfigurement of your soul. You may become like those who have been Kissed by a Dementor, or like Voldemort himself, never able to pass on."
It is useless to run away.
Harry restrained himself from touching his scar. Still struggling with the revelations from before, it was hard to take in Dumbledore's words. It made sense, he supposed. They couldn't afford to hesitate about the horcruxes, and being Kissed was certainly a fate worse than death. It was comforting, even, to know that the Headmaster had thought deeply about this. That he hadn't simply decided Harry should die on a whim.
“I am once more in the position of apologizing to you for withholding information,” Dumbledore said very softly. “But how were you to have the strength to do what must be done, with death looming over you? You were only to know in the final moments, when all else was complete, and you were ready to face him. Then, you could make the choice.”
Dumbledore held his gaze. “And it is your choice, Harry. An unfair, terrible choice—a burden you do not deserve to bear—but a choice nonetheless. No one can force you to do this. It must be of your own will.”
The man paused as if waiting for a response, and Harry reached into the morass of his thoughts for words. A part of him was relieved. Snape's words, he means to kill you, had been so sinister, but in truth, Dumbledore only did this reluctantly. Like so many things in Harry's life, it was simply an unfairness that could not be helped.
Something very small and quiet raised an objection in his mind, but he swept over it, burying it deep.
"To—Voldemort needs to be stopped." Harry covered some embarrassment; Dumbledore didn't censor himself for Snape, so why should he? Did Dumbledore really never consider saying Tom for Snape's sake, though? Harry pushed this thought aside, and continued, "And I'll do what I have to do to protect my friends. If this is what has to be done...then I’ll do it."
Dumbledore smiled slightly, his expression sad.
“Do you not fear death at all, Harry?”
Harry frowned.
“I’d rather not be in pain,” he said after a moment. “And I don’t want my friends to see it happen. But not really.”
The Headmaster seemed prepared to speak more, to delve further, and Harry cut him off.
“There’s a curse,” he said firmly. “On Snape. And you were the one that cursed him, weren’t you?”
“Ah…yes. Yes I did. I learned of Severus’ betrayal not long before he abducted you, although he escaped before I could apprehend him. Severus has spent years as a spy; I feared if I allowed him to take you to whatever safehouse he had prepared, it would become near impossible to retrieve you. And so I used an old, rare spell that prevents the afflicted from ever staying too long in one place. It forced Severus to take you on the road, giving the Order a fighting chance at locating you.”
Harry recalled restless nights spent in the city, Snape hastening them on until all the hotels blurred together in his mind.
“If there’s a spell like that, why hasn’t Voldemort just used it on me?”
“That would allow him to neatly sidestep the blood wards, wouldn’t it?” Dumbledore said gravely. “Luckily for us, the curse of the wanderer has largely been lost to time, mentioned only in folk tales. Were it not for Severus himself bringing it to my attention years ago, I wouldn’t have known there was any truth to the myths. Furthermore, the spell can only be cast when very certain terms are met—one of which being, the target must have committed a grave betrayal. Severus fits the bill on multiple counts. There are other conditions, unknown even to me, but as I was able to cast the curse”—Dumbledore’s smile grew sadder—“Severus and I must meet them, whatever those conditions may be.”
So it was Dumbledore, not Voldemort that cursed him. Just how much did Snape lie about?
But Snape hadn’t said Dumbledore did it, had he? He’d merely said the curse was the cost of his betrayal, and let Harry come to his own conclusions. Harry wanted to be angry at being tricked, but the way Snape had said that had been so sad, and the anger wouldn’t quite come.
When Harry said nothing more, Dumbledore continued quietly.
“All the arrangements have been made for your return to school—”
Harry stiffened.
The thought of returning to Hogwarts in the middle of the year caused his chest to tighten. He would have so much catching up to do, on top of pretending to be normal in front of so many eyes. And his friends—he hadn't seen them since the Ministry. They would have so many questions, and he didn't know how he was going to answer when he barely understood any of this himself—
“Harry. Harry. Do you hear me?”
Dumbledore was holding his hand.
“Listen, you do not have to go back, at least not so soon. I had assumed…but you may stay here as long as you like. Is that what you wish?”
Dragging in a breath, Harry nodded.
Another silence fell; after a time passed and Dumbledore did not release his hand, Harry realized the man intended to stay here to comfort him.
"I'm okay," Harry said. He withdrew slightly, and the Headmaster immediately released him.
"Of course. Time to adjust is the least I can give you—"
"No," Harry said. "I mean, I want to start now. Training, I mean. Like you said in your letter, before Snape...before Snape. There are things we need to discuss, right? About what I need to do?"
Dumbledore hesitated.
"Yes... We do have much to talk about regarding the horcruxes. And Voldemort's past."
"I've already wasted so much time. I'm ready, more than ready." Harry's voice lowered, heavy with conviction. "I want him gone."
"...You are certain?"
Harry nodded stiffly.
Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, his eyes heavy with unspoken things.
"Very well."
"Careful now," Mulciber said against Harry's ear. An injured hare was splayed on the table in front of him, and Mulciber stood behind him, guiding his wand hand. "You don't want to make it worse, do you?"
Harry cast the healing charm, and the hare went still.
"Ah, you've gone and killed it. I told you to be careful, didn't I?"
Harry looked at the animal, which had become stiff and cold, its eyes unblinking. When Mulciber spoke again, it was in Snape's voice.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always make things worse, don't you?"
He wouldn't say that, Harry thought even as his chest flared with hurt. Not anymore.
"He wouldn't," he mumbled, waking with tears in his eyes. The room was pitch black; outside, it was raining. Harry focused on the sound through the window, and slowly, his body relaxed. That he owed Snape his ability to do this was bitter knowledge he tried to suppress.
He thought of Mulciber instead, and touched his arm where the man had once healed him, only to injure him again. What did it say about Harry, that a Death Eater could heal his injuries when he couldn't even heal himself?
Knowing these thoughts would make returning to sleep impossible, Harry crept out of bed and into the corridor, closing the door behind him with the practiced silence of growing up at the Dursleys’. A murmured spell told him it was half past three; as he made his way to the kitchen, the house creaked and muttered around him, dark, closing in.
Is this how Sirius felt, being forced to live here?
In Harry’s memories, the Grimmauld kitchen was a place of warmth and many voices—now, with its hearth unlit in the dead of night, the room was cavernous and cold. Harry stood frozen in the threshold, and wondered why he had come here. The vague notion of making tea flitted through his mind, soon discarded. Like old ornaments no longer cared for, he picked up idea after idea—finding something to read in the library, maybe looking at his summer assignments—only to place them down again.
He could not sleep, but had no desire to do anything whilst awake. He recalled what his uncle used to tell him when company was over: stay out of sight, pretend you don’t exist. He had not felt the shameful longing for his cupboard in a long while, but he felt it now. He wished he could close himself inside, to vanish.
A low sound startled him from his mulling. His heart leapt to his throat; had Mrs. Weasley been awake after all? The sound had come through a cracked door to an adjacent room Harry had never entered before. Now that he was listening, he realized what he was hearing was muffled crying. Uneasy, wand ready just in case, he moved to investigate.
Harry peeked inside the door to find an old-fashioned boiler—and Kreacher, curled up underneath the pipes. The house-elf lay on a pile of rags, and surrounding him were stray items Harry recognized from upstairs: bits of coin, glinting trinkets, and several dusty silver-framed photographs he recalled Sirius trying to throw away.
Most alarming of all, Kreacher was crying over one of these photographs, and when he saw Harry, he rose up with such startled rage that he struck his head against the pipes.
On instinct, Harry moved forward to help, then stopped, because the house-elf looked ready to bite him if he came any closer.
“What is the boy doing, coming into Kreacher’s place?” the elf hissed with watering eyes as he clutched his head. “Does he mean to take Kreacher’s pictures? Oh, my Mistress, if she knew what the Mudbloods and blood traitors did with all of her things…”
“I’m not going to take your things,” Harry said, backing away. He had been angry at Kreacher before, in the nightmarish weeks after Sirius’ death; now, as he looked down at the house-elf, yet another hostage to this miserable house, Harry only felt sadness. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“The brat apologizes. Strange boy. But if he thinks Kreacher will serve him then he should think again…he might be the master now, but Kreacher only serves Mistress and young Master Regulus…”
Harry recalled Dumbledore’s warning that Kreacher could not be freed lest he go to Bellatrix and tell her the Order’s secrets. He was sorely tempted to give the elf clothes, anyway.
The photograph Kreacher had been crying over had two figures in it, and Harry realized one was a young Sirius, and the other, a slightly shorter boy who looked very much like him, but with softer features, his eyes warm and bright. The young master Regulus, Harry assumed. All Harry knew about the man was what Sirius had told him—he was a Death Eater who had foolishly gotten in over his head, and died in the first war. Kreacher could hardly be crying over Sirius—was the elf mourning Regulus, even now?
The frame around this picture was broken, the glass cracked, and Harry knelt down.
“I could repair that for you.”
Kreacher veered away, his eyes slitted with suspicion.
“I won’t take it, I won’t even touch it,” Harry promised. “I’ll just fix the frame.”
Slowly, Kreacher held out the picture. Telegraphing his movements, Harry cast a repair charm, and the frame and glass became like new. As the house-elf turned the picture over in his hands, Harry said, “It’s a nice photo.”
He meant it. Sirius and Regulus looked young and happy in it; it was strange and painful to look at, knowing one had ended up in Azkaban, the other a Death Eater—and both of them dead.
Kreacher ignored him, carefully placing the photograph back into his collection, and Harry quietly backed out of the room.
The first Saturday after Harry returned to Grimmauld, he woke up to a mouthful of curls and a rib-crushing hug.
Despite struggling to breathe, he embraced Hermione and Ginny back the best he could. He had been dreading their reunion, but now that it was upon him, happiness flooded his chest.
“You’re killing him, girls.”
Ron stood beside the bed, looking awkward and even taller than he had when Harry last saw him.
Harry reached a hand around Hermione.
“Come here.”
Ron came forward hesitantly, and Harry pulled him into the hug. For several minutes, there was only laughter and squeezing and withheld tears.
"Did Hedwig get to the Burrow all right?"
"She did! We brought her to school with us."
"She's been flying circles around Pig in the owlery."
When they finally pulled apart, the room was bright with the high of their reunion.
"I can't believe you’re all here," Harry said, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
"Well," Ginny began, her tone matter-of-fact. "You weren't coming to see us."
Hermione’s lips thinned, but she didn’t argue with Ginny’s words.
“The Headmaster gave us permission,” she supplied.
“Dumbledore did?”
“No, the other Headmaster,” Ron joked over nervousness.
“He seemed to think seeing us would do you good,” Hermione continued in a mild voice.
A silence fell, awkward and excruciatingly familiar. It was the same atmosphere that had tainted the end of the last school year, when they were still recovering from what had happened at the Ministry. When they had waited for Harry to explain…well, anything.
When Harry failed to speak, Ginny stood.
“I’ll go downstairs to help Mum,” she said.
“Stay,” Harry blurted, reaching for her hand to stop her, and she sat back down. He made to release her, but she tightened her fingers around his. In that brief, bright moment, he finally felt ready to confide in them.
"It's time I told you the full prophecy. I wish Luna and Neville were here, they should hear this too..."
Harry faltered, a cold trickling over him as he remembered. What Dumbledore had told him the night of Sirius' death was only a half-truth. The real truth, which he had only learned of days ago, was far worse. But he had already begun, his friends looking at him with expectant faces. As his fleeting hope crumbled and darkened to ash, he stumbled through a lie of omission he had not intended to make.
What was it Dumbledore had said of Snape? Adept at lying through truths. As Harry explained Snape's deception at Privet Drive, he used the same trick, his stomach twisting.
He explained that Snape had been the one to convey the partial prophecy to Voldemort, that the guilt he still carried had driven his defection. He uttered the words, neither can live while the other survives.
“When the Killing Curse rebounded, a link was made between me and Voldemort.” Harry touched his scar with a nervous hand. “As long as we have this…connection, I have to be the one to face him. That's what the prophecy means.”
They looked at him in stricken silence until finally, Ginny decided to break it:
“That’s…that’s fucked up, mate.”
Her irreverence was shocking; despite everything, it drew a genuine laugh from him.
“It’s not funny!” Ron snapped. He stood, pacing the room with agitation. “It’s not, it’s not fair. Why’s the prophecy say it has to be all up to you? And Snape! ” Ron spat the name. “How could Dumbledore let him teach after what he did? If it weren’t for him, your parents might still be alive!”
Harry felt warmed by Ron’s anger on his behalf, although his own feelings were more complicated. Hermione reached for Ron’s sleeve, and tugged him back to the bed. Visibly holding back tears, she pulled them all into another hug.
“Thank you for telling us,” she murmured into Harry’s shoulder.
Harry clenched his eyes closed. I can't tell them I have to die.
“So, like, Snape has this massive guilt complex?” Ginny asked as they pulled apart. “Not that he shouldn’t, it’s just…pretty weird of him to want to protect you when he always—”
“Treated you like shit,” Ron finished, still sounding incensed.
Harry pushed down the part of him that struggled with the same question.
Hermione’s face was pinched, her eyes calculating. Harry resisted the urge to fidget; if anyone would catch him in his lies, it would be her.
"So," she said, tone hard to read. "Professor Snape doesn’t agree with Dumbledore’s take on the prophecy. That it has to be you."
And neither do you, Harry read. Why would she, when she didn't have the context of the horcruxes?
"He's not a Professor anymore," Ron pointed out. "Slughorn is."
"Slughorn?" Harry asked.
"The new Potions teacher. He's loads better."
"It's strange," Hermione cut in. "Why would Pro—" Ron scrunched up his face, and rolling her eyes, she corrected, "Why would Snape drag you all across the country? It would have made more sense to keep you in a safehouse.”
“He couldn’t,” Harry said, relieved she had asked something he could answer. “Dumbledore cast this curse on him. The curse of the wanderer, he called it. It’s this rare spell that can only be cast on traitors. It made it so that Snape couldn’t stay in any one place for long. He had to keep moving.”
Hermione’s eyes burned with curiosity.
“How does that even work?”
“It looked like he was sleepwalking,” Harry said. “I didn’t know it was the curse then, but there were a few times I found him walking away from our campsite, with this blank look on his face. I thought he was confunded at first, or under the Imperius. He’d come to his senses not long after. I don’t think he knows what’s happening in those moments.”
“That’s terrifying,” Hermione said, although she sounded more interested than unnerved. “How long does he have in a place before the curse starts? If he waits some interval, can he go back to the same location? What determines—”
“‘Mione,” Ron said, laughing as he nudged her shoulder.
She broke off, face going pink.
“Do you think it’s possible?” Ginny said after a beat. “That Snape could find a way Dumbledore couldn’t?”
A brittle silence.
“I doubt it,” Hermione said quietly, and even though Harry was here on the same assumption, he found his heart constricting at her skepticism. “But…that’s assuming Dumbledore actually—”
She trailed off.
“What?” Ron and Ginny said, together.
“Never mind,” Hermione shook her head, and refused to elaborate. But she glanced at Harry, and he felt he knew what she had meant to say.
That’s assuming Dumbledore actually tried.
When Harry appeared downstairs with the others, Mrs. Weasley made a beeline to him. She hesitated, and remembering how he had flinched from her touch when he first arrived, he quickly stepped forward to embrace her. They held each other; when she finally released him, she was quick to turn away.
“You still like blackcurrant jam, don’t you, love?” she asked him, and he pretended not to see her dabbing at her eyes.
After breakfast, they spent the day in the drawing room. Mrs. Weasley joined them for several rounds of gobstones (she trounced them thoroughly). Hermione produced a pack of muggle cards after that, and she and Harry took turns teaching the Weasleys muggle games.
Harry was glad to see them, he was, but just holding a conversation was exhausting. He felt himself retreat to somewhere in the back of his mind, a stranger taking over his body in his stead. It was not Harry, but the stranger who laughed at his friends' jokes, and smiled at the right moments, and complimented Mrs. Weasley when she passed by. And when all eyes were turned away, he would dig his nails into his sleeve, or hold his thumb a second too long against the piping hot kettle Mrs. Weasley had set on the table.
He thought often of his whittling knives upstairs. There was his glass-core wand, too. But he resisted the urge to slip away. The burn could be an accident, the welts a misjudgement of force. Anything more felt too deliberate.
Sometimes, he would remember the terrible look on Snape’s face when Harry had said he didn’t need a knife to hurt himself, and that was enough to stop him from doing anything at all.
"Is this any good? Oh, pretty..."
The stranger looked up with a ready smile. He found Hermione had picked up a book from the table—one of his abandoned attempts at distraction—and had pulled a strip of leather from its pages. The Lionsherd bookmark.
"Keep it," he offered.
"Really?" She smiled, running her fingers along the snitch wing. "Where'd you get it?"
Memories of the train car bloomed briefly before he stifled them.
"Found it in one of Snape's books," he said, shrugging.
Dumbledore visited Grimmauld Place in the evenings, and each time, he would come bearing his pensieve and a new memory for Harry to observe.
With each silver strand, a picture of Voldemort’s past began to unfold—as did Harry’s future. Voldemort had not split his soul once, but seven times, and each fracturing was now Harry’s responsibility. Horcruxes, Dumbledore had called them. That was what Harry was, the existence he shared with the glimmering objects Voldemort had chosen to house his immortality.
Harry took comfort in the simplicity of it; this was his purpose, this checklist of items to seek and destroy. And once all that was done, it would be his turn.
“You dispatched the diary, and I, the ring,” Dumbledore told him in their most recent session, after they had exited the pensieve. Harry glanced at the man's gloved hand, and wondered how severe his curse injury truly was. “Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, Slytherin’s locket, and an object of Rowena Ravenclaw’s are likely candidates for the others.”
Founder's objects would probably be at Hogwarts, Harry thought. Or at least, they would have been there at some point in history—
Dumbledore stood, and Harry's mind, which had been gnawing at the mystery like a dog to a bone, was startled back to the present.
"You're leaving already?"
"It's late," Dumbledore said, brows rising slightly. "You should sleep, Harry."
"When are you coming back?" Harry all but demanded.
The older wizard looked at him silently.
"Sorry, it's just…there’s so much to do."
"The task ahead is not an easy one," Dumbledore said grimly. "While we cannot delay, I cannot have you burning out, either." He gave Harry an assessing look. "If you change your mind about school, you need only tell me."
"I will," Harry said hastily, and was glad when the Headmaster left without pursuing the subject further.
In between meetings with Dumbledore, time at Grimmauld slowed to a crawl. Outside of Ron and Hermione’s weekend visits, Harry mostly kept to his room, and so avoided the coming and going of Order members. Mr. And Mrs. Weasley were staying on the floor below him; he often heard Mrs. Weasley moving about the house, humming as she cleaned. He knew he was worrying her with his avoidance, but was grateful each time she’d leave him be, quietly leaving meals at his door.
Often, it felt like his time with Snape had never happened, and Harry tried to believe it. That Dumbledore had retrieved him from the Dursleys after all, and Snape had never arrived to shatter the shell of numbness around him, distracting him from what he was always meant to do.
When his friends visited the following Saturday, they were intent on investigating the bookmark. Hermione had discovered the name Lionsherd spelled upon the snitch's wing, because of course she had, while Ginny had identified the kite-like shape as a constellation.
In no time at all, Ron had his astronomy text open the drawing room table, and the three of them bowed over the last page, a three-fold spread which could be unraveled to show a night sky that moved to match the stars above.
"Here," Hermione said with satisfaction. "You were right, Ginny. This is the Boötes constellation, otherwise known as the Herdsman.”
“Alkalurops, Nekkar, Seginus, Izar, Arcturus..."
“Why does Arcturus sound familiar?”
“Herdsman…lionsherd. Do you think the Leo constellation...?"
Harry watched them silently. He was in no mood to uncover secrets from Snape's past. He did not want to think of Snape at all. But his friends looked intrigued. This was a low-stakes mystery for them to solve, a reminder of earlier, simpler years. Although, none of their earlier mysteries had really been all that simple or carefree, had they?
Ginny began to recite the stars of Leo aloud, and when she paused upon the name Regulus, Harry's eyes rose to the tapestry that took up the far wall, lingering on the burn spot where Sirius’ name should be, then following the branch to where his brother sat next to him.
“Regulus Arcturus Black,” he murmured. It made sense, he supposed. Regulus and Snape had both been Slytherins, and then Death Eaters. Why not friends?
Ron looked to the ceiling.
"We never looked much in his room, did we?" Ron said.
Resigned, Harry followed them upstairs to Regulus’ bedroom, a place he had only seen glimpses of through the door. Sirius had preferred it kept shut.
Compared to the chaos of his brother's, Regulus’ room turned out to be carefully staid, a perfect pureblood son’s abode. There were textbooks on the desk, a neatly made bed, a few modest school awards on the shelf, and two posters, one of a Wizarding band Harry didn’t recognize, the other of a Quidditch team.
“I don’t think even Malfoy’s room would be this boring,” Ron complained.
They snooped a bit to little avail, and Harry began to think the room was a little too uninteresting. Curious despite himself, he cast a few ward-detection spells Snape had taught him.
Hermione watched him before offering, “I know a few more."
He handed his ash wand over, and they all watched as she combed the room with various charms.
“Oh, something’s here,” she said, crouching to look beneath the desk. “It’s ever so faint…”
Harry knelt next to her.
“You’re right, I see the glimmer."
“Oi, let us see.”
“It’s a tough one,” Hermione said, frustrated. “Here, Harry, you try.”
He took the wand back, and put all the force he could into detangling the ward. She hadn’t been kidding; it was a strong, layered spell, and he found himself glad of his practice with Snape as he tackled it.
“Got it,” he said finally, sweating. The magic gone, he felt beneath the desk; finding a slight indentation, he pressed it, and a compartment fell open.
“What’s in it?” Ginny demanded.
"Looks like Regulus was an avid letter writer," Hermione said, pulling an impressive stack of envelopes from the cubby and setting it on the desk. "Do you think he was writing to Pro—sorry, to Snape?”
She opened one of them, and scanned the contents before freezing.
"What?" Harry asked.
Hermione looked at him, then tilted the letter his way so that he could see the valediction.
Love,
Lily
"No way," he said at once.
"She mentions a sister here," Hermione said, sounding cautious. "Tuney, she called her."
As Harry made to seize the letter, Kreacher appeared in the middle of the room without so much as a pop.
“THIS IS MASTER REGULUS’ ROOM!” he screeched. “MAKING A MESS, DISTURBING HIS THINGS, HOW DARE THEY!”
The elf raised a hand at Hermione, and Harry felt a warning instinct of danger. House-elf magic was powerful; he wasn’t sure what limits elves had when it came to harming wizards, but he was willing to bet Kreacher could still do quite a bit of damage.
“Stop, Kreacher!” Harry ordered. “Stay there and don’t hurt anyone.”
The elf swiveled a look of hatred onto Harry, but it was clear from his face that there was true distress beneath it.
“Okay, everyone out,” Harry said.
“You could just order him out,” Ron said pointedly.
“This is Kreacher’s home,” Harry said firmly. “Guys?”
Hermione pushed Ron and Ginny out. He felt her slip the bookmark into his pocket as she passed, with a glance he interpreted to mean be nice. Or perhaps it was more, be fair.
The moment she closed the door behind them, Harry turned to Kreacher.
“I’m sorry," he said. "I should have thought about you first before I looked through here.”
“Kreacher doesn’t matter!” the elf snarled. “It’s Master Regulus’ memory that the brats are trampling on.”
“We didn’t come here to make a mess. Or to be disrespectful. We just wanted to look for some information.”
“Lies!”
Grateful for Hermione's forethought, he fumbled the bookmark from his pocket and showed it to Kreacher.
“Here, look, I found this thing of Regulus’ earlier this summer, but I didn’t know it was his then. I’ve been trying to figure it out since. We thought it might be him, so we came to this room to look.”
Kreacher went still, staring at the leather strip with obvious recognition. He reached out with a trembling hand, and Harry gave it over.
“Master Regulus,” Kreacher said quietly as he held the bookmark, his eyes beginning to look suspiciously shiny.
Harry took a breath, gathering his words.
“Look, some of these—some of these were to my mum. It looks like Regulus had some correspondence with her. She—I lost her too, and I wouldn’t let anything happen to these letters. They’re…important to me. Can I read them, please?”
Kreacher narrowed his eyes at him.
“The letters should not leave this room.”
That wasn’t a no, and Harry’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Okay, I promise. I’ll only read them here. Okay?”
“...And no one else should touch the letters. Just the boy.”
“Yes, only I’ll come in here," Harry agreed quickly. "I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
The elf gave a begrudging nod, then, with the utmost reluctance, began to hand back the bookmark.
“You can keep it,” Harry said.
Kreacher stared up at him with shock, then suspicion. “What is the brat planning?”
“Nothing,” Harry said tiredly. “It’s yours. And you can—” he stopped before saying go, remembering Sirius’ disastrous order from before. “You don’t have to stay in the room anymore. I’m, uh, I’m done talking to you. For now.”
Kreacher stared at him for a beat before disappearing.
Wow, he really does that with no sound at all.
Harry spent the rest of the day distracted; he felt guilty for it, but it was with impatience and relief that he saw his friends out the door that evening.
“We’ll be back soon,” Ron promised him.
“Mum’ll let us sleep over, I think,” Ginny added.
“Take care, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes somber. He got the sense she was withholding questions for his sake, and he hugged her extra tightly.
Mrs. Weasley kept him engaged a while after that, chatting with him as she cleaned up the sitting room. He couldn’t just leave her, and she wouldn’t let him help, so he sat on the sofa and tried his best not to look annoyed. He was grateful when Mr. Weasley arrived after work, giving him an opportunity to excuse himself as the adults greeted each other.
He went straight for Regulus’ room, where he locked and warded the door behind him. Full of trepidation, he approached the desk and picked up the topmost letter.
Dear Reg,
I'm sorry to hear about Sirius. Tuney is giving me the silent treatment again, so I feel your pain. Don't let it ruin your vacation! What’s France like? I read a book about the Louvre once, I’ve always wanted to go. Would your parents let you visit a place like that? You mentioned how controlling they are, especially about muggle things. I hope you
Harry stopped, running his finger lightly over his mother’s careful script. It was a child’s hand, and after some calculation, he placed the date during the summer after her second year. Regulus was a year below Sirius, Harry recalled; how had he become acquainted with Lily so quickly? She even called him by a nickname.
Lily had written in a crisp, carefully neat hand at the start, but she grew messier throughout the letter, ending with a chicken scratch valediction squeezed in at the bottom. There was a lopsided sphinx doodled next to it, with a speech bubble:
Argh! What abomination am I? Curse you, Creator!
There was an arrow drawn towards the sphinx too, wobbly-winding through the letter. Grinning, Harry followed it to its source: several sentences that Lily had bubbled, presumably to make it clearer that they connected to the arrow.
Look at this curséd sphinx I’ve brought forth. Send me back a picture of a proper one, so I can be proper envious.
She would have been thirteen when she wrote this, and while the letter did have childish trappings, her tone was mature. Her vocabulary reminded him of Hermione’s at that age.
I bet she enjoyed reading, he thought. I wonder what her favorite books were?
He looked at the rest of the letters, and his smile faded. The stack had looked hefty when he first saw it, but now it shrunk in his eyes. He could see himself staying up all night to read them, eager as he was to devour his mother’s words. And then, as the sun rose, there would be nothing left.
Heart aching, he carefully placed the stack back in their drawer, leaving only the first letter he had picked up.
I’ll read one each year, he resolved. As long as there were letters left, there would be words of hers that he had yet to hear, keeping her alive. I could do it on birthdays, and pretend it’s like her gift to me—
His thoughts stuttered.
What was he thinking?
He wasn’t going to have years.
Swallowing, he looked at the drawer, but didn’t open it again.
One letter a night then, he resolved, and took the letter to Regulus’ bed. He curled up on the dusty sheets, holding the paper close, and read his mother’s words over and over again through the night.
“...we can assume the locket passed into Tom’s hands after Hepzibah Smith’s death,” Dumbledore said. “The road grows foggy from there, but I have a few leads.”
Harry nodded distantly, his mind on his mother's letters.
The few he had read already—savoring each word and dotted i—had all been written during Lily’s years at Hogwarts. They were out of order, so Harry had yet to piece together how the correspondence began. He could have sorted them by date, but found himself reluctant to. He didn’t want to see the years speed past at the top of the page, a constant reminder of how he was approaching the end. Nor did he want to dispel the letters’ mysteries; he wanted to be surprised by this timeless-Lily, who had no beginning, and most importantly, no end.
She complained about Petunia several times, and responded with sympathy to what must have been Regulus' complaints regarding Sirius. Lily wrote with a kind but decisive tone, responding with firm advice to whatever Regulus had asked in his letters, and Harry got the impression that she was the more confident of the two.
When they weren’t talking about sibling troubles, they were talking about house-elves and house-elf magic. Lily seemed to share Hermione's thoughts on house-elf liberation, and based on her replies, Harry had to assume that Regulus felt the same. It was surprising, considering that Regulus not only owned an elf, but grew up in a house that nailed elf heads to its walls. Kreacher was mentioned a few times in the letters, and the way Lily referred to him was more akin to how one would speak of a teacher or guardian as opposed to a servant. Harry had assumed that Kreacher's devotion to Regulus had not really been earned, but perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Regulus had truly cared for the elf, and disliked owning him just as Harry did.
Perhaps. It was hard to think charitably of Regulus, who had been able to exchange so many letters with Lily, receiving her jokes and scribbles and advice. Harry would never have any of that.
"Harry, are you listening?"
Harry startled, heart thudding as he refocused his attention on the Headmaster.
"Of course."
Dumbledore looked at him for a moment before continuing. Thinking of the letters awaiting him upstairs, Harry felt a pulse of irritation.
Did he really need to be here?
Why couldn't someone else help Dumbledore destroy the horcruxes? Why couldn't Harry just die now?
As it often did, his mind countered his own complaint:
My life is already forfeit. It makes sense to send me on the quest. That way, more important lives can be spared.
“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “I meant it, when I said this is a choice.”
All at once, Harry’s resentment fled, replaced by shame, and for some reason, panic.
“No,” he said quickly. “I mean yes, I understand. I want to do this.”
He expected Dumbledore to continue, but he did not, merely studying Harry.
"Something seems to be weighing on your mind today," he said finally.
"No, I—"
"Perhaps I have misled you," the older wizard cut in quietly, "to think that we are so pressed for time that I cannot listen to any requests or questions you may have. Be assured, Harry. For you, I will make the time."
"It's nothing—"
"I very much doubt that."
The man's expression was without judgment, patient as he waited for a response, and Harry struggled to put his thoughts and feelings into words. Finding his mother's letters had reminded him of just how much of a stranger she was. I'm joining them soon, he tried to rationalize. So it shouldn't matter. And yet, the thought of dying when he still knew so little filled him with a regret that constricted his heart and stole his breath.
"I was thinking about my parents." Harry confessed, eyes on the desk. "I want...I want to know more about them before I go. Everything I can."
"Of course. Of course..." Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully. "I do not have many memories of your parents with you, for that was when they went into hiding, but I can compile moments I witnessed in their school days. Would that be...?"
Harry was already nodding furiously, and the older wizard trailed off with a small smile.
"I will have them ready for when we meet next."
The older wizard placed his good hand on one of the rare, Dark texts that sat on the desk, a signal for business to continue. Dumbledore would take it with him when he left, sequestering it away with all the other books he had found that made any reference to horcruxes. To keep dangerous information from curious eyes, he had said. Harry imagined he must keep Snape's journals in his office as well.
For the rest of their meeting, Harry did his best to focus, but beneath, he was strung with nervous excitement. At least, he thought it was excitement. His heart was still fluttering when Dumbledore left, and determined to ignore it, he made his way to Regulus' room. As he took that night's letter from the stack, the parchment beneath it was disturbed. It was undated, and far shorter than the others, and written in a spiky hand that seized Harry's attention.
Your brother has the Potters, he doesn't need you worrying about him. What has he ever done for you? You need to be thinking about yourself right now. Listen to Kreacher. Keep your head down. Talk to me before you make any big decisions.
Don't do anything stupid.
And I’m sorry, but I can't send you anymore calming draught. I know things are difficult, but you're already taking way more than the intended dose. As it is, I'm not happy with sending you Dreamless Sleep either. I mean it. I can't go through this with my dad and with you.
—S.
Heart racing, he read the letter twice over. Snape's tone was markedly different from Lily's, not only in that she would encourage Regulus about Sirius, and Snape clearly had a different opinion on the matter, but because Snape's letter felt like it was being written to an entirely different Regulus. A Regulus who overdosed on potions, apparently, and behaved in such a way that Snape felt compelled to tell him not to do anything stupid.
The letter struck an uncomfortable chord in Harry; when he had first read it, he almost felt as if Snape had been speaking directly to him, and not someone else.
What was it Snape had said? When Harry had asked him if he ever suffered from panic attacks?
I knew someone. A friend, who struggled with them often. I was poorly equipped to help him at the time.
Had he been talking about Regulus?
Harry tried to cling to this new puzzle, to distract himself, but the anxiety he had felt in the wake of meeting with Dumbledore reared its head, having never fully left. He placed the letter down and stood, heart beating painfully in his chest.
Stop it. Why are you like this?
He had confided in Dumbledore, and the man had responded gently as always. He had even promised to show Harry memories of his parents. What was there to be upset about?
In his mind, Snape reminded him that anxiety attacks weren't rational, and Harry tried to shove him out. He turned on unsteady feet, leg clipping against the chair leg. Before he could fall, thin arms caught him around the waist and hauled him upright.
"Kreacher," he gasped, looking down at the grim-faced elf. "What—"
With far more strength than someone of his size should have, the elf dragged him to the bed and pushed him onto it.
"I'm f-fine, I just stumbled..."
Despite his excuses, he found himself sitting back against the pillows, eyes on the ceiling as he struggled to breathe.
In for four, out for six, in for four, out for six…
He turned to find Kreacher watching him silently. The elf's expression was unsmiling but not unkind; there was a steadiness to it that reminded Harry of Snape, and a lump formed in his throat.
"Kreacher, I don't—want anyone—to see me like this."
The elf raised his hand at once, and Harry heard the click of the door's lock.
"Thank y—"
“The brat is involved in dangerous things,” Kreacher cut him off. “Conspiring by night with Albus Dumbledore, speaking of things he should leave well enough alone.”
“You...you’ve been spying on our meetings?”
Kreacher didn't reply, and still struggling to breathe, Harry let it go for the time being. Counting was failing him, the room lights beginning to spin in his vision. Had it been like this for Regulus too?
How had Harry dealt with this before?
Snape would be there. That's how.
Loathing himself, Harry moved to dig his nails into his arm, but was stopped when something stunningly cold was shoved into his hands. The shock drew him from his thoughts, grounding him, and he looked down to see a mug full of ice cubes in various pastel colors.
"What..."
“Fairy ice,” the elf supplied in a level voice "Is the boy not having had it before?”
Harry shook his head.
“It is for eating.”
“Oh, um…thank you?”
Kreacher just continued to stare at him, and self-conscious, Harry fished out one of the ice cubes to try. It was pink, and the moment it touched his tongue, the flavor of strawberries filled his mouth. The taste was layered, shifting to peach, then cotton candy, then back to strawberry. As the flavors melded on his tongue, he found himself sinking back, senses steadying. He grasped the mug in both hands, and focused on the cool condensation that pooled on his fingers.
"Why were you spying on us?" he asked in a level voice.
The elf narrowed his eyes.
"Spying," he scoffed. "This is the House of Black. Of course, Kreacher has seeing power in the house of his Master and Mistress. If the boy wants Kreacher to spy on Albus Dumbledore, he will need to command it."
"I don't want you t..." Harry paused. "What do you mean, I'd have to command it?"
Kreacher's frown deepened, and he eyed Harry for a bit before his manner changed, becoming oddly formal, a hand on his heart.
“Kreacher is only one,” the elf said, and Harry listened closely, sensing the import of these words. “There is a great well”—he tapped at his sternum—“but Kreacher is just one person. His needs are small; he can only drink what he can hold in his own two hands.”
He held out his wrinkled, long-fingered hands as he spoke, cupped to illustrate his words.
“But with Master’s word, Kreacher’s need is not one, but two. For Master, Kreacher can drink from the well in full. He can go where he could not go before; he can do what he could not do before, as long as the boy commands it.”
“So...” Harry swallowed, thinking suddenly of Snape's journals. “If I ordered it, you could get into Dumbledore’s office?”
A distinctly sly note entered Kreacher’s voice.
“And does the boy will it?”
Harry blinked.
“No,” he blurted. Why was he even entertaining this? Dumbledore had been transparent with him thus far; if Harry wanted to see the journals, he only had to ask—
Feeling as if a weight was crushing his chest, Harry turned his eyes to the ceiling once more.
"The boy should eat before it melts," Kreacher encouraged quietly.
Harry withdrew a green ice cube with trembling fingers—melon, mint, apple. When he reached back inside for a blue, Kreacher smacked his hand.
“The boy should be pacing himself," the elf admonished, as if he hadn't just told Harry to eat up.
Harry stared, wanting to be offended, but found himself suppressing a smile instead. If Kreacher had taken care of Regulus like this, it was no wonder Lily talked about the elf as if he were in a position of authority.
I have to make sure he's taken care of when I die, Harry thought, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. Maybe Dobby can look after him at Hogwarts...
His friends were unable to visit that weekend, and despite finding their visits tiring, the minutes crawled in their absence. He awaited Dumbledore with anxiety, rereading his mother's letters to pass the time. He had yet to come across any more missives from Snape, but as he read his mother's blithe exchanges about upcoming concerts and summer assignments, Snape's stark letter weighed on his mind. As Regulus put on a smiling face for Lily, what was going on beneath?
When the day of Dumbledore's visit finally arrived, he considered taking a calming draught, but thinking of Regulus, found he could not stomach it. He spent the day looking through his album instead; he didn't know why he was so anxious to view memories of his parents, but he hoped looking at pictures could quell some of his nervousness.
Despite handling it with care, the corners of the album had worn down over the years. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had retrieved it under Snape's impatient eye; he was glad it had survived their travels. Alongside Hedwig, it was still the best gift he had ever been given, and he had Hagrid to thank for both.
He didn't even know me then, not really, Harry thought as he ran his fingers along a photograph of James flying. But he still took the time to gather all of these for me.
Maybe I should go back to school, he thought. He wanted to see Hagrid, and Neville and Luna, and McGonagall...everyone, really. Hopefully he’d get a chance to see Lupin too, and the twins…
I can't die without seeing them first.
He heard the door open downstairs, and taking a breath, he closed the album.
He met Dumbledore in the first floor study, as always, and the old wizard came bearing his pensieve, as always. But this time, he set down several vials in a neat row, each containing a glowing strand. Harry could not help but think of Snape's research, and Kreacher's offer to spy for him, and he carefully avoided Dumbledore's gaze.
"Thank you," he said, and was surprised at how calm he sounded. He was grateful for the stranger at times like these.
He prepared himself for the awkward ordeal of looking through the memories under Dumbledore's eye, but the Headmaster stayed standing.
"Mrs. Weasley has graciously invited me to enjoy a cup of tea with her," he said. He glanced at his bare wrist, as if it bore an invisible watch (and for all Harry knew, perhaps it did). "My schedule is entirely free this evening, so do not feel pressed for time. Whenever you are good and ready, you may find us in the kitchen."
"Thank you, sir."
Dumbledore inclined his head, and closed the door softly behind him. Harry turned to the first of the vials, and emptied the strand into the pensieve with care. The water's surface turned pale, and it took Harry a moment to realize he was looking at a field of snow.
No more hesitation, he thought, and lowered his face into the stone basin.
After a slow, stomach-fluttering fall, his feet landed on the familiar stone of one of Hogwarts' outdoor walkways. Beyond the colonnade, the grounds were covered in white. Dumbledore stood a few feet before him, and Harry found himself stunned at the vigor he saw in the old man's face.
How did I forget? Harry thought in amazement, circling the younger Headmaster. He was just as old and white-haired as ever, but hale in a way that the Dumbledore waiting for Harry in the present was not. This is what you used to look like. When did you get so tired?
Swallowing back sadness, Harry followed Dumbledore's gaze to the students milling about in their scarves and boots. Watching them build snowmen and pelt each other with snowballs, Harry surmised it must be a weekend. It didn't take long to find Lily, her hair bright against the backdrop of white. She was engaged in a snowball fight with James and—
Sirius was glowing, jacket discarded and hair wild. He sprinted across the field, long legs making easy work of it, and tackled Remus. Shrieking like monkeys, grinning so wide it must have hurt their faces, they fought to stuff snow down each other's collars.
Before he realized what he was doing, Harry had plodded into the snow, needing to be closer. He caught sight of Peter, laughing with the rest of them, and hands clenching, Harry dragged his eyes back to the others. As he drank in the sight of them, distant thoughts ran through his head. They looked about his age, perhaps older. Seventh years? Lily looked like she was on good terms with the others; perhaps she had started dating his father already...
They're just kids, Harry thought. And in a few years, they'll be dead.
For a moment, he saw himself running in the snow instead, Ron and Hermione at his heels, their breaths clouding in the cold and eyes bright. A powerful homesickness surged in his chest, and he staggered backwards—back into his chair, into the silence of the study, the pensieve sitting innocently on the desk in front of him.
Blinking back tears, Harry took some time to recover before reaching for the next vial.
When he finally went to meet Dumbledore in the kitchen, he felt drained, his steps heavy.
"Harry," Mrs. Weasley greeted warmly, standing at once to usher him into the seat beside her. "Here, let me get you some tea. Are you hungry? We still have scones from earlier, or I can whip up some of the biscuits you like."
"That's all right, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, putting on a smile.
Dumbledore looked at him, and said, "Forgive me, Molly, but do you mind giving Harry and I a moment?"
Mrs. Weasley hesitated, her face creased with concern as she glanced at Harry, but eventually she nodded.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to knock," she said softly, hugging him.
"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. Good night."
As soon as she left, Harry cast muffliato.
"A useful spell, that," Dumbledore said quietly.
He seemed to understand that Harry needed time to arrange his thoughts, and he said nothing more, quietly sipping his tea.
"I want to return to school," Harry said finally.
Briefly, a familiar twinkle returned to the Headmaster's eyes.
Eyes on his hands, Harry continued, "And I want you to Obliviate me."
Before Dumbledore could say anything, Harry pushed forward with the argument he had prepared in the study.
"I hoped I could be strong enough to do this, but I don't think I am. And I need to be. I wasn't supposed to know that I have to die, right? Not until I was the last one left. Well, I think we should reset to that. To your original plan." He imagined what Dumbledore's face must look like. Perhaps he had inspired a rare moment of shock, maybe even horror. "And it's not just that. I've been thinking about how I want to spend the time I have left. I want to be at Hogwarts again, with my friends. Just...be with them, without feeling like I'm lying to them all."
Harry took a breath.
"You told me I wasn't alone in this. That if I needed anything, to ask you. Well, I'm asking."
Bracing himself, he raised his eyes to face the Headmaster.
Dumbledore didn't look shocked, or horrified. His face was merely somber, his eyes sad but unsurprised.
“This is not a decision to be made lightly,” he said.
Harry, who had fully expected to need to argue his case further, stared at him.
"I would ask that you reflect on this decision," Dumbledore continued. "A week, at the very least. After that time, if you still want to do this, then I will."
Did he expect me to ask for this? Harry thought, still recovering from the older wizard's lack of reaction.
Did he…plan for it?
"If there is a single doubt in your mind—"
"No," Harry said quickly. "This is fine. A week from now, we'll do it. And then I'll return to school?"
Dumbledore nodded.
"Also," Harry began quietly, "could you get me in touch with Lupin? I'll be able to see most everyone else at Hogwarts, but I want to make sure I'm able to talk to him before..."
"Of course."
The Headmaster lowered his head briefly to adjust his glasses. Harry caught a glimpse of grief on the old wizard's face, and he looked away.
They returned to the study, where Harry watched Dumbledore retrieve his memories and place them not in his mind, but back into the vials.
"Sir?"
"These are yours," Dumbledore said. "I would not recommend placing them in your mind; doing so with someone else's memories can be very disorienting. But I can lend you my pensieve when I visit, and once you return to Hogwarts, you can consider my office always open to you."
Harry looked at the shimmering strands.
"Thank you," he said softly.
The Headmaster lingered briefly, the light from the gas lamps flicking over his face.
"Sleep well, Harry."
Harry lingered in the study, listening to the creaking of the house around him. Once he heard the soft shutting of the door, and knew the old wizard was well and truly gone, some undercurrent within him shifted, and the room was suddenly far too dark and far too empty. It was not like the panic he had felt at the end of Dumbledore's last meeting, when he had found Snape's letter. This was a colder, more distant feeling.
The stranger looked at the vials, but did not touch them. Instead, he guided Harry's feet to the staircase, to the second floor, and into his bedroom. He closed, locked, and warded the door. He took Harry's bag from the floor, and reached into it, seeking the whittling knives.
The ghost of Snape’s hand on his jaw rose to stop him, and the stranger ignored it, because it didn't matter what Snape thought. Snape wasn't even here—
Kreacher appeared in front of him and seized the bag with bony hands.
“Master Regulus must not!” he cried. “Master Regulus must not!”
Deep within his mind, Harry watched himself interact with the elf, as if they were characters on a screen.
"Master Regulus should not harm himself!" the elf pleaded. Distantly, a chill prickled up Harry's arms.
I'm being mistaken for a ghost, he thought.
"It's me," Harry said. "Harry, not Regulus."
Kreacher stilled. His gaze sharpened, recognizing Harry, but he did not release the bag.
“Thoughtless wizard," he spat. "Sitting here in the House of my Master and Mistress, a fool prepared to shed a fool’s blood!”
Harry stiffened, becoming aware of the thudding of his heart.
"How did you...”
Kreacher’s chin lifted. He was barely a meter in height, but his stare made Harry feel small.
“The heir to the House of Black should not harm himself!" he snapped.
In that instant, Kreacher flattened in his vision, becoming just another interference, another obstacle getting in his way. Anger struck him like a whiplash, moving his body before he understood what was happening. He jerked the bag towards him, and it tore, contents exploding across the floor.
Harry reached out to grasp where the knives had fallen—and stopped as his hand brushed against the wooden snitch.
He knelt there, frozen, staring at it with his hand outstretched. Oak, if he recalled correctly. It was smooth against his knuckle, and even through his anger, he found that the look of the wings was still pleasing to him.
On brand, Snape had said.
In his moment of distraction, Kreacher had vanished the knives somewhere. Feeling distant from the situation, Harry found himself dismissing this, instead looking over the sea of scattered things.
There was a capsule from the train car, and there, a creased brochure from the Dales. By his feet, a tattered Birmingham train schedule, and by the wall, a muggle mystery novel swiped from a hotel room. There was a ticket stub stained from where Snape had sat a coffee mug on it, and an array of unfinished wood projects, marking Harry’s progress from that first day Snape had handed him the whittling knives, to the day he had shaped his own wand.
As he looked over this wreckage of summer and autumn within which he was adrift, both his anger and his desire to cut drained away. That stranger within him shrank to nothing until there was only himself, right at the surface of his skin, full of heartache.
"Give me my knives back," Harry murmured.
Kreacher went stiff. Harry watched as his face turned a mottled color, a vein popping at his temple.
"Master Regulus must not," the elf warbled, his gaze going distant once more. "Kreacher would rather die than let the young master hurt himself again..."
The elf drew himself back, prepared to strike his head against the floor.
“Stop!” Harry cried, alarm waking him from his stupor. "Never mind! Keep them, you can keep them!"
Kreacher hunched over, panting, and holding himself tense, Harry watched to make sure the elf wouldn't hurt himself. He had known that Kreacher would sometimes talk to himself without realizing that others could hear, but Harry had assumed this was merely a sign of old age. But Kreacher had flashbacks too, it seemed.
His mind is hurt, Harry thought. Just like mine.
And if he was interpreting Kreacher's words correctly, just like Regulus'. Had Kreacher watched Regulus harm himself too, and tried to stop him?
And I reminded him of it.
He thought of the careful way Snape had administered Dreamless Sleep to him, always mindful of the dosage. He thought of that night in the snow, when Snape had seen evidence of his cutting. The man’s reaction was hard to believe, even now.
I expected him to be angry. Not like…that.
How long had Regulus been asking for potions from Snape? How bad had things gotten with Regulus, and how much of it had Snape been there for? Had Harry reminded him of it, just as he had reminded Kreacher?
I don't want to hurt people like that anymore.
Kreacher had sunk to the ground, shivering, his eyes fogged. Harry moved to sit next to him.
“Have you ever made blood replenisher?” he asked softly. Dragging the blanket down from his bed, Harry wrapped it around himself and the elf, then cast a warming charm over them. “You start with a solution of green vitriol, with five parts water to one part ascorbic acid…”
Harry came awake slowly. He was on the bed now, not the floor, and Kreacher was no longer at his side. He could hear his friends nearby, speaking in hushed voices.
“...no, his wand looks different. I've been wondering, but he hasn't said.”
“You sure, Ginny? Wait, it’s not Snape’s is it? Keep it away, in that case!”
“No, she's right. I got a good look when I used it. It almost looks…handmade.”
“All wands are handmade, ‘Mione.”
“Shut up, Ron, you know what I mean!”
He hadn't expected his friends until tomorrow. Remembering his agreement with Dumbledore, his throat closed.
“I made it,” Harry said, hoping the thickness in his voice would be mistaken for sleepiness.
His name was chorused around the room. As he sat up, he found Ron, Ginny, and Hermione sitting on the floor in their pajamas, looking through the contents of his bag. Despite having walked in on his mess, there was no awkward atmosphere. Admittedly, things looked tidier than he remembered—nothing was broken or spilled, and he spied his bag leaning against the wall, the tear repaired and looking good as new. Altogether, it looked like a normal mess, not the aftermath of a meltdown.
Kreacher must have fixed my bag, he thought. Maybe he was cleaning things up when my friends arrived…
"Sorry for waking you," Hermione said, apologetic.
"Surprise!" Ron grinned. "Dumbledore let us come as soon as our Friday classes were done."
Hermione hushed him. "You'll wake your parents—"
Ginny cut in, brandishing Harry's glass-core wand. "You made this?”
Ron leaned over her shoulder to look at it. “Wicked that the Order let you keep it.”
“Makes sense, he’s safer with it,” Hermione said. With a glance at Harry for permission, she took his wand from Ginny. “What’s the core? And this isn’t holly, is it?”
“Ash,” Harry said. “The core is um…well, it’s glass.”
“Glass? ”
“Glass and, uh, fulgurite, actually.”
Hermione practically vibrated with withheld questions. They were all holding back for his sake; they had been since the Ministry. He still hardly knew what to say to them sometimes, but he only had so much time left. He couldn't afford to waste it.
He looked at the floor, where his things made a scattered roadmap across the floorboards. A battered metrocard caught his eye; he leaned over the bed to pick it up, and after holding it in his hand for a moment, he began to speak.
When he first arrived at Grimmauld, he had conveyed a report of his summer to Dumbledore—clinical, sparse, only dates and locations. Now, to his friends, he described the thrill of train hopping, of casting new magic while the world sped by, of the beauty of the moors and lochs and old woods. He didn’t bother with linearity, instead letting his friends hand him an object, and going from there.
In this way, he revisited the sunrise on the fells, and the ravine in the rain where Snape had guided him through healing his arm. He showed them his whittling tools, and he felt a sunburst pride as they passed around his wood projects with admiration. At several points, he became aware of the enthusiasm in his own voice, and cut himself off with a flush.
They sat tense through his retelling of Mulciber’s abduction; he glossed over the details, not mentioning the mouse at all. When he got to the train car, he slowed; this part of the story felt personal, and he spoke quietly, picturing the scenes as he described them. He told them about the medical guide book Snape had written in, and he demonstrated how to expand one of the capsules (he was pleased to find it contained chocolate biscuits, which they split between them as he continued).
“Can’t believe you’re a potions nerd, now,” Ron said around a mouthful.
“You have to go over salves with me once we’re back at school,” Hermione demanded.
He hesitated at first, to speak of Snape’s worst moments. Irritated with himself, he endeavored not to mince his words.
"Barbaric," Hermione fumed over the yoking spell incident.
"It's a nasty spell," Ron agreed, although he sounded less angry than she did. "Isn't that the one Grandad cast on Charlie once? When he was little?"
"Oh, Bill told me that story," Ginny said. "Mum went ballistic, and Grandad never did it again." To Harry and Hermione, she said, "It's one of those pureblood spells. Really old-fashioned. Figures Snape would use it."
Harry blinked at this. He had assumed Snape had just adapted a herding spell to humiliate him; Harry had no idea that other families used it, ill-advised as it might be.
I wonder if his parents ever used it on him? Maybe Eileen was a pure-blood.
"I remember reading about this, actually," Hermione said, frowning. "It's one of those old spells stolen from house-elf magic."
Harry looked at Hermione curiously. This was the sort of thing Regulus and his mother discussed in their letters, although he understood very little of it.
"There's a whole history of it," Hermione was saying. "In fact, most of the binding and unbinding spells we use today are—"
Ron gave a loud, pointed yawn, and handing him a wooden bird, Ginny said impatiently, "Tell us about this."
He struggled to speak about Iseul, Ranveer, and Alex. When he had brought up the incident to Dumbledore, he had been told that yes, there had been casualties, but the Order hadn't had names at the time. If he pressed, he was sure Dumbledore could find the information for him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted those answers.
“I wasn’t…right in the head, after that,” Harry said. “If Snape hadn’t been there…I don’t know. He was lying to me, but he…”
“It sounds like your relationship with him changed a lot,” Hermione said carefully.
“He’s Snape,” Ron said, face reddening. “He bloody kidnaps you, lies to you… We didn’t know where you were, whether you were okay, for weeks—!”
“Ron was really worried about you,” Ginny teased. More seriously, she added, “We all were. Mum was beside herself when Hedwig showed up without any letter, and then the Order guard reported you missing.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry sighed.
“It’s not your fault, it’s Snape’s,” Ron said staunchly.
Harry hesitated. He had tried not to hide the worst of Snape, and he wanted to tell them about the other parts too. About the beach, and the healing spell. Not to defend, but to tell them the truth, because Snape was not just one thing.
He could see it in his mind’s eye: the crown of Snape’s head bowed over his bleeding hand, droplets of seawater falling to the floor as the man’s song filled the shack. But how could he speak of it? He could not tell them about his self-harm, or the awful things he thought by the sea. He could not tell them of how Snape held him.
Could he?
“There’s this healing spell he uses, vulnera sanentur,” Harry began. “Did you know that you can sing spells?”
Ron’s face twisted into a grin. “Snape singing? Bet it was horrible.”
Harry’s face went hot; his expression must have spoken volumes, because Ron stopped smiling at once.
“Never mind,” Harry said, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. “Just—never mind.”
A hand rested on his knee, and he looked up to see Hermione’s grave face. “You don’t have to tell us everything, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ginny said. She handed him back the glass-core wand. “What about this?”
Harry turned it over in his hands.
“He took me into the old woods. I didn’t know at the beginning, but we were looking for a wand tree.”
He told them about drinking from the spring and entering the ancient woods; of trying to connect to a tree, of what Snape had said about ash being a tree of healing, and the branch falling to their feet.
“He let me stay up all night carving. We ended up using glass from the mirror Sirius gave me as the core.”
“Really,” Hermione said, with interest. “A two-way mirror, already enchanted…and one of sentimental value to you—”
She broke off, flushing, and he made sure to smile at her.
“Right.” He kept the bit about the shard being infused with his blood to himself. “He said it’d make a wand that makes a more powerful Patronus, and would be good for apparition.”
“Does Snape like, make wands in his spare time?” Ginny asked, impressed.
Harry snorted. “I asked him directly; he’s never made one before. When we were looking for a wand tree, I’m pretty sure he was winging it at that point.”
Hermione was giving him a studying look, and retroactively hearing the fondness in his words, he said hastily, “Anyway, he was right about the Patronus. The first time I cast it with this wand, a dozen came out.”
“That must have been a sight,” Ron said, smiling over his nervousness at offending Harry earlier.
“Twelve stags running around,” Hermione agreed. “Wish I could have seen it!”
Harry didn’t correct her. He felt himself flagging; he had known Snape would come up during this conversation, but he had underestimated how much, and how taxing it would be to discuss him.
Sending his weariness, they shifted away from questioning. He felt bad, wanting to give his friends his full attention, but he found himself distracted, his thoughts continuously turning inward. Not unfamiliar with these moods of his, they left him to think, chatting to each other as they continued to comb through the objects Harry had collected.
Harry had told Dumbledore he didn’t care about Snape’s reasons. He had resolved to put the man behind him.
But speaking his stories aloud had been an exercise in untying all that had lain tangled in his brain, laying everything out in mind, in heart, and in words. It was as if he, too, was experiencing his journey for the first time, details he had forgotten now demanding his attention: the sleepless nights Snape had spent researching, the hopeless way he would gaze out of windows, the desperate searching through muggle newspapers…
Do you know what I would be doing right now, if I didn’t have to ferry an ungrateful brat around Britain? The work that still must be done for the war? The lives at risk, that I can do nothing about?
Snape had cast aside life-saving work, defied Dumbledore, and revealed himself to be a traitor to Voldemort—all to save Harry. Had he really done all of that out of mere guilt? Snape had been a spy, and before that, a Death Eater in earnest; surely the Potters weren’t the only people to die because of his actions. Why go to such lengths to protect Harry, who he hadn’t even liked at the time?
Dumbledore’s explanation just wasn’t enough. There had to be something else. Something Harry was missing…
“Ooh, this looks super warm.”
He turned to see Ginny stepping into his sleeping bag like it was a pair of trousers.
“I couldn’t stop her,” Ron told Harry helplessly.
Harry shrugged, grinning a little as Ginny hopped around. She toppled, and they all rushed to steady her.
“Okay, okay, enough,” Ginny giggled, clambering out of the bag. “Ugh, this stinks, you know.”
“Hey, I cast cleaning charms on it,” Harry said. “Sometimes.”
Ginny made a face, and shook the sleeping bag out like a sheet. As she did, something small fluttered from its interior, and Harry snatched it instinctively from the air. Uncurling his fingers, he found himself holding a crumpled piece of paper.
“Two numbers?” Ginny grinned. “Score, Harry.”
Notes:
Chapter 10 playlist
Lost & Found by Lianne La Havas
The Sixth Station by Joe Hisaishi
Slow Motion by Kalandra
Memories of a Sound by Taisei Iwasaki
Sagu Palm's Song by Ichiko Aoba
Chapter 11: an echo that begs to be followed
Summary:
Chapter CW: suicide ideation, self-harm, dissociation, depression
I'd hoped to get this out on the 10th, making it exactly one year since my last update...alas!
My heartfelt appreciation for everyone's kind, funny, and gracious words. I have been well; the delay has been partly the ups and downs of life, and partly my perfectionism. You can thank an acquaintance of mine, who advised that instead of agonizing over the perfect way to proceed, I simply focus on watering the seeds I've already planted, flawed they may be. It was always my intention to return, and the story has never been too far from my mind. And here I am! I'm so happy to have gotten this out. I can make no promises about a future schedule, but I give my thanks to everyone who's kept with me on this rocky journey.
Also! I added a drawing I did a bit ago to Chapter 1 to serve as a banner for the story. I may update it in future, but it's there for now. :)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The day before his charge's memories were to be erased, Severus Snape sat facing the wall of his transfigured prison. Other than his cell and the futon within, the only things in the room were the smell of cedar, and the shaft of light issuing from the window, which was too high to provide any indication of his surroundings. He had yet to hear the sound of any cars outside, just birds and the rustling of trees. They had kept the place nondescript on purpose, but not knowing his location didn’t matter much. The outcome would be the same: within a few days, he would lose time again, and wake up in some other prison.
He did not know that Harry Potter was to be Obliviated in the morning, but the lead-weight of failure sat in his belly all the same. He had been here before, too many times.
Lily rested in the same village where she had been murdered, Regulus' body had never been found, and while the curse had stolen Severus' memory of where, he knew his mother must have been buried, because he had told Potter that the rosewood wand had been dug from a grave.
Severus thought of the careful, dispassionate hand the boy had used to write his will, as if he were merely writing an essay, and pictured that same hand engraving the name Harry Potter in stone.
Perhaps Albus was right, Severus thought. Perhaps he could not do this. Perhaps he never could.
7 days before
After a quick breakfast on Mrs. Weasley’s insistence, Harry side-alonged with Mr. Weasley to Ottery, a small parish nestled within the farmlands of Devon. It was also the closest muggle town to the Burrow—and chosen for that reason, as Mr. Weasley knew precisely where they could find a phone box within it.
Mr. Weasley eyed the booth as they approached, but did not indulge his obvious interest in the inside. Instead, keeping his gaze trained on their surroundings, he opened the door and nodded his head for Harry to get inside.
Grateful to be indulged in this, Harry ducked under the man’s arm, the sounds from outside becoming muted as the door was shut behind him.
Doubts swarmed him. Maybe he should have just asked the Order to investigate the fatalities. Better that, than bothering some aggrieved family member. Or maybe it was better not to know at all.
Stop it. I'm already here...no more avoiding this.
The precious slip of paper gripped in one hand, he slotted coins into the machine, and began to dial the first number. His heart was too loud in his ears, and he pressed the phone close, listening to it ring, and ring, and ring—before his time ran out.
It took him a moment before he could try again. It was harder this time, his fingers stiff and cold as he pressed each button and slotted each coin.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang—
“Harry?”
Harry's heart soared.
"Harry? Is that you?"
“Iseul." There was laughter in Harry's voice. "How’d you know it was me?”
“I didn’t.” She was laughing too, her voice thick. “I’ve been answering every unknown number with your name, like a weirdo.”
“I’m so glad you’re safe. Are, are Ranveer and Alex—?”
“They’re okay! Alex's parents are okay too."
Harry moved the phone away to breathe once into his elbow, fighting back tears of relief, before bringing it back.
“...see the news? We thought it was the IRA at first, but now they’re saying it was some kind of white supremacy thing."
Harry felt a moment of disorientation.
Of course...they would have been Obliviated.
It was a lonely realization, that they had shared a nightmare together, but only he walked away with the truth of it.
“...one of the victims…do you remember the girl Alex was dancing with?”
Harry’s chest went hollow.
“The extremists…they shot her, and she…she didn’t make it.”
Harry tried to remember what Alex’s companion had looked like, but her face kept blurring in his mind. Grief welled in him, but it couldn’t eclipse the relief of knowing his friends were alive, and he felt all the more sick for it.
“Alex might not have known her very well, but she had just been dancing with us…he’s taking it really hard.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, what matters is that you’re safe! It feels like so many attacks have been happening lately. A lot of people are nervous to go out, and that fog in London doesn’t make traveling any easier.”
Harry’s heart clenched, and felt a sharp bitterness towards Voldemort for terrorizing two worlds at once.
Muffled chatter emerged from the other end of the line.
"Iseul?" Harry said, worried the call would drop. "Are you still there?"
There were sounds of shuffling, and then a new voice issued through the phone:
"Harry?"
A buoyant feeling filled his chest, so strong it could have lifted him off his toes.
“Ranveer,” Harry breathed, a smile stretching over his face.
"Harry! You're okay?"
"Yes—are you?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine—it's so good to hear your voice."
"I didn't realize you were at Iseul's."
"We live close, so I eat here a lot. But, god, forget that, what happened to you? You just disappeared. We were kicking ourselves for not getting your number too. And what about your mentor? Did he make it out okay?"
Harry floundered.
"Uh, yeah, um. He's...fine."
There was more shuffling, background voices fading as Ranveer moved somewhere quieter.
"That's good, really good. Where are you now?"
Mr. Weasley shifted in the corner of his vision, and Harry said, unthinkingly, "Uh, a phone box. I mean, I can't talk long."
Ranveer said nothing for a moment, and Harry berated himself for making things awkward.
"Are you okay?" he asked finally. "Like, really? You're safe, and okay?"
Harry opened his mouth to say of course I am, but the words stuck in his throat.
"Harry?"
"Yeah." Harry's hands tightened around the phone. He was embarrassingly close to crying all of a sudden. "Hey, um. Do you think we could...just talk about normal things? Like, what you've been up to?"
Harry shriveled the moment he asked, but after only a brief silence, Ranveer spoke again.
"So, my art project's almost finished. Did I ever explain what it was about?"
"No," Harry said at once, relieved. "Tell me."
“My hometown's pretty boring, but it's got this amazing botanical garden. That's what my portfolio's on. Close up shots of the different plants. With the right angle, you can get all these different patterns of light shining through the leaves..."
Harry let Ranveer talk, offering the occasional question, but steering the conversation away from his own life. He could tell Ranveer noticed, but was playing along anyway.
Gratitude filled Harry's heart, but it was accompanied by a slow-creeping sadness, and he pushed it down with practiced effort.
Despite saying he couldn’t talk for long, Harry continued spending coins to extend their time until Mr. Weasley tapped on the door, a rueful look on his face.
“I’m sorry," he said regretfully. "I really do have to go now.”
“Oh...all right then…”
Harry recalled the first time he had said goodbye to Ranveer and the others, that long afternoon they had circled the lake. He had thought he would never see any of them again, and he felt the same way now, the feeling heavy in his chest.
“Actually, hold on,” Ranveer said, and Harry held the phone closer to his ear. “Sorry if this is…look, we all want to see you. I know this time of year is busy, but maybe we could meet up some weekend? Or, or over hols, if you can?”
“That sounds really nice,” Harry said quietly.
“I can give you my address. Whenever you’re free, visit me sometime, okay? Promise?”
I promise.
Harry looked up at the ceiling of Ron’s bedroom, the soft creaking of the Burrow all around him, his hasty words to Ranveer keeping him awake.
It had been a foolish thing to say. He was a dead person walking, and what little time he had left would be focused on destroying the other horcruxes. It was unlikely he would ever speak to Ranveer again.
Harry turned to look at Ron. The boy was getting too lanky for his bed, hands dangling off the side. He had always been a deep sleeper, but he seemed even more so here at the Burrow, snoring freely into his pillow.
Dumbledore had granted them permission to spend the remainder of the weekend here, and Harry could tell it was a welcome change of pace for the Weasleys. Harry couldn’t blame them; had he grown up here, he too would look forward to going home, and would sleep just as deeply as Ron did now.
As Harry watched him, it seemed that the distance between them grew, until only one of them slept in that warm room, and Harry was merely an observer.
Wrapped in this distance, Harry slipped from the bed and paced through the soft clutter of the house. Even in the dead of night, scattered lamps of various shapes and colors cast a warm glow by which to see, a useful measure to dispel night terrors and stubbed toes in a house that had reared so many children.
Edging the back door open, he stepped into the frigid night, the grass stiff beneath his bare feet. Looking across the shadowed yard, he welcomed the cold, letting it sink into his skin and his mind.
This is what I wanted, he thought. I don't have to worry about fighting him, and failing. I just have to take him with me, then everyone I love will be safe.
He tried to focus on this, but found his thoughts straying to the night before. Confusions about Snape and his motivations, guilt over lying to his friends, mixed feelings about Regulus—and Kreacher, who Harry had not been able to check on before leaving Grimmauld.
Shivering in the wide blackness of the yard, Harry hesitated, then whispered Kreacher’s name.
There was no sound, but he felt the presence at his side at once.
“The boy calls for Kreacher,” the elf said, his voice steeped in disapproval. “A good thing too, for the brat’s out in the cold without proper robes.”
With three snaps of Kreacher’s fingers, slippers appeared on Harry’s feet, a heavy blanket dropped onto his shoulders, and a warming charm settled over him.
When Harry had recovered from his surprise, he drew the blanket close around him.
“Thank you, Kreacher." He peered closely at the elf’s face through the low light. “Are you...all right?”
Faintly luminous eyes looked back at him.
“Kreacher is fine,” the elf said eventually. His voice was dispassionate, but Harry got the sense that Kreacher was surprised to be asked, and not unpleasantly so. They regarded each other, and Harry wondered exactly when the hostility had faded between them. If he let his thoughts linger on that awful night, when Kreacher had tricked him and Sirius had died, he was sure his anger at the elf would reemerge. But it was tempered beneath an acceptance that the elf had belonged to Sirius through no will of his own, and now, he belonged to Harry.
For as long as I'm still here, I need to take care of him.
“Is the boy in need of Kreacher’s services?”
Holding himself tense, Harry looked across the shadowed field. He ought to say no; in five days, he would lose his memories, and that would be that. At this point, why care about Snape's motivations?
But he did care. As much as he wanted to deny it, speaking of his travels had opened the door he had tried so hard to close.
"You said you had seeing power in the House of Black," Harry said finally. "Does that mean...you could listen in on Order meetings?"
The elf did not smile, but there was something almost pleased in the uptilt of his ears.
"Kreacher requires an order."
6 days before
It was early yet when Harry woke, but Ron’s bed was empty, soft voices already issuing from the kitchen.
Smile, he thought, as he made his muzzy way through the hall. Remember to tell Mrs. Weasley that breakfast is wonderful—
Something soft bumped against his temple, and he blinked up at a red and gold balloon. Slowly, he took in the streamers strung across the kitchen ceiling, and the small pile of gifts on the table.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were seated already, all of them still in their pajamas.
“Happy belated,” they chorused together, slumber lingering in their voices.
“We hoped you’d sleep a little longer,” Mrs. Weasley said from the counter. Her wand was trained on a levitating bowl of batter that appeared to be mixing itself; with her attention on Harry, it began to wobble dangerously.
“Careful, Molly…” Flour on his nose, Mr. Weasley reached out to steady the bowl. “Go on son, sit down.”
For a surprise party, it was a small affair, punctuated by yawns and rubbed eyes. As Harry watched Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at the counter, soft sunlight filtering through mismatched curtains, he wondered if he had truly woken up.
“We were planning to do this at school,” Ron explained. “But well…”
But I ended up not going back to school, Harry finished for him.
“Well, since we ended up here for the weekend, we figured it was a good time.”
Harry braced himself before saying, “Actually, I’m going back to Hogwarts next week. I’ve told Du—Headmaster Dumbledore already. I only just decided.”
Everyone brightened instantly.
“That’s wonderful news, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley beamed, and Harry felt guilty for worrying her for so long. “This is a going-back-to-school celebration as well as a birthday celebration then!”
They ate breakfast while the cake baked, the scent of vanilla permeating the room. Mrs. Weasley had used leftovers to make them a hash of bacon and veg, simple but delicious. As Harry ate next to Ron and Ginny, he thought of how they must have eaten years of similar breakfasts, likely sitting in their pajamas as they did now. He felt jealous at the thought, but also grateful to be included—a split feeling that had long become familiar to him from spending time with Ron's family.
“This needs time to cool before frosting,” Mrs. Weasley said once the cake was done and placed on the counter. “Why don’t we do presents now?”
Hagrid had given him a lumpy package of biscuits, rock-hard, but beautifully decorated. Wrapped in paper she had hand painted herself, Luna had sent him ink that changed color according to one’s mood (Harry unwrapped the box carefully, and saved the paper to place in his album later). Neville had given him a compass attachment for his broom, which Ginny gasped at the moment he unveiled it.
“Once these are attached, not even Merlin can move them,” she said excitedly. “And they weigh nothing, so you don’t have to worry about it affecting your balance, and they’re weather-proof, too…”
“Mine next,” Hermione said, pushing a rectangular package Harry’s way.
“I wonder if—” Ron began, grinning.
“Yes, it’s a book,” she said primly.
Harry expected a book of Defense spells, and it was, but the cover looked vaguely familiar.
“It’s the book they recommend for Aurors during their first year of training,” Hermione explained, sounding slightly nervous. “The index is really comprehensive, and the book discusses the theory behind each spell in detail, as well as how they’re best applied in practical situations…”
“You’ll have the jump on your future colleagues,” Ron said. “Not that you don’t already.”
“Yes, but, even if you don’t decide to become an Auror,” Hermione cut in. “You soak up Defense books like a sponge, so I wanted to get you something that could actually last. I’m hoping it’s still a useful reference after you graduate.”
The wrapping crinkled in Harry’s grasp, and he forced himself to loosen his fingers.
“It’s amazing,” he said, and it was the truth, but his heart felt hollow as he weighed the hefty book in his hands.
“Last but not least,” Ron said, sounding unexpectedly shy as he pushed the last, and largest, gift towards Harry.
“We all pitched in for this one,” Ginny said. “Me, Ron, Mum, and Dad.”
Harry looked at them in some surprise before beginning to unwrap the package. It revealed a fine box, a company name he didn’t recognize embossed at the top in gold. He could already smell new leather, and when he opened the lid, he found a gorgeous pair of black wand holsters inside.
“One’s for your arm, the other for your leg,” Ron explained.
“We thought it would be good for you to have both options,” Mrs. Weasley added, a soft concern behind her smile, and Harry could tell it had cost her something to give him a gift that assumed he would be in combat.
“And it’s even better now,” Ginny grinned, “because it turns out you got a second wand.”
“Both work for concealed carry,” Mr. Weasley said, lifting the arm holster from the box. “See how slender the bracer is? It’s designed to fit beneath a sleeve, and release the wand it holds with a tap of your finger.”
The bracer was exquisitely made, both practical and beautiful, with fine stitching. Half of him wanted to put it on immediately, while the other shriveled at the thought of how much it must have cost them.
“It’s too much. I couldn’t—”
“You can,” Mr. Weasley said with uncharacteristic firmness. “Consider it an investment, Harry. We hope this will last you for many, many years.”
“If you keep it in good condition, you can pass it on to your children,” Mrs. Weasley said. The your had a slight emphasis; she said it so naturally, as if it were an obvious thing to speak to Harry like a son, to include him in their lineage of gift-giving from generation to generation.
“Thank you,” Harry said, and couldn’t quite contain his tears.
For the remainder of the day, Harry felt as if he teetered on a razor’s edge. He itched to cut, itched and itched for it, so much so he sometimes couldn’t comprehend how everyone around him couldn’t tell. He could barely stand looking at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s faces, and it took everything he had to act normal around his friends. He threw his nervous energy into laughing yet louder, smiling yet wider, and prayed for the week to pass quickly, because once he was Obliviated, these feelings could be real.
Despite his eagerness to get away, it was difficult to bid his friends goodbye that evening, and Grimmauld appeared even bleaker after his time at the Burrow. It was a good thing he had told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley his plans to return to school; claiming he had last minute revisions to make, he was able to hole up in his room—or more often these days, Regulus' room—without causing worry.
He worked on putting his belongings in order and revising his will, wanting to finish it before the Obliviation, as he was. After he lost his memories, he might expect to die, but wouldn't know the certainty of it. What if he held onto little things, telling himself he could make changes later, not understanding the urgency until it was too late?
"The Order meeting has adjourned," Kreacher said from behind him.
Harry, becoming accustomed to the these silent arrivals, only started slightly before turning from his work to face the elf.
"Everything went okay? You were able to get past the imperturbable charm?"
Kreacher nodded shortly.
"Kreacher has Snape's location."
Harry, who had been in the middle of gesturing for Kreacher to sit beside him, froze.
"The Order is keeping him in a temporary safehouse, but not for long."
These last words pulled Harry from his shock.
"What do you mean not for long?"
"They have made arrangements to move him to a different location next week. The disgraced one, no longer worthy of the Black name, protested this—"
"Tonks," Harry suggested.
Kreacher scrunched his face, as if the very word were a bad smell.
"...Nymphadora protested this, saying that they had only just moved him. Albus Dumbledore overrode any such arguments, and no more was said concerning Snape."
Harry frowned. It sounded like they were moving Snape on some kind of schedule. But why would they do that? Unless... Moving from place to place reminded Harry of the way Snape had led them that summer—because of the wanderer's curse. Had Dumbledore not lifted the spell yet? But why wouldn't he, when it made Snape such a difficult prisoner to keep?
Well, we know where he is now...
The knowledge rested uneasily behind his rib cage. He had asked Kreacher to investigate Snape, but only now did his reasons for it begin to emerge from the murk of his thoughts.
"Thanks, Kreacher," he murmured.
Sensing the dismissal, the elf cast one last look at Harry before vanishing.
Harry lowered himself onto the bed, the stranger within him shrinking until there was only himself, right at the surface of his skin, full of heartache.
It felt as if, after days of fighting himself, his anger over the prophecy no longer mattered. Over and over, he tried to cling to the knowledge that if it were not for Snape’s actions, his parents might still be alive. But the anger bled like water through his fingers, leaving behind a yawning, terrifying anxiety in its place.
I miss him. He wanted Snape there—for what? To cry at, to scream at, to be held?
Snape had played both tormentor and protector, and not merely that... He’d been the one to ground Harry through his panic attacks. To stand by him as he released Sirius’ candle to the sea. To help him find the strength to cast his new Patronus by the ash tree.
Harry could not make sense of his thoughts, these intolerable feelings, when unbidden, Snape’s words came to him:
There’s nothing wrong with you.
Harry released a shuddering sigh, palms pressed to his eyes. He would not live to see these emotions untangled. And yet, none of it mattered. Forgiveness, betrayal, and motivations aside, it was undeniable that Snape had become one of the people he cared for.
I need him to be okay when I'm gone.
2 days before
Lupin visited on Wednesday. By the time Harry had made his way downstairs, the man had not left the entry hall, and had made no move to discard his coat.
"I've been assigned to get your school supplies," Lupin explained once they had exchanged perfunctory greetings. He seemed bewildered to have been given such a task—rightfully, when Mrs. Weasley could have easily done it. Figuring this was Dumbledore’s way of making good on his promise to get them in touch, Harry just nodded with a tight smile.
"I've got your list," the man said, patting his pocket. "Is there anything else you'd like me to pick up for you?"
"Oh, I thought..." Harry stopped himself. "That's fine. It's too dangerous for me to go out, right?"
"No, I can escort you," Lupin said, looking surprised. "I just assumed...never mind."
He dug a vial from his pocket, and Harry recognized the unappetizing look of Polyjuice.
"The public haven't been alerted of your return just yet. The Headmaster wants to wait until you're safely back at school."
Having no interest in being ogled at, Harry downed the potion without argument. When the unpleasantness was done, he found his clothes stretched uncomfortably tight, and he made some quick adjustments.
"I had heard you'd got another wand," Lupin said, eyeing his glass-core wand.
Harry floundered for something to say.
"It's ace for the Patronus spell."
Lupin looked curious, but didn't ask further, and Harry didn't elaborate.
The walk through Diagon Alley was painfully awkward, and Harry didn't think he was the only one to blame. Lupin was courteous as usual, but without the warmth, and spoke little; as Harry was unprepared to fill the silence himself, they conducted their shopping in stifling quiet.
It did not help that Diagon was quite changed: the normally bustling alley was bare of stalls, the larger shop windows curtained or boarded from view. Shoppers were sparse, and Harry noticed that many walked with their hands hovering by the hip, anxious to draw wands.
Seeing a familiar parlor sitting empty, Harry halted.
"What happened to Fortescue's?"
"Taken," Lupin said quietly.
Harry's fists tightened, and he looked around the street with a sharper eye.
"Who else?"
"Ollivander, although there were no signs of struggle."
"You don't think—"
"It's a possibility," Lupin said dispassionately. "But I certainly hope not, as that would be a considerable loss for us."
Harry's heart had sunk low, his feet dragging blindly to keep up with Lupin. As they passed a Daily Prophet stand, he caught a glimpse of his own face, frowning stormily beneath the headline:
The Boy Who Turned Tail?
Harry stepped closer, but Lupin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"You know it's not worth your time."
Seeing Harry's frown, Lupin said in a low voice, "It's just speculation over your absence from school. Whether you'd been taken by Voldemort, or escaped the country."
"Ran away, they mean," Harry muttered.
"A war going on and they still have ink to waste," a familiar voice interjected. "Now see, this is why I only ever read the Quibbler."
Harry turned to see Fred standing tall and broad-shouldered in magenta robes; despite having just left school, he looked surprisingly adult.
"Fred," Harry greeted. "Wow, you look..."
"Devilishly handsome?"
"Like your dad, I was going to say."
Fred clutched his heart, feigning a wounded expression.
"Michael and I have just about finished," Lupin said pointedly, and with a start, Harry remembered he was still in disguise. "I suppose you've come to drag us to your shop?"
"Kicking and screaming," Fred said brightly.
The storefront did not disappoint. The timber was painted in purple chrome that shimmered topaz as the viewer moved; the display through the glass resembled nothing more than a Rube Goldberg machine of noise and motion and light; and emblazoned above it all was Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the letters shaped in hollow glass lit from within by electric yellow smoke.
The name was familiar, and with a start, Harry remembered Snape had mentioned them once before.
He must have been horrified by this, Harry thought with amusement as he stepped through the door.
In an instant, he was transported to the Diagon he was used to, surrounded by bustling bodies and voices and hands. Overwhelmed, Harry froze; fortunately, Fred had a destination in mind, pushing him and Lupin through the crowd to the back of the store, where George waited to usher them through a velvet curtain. There was a smaller workroom behind it, full of strange contraptions in various states of development, the floors blackened with explosion-marks.
“Ah, Harry, our bene—favorite honorary Weasley,” George exclaimed, giving him a hug that lifted him off his toes. Harry suspected he had been about to say benefactor, but had censored himself at the last moment, possibly for fear that Lupin would mention something to Mrs. Weasley.
"How'd you know it's me?"
"Oh, Fred gave me a look," George said as he set Harry down. "You know."
"Uh huh." Harry turned to Fred. "So how did you—"
"You get this look of dismay when you see yourself in the paper," Fred said casually. "It's a very Harry-specific look. Oh, there we go—it's that look you're wearing right now."
Without warning, George deposited an oversized magenta bowler hat in Harry's hands, and began to fill it with items.
"Take your pick of anything you like."
"Use them wisely—”
“Or unwisely!”
“All on the house, of course.”
Harry shook his head. "No way, I can't just—"
"You don't pay here," Fred said firmly.
When Harry made to protest, George tugged another hat over his eyes.
"You don't pay here, and you know why," he said sternly.
Harry tamped down his impulse to argue. The shop was clearly thriving. The twins knew what they were doing, so the least Harry could do was trust them.
"Wow," he said instead. "You really sounded like your dad, there."
George snorted incredulously.
"He's got jokes now," Fred said, poking Harry in the ribs. "Thank Merlin. For a second I thought we weren't going to get a single smile out of you."
Harry blinked up at him. Fortunately, Lupin saved him from finding a reply.
"Clever spellwork on these shield bracelets," Lupin asked, peering into one of the boxes that covered the shelves.
"Just a prototype," Fred sighed, both he and George moving to stand beside Lupin. "The shield just won't cover enough area to be practical."
"Hm. Have you tried mapping the magic on a larger area as usual, and just shrinking the bracelets down at the end?"
The twins took on rapt expressions, and soon had Lupin engaged in deep discussion. Harry hung back to observe, and saw that Lupin had come alive too, embodying some of the energy he'd had as a professor.
Maybe he's just being weird around me.
The last time he had seen Lupin, the man had been restraining him at the Department of Mysteries. Had he not done so, Harry would have likely dove after Sirius through the Veil, and been lost himself.
I wonder if he blames me for what happened.
Biting back a sigh, Harry peered around the curtain at the busy shop. Despite being a new fixture, he already found it hard to imagine Diagon without it; Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes simply belonged here. It was easier, in fact, to picture how it would grow over the years, the shelves filling with novel prank items that Filch would have to add to his ever-growing list of banned products...
"We need to be heading back," Lupin said, and Harry turned back to the twins.
"Come back soon," George said.
"And bring all your friends," Fred grinned.
Harry looked up at them, one face and then the other, before stepping forward to embrace them both. His arms could barely fit around their broad torsos, but after a moment of surprise, they moved to hug him in return.
"I'm glad I got to see you," Harry said.
Fred and George glanced at each other, then down at Harry with the same, bewildered smile.
The polyjuice had reached its end by the time they returned, and as Harry endured the transformation back to himself, Lupin set their packages down in the sitting room. He expected the man to leave immediately after, but Lupin lingered.
"You financially backed them, didn't you?"
Harry flattened his bangs.
"Not really... I just gave them my Triwizard Winnings. I didn't want to keep them anyway." He glanced up the stairs. "Do you mind not telling Mrs. Weasley? It's kind of a secret."
Lupin mimed zipping his lips. A silence fell, and still he made no move to leave.
“I haven’t had a chance to really talk to you since the Headmaster found you," he said finally. "We were so worried…”
You could have talked to me anytime, Harry thought, but seeing Lupin’s weary face, he didn’t hold it against the man. He had long since let go of his hurt feelings after third year, when his correspondence with the man had petered out. Harry had expected more of their relationship, and Lupin clearly hadn’t; that was that.
Lupin lifted his eyes to the gas lamps that lit the corridor, his eyes sad despite his smile, and Harry recognized that they were both thinking of Sirius. The image of a younger Sirius tackling Lupin in the snow rose in his mind; it was hard to imagine Lupin laughing that freely now.
Taking a chance, Harry said, “It feels weird, inheriting his house."
Lupin blinked at him, and his smile softened, something relaxing in his shoulders. It occurred to Harry that just as he had worried the man would blame him, perhaps Lupin had held similar fears towards Harry.
“I know,” Lupin said quietly. “It still feels like the things he left me are just borrowed. I keep thinking I’ll return them the next time I see him.”
They stood in silent understanding for a moment.
"There's something I want to show you," Harry said. "My Patronus changed."
Lupin’s eyes widened. “Is…is it…?”
Harry nodded, studying the man's expression.
“Can you handle seeing it now?”
The man nodded eagerly, his face tense.
Harry stepped back, closed his eyes. He had intended to think of Ron and Hermione, but instead it was his parents in the mirror of Erised, and the taste of chocolate, and the first time Lupin had said Harry had his mother's eyes.
Wanting to keep the spell small, he barely breathed the incantation, tears prickling at his eyes.
A single Patronus bloomed into existence in the room.
“Oh,” Lupin said faintly, his face creasing. He dropped to one knee, and gently touched the luminous figure of Padfoot. “He’s beautiful, Harry.”
I know, Harry thought, heart in his throat and hands trembling. He smiled back at Lupin the best he could, and was glad that the man was distracted enough to not see Harry’s loss of composure.
“Thanks for taking me to Diagon,” he said later, as he was seeing Lupin out the door. “And…thanks for all the help you gave me in my third year. It means more than I can say.”
Lupin looked taken aback, then embarrassed.
“Of course, Harry." The man scratched at his temple. "If you, ah, need anything in the future, don’t hesitate to owl me.”
It was a tepid offer, but behind the cordial distance in Lupin's eyes, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of something more earnest. Vulnerable.
Stop, Harry thought, withdrawing from his close study of Lupin's face. Stop searching for something you don't even have time for.
“I will,” he said, wearing his best smile.
On a cold evening the day before his memories were to be erased, the boy who lived sat motionless amidst the scattered contents of his bag. In his hands rested a fleece-lined jacket, while on his left forearm was a series of welts, banding red and angry from wrist to elbow. His will sat on the desk before him, and beside it, a scrap of paper, half-unfurled so that the address upon it peeked through, inviting.
The scrap drew Harry's eyes, once, twice—before he flipped it over, hiding the words out of sight, and turned back to the jacket. He ran his thumb over its lining, the feel of soft fleece conjuring the smell of damp heath.
It might fit Ron, he thought. The boots too. And 'Mione could get good use out of the healing kit...
Or...should he give it all back to the person who had given him these things in the first place?
Harry shoved the jacket back into his satchel. He would leave his whittling things to Luna, but everything else from the summer he would leave alone. Snape could reclaim them if he cared to and was able; otherwise, his friends could do with it what they wished. Amending the will to include his recent birthday gifts had been difficult enough—he did not have the energy for this too.
For the last time, Harry's eyes traveled over the names of those to whom he had left all his possessions; most of them he would see at the castle, and he had been able to say goodbye to Lupin and the twins already. Which left only one loose end left: Snape.
I'll ask Dumbledore to protect him tomorrow, Harry vowed. The old wizard had already said if Harry needed something, he need only ask. I'll make Snape's safety a condition of my...cooperation. If it comes to that.
Keeping this resolution in mind, Harry folded the will into thirds, and sealed it into an envelope he had acquired from Gringotts years ago. The moment he finished the incantation of the charm to seal it, the envelope vanished, transporting itself to be processed by the goblins.
After days of writing with a cramped hand in his dark room, the days blurring together, he was finally finished.
He doubted he would sleep tonight, which meant hours of wait before Dumbledore's arrival in the morning, and the evening was still young. Antsy, Harry turned from the desk to watch Kreacher, who was occupied with tidying Regulus' shelves. Harry had stacked some of his books there, and Kreacher merely dusted off the spines before sliding them in right alongside Regulus' old novels.
The gesture struck Harry, and his eyes traveled over the knitted throw tangled on the bed, the books and clothes strewn on the floor, the mug of melted fairy ice on the desk...
When did he start letting me put my stuff all over?
Harry's heart squeezed a little. He'd never had a proper room before, and the one he shared with Ron had always seemed more like a guest room. But this was his house now. Technically, as long as Kreacher didn't object, he could permanently move into this one.
But there's not much point is there? I might not even return here.
"The boy has not read his nightly letter," Kreacher spoke suddenly, and Harry looked up to find the elf studying him.
"Yeah... Yeah. Good idea."
Pulling open the drawer beneath the desk, Harry retrieved the stack, then carefully set aside all the letters he had read, as well as a single new one. Curling up on Regulus' bed, he read through the old ones first, his mother's turns of phrase and neat print becoming burned into his memory. He went slowly, savoring, and only when this was done did he allow himself to open the next letter.
1976, he read, and made note of the dense, mature script. This would have been written the summer after her fifth year then, making it one of the more recent letters he had come across.
Dear Reg,
I was skeptical before, but the manuscripts really do suggest that elf magic has always been magnified by bonds, irrespective of whatever ancient curse subjected them to us. You've mentioned that freed elves can struggle with a feeling of emptiness—perhaps the answer lies not in severance, but in redirecting their ties away from us and back to each other. Do you think the elf community referenced in the manuscripts is real? I hope so. Sev thinks—
Harry stopped, staring at the name for several heartbeats before he continued.
Sev thinks we're chasing fairy tales. Has he seemed off to you, by the way? I know summers are hard for him, but he's been downright mean lately.
Harry placed the letter down slowly, his heart and mind divergent in their reactions. While the former was stunned, the latter was quiet, as if it had expected this all along, and Harry just hadn’t wanted to look too closely.
He had only been reading one new letter a night...
Standing jerkily, Harry began to open each and every envelope, and scanned their contents methodically. It didn't take long to find more instances of the nickname.
I know you prefer science fiction, but Dunsany is lovely, isn’t he? I've tried to get Sev into
Don’t worry, I taught Sev and I can teach you too. The trick is to crush the beans with the flat end of a silver knife and
It’s a shame you can’t visit me and Sev over the summer. There’s not much to do in Cokeworth, but there’s a river we hang out by, and it’s not half bad
And finally, in a letter marked 1972, making it the earliest of them all:
I know you’re friends with Severus, and he’s told me that you’ve always wanted a penpal. Sev tries, but he’s really an awful letter writer. They’re far too short and
Harry dropped his hands.
Mulciber's little aside had meant something. Snape had been friends with his mother. Not just friends, either—friends since childhood. He had been the one to introduce her to Regulus in the first place.
No one thought to tell me. Not Sirius, not Lupin, not Dumbledore.
And Snape…
When Lily died, it would have been a personal loss. Assuming the man still had some sentiment for her, the extent of his guilt, the lengths he would go...it would finally make sense.
Harry finally had an answer, but he did not feel the sense of closure he had hoped for.
He felt...he felt...what did he feel?
He became aware of a tapping on his arm, and turned to see Kreacher.
“Albus Dumbledore has arrived,” the elf said. “Kreacher believes he wishes to see the boy, although Kreacher does not know why.”
Harry stared at him. Kreacher's gaze was not on his face, but slightly lowered, and very stiff. Harry followed it, and saw that he had begun to crinkle the letter in his grip. Slowly, he cast a charm to smooth it out, and placed it carefully on the desk.
He's early, Harry thought distantly, his mother's words still ringing in his mind as he stood.
“Shall Kreacher distract him on the first floor?”
"What?"
“Shall Kreacher distract Albus Dumbledore on the first floor?” the elf repeated, voice steady.
Harry took this in.
"Thank you," Harry murmured. "But no need. I’m going down to talk to him.”
Kreacher’s lips thinned, but he merely nodded his head and vanished.
He’s early, Harry thought again as he left the room and descended the staircase, his fingers cold against the banister. Does he plan to Obliviate me tonight instead of tomorrow?
If he did, would Harry lose his chance to figure out what he was feeling right now?
“Harry,” Dumbledore greeted from the entry hall. He was dressed for brisk weather, eyes bright.
“You're here..."
"Yes." There was a rare cautiousness to Dumbledore’s smile. "I know this was not planned, but... As I mentioned before, I do not have many memories of the time you spent with your parents in Godric's Hollow."
His next words just shy of questioning.
"I had thought, instead, to show you."
As a child, Harry had fervently imagined the place his parents might have lived—where he might have lived, if he had grown up with them. But now, as he walked through the quiet of Godric’s Hollow alongside Dumbledore, all he could think of was his mother's letters.
He had always thought Snape's protection of him was begrudging, fueled by obligation to Dumbledore, and resentment over his life debt to James. Things had changed during their travel together, or so Harry had liked to think, but this new information turned everything on its head.
“Ah. Here we are.”
Harry followed Dumbledore’s gaze to the cemetery.
He did not have to be directed to the grave. While the marble headstone was modest, the shrine of flowers, candles, and thank you notes made it impossible to miss. Dumbledore stood a respectful distance behind him, but his presence alone felt intrusive; trying his best to ignore it, Harry knelt to read the inscription. It was plain, only listing his parents' names, and the dates of their births and deaths. He had known they died young, but the 1960 and 1981 stacked atop each other was still a bitter sight.
A bundle of dried flowers tumbled from the stack, revealing more words. He should have felt warmed that so many people had paid their respects, but he found it burdensome to shove the pile aside. In doing so, he uncovered a single quote:
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
For a moment, it felt as if his parents had known that he was slated to die, and left him this dire acknowledgement.
Why would they choose this? Did they even choose this?
It was one thing for his parents’ headstone to also be a memorial, but even their inscription seemed to allude to their famous death, as if their lives amounted to only this—being a symbol of the war.
This moment was supposed to be meaningful, to feel meaningful, but instead Harry just felt strange, and off-kilter, and, and—
Angry.
He was angry.
If I’d been taken here earlier, maybe I could appreciate it more. But no one bothered, did they?
Struggling to feel something positive, Harry reached out to trace the letters of his mother's name. As he did so, he was reminded that she had been friends with both Regulus and Snape. Along with Pettigrew, that made three of her friends who had become Death Eaters, and two that had contributed to her death.
Harry dropped his hand.
"I'm done," he said shortly, returning to Dumbledore.
The older wizard regarded him, then said, "Shall we walk for a bit?"
Taking Harry's silence as assent, he led the way down the cobblestone path. It was an old town, with brick lanes and merrily painted street signs, the kind he would see depicted in travel magazines. The quaintness reminded Harry of the villages in the Dales, although he was sure Alex would say the architecture was entirely different. A group of children were building a massive leaf pile in the square, rosy-cheeked in their warm jackets and expensive shoes.
Must be nice, Harry thought, and for a moment, he despised it all. That his parents' grave did not only belong to him, but was instead a public monument, and had that stupid quote inscribed upon it; that the children in the square were so happy and well-dressed; that he would have grown up here too if his parents were alive.
Dumbledore turned to watch as a boy with glasses too large for his face took a running leap into the pile of leaves, his companions shrieking with laughter as they followed suit.
“There is so much worth protecting in this world,” the old wizard said, smiling.
Harry stopped walking.
“Why didn’t you tell me Snape was friends with my mum?”
Dumbledore visibly faltered in his step, turning to face Harry with sad, tired eyes. It was a familiar expression—the same one he had worn after Sirius' death, as he talked Harry down in his office. The same one he had worn while entreating Harry to return with him, while Snape lay crushed on the forest floor.
Before, that gaze would tug painfully at Harry's chest, like a hand entangling in his heartstrings. Now, as he looked into the old wizard's face, something about the expression was different—or maybe it was Harry that was different, allowing him to see what he couldn't before—and suddenly, that confrontation by the old woods came into startling clarity:
Dumbledore had told him of Snape and the prophecy, but not Snape and his mother.
A selective truth, deliberately made.
“When,” Harry said quietly, “will all of you stop lying to me?”
With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore cast something. Disguising our conversation, Harry noted. Something subtler than muffliato, probably.
“I was afraid," Dumbledore began. He spoke calmly, distantly, as if he were describing someone other than himself. "Terrified, really, of giving him any advantage in swaying you. I had misjudged him so fatally already... If you knew of his friendship with your mother, what if he used that to bargain with you? No, even if he refused to speak of her, what if you followed him anyway, if only for the chance he might change his mind? I know what a powerful draw your parents are for you. How little you have of them, and how much you wish for more.”
Harry couldn't deny the truth in this, but the explanation only made him angrier.
"And whose fault is that!? You're the one who left me at the Dursleys in the first—"
Harry stopped, his face coloring. He had not meant to mention the Dursleys. All of a sudden, his anger felt childish, an outburst from a past he thought he had left behind.
"We've discussed that," Dumbledore said gently.
"I know—"
"And I will not apologize for trying to keep you safe."
And just like that, Harry had no words anymore.
It didn't matter.
None of this mattered.
Dumbledore said something, raising his arm. Harry took it. The picturesque cobblestone of Godric's Hollow disappeared, replaced by the stoop to Grimmauld Place. Then they were in the entry hall, the gas lamps casting a dull glow over everything.
"If you are having second thoughts about tomorrow," Dumbledore began.
"I'm not."
If anything, he wanted it done now.
His mind had gone sluggish, and he struggled to think; he knew there was more he needed to say, now, while he had the chance.
"Snape," he said lowly, finding the words with effort. "What's going to happen to him, after all this?"
"Are you concerned for his welfare?"
"He's betrayed both sides. He's...alone." A sense of urgency breached the fog. "He's still an asset, even if he can't spy. Combat, strategy, healing—and I don't have to tell you about his potions mastery—"
"I have already made Severus an offer to return to the Order," Dumbledore said quietly. "He refused." Harry's dismay must have shown on his face, for the older wizard continued, "Rest assured, should he ever change his mind, I will keep the door open."
This was not enough, Harry knew, but struggled to put it in words. Dumbledore watched him a moment, then spoke.
“To Severus, saving others is a need. He has taken the Mark for it, discarded lifelong ideologies for it, betrayed for it, killed for it. When it comes down to it, he will not consider anything else but his own obsession. Not what is right, not the world...and not even what the object of his obsession wants themselves… As committed as he is to protect you, there may come a time where you find out his priorities are not the same as yours. He does not see you, Harry. You cannot rely on him.”
Sounds like you're talking more about yourself than me, Harry thought, but did not say so aloud. The words had gotten to him. How many people only saw Harry's parents, or the scar? He used to think Snape only saw James in him, and that was still the case, really. Only it was his mother, not his father. That Snape had become kinder had never really been about Harry, but of the person Snape could see in him.
"I just, I need to know that you'll take care of things when I'm gone." He looked at Dumbledore. "What...what happens if I die before they're all destroyed?"
Dumbledore hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I promise you. I would not let your death be in vain. Should you die prematurely, I have plans in place to ensure their destruction."
Harry took this in, and decided he was not surprised. Dumbledore had given him a task to feel useful. To feel like a hero. That must have been more palatable compared to just sending him to sacrifice himself at the start...
"I should have been honest with you long ago," Dumbledore murmured. "But you have also asked for me to lie to you. To take your memories, and keep you in careful ignorance until the time is right."
Harry stiffened. The older wizard's expression had not changed, but his eyes were very still, like a lake frozen over in winter. He was not the Headmaster then, but Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of that age, singular in his power, as distant and solitary as a lighthouse rising from an empty shore. He spoke frankly, as one adult to another, and Harry dared not interrupt.
"Do not misunderstand. I am not criticizing you. I only mean to make a point. For you to ask for Obliviation, you must appreciate the judgements I have been forced to make regarding how much to tell you, and when. I do not like lying to you. I do not relish the coming months, where I will watch you in your ignorance, alone with the knowledge of the fate that awaits you. I am still angry at Severus for telling you the truth so prematurely...but if I am being entirely open, it has been a comfort, for once, to not be alone."
He looked not at Harry, but at his injured hand, stretching out his gloved fingers with a slowness that suggested pain.
"Like me, you know what must be done, and are willing to make the hard choices. It has been a long, long time since I had a confidante such as you."
He let his gloved hand drop to his side, and reached out with the other, clasping Harry's hand in his.
"It is a lonely thing, to head a war. While it is not the path I would have wished for you, I am glad to have you by my side."
Dumbledore raised his eyes to meet Harry's, and he was struck with the memory of the older wizard's prior words.
I cared about you too much.
Heart thudding, Harry lowered his gaze. Through his muddled thoughts, the words moved him. It was overwhelming for a wizard like Dumbledore to place so much faith in him. To treat him as an equal when the task ahead was so great.
The Headmaster bade him farewell—until tomorrow, Harry repeated, tongue moving on its own—and then he was alone in the entry hall.
It occurred to him that he should not spend the night staring at Sirius' mother's portrait, and his leaden feet began to move. He did not realize they were taking him to the kitchen until he stood in a dark, cavernous room.
Intending to return to Regulus' room, he turned, when a thud suddenly rang through the silence.
He spun around to see Kreacher standing frozen in the doorway to the boiler room, eyes wide as medallions. His arms were laden with books, a familiar looking satchel slung over his shoulder—
"That's Snape's bag," Harry said slowly. His eyes fell to the book Kreacher had dropped. "And that's..."
Harry knelt, picking up Snape's journal from the ground.
"Where did you get these?"
Kreacher did not look at him, expression surly.
"...office," he hedged.
"Dumbledore's?" Harry uttered in disbelief. "You snuck into the Headmaster's office while Dumbledore and I were out?"
"The boy willed it," Kreacher said, practically hissing.
Harry recalled the elf's claim that he could get into Dumbledore's office so long as he was supplied an order.
"But I didn't..."
"The boy ordered Kreacher to gather information from Albus Dumbledore," the elf sniffed. "That is enough."
Harry blinked at him, then looked down at the journal, running his hand over the familiar, worn leather.
"You can consider that order complete," Harry said softly. "But thank you, Kreacher."
In addition to Snape's supplies, the satchel also held the man's wand. Harry studied it briefly, remembering his reckless use of it on the beach, before placing it back. He turned his attention to the journals instead, laying them out on the kitchen table.
Slowly, he opened the one nearest him, and ran his fingers over Snape's writing, riddled with scribbles and ink blots.
He didn't bother with trying to decipher the code, although he did lift the relatively simple blurring charm Snape had placed on his drawings. The upset of his visit to Godric's Hollow buried tightly in his heart, Harry lost himself in the mindless perusal of pages.
He knew not how much time passed in the dark stillness, but eventually, he reached the last page. As he looked up to grab the next journal, he paused, taking in just how many books lay upon the dark grain of the table—and each one filled cover to cover. He had seen glimpses of Snape's notes before, and of course, he had seen the man writing throughout their travel. But now, after combing through each coffee-stained corner and densely scribbled margin, it struck him just how much work they all contained.
He could practically see the man in his mind's eye, hunched over the page like a vulture, furiously writing through the sleepless night.
Your life has value.
Harry's heart thudded.
Your life has value simply because you exist.
He shut his eyes.
Because you are you, and you deserve to live. So please…don’t just throw it away.
He slammed the journal closed and pushed it away. He had heard Snape say these words, but he hadn't let himself listen, pushing them down deep. But they would not be silenced now, and he tried to swallow the painful realization that Snape was the one person who actually wanted him to live. Who knew that Harry's death was needed for Voldemort's demise, but was determined to save him anyway.
And it wasn't even for Harry, but his mum.
Harry looked over the journals once more, Dumbledore's words ringing in his mind along with a rising anxiety.
To Severus, saving others is a need. When it comes down to it, he will not consider anything else but his own obsession.
He cursed himself for getting so addled in his conversation with the Headmaster. He had intended to ensure Snape's protection, and yet he hadn't even asked Dumbledore about the wanderer's curse. Harry could broach the subject again in the morning, but it all felt far too precarious.
Even if Dumbledore vowed to protect Snape, would the man even let himself be protected? Or would he keep trying to save Harry, resisting all the way up until he was finally dead?
Harry glanced at the grandfather clock on the far wall. In just a few hours, Dumbledore would return.
"Are you still there, Kreacher?"
Silently, the elf appeared at his side.
Harry drew a ragged breath.
"I need you to take me to Snape."
House-elf apparition was a strange experience, if Harry could even call it that. Harry felt tugged not from the chest, but the sternum, and it was less of a corkscrew feeling and more of folding, as if the world was a paper ball crumpling around him, and when it opened he was somewhere new.
He and Kreacher stood in a quiet wood, their breaths clouding in the cold air. The sky was paling, the first shafts of morning light yet to warm the pines, beyond which Harry could see a small two-story cottage.
Kreacher held up a finger, wait, and vanished. Harry held himself still as he waited, trying to determine if he could see any movement through the windows. The second floor was only half the size of the first, probably encompassing a single room, and Harry's eyes lingered there.
Kreacher reappeared and extended a hand. Swallowing, Harry took it. The world crumpled again, and when it unfolded, Harry stood in a dim room, empty except for a transfigured cell, inside which sat a familiar dark, hunched figure.
Harry gave Kreacher a slight nod, signalling he should return to Grimmauld to keep watch for Dumbledore, something they had discussed prior. The elf hesitated, but after casting an unfriendly look at Snape, he vanished.
Snape had his back to Harry, but he must have heard their arrival, for he spoke, "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
Harry's heart constricted. Did Snape really think—
“What are you hoping to accomplish, Albus?" the man continued, his voice tired. "My cover is ruined, and even if you convinced me to return to the Order, the curse makes me useless.”
Harry tried to take this in, a thousand words rising in his throat before falling away. He had come here with a purpose, but now that he stood mere feet away from Snape, all his focus seemed to have fled him.
"You knew my mother."
Snape swiveled his neck around so fast Harry was surprised he didn't sprain it. He looked the worse for wear, still in the clothes Harry had seen him in last, and an unkempt beard that roughened his angular face. The man stared at him for a moment before he regained his composure.
"So Albus told you even that."
"No," Harry said bluntly. "I figured it out from reading my mum's letters to Regulus."
At the mention of Regulus' name, Snape went very still.
"You found those letters?" Interest lit Snape's eyes, and he leaned closer. Harry pressed his lips together, irritated.
"Were you ever going to tell me?"
Snape's expression shuttered.
"No," he murmured.
Harry felt hurt despite himself.
“I’m sure you want to know how I could have…the prophecy…my role in that was indefensible. I know there is nothing I can truly say to—”
“I didn’t come here to talk to you about that.”
Snape looked up sharply. “You…you must be furious.”
Harry glanced to the side, shrugging. “I knew you were a Death Eater.”
“Even so. Information in the wrong hands… I should have known, should have considered the consequences—”
“I’m sure I’m not the first person you’ve orphaned,” Harry snapped, and Snape fell silent. “I’m also sure you’ve done worse than just convey information, too. But like I said, I didn’t come here to talk about that.” He sucked in a breath. "I want you to give up."
Snape half-glared at him, as if he needed to understand more before he could really get angry.
"I've decided to work with Dumbledore," Harry said, as firmly as he could. "It's pointless to fight back."
Snape barked a laugh, then paused.
"You chose to come meet me here, now. What is Dumbledore planning? What is he making you do?"
"He's not making me do anything."
"Bullshit."
"I asked for it. I wanted—"
Snape's mouth twisted into a humorless smirk, so mocking and harsh that Harry felt like a first year again, hunched in his seat in the Potions classroom.
Hot and resentful and immediate, there rose a million memories Harry had thought he had left behind on the beach: being berated in the classroom, receiving failed grades on assignments he had deserved to pass, being compared to his father, being belittled and harassed at every turn…
It was like it had never left, that old anger at that old Snape, consuming him, wrapping around him like a cocoon, not letting in anything else.
But why did he act like that?
The thought forced itself to the front of Harry’s mind. It took all of his attention, to the point it surprised him. It was almost insulting. Right now, in this moment, after everything...why did this still matter to him?
Before Dumbledore’s arrival, Harry had all but forgiven Snape for their past. Conveying the prophecy was a far worse betrayal—in the face of that, nothing else mattered.
At least Snape thinks so, Harry thought. He's gone to great lengths to make up for it. But he couldn't be bothered to show me a shred of decency in Potions class.
And that was it, wasn't it. The loss of Harry's parents wasn't the only crime in and of itself—there was everything it had caused. If Lily and James had lived, there would have been no cupboard, no hand-me-downs, no stitches in the bathroom at night—
Why were there locks on your bedroom door? Snape had once asked. Why was there a catflap?
While Harry had been going through all of that, Snape had been there to make it worse. He had been there to call the eleven-year-old with shoddy glasses a celebrity, to call him arrogant just like his dead father, to make his already hard life harder.
And it had been one thing, when Harry had thought Snape merely hated him because of James. And yet...
“Do I really look like my dad that much?”
The sneer slipped off of Snape's face.
“You were friends with my mum, but you hated me from the start. Why? You said you were sorry, but you never actually explained anything.”
“Does it matter?” the man asked, subdued.
“Yes!” Harry hissed.
Snape's eyes widened.
"You said I didn't have to forgive you, didn't you?" A part of Harry felt ashamed at his display, but the greater part was furious, propelling him on. "That I still get to be angry, that it's healthy to be angry, to resent you—well, I thought I'd forgiven you, but I guess I didn't!"
Harry fell silent after this explosion, breathing hard. Snape blinked once, assessment in his gaze, before giving a halting nod.
"Yes."
Snape said nothing more, and Harry's exasperation spiked.
"Is it really just because of my dad? Do I look so much like him that—"
"No,” Snape said. “No, you don’t.”
The man looked down at his hands, gathering his thoughts. Dust wheeled slowly through the air between them, caught in the slowly growing light from the window. Just when Harry thought he couldn't bear to wait any longer, Snape raised turbulent eyes to meet his.
“When I see you, I do not just see your father. I know I have said, many times, that you are the spitting image of him…but you resemble your mother just as strongly.”
“I know, my eyes—”
“Not just your eyes,” Snape said softly. “I can see her in your face. When you smile, and when you are angry. You have her freckles too, although not as many. Even your hair comes from your mother’s side, I expect. Your father had dark brown hair, while Lily’s mother's was pitch like yours.”
Harry’s throat closed; he suddenly longed for a mirror. No one had ever so much as intimated to him that he could have inherited so much from Lily.
“Looking at you…it reminded me of my failure. I had killed her, orphaned you. And…instead of processing my grief, my shame, I did what was easier. I embraced the anger and, and projected it onto a child of eleven, then continued to do so for five years.”
Snape’s voice had grown thick with self-recrimination. Harry struggled to accept, to understand.
“So you hate the sight of me,” Harry said, trying and failing to keep the hurt from his voice. Snape was merely confirming what he had already figured out for himself. “And that’s why you took your anger out on me.”
Snape flinched. “I do not hate the sight—”
“That’s what you said,” Harry cut him off. “Are you taking it back now?”
The man took a breath, looking up at Harry. “It is different now.”
“Why?” Harry said bitterly. “How?”
“I have allowed myself to know you,” Snape whispered.
“What, so we spent a few months together, and it’s all good now? I look like my mum, and I remind you of your friend who cut himself up, so you suddenly care about me?”
“Don’t,” Snape said quietly.
Harry tried to swallow his hurt. What had he expected, coming here? Was there anything Snape could have even said to fix things?
Harry had thought forgiveness was a thing you either did or didn't do. That once it had happened, it marked a change in the heart that was permanent. But he had forgiven Snape after their time on the beach, in the wood. It hadn't been a fleeting mood. He had faced his anger, deeply and truly, and let it pass.
But that anger had risen again, transformed, and what did that say of his heart? Was he even capable of forgiveness? Or would his resentment always rise, his wounds always re-fester?
Light spilled from the window, setting dust alight throughout the room. Harry would need to be heading back soon if he was going to arrive before Dumbledore.
None of that matters now.
Harry walked up to the cell bars, until he was but a foot away, and looked down at Snape.
“I release you from whatever promise you made to my mother,” he said, voice uneven. “I don’t care what you did in the past. If my mum was alive, I bet she’d forgive you too. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because she’s gone. So whatever guilt you’re carrying, I don’t want it. It’s not my burden. You don’t have to protect me anymore. I’m going to work with Dumbledore and face the prophecy. And you...you should accept the Order's protection. Focus on your own life.”
Harry turned, heart lodged in his throat and heat rising behind his eyes—
When his wand arm was seized, and he was pulled roughly backwards. Harry turned to see Snape surging to his feet, towering over him through the bars.
“Do not play games with me,” Snape said. His voice was jagged, his eyes boring through Harry under the dim light. “My guilt is not your burden, but the prophecy is? You, a sixteen year old, to face the Dark Lord alone?”
Harry gathered himself, teeth gritted.
"It's not like I have a choice—"
Snape dragged him closer, pulling Harry’s arm through the bars and pinning it against his chest. Harry struggled, but the man merely stepped forward, their faces a breath apart.
“Yes, you do,” Snape said, so forcefully that his words pierced Harry's frenzy. “Do you truly think only you could defeat him? The Dark Lord is just a man, the prophecy just words. There is a logic behind his return, behind your connection to him. And that logic can be dissected, utilized.”
Snape’s voice grew soft, his hand loosening on Harry’s arm, but still holding him. “Despite the trials you have faced, you are still a child. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s not your responsibility to bear the weight of this war. You are not some vessel for prophecy. You are not the boy who lived. You are just a person, and your life has value beyond what others have deemed for it.”
They stared at each other; only when Harry blinked did he realize his eyes had welled with tears. Heart hammering, he pulled away. Snape let him go this time, and he stumbled backwards, breathing hard.
“Rich, coming from you,” Harry whispered. “Like I'm not just your way of dealing with guilt over the people you've lost."
Snape’s glare intensified. “You still think this is about guilt?” He reached up to grasp the bars, moonlight slanting across one eye, dark and wild. “Do you think, at this point, it matters who your mother is? That my investment in you can be chalked up to your resemblance to people long dead?”
The man’s face tightened a fraction, his voice softening.
“Harry, by now, you must know I would have you live for my own sake?”
The words struck Harry like current to filament, casting Snape’s protection of him that summer in a radically different light. The ties binding them together had seemed so complex: the machinations of Dumbledore and the necessities of the war, the ghost of Regulus, the love of his mother and the hatred of his father. But now all of that was swept aside, revealing a simple loyalty beneath—loyalty to Harry, and Harry alone.
There was a creak beyond the door, and Harry stiffened.
Murmuring voices began to rise from the first floor, and Harry's chest tightened as he pictured the reality of the Order moving Snape to some place out of reach.
“Kreacher,” he whispered.
The elf appeared at once, and was uncharacteristically silent, as if sensing his master’s current temperament.
“Get my expandable bag from my room, and the things you took from Dumbledore’s office.”
Kreacher left without a word, and returned in seconds. Snape watched Harry with intensity as he shouldered the bags, quickly ensuring his trunk, broom, and cloak were in it. Then he reached into Snape’s bag, and withdrew the man’s wand.
“Should Kreacher liberate Severus Snape?”
Harry blinked. “Yes, if you can.”
The elf was already raising his hands, the bars dissolving like the shimmer of a gray curtain falling away.
"Thanks for everything, Kreacher," Harry said softly. The elf frowned, but before he could reply, Harry continued, "Now, return to Grimmauld."
It was rare for Harry to supply an order unprompted; eyes widening, the elf seemed to follow his instruction more out of surprise than anything else.
Harry turned to Snape, who had not moved, shoulders stiff as he watched the proceedings.
Harry stepped forward and held out the man’s wand, handle first.
Snape grasped it just as the door opened, and their eyes locked. The man’s eyes widened, reading the feverish impulse in Harry’s gaze. The boy threw his arms around Snape, and felt the man’s hold on him tighten in return as he spun.
They appeared in the old woods, stumbling beside the ash tree where Harry had taken the wood for his glass-core wand. Harry lurched, reeling at the shock of his own choice. Snape dragged him upright, cursing, “Hurry, he’ll be on us any moment!”
As they had when escaping the Death Eaters, Snape sped them through a nauseating series of apparitions. More than once, Harry thought he could feel the chill of power on their tail, the sensation of hands reaching for them. Harry recognized some of the places they passed, while others were new. His heart sped, and just when he thought Dumbledore would chase them to the point of splinching, the presence behind them finally faded.
Snape apparated five times more for good measure, then stopped, both of them falling to the ground.
With shaky hands, Snape cast the diagnostic charm on Harry, then himself, and collapsed back onto the grass. They lay sheltered in shallow ravine, a stream cutting through the crags beside them.
“He let us go,” Snape said, panting. “Feared we’d splinch ourselves, I imagine.”
Harry sat up, and Snape did too, his face brewing with anger.
“And what were you thinking?” he snarled. “You barely know how to apparate, you could have killed us! I could have done it myself, there was no need for your foolish heroics!”
“You came with me,” Harry said roughly, standing.
“You would have had me resist, and get us splinched?” Snape demanded, following. “I saw what you meant to do, you gave me no choice.”
“I panicked, okay?” Harry said, struggling to keep his voice even, to hide the tremble in his hands.
“As if that makes it better! Don’t you turn away from me, that was colossally stupid—”
“Will you shut up for a moment?”
Snape’s face contorted with anger, but it left as soon as it came as he looked at Harry’s face, and caught retroactively the trembling of his voice.
“Breathe,” the man murmured, approaching slowly.
Harry turned to him willingly, grasping Snape’s forearm. He had missed this; Snape’s low murmuring voice, his steadiness, the warmth of his hand as he helped guide Harry through his attack.
“You cannot apparate on impulse,” the man said lowly. “Unless you have no other choice, and you must do it to save your life.”
Harry swallowed. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”
Snape squeezed his arms slightly. “Don’t apologize.” He stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing at their surroundings, before turning back to Harry.
“What supplies were you able to bring?”
“Everything,” Harry said, patting the bags at his side.
Snape gave him a brief, appraising look. “Set up camp, then, while I raise the wards.”
Without speaking, as if their detour at Grimmauld had never happened, the two of them went through the familiar motions of preparing for a night in the wilderness. In no time at all, they sat facing each other across the campfire, the air thick with things unsaid.
Harry retrieved the bag where he had put the spoils of Kreacher’s thievery, and began to pull out Snape’s research materials. Wordlessly, he set them on the grass before the man like offerings.
Dark eyes flashing with surprise, Snape reached for one of the journals, brow furrowed, and began to flip through it.
"...You had your house-elf retrieve these from the Headmaster’s office?” He raised his eyes to Harry. “You've chosen to come with me."
Harry shook his head, looking away.
“So, this…this was not planned…?”
Harry's anxiety had not been fully quelled, and it was rising again.
“I didn’t know I was going to do this until I heard people coming up the stairs,” Harry muttered.
A silence fell, broken only by crackling flames and the sighing of the stream. The man closed the book and set it down.
"I don't expect forgiveness,” the man said intently. “But you don't have to be Dumbledore's soldier. Let me help you."
When Harry said nothing, Snape's face twisted.
"You can't be thinking of going back there."
"Well, that's my decision, isn't it?"
"Throwing your life away—"
"We're at war!"
Harry had gotten to his feet, Snape following suit in an instant.
"You didn't come here to tie loose ends, to convince me to give up. You came angry, raring for a fight—"
"Shut up—"
"I know, I know there's a part of you, deep down, that wants to live."
For an instant, the words stunned Harry. Then a furious misery was hurtling up his throat.
"AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT!?"
Choked and shattered, the words splintered forth from Harry's control.
"I was ready! I wanted to die! But I kept going because I had to, because ending Tom was up to me, and how could I just leave everyone behind? And then you show up!" Harry sucked in a breath. "And what do you know? I don't have to fight him! I don't have to be scared of losing, of failing everyone! All I need to do is die, which is what I wanted all along! Except I don't now, I'm scared now, I, I—"
Snape's anger bled from his face, morphing into something else.
"No, no, don't you fucking pity me, get away—"
Harry snarled and pushed and punched, but Snape was persistent, wrapping arms around him and holding him until he stopped struggling.
Drained, Harry slumped into the hold.
"I was ready," he mumbled once more into the man's chest.
"Don't expect me to apologize for changing your mind," the man said quietly, running his hand up and down Harry's back.
The unintentional echo of Dumbledore's words was like a knife twisting inside a wound. But the soft relief in the man's tone quieted something in him.
"You can't keep me here by force," Harry muttered.
Snape stiffened, then fractionally, relaxed once more.
"I know," he sighed heavily. "At least, not without restraining your faculties in a way that leaves you defenseless should we ever be separated."
"Well, that's not a chilling statement."
Snape released a low chuckle, and for a warm moment, it felt as if no time had passed since their travel together. But something worried at the back of Harry's mind...
"You said...you're still cursed."
Snape's arms froze around him, which was answer enough. Frowning, Harry pushed away to look up at the man, whose face had gone carefully blank.
"Why didn't Dumbledore lift it? Especially when it forced the Order to keep moving you?"
Snape's jaw was stiff, tilting his head up to look not at Harry, but at some point in the distance.
"I don't think my outcome was really ever his priority," he said finally, voice far too level.
Harry stared at him.
"Does he...does he not know how?"
Snape shrugged.
"I don't know. There wasn't a cure at the time I told him of the curse. If he's found out something I don't know, he hasn't told me."
Harry looked at him, appalled.
"I have to talk to him," Harry said vehemently, fully separating from Snape. "He needs me; I'll make sure he—"
Snape lunged for his arm, grasping Harry's wrist with gentle urgency.
"He will not listen to you. And even if he did, do you really think I wish for you to barter your life for mine?"
"I can't just—"
"Harry."
Startled at the use of his first name, Harry looked up.
"Sleep on it. All of it. Please."
Snape's eyes were earnestly pleading with him; unable to look at them for long, Harry dropped his gaze.
"Okay."
Snape fully relaxed.
Despite agreeing to sleep on it, Harry lay awake in his sleeping bag, listening to the soft scratch of Snape's razor. The man had already cleansed himself in the stream, and was now performing what slow rituals he required to feel human again. Harry kept his body turned away to give the man privacy, but he could hear each snag of the comb, the clink of balms and salve jars...
Imagining what ailments the man may have developed during his days in confinement set Harry's heart to ache.
I should have gotten him sooner.
Thoughts of Dumbledore's cruelty, of the wanderer's curse, lay heavy in his mind. Was there truly no cure? What would that mean for Snape?
He should be focused on helping himself, not me, Harry thought, frowning at the steep wall of the ravine. But he won't give up, will he...
In a deliberate gesture, Snape had left his journals unattended by the fire. Harry considered perusing them again, then dismissed the idea. Even with the code translated, could he truly assess the validity of Snape's work? Harry had little knowledge of rituals or runes, and his potions experience was hardly enough to evaluate any sort of research, let alone research on horcruxes.
Dumbledore would know far better than him, and he had deemed Snape’s efforts to be dangerous and foolhardy.
But...what if he's wrong?
Harry entertained the thought ever so briefly—what if—before a deluge of opposition crashed over him.
How could he be so cowardly? After all his promises, when so many people depended on him?
If Harry failed to stop Voldemort, the man wouldn't stop at killing his friends and crushing the Order. He would subjugate Britain, and then turn his sights outward.
How could Harry abandon the world?
And didn't he want to defeat Voldemort? The man who killed his parents? Who was ultimately to blame for Sirius' death?
But…what if?
And his thoughts looped right back around again, tormenting, impossible.
There was a low rumbling sound, and Harry shifted around to look at Snape.
"Sleep," the man said, waving his hand dismissively.
He was clean-shaven now, wearing fresh clothes from his bag, washed hair lying flat across his shoulders. Somehow, with the grime of captivity lifted, the man looked faded, his weariness all the more pronounced.
Snape's stomach growled again, and Harry kicked out of his sleeping bag.
"I said sleep. There's no need to make a fuss."
Ignoring him, Harry dug the pot out of his bag.
"Potter—"
"You can't really expect me to sleep," Harry said as he methodically set out capsules of ingredients. Anticipating future horcrux missions, he had replenished his supplies, something he was glad of now.
Snape gave a low groan, rubbing at his temples.
"To think, only hours into our reunion, you are already arguing with me about sleep."
Harry reached out to touch Snape's arm.
"No arguments," he said softly. "You can give me Dreamless after we eat. Okay?"
Snape eyed him, then nodded with a sigh, sitting back to watch Harry slice onions.
Pointing his knife towards the garlic, Harry said, "Get to peeling, Mr. Snape."
Rolling his eyes, Snape nevertheless complied, reaching for a head of garlic and shucking it deftly. The two worked quietly, losing themselves in the tactile work, and soon the sweet snap of vegetables frying in oil filled the air.
Despite his earlier dismissal, Snape ate with single-minded focus, affording Harry the opportunity to observe him. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering who the man was outside of Hogwarts, outside of the Order, outside of the war.
He imagined asking, do you have family, but the question seemed too much, and besides, Harry had a feeling he knew the answer.
Instead, he asked, "What will you do, after the war?"
"Assuming I survive?" the man grunted between bites.
Harry's heart tightened, and noticing his silence, Snape looked up. Realizing his error, the man lowered his fork.
"Well, I would not teach again, that is for certain. Never again will I have to suffer the Slytherin-Gryffindor class, nor they me."
Snape spoke lightly for his sake, and Harry let himself smile a bit.
"I'll travel," the man continued. "And when I tire of that, I'll settle somewhere in peace and quiet, free of any and all solicitors, muggles and wizards alike."
"That's too bad. You never finished correcting the, uh, sad excuse of a defense education I received, you know."
"...I suppose I could make one exception. But not at—"
The man fell silent, and Harry tried to read his expression through the darkness.
"Snape?"
"Nothing," the man murmured, before continuing, "Perhaps I shall purchase property in the countryside. Or better, a mountain most inhospitable to company. Only one dunderhead will be permitted to visit."
The words settled into Harry's heart, and eyes falling closed, he let himself be lulled by the crackle of the fire.
Snape's doing all this research to find a cure for me, he thought drowsily. So who's going to find a cure for him?
Severus awoke to the dawn chorus, the fresh air in his nostrils reminding him that he was no longer imprisoned. He had not intended to sleep, and it was only when he saw his fingers clasped around the boy's wrist, reached for in slumber, did his pounding heart slow.
Harry was already awake, sitting up and watching him.
“I won’t abandon my friends.”
The boy's words were strong, desperate to prove.
“If, at the end, the only way is for me to die, then I’m not going to put my life above everyone else’s.” Confidence wavering, he continued, “But…I'll give this a chance."
Barely daring to hope, Severus rose swiftly to a sitting position.
"You will come with me?" he asked, careful to conceal his eagerness.
Harry nodded jerkily, trepidation in his eyes, but also a solidifying will. Severus was one to mock Gryffindors, but there were times the boy's bravery was truly arresting.
"I'll give this a chance, work with you to get the horcrux out of me." The boy steeled his gaze. "For now."
Weak with relief, Severus reached forward to grasp the back of Harry's nape, pulling the boy's forehead to rest against his own.
"For now is enough."
Notes:
Chapter 11 Playlist
Top to Toe by Fenne Lily
Grave by George Ogilvie
They Are Crying by Novectacle
Crystal Clear by Hayley Williams
Husked Girlhood by Novectacle
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