A Choriambic Progression

by Mairead Triste and Aristide

Harry scraped up a spoonful of porridge, then stuck the spoon in his mouth and left it there, just because he could. Grimmauld Place was silent and empty except for him, and there was nobody there to tell him he looked the world's biggest prat with a spoon hanging out of his mouth, so why not? He ran his tongue along the spoon's curve, coaxing off sticky bits of porridge, and wondered what he should do with himself after he'd taken care of his breakfast dishes--not that he planned to do them right away, mind. He smiled a bit at his own ridiculous idea of rebellion, but it was a bitter smile, one with no real pleasure in it. Just a spoon.

In the dim, vacant house it seemed much more difficult to be grateful for a summer holiday away from the Dursleys, and much easier to feel the weight of his solitude; to listen unwillingly to the echoes that haunted the places where Sirius should have been. In the natter and bustle that normally filled the rooms, sometimes that loss retreated to a background hum of sadness--something ever-present, yet often eclipsed by the inevitable force of Life Going On. But on a day like today, when all the Order members were out on various errands, and it was Harry alone who had to be the one left behind (as Sirius himself used to be, yes, very much like that); there was nothing else to distract him from any of it, from his grief and his unanswered questions and his empty, useless thoughts of how Maybe It Could Have Been Different If--

Harry was spared from going down that old road yet again, interrupted by a sudden burst of flame from the kitchen fire. He heard a familiar voice say half of his name, but the rest was lost in an absolutely tremendous sneeze that seemed to change the air-pressure in his ears. He had just yanked the spoon out of his mouth and gotten to his feet when a very sooty Albus Dumbledore entered through the fireplace, blinking rapidly a few times before he let fly with another sneeze, loud enough to rattle the dishes in the sink.

Harry offered his unused napkin, eyeing the Headmaster with some alarm. "Professor Dumbledore--are you all right?"

Dumbledore waved him away, chuckling, and produced an oversized crimson and purple handkerchief from somewhere in his robes. "Quite, thank you," he said in a choked, nasal voice as he pressed the handkerchief to his face. "Please, don't stand on ceremony, just finish your breakfast, and I'll be--" he was cut off by another robust sneeze, which sent the garish fabric flapping like a flag on a windy day. "--with you directly." There was a strident sound of nose blowing, and Harry dropped his napkin on top of his bowl. He certainly didn't want any more porridge.

"Are you ill, Sir?" he asked, once the trumpeting noise had died down.

"Not at all, not at all," Dumbledore wheezed from beneath the handkerchief, scrubbing his face vigourously. "I seem to be experiencing some--" *whonk* "--difficulties with Floo powder lately; perhaps the late onset of an allergy. I'll be--" *snork* "--fine in a moment." Dumbledore emerged, a little pink around the eyes and with soot still clinging to his whiskers, but otherwise normal. He smiled. "There now. Much better. Please, sit down, Harry."

Harry sat down. "If you've come to see the others, I'm sorry." It was harder than he'd expected to keep a note of sulkiness from his voice. "They've all gone off for the day. I don't know where."

Dumbledore took a seat at the table, and glanced at a salt-cellar that Tonks had enchanted only that morning to scream and run away from anyone who got too close to it. Right now it was simply edging away nervously. "I assure you, Harry, I'm quite aware of where they've gone. All tasks for the Order, of course. No; I've come to see you."

Harry felt a momentary prickle of pleased warmth at that, but he ignored it. It didn't seem likely that Dumbledore had anything very interesting, any 'task for the Order' for *him*. He'd be sixteen in a just a few days, and still everyone--even Dumbledore--seemed determined to think of him as a child, as if he were incapable of deciding anything on his own. In a sudden rush of panic, it occurred to him that Dumbledore might have come to see him for a much worse than not-very-interesting reason; indeed, that something might have happened that would require Harry going back to the Dursleys. Unthinkingly, his hands tightened on the edge of the kitchen table.

"I have a favour to ask of you," Dumbledore said mildly, "something has come up; a small errand, and I thought perhaps you might be interested in helping me."

Harry's grip on the table relaxed. "Me?" His voice was too surprised, too high-pitched and far, far too eager (as if he were the human equivalent of Pigwidgeon), so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Of course, I mean yes. What sort of errand?" He had tried his best to sound calm and competent, but the gleam coming his way from beneath Dumbledore's bushy brows gave Harry the impression that perhaps he hadn't been quite as convincing as he might have liked.

Dumbledore, however, didn't seem to hold it against him. "One of the night barkeepers at the Leaky Cauldron, Ignatius Truckle, is an old friend of mine," he began in a quiet voice. "It has been a great advantage to my efforts at gathering information; for while the Leaky Cauldron isn't as popular with Voldemort's supporters as some of the pubs in Knockturn Alley; still, there are occasional instances when they do drop in, and then the right (or perhaps wrong, I suppose, depending on how you look at it), tongue may sometimes wag. When that happens, if Ignatius manages to overhear anything that may be of interest, he communicates with me." He peered over his glasses at Harry, quite gravely. "I received such a communication this morning."

Harry shifted in his seat. This was the kind of stuff he liked, the Order of the Phoenix underground alliance sort of stuff. "What did he overhear?"

Dumbledore leaned closer. "That is precisely what I need you to find out for me, Harry. Ignatius will sometimes owl, or make use of the Floo network to keep me apprised, but for something especially sensitive, of if he is afraid that he might be watched, he simply alerts me through the use of a signal we established years ago, and I send someone I trust to retrieve the message."

Harry forgot all about trying to be competent and calm, and just stared, wide-eyed, when Dumbledore bent down and began to tug at his left boot. With a wheeze and a grunt the boot came off, revealing a shockingly bright pink-and-purple polka-dotted sock.

Harry blinked. "The signal is... your sock?"

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Very astute of you, Harry. Normally, of course, I'm fond of a thick wool in scarlet argyle. Not much chance that I'd miss this, eh?" Dumbledore's polka-dotted toes wiggled. "But to any... unfriendly eyes, it would simply seem that I'd forgotten how to dress myself." He twinkled at Harry as he bent to tug his boot back on. "A matter which, I might add, has been under debate for some years now."

Harry folded his hands and rested them on the table, because that seemed like the calm and competent thing to do. "Would you like me to go retrieve the message, then?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Exactly." He smiled. "I knew I could count on you." He leaned back in his chair, glanced at the salt-cellar (which squeaked in alarm and tried to hide behind the sugar-bowl), and then looked back at Harry, his expression once again grave. "There are a few... small matters to be discussed first, however."

Harry sat up straight and made an effort to look attentive. And competent. And calm. "Yes, Sir?"

Dumbledore lifted one finger. "First of all, there is the issue of security. Despite the fact that you are not a regular member of the Order, Ignatius will know who you are, of course--" he nodded at Harry's scar, and Harry tried hard not to wince. "But just in case there is any question in his mind as to whether you have been sent by me, you might need to establish your credentials with the following phrase: 'The Hinkypunks are migrating early this year'. Can you remember that?"

Harry frowned. "I didn't think Hinkypunks migrated at all..." he caught himself, and blushed. "Oh. Which is why that's the password, right?"

Dumbledore nodded, smiling gently. "Quite so."

Harry unconsciously sat forward in his chair, a hot tingle of excitement in his belly. Secret passwords, important messages--all right, so it wasn't a tremendously vital mission, but still--it was something. Dumbledore trusted him to do something. Something that might mean becoming a regular member of the Order sooner rather than later, something that might mean not always being locked out of conferences and meetings--something that might mean not always being the one left behind. It was a chance. He wanted it. "The Hinkypunks are migrating early this year," he repeated. "Right. What else?"

Dumbledore pulled a small scroll from the sleeve of his robe, and handed it to him. "Also, there is this: on any errand, large or small, there is of course always a certain level of risk involved, and therefore a concomitant need for certain... precautions."

Harry untied the ribbon that held the scroll closed, and read through it quickly. It was actually a certificate more than a scroll; a certificate ('Special Dispensation' arced across the top) from the Ministry of Magic, authorizing one Harry James Potter, an underage wizard, to use magic on his own recognizance. "Fantastic!" Harry blurted, and then quickly got his excitement under control. "So this means that I can, um--"

"It's an exemption from the Ministry, lifting the Decree against underage wizardry in your case, yes," Dumbledore said, smiling at Harry for a moment before he grew serious again. "Not that you should consider that as a license to... well, abuse the privilege, Harry. The exemption is only to guard you from any repercussions should you need to protect yourself in a dire situation; and I certainly, fervently hope you will do your very best to avoid any such circumstance."

Harry nodded. "Oh, of course--of course I will. I just... you're right, it's good to be prepared."

Dumbledore went back to smiling. "Yes, I'm glad to see that you're thinking along those lines, and are aware of the need to be equipped for all contingencies. Which brings me, finally, to the third matter."

"Yes?"

Dumbledore seemed to be studying him. "The third matter is your associate. I have asked Professor Snape to accompany you on this errand."

Harry's smile curdled on his face. "You... I... Professor Snape? Professor Snape is going with me?"

Harry's entire stomach seemed to fold in on itself. So much for his 'errand', so much for Dumbledore maybe starting to treat him like an adult, so much for actually being trusted for once. And... Snape, of all people! Snape! Despite everything Dumbledore had ever said about the man, Harry was no closer to being able to tolerate Snape than he'd ever been--or ever cared to be. Snape, who was running a close third after Voldemort and Malfoy (pretty much neck-and-neck with the Dursleys, actually) on the list of his least-favourite people. Snape, who had been responsible for Sirius having to be on the run for all those long months, and who, right here in this very kitchen, had insulted, threatened, and finally goaded Sirius into... into...

Snape, who was just a tremendous git. *Snape*!

Dumbledore peered at him over the top edge of his spectacles, and Harry didn't hold out much hope that any of what he'd been thinking wasn't completely obvious. He swallowed.

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly, "I have asked Professor Snape to go with you. And for three very good reasons--" here he twinkled a bit, "although I'm not at all certain that you would agree with my logic. However, I can certainly spare a few minutes before I am due back at my office, if you would like me to elaborate."

Harry simply nodded. It was the least rude way he could think of to express himself.

"To begin with," Dumbledore said, "my first consideration is for your safety. Now, don't misunderstand--" he held up his hand, and Harry closed his mouth, which he hadn't even realized he'd opened. "You see, Harry, certain sources have suggested that the Death Eaters have been trying to establish a new Headquarters--there have been unconfirmed sightings of both Peter Pettigrew and Bellatrix Lestrange in the area of Diagon Alley for the past few months, and I'm not going to send you anywhere on your own while they're about. You've faced worse, I know; and I wouldn't send you at all if I didn't think the chances of any... unpleasantness were infinitesimal, but as I mentioned earlier, and as you agreed, it's always best to be prepared for all contingencies."

Harry could have bitten his tongue. It almost seemed as if Dumbledore had tricked him into agreeing to that in advance--and maybe he had. Dumbledore wasn't stupid, and he certainly wasn't ignorant of the way he and Snape got on--failed to get on, rather.

"Secondly," Dumbledore continued mildly, "despite my best efforts, Ignatius has never been fully convinced of Professor Snape's alliance with our cause--"

"Imagine that," Harry mumbled under his breath.

Sharp eyes glinted at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing."

Bushy eyebrows drew down, but the glint remained. "I see. As I was saying, because of Ignatius' feelings on the matter, it is unlikely that he would divulge any message solely to Professor Snape, password or no."

Harry sighed heavily. He didn't mean to--he still wanted his chance, still wanted to show them all what he could do if they'd only let him, but he couldn't help it. Dumbledore's reasons aside, it was simply impossible not to be disappointed. "All right. That's two reasons. What's the third?"

Dumbledore's gaze was compassionate, as if he understood Harry's frustration, but it was the sort of understanding that looked almost like pity, and Harry clenched his jaw tightly shut and stared down at the table. He hated that look. "The third, and I believe the most important consideration, is that you and Professor Snape need to learn to work together. That will ultimately prove to be imperative, regardless of your feelings for each other."

Harry said nothing, but his face must have given something away, because when Dumbledore spoke again his voice was much more matter-of-fact. "The new school year will begin in a bit over six weeks, at which point you will resume your Occlumency lessons. In order for your efforts in that direction to have any chance of success, you must be able to work with, and learn from, Professor Snape. He is still the individual best suited to teaching you that subject, and it is still a skill you will need to master, as soon as your other studies will allow."

Harry's hands clenched into fists where they rested on the table. "Look, I know you think it's important, and I'm willing to go along with that, but Professor Snape and I, we don't... it's just never going to work. I don't--"

Dumbledore forestalled him with a raised finger. "Please remember that I did not say that you had to *like* him, only learn from him--an important distinction. Professor Snape can be... exceedingly brusque, yes, and even provoking at times, I grant you, but while you can't change that, you can control your response to it." Dumbledore paused, leaning close to him and lowering his voice. "If you don't allow yourself to be provoked, and if you strive to focus on the goal rather than the method of reaching it, I think you'll find it possible to learn even from Professor Snape."

Harry didn't quite know what to say to that, but as it turned out he didn't have to say anything--Dumbledore's gaze had already drifted upwards, and a small smile curved his lips. "As I recall," he said with reminiscent amusement, "one of my own most influential Professors was a man I absolutely loathed--a fellow named Phineas Grimesby. He was always harping on at me about what he called my 'blatant disregard' of the rules, and my penchant for 'finding trouble'." Dumbledore shook his head fondly. "The man had a disturbing, persistent odour of potted mutton that had gone somewhat... off. That, more than anything else, used to drive me spare. He was a genius at Transfiguration, however."

Harry's jaw hurt from clamping shut. Muttony professor or no, Dumbledore hadn't ever had to try to learn from Snape, and he just didn't understand. Couldn't understand. It wasn't fair. Harry shifted in his seat. "How about Professor Snape, then?" he asked finally, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Did he get the same lecture about this? Did you tell him not to... be provoking?" As if that would ever work. As if Snape would ever treat him like a human being no matter what Dumbledore said, especially after the... Pensieve thing. Harry's cheeks glowed abruptly warm.

Dumbledore chuckled, and returned his gaze to Harry. "In a way, yes--although Professor Snape is already thoroughly acquainted with my expectations for his conduct. As for today, I simply advised him to take this opportunity to get off the grounds. The finalist candidates for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position will be reviewed by the rest of the staff today; an undertaking which inevitably results in him storming 'round my office until all hours, bellowing for a pay rise."

Harry could imagine that. He sighed again, twisting his hands tight together before he made himself stop. This was his chance, and maybe all the fun had gone out of it, but it was still a chance he wanted. "All right, Sir;" he said quietly. "I'll do it. I'm glad of the chance to do something, even if..." he shrugged, and left it at that.

Dumbledore rubbed his hands together briskly. "Excellent, Harry--that's the spirit! I'll send Professor Snape along directly. And don't worry, I'm sure the two of you will do just fine."

Harry had some fairly serious doubts about that, but he didn't say so.

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked to the fireplace, sorting through what seemed to be innumerable pockets of his robe and finally pulling out a handful of Floo powder, which he inspected closely: first above his spectacles, then below them, and finally through them. "Ah. Apparently I've mixed up my pockets again--I've got my Floo powder in with my supply of hot cinnamon hearts. Well, that explains a few things." He picked through the powder in his hand for a few moments, then gave a resigned shrug and smiled at Harry. "I'll have to remember to sort that out later. I'll see you soon, Harry--and good luck to you!" A flurry of powder, a gout of flame, and then Dumbledore was gone.

Just before he disappeared entirely, Harry heard a tremendous sneeze.

***

By the time Professor Snape appeared, Harry had washed his few breakfast dishes, changed into his robes, and run a brush through his hair (a futile effort, but it was habit, so he did it anyway). He worked silently, using the time to try to resign himself to tolerating Snape--for a few hours, at least--an effort which seemed every bit as futile as his struggle with his hair had been.

But he had, in the end, accepted the task Dumbledore offered him, which meant that he had to try. And it did occur to him that he really had no idea what Snape would be like, given that they were 'on a mission'--maybe he wouldn't be a complete git. Maybe he'd just stay focused on what they were supposed to do, and remember whatever lecture about 'expectations' Dumbledore had given him. Snape's efforts for the Order had always seemed to be important to him, after all--

Harry heard a soft 'whoosh' from the fireplace just as he was putting away the last dish.

"Mr. Potter." The voice alone was enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Harry turned, determined to do his best, and saw Snape in all his sour-faced, greasy-headed, gitlike glory emerge from the fireplace, entirely free of soot.

Good morning, Harry thought, he should start off with good morning--

But he didn't get a chance. "I would like to assure you," Snape said coldly before Harry could even open his mouth, "that regardless of whatever our extraordinarily genial Headmaster might have told you, I am precisely as enthusiastic about this... collaboration as I imagine you are. Furthermore, I would like to make sure that you are quite clear that if you behave rashly, or in any way endanger my life, your own, or the success of our joint enterprise, I will not hesitate to punish you to the utmost limits of allowable protocol." Snape wrapped his robes around himself, crossed his arms, and pursed his lips. "And possibly beyond."

So much for 'good morning', Harry thought. And so much for any hopes he might have had about Snape behaving differently. Harry would very much have liked to offer the kind of retort that Snape's little speech deserved, but Dumbledore's advice still rang in his ears, and he had too many hopes for the future to disregard it entirely. So he swallowed hard while he reminded himself not to let anything provoke him, and then glared at the floor so he wouldn't glare at Snape. "Professor."

In his peripheral vision, a swirl of black. "What's wrong, Potter; cat got your tongue? Or perhaps you've been plagued into a feeble attempt at good behaviour by Albus' inevitable bully-for-the-cause lecture?"

Harry ground his teeth together. Why was Snape always at his most irritating whenever he was right? "Look," Harry managed, trying for an even tone of voice, "As far as I'm concerned, you and I have nothing to say to each other that we don't already know. But we have a job to do, and we've been asked to do it together, so do you think, maybe, we could just... do what we're supposed to?"

There was a short silence, and Harry looked up to find Snape blinking at him with what was undoubtedly feigned surprise. "My word, Mr. Potter; such pragmatism, such unadulterated purpose--one might think you're keen to prove that you're good at something besides chasing shiny objects and flouting authority."

Harry bit his lip, hard. "You can try to bait me all you want, Professor. I'm not going to fight with you. Not today."

Snape walked towards him, eyes narrowed, and Harry felt a small trickle of fear somewhere near his spine which he quashed ruthlessly. He looked up, and up, and--blast it, he *knew* he'd grown a few inches this summer, so why was Snape still so bloody tall?

"No?" Snape asked silkily, "Strange--I didn't know you could be so easily cowed."

"I'm not *cowed*," Harry muttered, refusing to give in to his sudden urge to look away. "I'm just, I just want to... nevermind. Can we go now, please?"

Snape's eyes glittered. "Certainly. As soon as you've assured me that you understand precisely what it is that I expect of you: no rashness, no heroics, no idiotic feats of daring--are we clear?"

Git. Bullying, tyrannical git. Harry made a mental note to never, ever accept another task from Dumbledore without asking all about it in advance, no matter how much he wanted to help. "Yes," he said finally through clenched teeth. "Clear."

Sharp, black eyes glared at him for what felt like forever, and then Snape stepped aside with a mocking, complacent smile, gesturing to the fireplace. "Well then, after you."

Harry, his jaw clenched so tightly that it ached, took some Floo powder from the canister on the mantel, stepped up to the hearth, and promised himself grimly that he would devote the rest of the summer to finding a way to take Occlumency lessons from someone (anyone!) other than bloody Snape.

"Leaky Cauldron!"

With a spinning, rushing *whoosh*, he went.

***

Ignatius Truckle was a jowly, balding, bearish man who seemed to have two different faces: a harsh, grim, unwelcoming expression when he saw Snape; and a beaming, jovial, good-natured affability that surfaced every time he looked at Harry. It seemed to get right up Snape's nose, so at first Harry enjoyed it very much.

"Mr. Potter," Truckle said, grinning all over himself and wringing Harry's hand so earnestly that Harry finally felt rather foolish and tugged his hand back to get him to leave off, "It's an honour, a pleasure, a sheer delight--seen you before, of course, from afar, but this is the first time I've gotten to shake your hand--" he broke off to shake Harry's hand again, but this time it was mercifully brief. "And how you've grown! Getting to be quite the young man now, eh? Spitting image of your father, of course--"

Harry winced. As much as he used to relish being told that, it just hadn't been the same since... for a while. He couldn't help but notice Snape rolling his eyes.

Truckle went on, oblivious. "Fine, fine man, your father, and always a great favourite of mine--a great favourite with everyone, actually, except those as has shocking bad taste in friends." Here he glared at Snape, who glared back.

Harry cleared his throat, quite ready for a change of topic. "Right, um... well, Mr. Truckle, I'm sure you know why we're here. Headmaster Dumbledore--"

Truckle stopped glaring, turned back to Harry, and winked. "Ah--a bit of Hogwarts business, no doubt? I thought someone would be along fairly sharpish." A finger tapped the side of his bulbous, rather veiny nose. "Well then--why don't we duck into the back, have a spot of privacy? Right this way--no, to the right, the left goes to the loo--not much use meeting in there, is there?" Harry heard a chuckle as he walked down the dim hallway, and a quiet, contemptuous snort from Snape. "--And now left, that's the way, straight on and through the door at the end."

Before Harry could pass through the door, however, Truckle's hand on his arm pulled him aside. "Look here, Harry," a hot and thunderous whisper rumbled in his ear, "I know who you've come from and what you're after, but are you sure you want to... that is... in front of--" a jerk of his head indicated Snape, who stood stiffly at the door, looking sour enough to curdle new milk.

"Professor Dumbledore sent us both," Harry said softly, truthfully enough, "and he told me to say that the, um, that the Hinkypunks are migrating early this year. As for Professor Snape, he's, well, he's..." a tremendous git and a right bastard, he didn't say. "Dumbledore trusts him, you know."

Truckle shrugged, and for the first time looked at him with something less than flagrant admiration. "As you say, then--as Dumbledore says, as well. These deep matters are too much for a simple barkeeper, I wager. In we go."

Once inside, in a small, windowless room that was made even smaller by a number of crates piled along the walls, a huge desk stacked with parchment, and some worn, battered chairs, Truckle refused to say a word about his message until he'd plied Harry liberally with a tankard of butterbeer, and even asked Snape, coldly, if he would have anything.

"Nothing, thank you," Snape replied tersely, as if he resented even being asked. Truckle seemed relieved, however, and finally sat down after having assured himself that Harry was comfortable.

"So," the barkeeper said, smacking his lips and setting down his own tankard, which was quite full of something that was fizzy, purple, and smelled a bit like candy floss mixed with petrol, "best place to begin is at the beginning, I've always said. So you should know that last night, early evening, it was, I noticed these two who had come in--not together, but about ten minutes apart, or thereabouts--and sat themselves way away from the fire. Not so unusual, that, lots of folks likes a bit of quiet, but the thing is that neither one of 'em took off their cloak and hood. Just sat there together, all wrapped up, heads close to each other. That's what made me think something might be not quite on the square."

"How very penetrating of you," Snape said dryly, and then there were a few moments of mutual scowling while Truckle swelled up, evidently getting ready to give Snape a piece of his mind.

Harry cleared his throat quickly. "Mr. Truckle, I don't, I mean, er, don't mind him, it's just his way."

For a moment, both men scowled at him. "Well, there's ways and then there's ways, and some ways is bound to get a body in trouble, if you take my meaning," Truckle said, and then grumbled into his mug for a bit. He set it down with a satisfied sigh, however, and then broke into a smile as he looked at Harry fondly. "You're quite right though, lad; best not to be thin-skinned when you're in mixed company, eh?" He leaned forward. "Most mixed of a company I've been in for a long while," he added in a loud whisper.

Harry shifted in his chair, which creaked in protest. "So. About these two... people?"

The barkeeper shrugged. "Might not have been people--as I said, they kept themselves well wrapped up. But it caught my eye, so I wiped down a table not far from theirs, going slow and whistling the whole while like I was deep into my own business and quite harmless. You'd be surprised how many there are as don't think I've got a brain in my head."

Snape opened his mouth, but shut it with some apparent reluctance when Harry flashed him a quick, desperate look. Truckle didn't seem to notice.

"So the first I heard was one of 'em saying as how these was difficult times, that there was forces at work that--"

"A man's voice, or a woman's?" Snape interjected suddenly.

Truckle frowned. "If I could've told that, I'd have added it in, wouldn't I? Wasn't no telling one way or the other about it--it was barely more than a whisper. I had enough to do with trying to hear over my own whistling."

Snape's eyebrows rose. "It didn't occur to you to enhance your hearing through magical means? There are spells, potions..."

Harry's first thought was: 'wow, you can do that?' Followed closely by: 'oh no--*Snape* can do that?' He bit his lip, and wondered if he'd ever feel safe talking at Hogwarts again. True, he'd seen Extendible Ears, but he really couldn't picture Snape using one. But a potion...

Truckle's eyes narrowed. "I'm a barkeeper, not some bloody, poncing, Dark-Arts dabbler!"

Harry tensed for what he felt sure would be quite an explosion, but to his surprise Snape only smiled. "I see. And not much of an informant, either. Well, I'm sure Albus will feel that you did your best--"

Red faced and with his mouth working, Truckle bounced to his feet. "Look here, you--"

"Please," Harry said, standing up and rubbing his forehead, wondering absently how many times in his life he would be put in the extremely regrettable position of preventing someone from becoming violent with Snape, "Please, let's just... Mr. Truckle, I need to hear the rest of the story. The Headmaster will be expecting it." He glanced at Snape for a moment, caught nothing but a smug expression. He took a deep breath, and continued. "And the Headmaster told me this morning how valuable your information has been to him--a great advantage in his efforts, he said. And that's what counts, isn't it?"

Then it was his turn for Snape's raised-eyebrow treatment, but the barkeeper looked at him as if he'd just sprouted wings, that 'saviour-of-the-wizarding-world' look that always made him slightly nauseous. "Bless you, my lad--yes, that's what counts, all right. That, and knowing how to get a job done." He winked, and sat down. Harry did the same, and relaxed. A little.

Truckle applied himself to his mug, then set it down and continued. "What it came down to is that one of them told the other one not to despair, that there was a new plan being put into action; something that would keep what they called 'the opposing forces' off balance until the time was right to strike. Then the whispering got so low I couldn't hear a thing--" he broke off with a frown at Snape, who (thankfully) said nothing. "Except one more bit: 'it's time to use the enemy's own weapons against them'. That's what I heard. And that's all of it--next moment they were both out the door and gone, and *no*," with a scowl in Snape's direction, "I didn't follow them. I'm not a follower."

"Thank you," Harry said quickly, before Snape could rise to the occasion. "Thank you very much, Mr. Truckle--I know this will be very useful for the Headmaster." Feeling more than a little ridiculous, but following an urge he didn't understand (except for the understanding that he wanted to do it), he stood up and offered his hand.

Truckle beamed at him, stood, and shook, leaning in to say, "Glad to be at your--and Dumbledore's--service, lad. And if you don't mind my saying so--" he leaned in closer, his mouth almost touching Harry's ear. "You've got all the makings of a fine man. But you might want to be more careful, like, about the company you keep."

Oddly, the first thing to flash through Harry's mind was Draco Malfoy in their first year, when he'd said something quite similar about Harry's friendship with Ron. But that was... completely different. Malfoy was a pompous, narrow-minded prat, and the difference between Ron and Snape was... pretty much immeasurable. The barkeeper meant well, he was sure.

"Um... thanks," he replied, feeling ridiculous all over again; feeling awkward and uncertain and... very much like a fifteen-year-old.

"Right. Well. I've got to get back to the bar--Ministry's about to close for the day and there'll be a rush coming in. I'll trust you to see yourselves out then. Good day to you, Mr. Potter, and please give my regards to Albus."

"I will, certainly. And... thank you again."

Another warm smile, a parting glare of loathing at Snape, and the man was gone. Harry felt suddenly, oddly vulnerable, and shifted on his feet. He reminded himself that it was done, the job was done, he'd gotten what he'd been sent for and nothing (really) bad had happened.

"Well well, Potter," the voice grated on his nerves like sandpaper. "You've become quite the little diplomat, haven't you?"

Surprised, Harry looked at Snape. Somehow the man managed to sit in the spindly wooden chair as if it were some kind of weird throne, and in the cheerfully tumbled and chaotic room he looked like an urbane vampire who'd gone slumming. Harry resisted the urge to find something sharp and wooden to ram through his chest. "What?"

One of Snape's pallid fingers traced a slow circle on the rickety arm of the chair. "A diplomat; one who is skilled in the art of diplomacy--surely you've heard the word?" An eyebrow rose, and if Harry might have thought the look on Snape's face was one of contemptuous enjoyment, if 'enjoyment' hadn't been pretty much the opposite of Snape entirely. "Are you aiming, perhaps, to become the next Minister of Magic; an insipid fabrication always ready on your lips? Soothe the masses, salve the discontented--it's a rare, and somewhat contemptible skill, and I can't help but wonder where you learned it. Certainly not from your Godfather, who had all the tact of a syphilitic, grave-robbing--"

"Shut up!" Harry said, much louder than he'd intended to, loud enough to reverberate off the walls of the small room. His unease and vulnerability were lost in a sudden rush of anger so strong it almost made him dizzy; cold fire in his stomach and throat, rushing through him in waves and he was tired, so tired, tired of choking all of it back. "How dare you even talk about my... about Sirius, you warped, pathetic *bastard*--"

Surprise in Snape's black eyes, and something else, something tightly caught and guarded; something that might have been almost triumphant. Snape opened his mouth, but Harry wasn't finished. No, now that he'd started, he wasn't finished at all. "Isn't there enough pain, enough ugliness around without you piling more on? Sirius, he, I... he was only trying to help, trying to do what he could, which is hard enough without you and your vicious, hateful spite!"

Harry felt himself shaking, and knew quite clearly in that moment that he never should have started, because the part of him he'd given voice to didn't give a damn about disappointing Dumbledore or ever working with the Order again. In fact, this part of him would gladly disregard all the possible consequences of pulling out his wand and hexing Snape into the next millennium. "What you did, the things you said, what you said to Sirius, that was why... that was why he..."

Cutting through the buzz of fury that consumed him was a terrible, subtle prickle in his eyes and throat, and oh, no--he would *not* start crying, not now, not here in front of Snape. He had to get out, get away now, now before he could be driven to that last, shameful extremity.

"Stay the hell away from me," he growled with the last bit of self-control he could muster, and then he was through the door blindly, bumping people aside and not caring, only needing to get away, to put distance between himself and Snape, before anything even worse happened.

Harry put his head down and watched his feet move, swallowing rapidly while he told himself that he was absolutely, unquestionably not going to burst into tears in public over his own helplessness and a horrible injustice done to a man who had been dead for months. He kept walking, never noticing or caring in which direction he moved as long as he kept moving, as long as he could keep his focus on his moving feet and away from the hot, pathetic cramp of pain that made up the rest of him.

When the tears that threatened had receded a bit he stopped, panting lightly, and looked around to realize that he'd wandered right out into Diagon Alley. He'd made it almost as far down as Flourish & Blotts, and had come to a stop in the entryway of the unoccupied shop next door, a dim alcove with nothing but dusty cobbles and soaped-over windows. A few witches and wizards strolled by, but none of them so much as glanced in his direction.

He leaned against one of the blank windows, catching his breath. He was still shaking, but the panic that had fueled his flight was slowly leaching away, leaving him feeling rather sick to his stomach. 'Don't let him provoke you', Dumbledore had said, and Harry had held out for a while, but finally had gone right ahead and let himself be provoked. True, the things Snape said and did were enough to provoke a saint, but still; Dumbledore had trusted him, and here he'd gone and--

"Potter."

Snape was suddenly there; right there in front of him, and without another thought of Dumbledore or his advice, Harry acted on some instinct he didn't fully understand and pulled his wand from his pocket. His breath caught in his throat for a moment when he saw that Snape's was already out, and in his hand. Had it come to that, then? Maybe it had.

Snape scowled down at him. "I believe I was quite clear with you at the start of this farcical misadventure, regarding what I would do were you to behave foolishly--"

"And I believe I told you to stay the hell away from me," Harry interrupted, his fingers tightening on his wand.

Snape's mouth twisted. "A prospect I look forward to with great eagerness, I assure you. As soon as I have returned you safely to your lodgings."

Harry met Snape's cold eyes. "I'm not going anywhere with you, so you might as well bugger off. I can get back on my own."

Snape made a noise--not quite a snort, but it sounded like it wanted to be one. "Mr. Potter, it may have escaped your notice during your hysterical meanderings--"

"I am not hysterical!" Harry said too loudly, forcing himself not to give in to the urge to back away. "And I told you--I'll get back by myself--"

"Foolish, idiot boy!" Snape's harsh voice cut him off entirely. "This. Is not. A safe place. In case Albus failed to mention it, there have been a number of recent sightings, here in this very area--"

"Oh, right," Harry retorted with as much sarcasm as he could muster, "as if a horde of Death Eaters are going to ambush me right in the middle of Diagon Alley--"

"Don't flatter yourself," a strange but oddly familiar voice said from behind Snape. "Just one would be enough."

And then everything happened very fast.

In front of him, Snape whirled, moving with eerie, terrifying speed--but not quickly enough, apparently, as the next thing Harry saw was Snape flying past him, towards the blank windows, and then there was a tremendous crash and a hail of broken glass. Harry's arms went up instinctively, wand forgotten--and then he felt it plucked from his fingers.

He gasped and made a desperate grab for it, but then found himself caught, squeezed tight in a fearsomely strong grip, pinned completely and staring right into the depraved, murderous eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Harry," she said in a sweet, almost crooning voice, then yanked him forward and rubbed her cheek briefly against his own. Her skin was cold and smooth, eerily snakelike, and Harry shuddered. "A double pleasure, a double victory for me, I think. Harry Potter, and discovery of a traitor in our midst--I never trusted him, you know."

In other circumstances, Harry might have found that funny, and maybe later he would, when he wasn't busy panicking. He struggled, his breath coming hot and high in his throat until one of her hands caught him there and began to throttle him, sharp nails digging into the tender skin of his neck. "Keep still, or I'll tear you open and bathe in your blood. I have a deft touch with glamours, you know--I can do it right here, and no one will stop me."

With dimming vision Harry glanced over her shoulder and saw that it was true--the people passing in the street didn't display the slightest bit of interest in them, the broken glass, or the loud, rhythmic thumping his boots made against the stone. He choked, and went still.

"That's right--there's a good boy," she said gently, tracing one finger down his cheek with a sort of perverted affection that made his skin crawl. When his head tried to shift away, however, her fingers bit even deeper into his neck. Harry made a sudden, weak, helpless noise, unable to stop himself. He saw her smile at that, maliciously gleeful, and went cold in the very pit of his stomach. "You're very sweet in your suffering, you know." Her head swooped closer, and for one horrid moment Harry thought she was going to kiss him.

"Poor, motherless boy," she whispered to him, her voice low with something that was definitely not compassion over his orphaned state. "So long alone, with nobody to properly love you. But that's over now, Harry--don't struggle!" her fingers, like cold iron, bit in deeper. "I have something for you--a gift. A very precious gift..." this trailed off to the barest breath, soft and foul in his ear.

"Don't--" he croaked, cut off when she squeezed his throat so hard that spots danced in his vision.

"Hush now," she chided, "unless you want to bleed to death right here--just like your traitorous watchdog just did."

Watchdog? For a moment, Sirius came to mind, but no--Snape. She was talking about Snape.

Snape? Dead? Harry's first half-panicked thought was that, if he somehow managed to get out of this, Dumbledore was going to be very disappointed in him. Not the most charitable thought, perhaps, but right now it looked pretty much like he wouldn't have to worry about that--or anything else, really--probably ever.

"Don't grieve, pretty boy," she murmured, raking the nails of her free hand down his cheek, making him shudder. "It's really no loss to anyone, and besides, I know my gift will help to take your mind off it. Such a fine reward, truly one of a kind--"

He could feel energies gathering, a dense concentration of magic that made all the hairs on his body stand on end. Her voice dropped into a deeper register as she began chanting, mostly words he couldn't understand. Whatever it was, it hurt--prickly and heavy against his skin, and a resonant ache in his bones that started somewhere in his ribs and spread outwards until even his fingers and toes felt as brittle as glass.

The sensation of having magic slowly forced on him was enough to bring all his former panic back, and he struggled desperately until his air was completely cut off, and he felt--distantly, as if it were happening miles away from where he was--the nauseating sensation of her nails punching through his skin. There was warmth (blood, his own blood, had to be) creeping down to his chest, and she shook him until he thought his neck might snap and put an end to this, but then she backed off and let him breathe.

"Your Godfather's death was merciful," she murmured to him, "far more merciful than yours will be. I hope that thought is a comfort to you." Her wand pointed right at him now, and he could feel the pulse of magic against his skin trying to take over his heartbeat, his breath, his thoughts. Harry fought it, attempting to keep himself whole and not let it in, not let it get to him, but the harder he fought the more it hurt, a deep, terrible pain like razored splinters of ice in his bones, and it was hard to fight when all his energy was suddenly focused on not screaming, not screaming, not screaming--

And then a sudden, terrific wrench knocked him sideways, away from her; thankfully, mercifully away from her, and he looked up from the litter of broken glass he'd fallen into to see Snape descend on her, roaring, robes and skin equally bloody but alive, quite alive. Gladness and gratitude burst through him, but it was short-lived--as quick as his attack had been, her defense was quicker and stronger, and in the space of a breath Snape was flying through the air once again, to collide with the wall right next to Harry with a sickening smack, collapsing to the ground in a confusing cluster of shuddering, bloody limbs.

But it had been enough. Harry felt something quite distinctly break free in his stomach, and the next instant he was positively flooded with power, and when he saw that she'd turned her wand on him again he felt no fear of it, no fear of anything at all. He saw her lips form the curse, saw a bolt of terrible greenish-black light streak towards him, and he stood his ground, raised his hands, and felt a sudden, teeth-jarring shock--

He heard one last sound before everything went black. He heard Snape screaming.

***

Harry swam up to consciousness slowly, sluggishly, feeling sore and exhausted and, what was worse, a low sense of dread that something not-very-nice was waiting for him. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Snape--so he'd been right about that much--but he had to admit that it certainly could have been worse.

"You're alive," he croaked.

Snape, who looked a bit like he'd been in a wrestling match with a dragon (and lost), blinked at him. "Well, thank goodness your blistering acumen is entirely unaffected."

He tried to clear his throat, and then thought better of it. It hurt too much. "Bellatrix?"

"Gone," Snape replied tersely. "She did what she came to do, and left."

Harry tensed. "She... what did she hit me with?"

Snape scowled at him. "Nothing. Oh, she tried, certainly, but whatever curse it was that she hurled at you, you deflected it entirely."

Harry rose up on his elbows, barely noticing when a sliver of glass cut into him. "I did? How?"

A snort. "As if I'd know. I didn't have much attention to spare at the time. I was a little busy getting cursed myself."

"She cursed you too?"

An eyebrow rose, no less daunting for the dried blood crusted in it. "No, you idiot--she cursed you. You deflected it--directly onto me. Remind me to thank you for that later."

Oh. "So... you're cursed?"

"Yes," Snape hissed peevishly.

Harry looked him over. "What kind of curse?"

Snape looked away from him. "I don't know."

Harry paused, trying to recollect whether he'd ever heard Snape say those words before. No, he didn't think he had. But he had no time to relish such a novel experience, as Snape turned back to him, and spoke as if he grudged the words. "It felt... old. Ancient. And it certainly wasn't pleasant."

No. Harry could believe that much, as he'd endured the initial parts of it. "She said... there was something about not having a merciful death."

Snape glared at him. "Well, we'll have to be on the alert for signs of me dropping dead from your incessant, infernal nattering, then--I believe that would fulfill the requisite conditions quite nicely."

Apparently Snape didn't want to talk about it. Harry shrugged. "So... what do we do now?"

Snape's eyes glinted coldly. "*We* do nothing. I will accompany you back to your lodgings, hopefully without any further calamities, after which I will Floo to Hogwarts and make Poppy Pomfrey's day complete."

"Fine," Harry said indifferently. He should have known better than to try to be helpful. He got his feet under him, slowly, carefully, stopping every time dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, and then forced himself upright, picking random pieces of bloody glass from his palms, forearms and elbows, and tossing them away. As he leaned forward he saw more people passing in the street, none of whom so much as glanced in their direction. "Glamour still active, then?"

Snape followed the line of his gaze, and nodded grimly. "It seems so. I think it might be a permanent fixture, although fairly recently installed. It appears that your instinct for jeopardy is running true to form--I believe you've discovered the secret haven for Voldemort's followers we've all been so worried about. It certainly explains the sightings in this area, as well as how those who were spotted managed to disappear so readily."

Snape sighed, and got slowly to his feet. Harry knew better than to offer to help, even though Snape looked like he could use all the help he could get. His lips were compressed to a tight, bloodless line by the time he was fully vertical, but at least he hadn't collapsed. Yet.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said in a low voice, and Harry blinked in surprise as Snape held his wand out to him. "You'll be glad to have this back."

"My wand!" Harry took it gratefully, and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. "How did you get it back from her?"

"I didn't." Snape grimaced, put a hand to his back, and then stood up straight. "It seems to be very loyal to you--she had it, and it looked like it burned her. She flung it at me before she Disapparated."

"Wow," Harry said, and meant it. He gave it one final caress, and then slipped it into his pocket, eyeing Snape. "Um... where's yours?"

Snape glared at the ground, fists clenched. "I'm afraid it flew out of my hand during my rather precipitous trip through the window." He turned, moving stiffly. "I'll go--"

"I'll get it," Harry said quickly, and edged over to the darkened ruin that gaped like a toothless mouth into the vacant shop beyond. It was dim and cold, but he could barely make out some serpentlike symbols on the floor, and the whole place smelled--a familiar smell, not quite like the Chamber of Secrets, but similar, dank and somehow stagnant. Yes, he could definitely imagine Death Eaters meeting here. The whole room felt like a grave. He shuddered. "Accio wand!"

A moment later Snape's wand was in his hand, and he turned his back on the place gladly. "Here," he said as he held it out.

Snape's mouth was pursed with distaste, and Harry was about to ask him what was wrong when Snape said, coldly, "Thank you," and snatched it out of his hand.

Harry's sore throat ached terribly as he choked back a noise of disbelief. Snape had thanked him. It occurred to Harry that it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Snape for signs of spontaneous combustion--this was obviously a day to expect the unexpected.

"Clean yourself up," Snape said irritably. "There's not much that can be done at this point, but if we try walking down Diagon Alley like this we'll most likely wind up at St. Mungo's."

He watched as Snape began casting cleaning spells on himself, and one mending spell for a huge tear in the side of his robe. Then Harry followed suit, shivering a little as the spell tingled over the wounds on his neck. He found it difficult to hold his hands steady, and found, much to his surprise, that watching Snape had a sort of calming effect on him. Even though he had to be hurting even worse than Harry himself was, Snape seemed to be as brisk and practical as he was in class; and while that didn't exactly evoke any pleasant memories, it was certainly better than the ordeal they'd just been through.

"That will have to do," Snape said finally. "We need to get away from here before anyone else comes along to check on Bellatrix' handiwork."

Harry couldn't really argue with that, so he squared his shoulders and followed Snape out into the street, his wand firmly in hand inside his pocket. Best to be ready for anything.

But despite that thought, he wasn't quite ready for what happened next; when Tonks came tearing around the corner almost fast enough to knock the pair of them down. She gaped in surprise, then grabbed Harry at once in a frantic hug. He couldn't help but groan a little at the way it made his bones creak.

"Harry, thank goodness I found you!" she cried, patting his back with entirely too much enthusiasm. "You were late getting back from the Cauldron and Albus has been so worried--he sent me to look for you. Where on earth have you two *been*? Did something happen to you?"

"I'm all right, we're all right," he said, the words muffled and barely audible as his face was mostly smothered in the folds of her robe. "Well, I think we are. But look, Tonks, we can't stay here, we have to get back to..."

He trailed off as she let go of him, turning her attention to Snape. *All* of her attention. She stared at Snape with her mouth open and her eyes wide, as if she were somehow shocked by his presence. Snape just glared at her. "What?"

"Um... Tonks?" Harry asked tentatively.

In the next moment Tonks launched herself at Snape, and Harry found himself fumbling desperately for his wand, which was stuck in his pocket--stupid, stupid not to have it out and ready, and damn stupid Snape anyway for not wanting to talk about what the curse might do, because Snape was already hurt and Tonks might be small but she was tough and if she really tried she could probably do quite a bit of damage and here she was, practically wrestling Snape to the ground as she--

Hugged him.

Snape's outraged eyes met Harry's over her shoulder as she clung to him, rubbing her head against his chest in an unmistakable display of... affection.

"Who hurt you?" she asked, in what sounded like real distress. "Severus, what happened to you? Who hurt you? I swear, I'll kill them--I'll give them to the Dementors myself and they'll never touch you again, I'll never let them hurt you again, you beautiful, beautiful, beautiful man--"

"Oh my God," Harry said in a small, shocked voice.

Tonks got as close as she could to nuzzling Snape's neck. "You're so beautiful, Severus, and I've never told you--since I was eleven I've thought that, and I couldn't tell you, please forgive me. You'll forgive me, won't you? Oh please, say you will--"

"For Merlin's sake, Potter--stun her!" Snape bellowed, trying without much success to claw his way free, as Tonks was now entirely wrapped around him and appeared to be attempting to climb him as if he were some sort of irritated tree.

Harry couldn't stun her. Harry really couldn't do anything at all except goggle, dumbstruck and open-mouthed, as Tonks whipped in past Snape's flailing arms and tore his robes wide open. "Beautiful man," she crooned, "I can be anything for you, you know. Tell me what you want, what you like, Severus--is it blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? How about a delicate, willowy redhead with a tremendous set of--"

"Potter!" Snape howled, and Harry finally moved--but not fast enough. Snape had gotten one hand free in the struggle, and then, with a loud curse, Tonks' speech was cut off abruptly and she was out cold on the ground, stunned.

He and Snape stood on either side of her, looking down at her fallen figure. Harry thought that it might be more than his life was worth to look at Snape right now. "Um..." he said quietly, "the curse?"

A strangled noise from Snape. "Of course it's the bloody curse, you incompetent idiot! Do you think I have people flinging themselves at me like that every day?"

Harry opened his mouth, and then shut it with a snap. Oh no. He was aching, inside and out, and he was very very sure that a very very bad thing was about to happen--he was gong to burst into uncontrollable laughter, and then Snape was going to kill him. Oh bloody hell--

"Here now!" A pompous, outraged voice interrupted them, and a proper-looking wizard, with his proper-looking wife in tow, headed their way from the other side of the street. "What are you hooligans doing? I tell you, I saw you stun that poor girl--I saw you, and so did my wife. What in the name of all that's magical is this world coming to, assaulting a poor girl right here in the middle of Diagon Alley, it's... it's..." the pair had come quite close now, and both of them had fixed on Snape. "It's understandable, really," the man said in a much gentler tone. "She couldn't see what a fine, fine man you are, am I right, old chap? She couldn't even begin to understand--Griselda!"

That last was directed at his proper-looking wife, who had just rendered herself much less proper-looking by grabbing Snape's face and planting a big, messy kiss right on his lips. Snape gave an outraged squawk.

"Maybe we'd better make a run for it," Harry said weakly.

"I think--" Snape growled, but got cut off as each of the formerly proper-looking pair grabbed one of his arms and started to pull in opposite directions.

"I saw him first!" The man cried.

"He's mine!" His wife responded shrilly. "Keep your filthy hands off him, you--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Harry said disgustedly, annoyance winning out over mirth for the moment. "Sorry, you two, but believe me, you'll thank me for this later."

He stunned them, leaping forward to catch Griselda before she could topple to the ground, and nearly got crushed to death under her considerable weight for his pains. But finally she was down without any major injuries to either of them, and he could straighten up and face Snape.

Snape was absolutely, utterly white except for a brilliant spot of colour that burned in each cheek. He looked quite prepared to kill somebody, and Harry could only be glad that his own urge to break down in hysterics had passed.

Harry opened his mouth, but a vicious glare persuaded him to shut it again. "Not. A. Word," Snape said fiercely. "Not a single bloody word from you, or I'll... not a word."

So Harry didn't say any words. At least, not until Snape whirled and began stalking off in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. "Wait," he called, "we can't--I'm not leaving Tonks here."

Snape turned around, his face setting a new record for grimness. "And I suppose you want me to carry her? What a delightful treat for both of us, once she wakes up." He shuddered visibly.

Harry forced himself to keep a straight face. "Well... maybe not. But... maybe you should just Apparate to... to where you met me this morning--there's nobody there right now--and I'll Ennervate her and have her take me back. I won't, um, I won't go anywhere on my own, I promise."

Snape scowled, and Harry waited for Snape to tell him how stupid and rash and ineffectual his plan was; only at that moment a large group of witches and wizards came into view around the corner, and while upon seeing the two of them standing amidst three fallen bodies some of the newcomers stopped, their faces wary, the larger part drew their wands and hurried forward.

"Sodding hell," Snape hissed. "All right--but if anything happens to you, you won't have to wait for Bellatrix to get her hands on you. I shall hunt you down and curse you myself." He turned his wand on Tonks. "Ennervate!"

Then he disappeared.

***

After a long and rather fantastical explanation which Harry invented on the spot (he eventually put it down to a mishap incurred while tracking a straying Crumple-Horned Snorkack, at which point most of the crowd simply dismissed him as a loony), Harry got away, tugging a very puzzled Tonks along with him. She went along peaceably until they reached the Leaky Cauldron, at which point she pulled him into a dark booth in the corner and demanded an explanation.

"Harry... what... what just happened?" She asked, tugging restlessly at a lock of hair (chartreuse today) that had tumbled down over her forehead. "I remember finding you and Professor Snape, and then... then it's all just blank. Pfft! Nothing." She looked at him quizzically. "Were we attacked?"

Harry stared at the table between them, varnished wood marred with irregular gritty rings from the mugs of former occupants. Apparently Ignatius Truckle hadn't had to eavesdrop at any of the tables near this one lately. He reached out with a finger and traced one of the rings absently. "Not... not exactly, no." He sighed. As much as it was a blessing that she didn't remember any of it, it certainly didn't make the task of explaining any easier. But they didn't have much time, so he took a deep breath and pitched into it, giving her an abbreviated version of everything that had happened from the moment when Bellatrix found them. Tonks' eyes grew rounder and wider as he went on, but except for the occasional gasp or murmur of sympathy, she didn't interrupt.

He tried to gloss over the part about what Tonks herself had said and done to Snape, but she insisted, and finally he gave in and told her. When he was finished, she put her head down on the table and covered her ears with her hands, whimpering.

"I... oh bloody hell, Harry--I tore his robes open? I... I... I don't even want to think about it." She peeked up at him, her face brilliantly rosy under the fringe of green hair. "It was Snape's first year teaching at Hogwarts when I was a first year student, and for about five minutes I had this totally weird crush on him--older man, dark and brooding, maybe a little dangerous--that sort of thing. I got over it soon enough, of course." She sighed. "Never thought I'd end up admitting it, though. Especially to him."

Harry felt vaguely ill at the idea of anyone at all having a crush on Snape without the influence of an ancient curse, but he didn't say that. "We should go," he murmured, "make sure he got back. Besides, I promised--"

He broke off as Tonks bolted upright. "Oh sod it, I'd forgotten--Albus said he'd send somebody there, to Number Twelve, to stay in case you came back..."

Harry stood up, and their eyes met. "Yeah, um... we'd better go." He bit his lip for a moment, and then came out with the rest of it. "I hope he didn't send Professor Moody."

Tonks' face scrunched up. "Thanks, Harry--that's just what I needed, nice image to dwell on. Good one."

Harry followed her to the fireplace, and despite his assorted aches and pains and worries was unable to stop himself from smiling when he heard her mutter, "Tore his robes off... I never! Not even that time I had way too much firewhisky with Minerva..."

He made a mental note to ask her about that, sometime when they weren't so rushed.

***

As it turned out, Dumbledore hadn't sent somebody--he'd sent *somebodies*. The first things Harry saw when he stepped into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place were the stunned, inert bodies of Kingsley Shacklebolt and--yes, Alastor Moody. Scattered around them were several scraps of black cloth--at Harry's guess, the remnants of Snape's robes.

Oh, lovely. That meant that somewhere in the house (probably cowering in the basement by now) there was a scandalized, cursed and naked Snape to be dealt with. Harry took a moment to offer up a fierce prayer to whomever might be listening that Snape would have managed to find some kind of clothing somewhere.

He whistled softly. "Well, this is a cock-up and no mistake. Listen, I'll go and find him. Why don't you--"

He broke off abruptly as Tonks shoved him sideways to crash into the wall, sending a fresh shock of pain through his already-very-sore body. "No, you can't have him!" she shouted, her eyes wide and crazed. "He's here somewhere, I know it, and he's mine--you won't hurt him again!"

And then she was off, tearing up the stairs like her robes were on fire, yelling for her 'beautiful man' until Harry felt quite sick. He sighed, pulled his wand out, and then trudged wearily up the stairs after her, wondering dimly when this horrible, miserable day would ever end.

He followed the sound of her voice up to the third floor hallway, hurrying near the end when he realized her voice wasn't the only one that he heard. He came up the last flight to see Tonks engaged in a tussle with Professor Lupin, both of them clawing at the door at the end of the corridor as much as they struck out at each other.

"Leave off--leave him alone, you silly bint!" Lupin said, somehow managing to get the words out despite the arm that Tonks had wrapped around his throat. "He doesn't want *you*--"

Tonks' grip appeared to loosen when Lupin's flailing fist caught her eye. "How would you know anything about what he wants, you furry son-of-an-ogre--"

Lupin tossed her aside and pounded on the door. "Severus! Severus, come out here and tell this pathetic little idiot how you felt about me at school!" Dimly, from inside the room, Harry heard a muffled crash. Lupin had left off pounding and was now... petting (there was no other word for it) the doorknob. "I'll never forgive myself for not letting you know how much you meant to me then, Severus, but you'll forget all about that, won't you? Please, Severus, I--" at that point, Tonks landed on his back with her full weight, so the rest was simply garbled, plaintive nonsense.

Harry shook his head in disbelief, then lifted his wand and let them both have it.

***

Snape refused to open the door, or do anything at all other than bellow 'go away!' every time Harry knocked, so after trying Alohomora on the lock without success, Harry went back downstairs to see if he could reach Dumbledore. He knelt gingerly on the hearth, and his knees let him know in no uncertain terms that they'd done about enough for him today, and were thinking seriously of packing it in as a bad job.

"Headmaster?" he asked once he'd sent his head to Dumbledore's office, and oh, thank goodness he was there, sitting behind his desk looking anxious.

"Harry!" Dumbledore said, a relieved smile spreading over his face as he moved towards the fire. "What on earth happened to you? I've been so worried--"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry interrupted, "but there's no time. I need you to tell me what to do--" and with that he launched into yet another explanation, although this one was as brief as he could make it while still trying to form complete sentences. By the time he finished Dumbledore was frowning steadily, and looked positively alarmed.

"But what about you, Harry?" he asked. "From what you've told me, you seem to be entirely unaffected by Severus'... condition. Unless you've left something out?"

Harry's mouth hung open for a moment, and he felt exceedingly stupid. It hadn't occurred to him to notice, or even wonder why he seemed to be the only person completely unaffected by Snape's curse, but he was. "I... I'm immune, I guess; I'm not affected at all. I don't know why, unless--"

Dumbledore cut him of with one wave of his hand. "Never mind that right now, Harry; we'll have to sort it all out later. Our immediate problem will be to get those who don't share your immunity out of the house as quickly as possible. Now here's what I want you to do..."

Seven dizzying Floo trips later (four of them with an unconscious person much larger than himself slung haphazardly over his shoulder), Harry thought he might just collapse in the Headmaster's office and maybe not wake up until school started again. "Ow," he protested weakly as Dumbledore lifted Tonks off him, floating her directly to the waiting wand of Madam Pomfrey, who didn't look one bit impressed with any of this.

She left Tonks floating gently in midair and came towards him, shaking her head. "What is it, then, your back? Well, I'm not the least surprised--Albus, what in the world were you thinking, asking a boy to carry so much?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "As I told you before, Poppy, we have had a rather unfortunate mishap, and in my opinion four stunned Aurors and one sore back is a fairly small price to pay for coming out of it alive. Now, if you would, please see to Harry briefly before you attend to your other patients, and send him back to my office when you're through."

"I'm all right," Harry offered without much hope.

Madam Pomfrey frowned at him and sniffed. "None of your 'all right', young man--we'll see about that. Now come with me." She turned and made for the staircase, floating Tonks' stunned body in front of her. At Dumbledore's nod, Harry reluctantly followed her.

The empty stone hallways, cool even though it was a warm summer day, seemed odd to Harry, almost eerie. There was no one about but the two of them (three, if you counted Tonks). Not even Peeves made an appearance.

"Right then," Madam Pomfrey said briskly when they'd reached the ward, "hop up on one of the beds, and let's have a look at you."

Moving slowly, he sat down on the nearest bed and watched her install Tonks on the one next to his, two down from the ones already occupied by Moody, Kingsley and Lupin. "They'll be all right, won't they?" he asked. They all looked so still, and he couldn't even hear them breathing.

Madam Pomfrey tsk'ed. "Fine. Best thing for them to do is sleep it off, and then they'll be good as new, only I don't know that my store of Stun Remedy Elixir will hold out--not much call for it, usually. I'll have to ask Professor Snape to brew up another batch. Now, be quiet and let's have a look at you."

Harry swallowed, and said nothing. If Dumbledore hadn't told her about Snape's... problem, he didn't think it was his job to say anything about it. He let her poke and prod at him, listening to her murmurs of disapproval, and he groaned a little when a touch of her wand at his back eased the worst of the pain there.

"Better?"

"Yes, thanks."

She met his eyes. "The Headmaster said you had some other injuries--"

"Oh. Right." He undid the buttons at his collar, and when she gasped, he flinched.

Her voice, when it came, sounded almost as if she were angry at him. "Why--somebody's tried to choke the life out of you!"

"Um... yes. That's about it," he said, feeling a little claustrophobic as she leaned close to him. "But I'm fine now--"

"Don't talk," she commanded curtly, and so he shut up and stared at the ceiling while she poked him some more. He jumped a little each time she healed one of the punctures on his neck where Bellatrix had dug her nails into him, but when she was done he did feel quite a bit better. Finally she moved away and went to a nearby shelf, measuring out a careful half-glass of some bright pink potion he'd never seen before. When she passed it to him, he noticed that her hand wasn't entirely steady.

"You're a very lucky young man," she said as he sipped (despite the pink colour, the potion smelled like cut grass and tasted a bit like pine needles). "If I'm not mistaken, only a wee bit more pressure would have done for you for good. This will relieve the worst of the swelling and make it easier for you to swallow, but you'll be sore and probably a bit stiff for a while." She eyed him critically. "I would recommend that you avoid any rapid movements, any clothing that fits snugly about the neck, and any further encounters with whomever did this to you."

Harry nodded, and handed the empty glass back to her. It sounded good to him.

"Very well, then--off you go. And don't worry about your friends; they'll all be back in top form by tomorrow."

He was off the bed and almost to the door when she called after him. "And mind you go straight back to the Headmaster's office--no dawdling, prying, or looking for new ways to get yourself hurt! The password is 'Screaming Chocolate Meemies'."

Harry nodded, and noticed that it didn't hurt, much. "Right." He turned and went before she could think to give him another lecture.

***

"Sit down, Harry," Dumbledore said gently when he arrived. Harry sat, noticing that it was now much easier--most of the pain was gone. He was still tired, and (now that he had time to notice), terribly hungry, and more than a little dirty (too many Floo trips in one day would do that to you), but he felt now that there was nothing wrong with him that a hot bath, some food, and a great deal of sleep wouldn't cure. He hoped to get all those things soon.

"I know you would probably like to get some rest," Dumbledore said, "so I'll make this as brief as I can."

"You need to hear all the details," Harry replied, "I understand." And he did, only he was so very, very tired at the thought of going through all of it again...

"Yes, I do. But," he waved his wand, and a tray appeared on the desk in front of Harry. "I'm not in such a hurry that we can't get some tea and food into you while you tell me. Please--pitch in."

Harry didn't have to be asked twice, and fell to with a will, disposing of tea, broth, and making quite a dent in the stack of minced chicken sandwiches while he gave Dumbledore the detailed version of events. The Headmaster asked no questions, and by the time Harry finished the last crumbs of baked apple tart (and was really beginning to feel quite overwhelmingly sleepy), he'd told the lot of it.

Dumbledore listened intently, a worried frown on his face deepening as the story unfolded. When Harry finally finished both eating and talking, Dumbledore waved his wand absently, and the tray disappeared. He stroked his beard for a moment, and then peered at Harry over the tops of his glasses. "Excuse me, Harry, but... you're quite sure that you deflected the curse that Bellatrix had aimed at you?"

Harry shrugged, licking a speck of apple from his lower lip. "I don't... I don't remember much of that. But she was definitely trying to curse me, and she definitely got Sn--Professor Snape instead. He's the one who told me I'd deflected it, after I woke up."

Dumbledore appeared lost in thought for a moment. "Hm."

"Is that a problem?" Harry asked.

"No, no. It's just... as I'm sure you remember from your studies, curses are much more complex and perilous than jinxes or hexes, and deflecting a curse onto another person requires a very different sort of magic from blocking it--deflecting is much more difficult, more advanced. In fact, it's one of the principles taught in Auror training, as it requires a great deal of will, ability, and powerful magic to make it work correctly. The more powerful the curse, the greater the difficulty in deflecting it--and this appears to be a very powerful curse indeed."

"Do you know what the curse was? Professor Snape said he didn't."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not from your description, nor from its effects, no. But I'm sure we'll get that all sorted out." He stirred some scrolls lying on his desk with the tip of his wand. "Of course, there is a fairly good hint for us in the information you brought back with you from Ignatius."

Harry blinked. "There is?"

The Headmaster smiled gently. "Yes. 'Time to use the enemy's own weapons against them', is, I believe, what you said--and what greater weapon do we have than love?"

Harry shifted in his seat. "But... I mean, yes, it looked like love, but really--they would have torn him apart, I think; if they hadn't been stopped."

"Ah. Yes. But Harry, there are many different kinds of love--some of them exceedingly dangerous." Surprisingly, he winked. "But don't let that put you off."

Harry felt himself blushing, and didn't know quite what to say to that. Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. "At any rate, we should move on to the topic of your... immunity. You are absolutely sure that you can be in Professor Snape's presence without having... feelings for him?"

Harry choked. "Yes!" he said firmly, when he could. "All the feelings I have for Professor Snape are... unmentionable. And not in *that* kind of way." He ducked his head a little, hiding behind the fringe of his hair.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I can well imagine." Harry heard a sigh, then, "But still, it is extremely curious--why you would be unaffected, when everyone else isn't."

Harry shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Perhaps." Harry heard a soft tapping noise, and looked up to find Dumbledore studying him, drumming his wand gently on the edge of his desk. "But if you have no objection, I would like to conduct a brief diagnostic test, to see if I can find any... anomalies."

Low-level tension flooded Harry's muscles, but after the day he'd had it only made him more tired. "A test? Does it... will it hurt?"

"Not at all," Dumbledore assured him, smiling kindly. "And I don't really expect to find anything; it's just a precaution."

Harry nodded. "All right then, I suppose." He sat up straight. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing," Dumbledore replied. "Just try to keep still."

Dumbledore's wand pointed at his head, and the next moment Harry felt a warm, tingling sensation envelop him from the top of his head to his chin. A beam of soft blue light connected Harry and the wand, while a beam of white light arced to the side, spreading out flat to display bright, hazy, incorporeal images, almost like a screen showing something that was severely out of focus.

"Hm," Dumbledore said, frowning at the haze.

"What?" Harry asked nervously.

"Oh--nothing. Your mind--it's quite normal."

"Um... thanks?"

Dumbledore moved the wand down, and the warm tingle surrounded Harry's throat. The 'screen' turned pink for a moment, then went white again, with different sorts of shapes floating across it. One of the ones Harry thought he saw made him instantly uneasy. "Er... was that a snake?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied mildly. "You're a Parselmouth, as you know."

Oh. Right. Harry kept still.

The beam moved down to his chest, and Harry ignored the tingle in favour of watching the images very closely. He didn't see anything recognizable, but Dumbledore made another 'hm' sound which put him on edge--really, this was worse than going to the doctor's office. "What kind of 'hm' was that?" he asked.

"You're fine," Dumbledore said quietly. "I'll be done soon. Now please--be still, if you can."

Harry was still.

Dumbledore stared at the vague, floating images for what seemed like quite a long time to Harry, before he moved on. The tingling sensation then swept lower, lower, down to his solar plexus--the white light got brighter--and lower, and he hoped his stomach wouldn't take long because that was really almost starting to tickle--

A sudden, stunning, white-hot flash of light blinded Harry, and at the same moment there was a loud popping sound, as if a very large lightbulb had just exploded. Harry recoiled, blinking, and by the time he could see again, both beams of light had vanished altogether, and Dumbledore was staring at his wand with evident surprise. A bit of smoke floated from the very tip, but other than that it didn't appear to be damaged.

"Oh my," Dumbledore said pensively.

Harry swallowed. "What happened? What was that? Am I... is there something wrong with me?"

Dumbledore seemed to recollect himself, and smiled. "I think not," he said. "In fact," he added, his eyes glinting through his spectacles; "although I'll need to do a bit of research, I would call that a most intriguing--and possibly promising--result."

Harry's stomach sank. "You're not going to tell me about any of this, are you?"

Dumbledore's silver beard swayed gently as he shook his head. "No. As yet there's no reason to--not until I know more." He pocketed his wand absently. "I will, however, tell you this much--you are indeed an extraordinarily perceptive boy. And I want to say as well that I think you showed excellent judgment as well as great courage today, and I thank you for it."

At that, everything that had happened in this long, long day came back to him, and Harry's shoulders drooped under the weight of it as he looked down at the floor. "I let Snape get to me," he said softly. "If I hadn't done that, we never would have been there, where she... where Bellatrix found us."

Dumbledore got to his feet and came around the desk, perching on the edge of it and looking down at Harry with a gentle, if serious, expression on his face. "My father--many, many years ago, when I was not much older than you are now--told me a few things which have proved to be extremely useful over the course of my life."

Harry blinked. Strange, to think of Dumbledore having a father, even though it was obvious that of course he must have had one.

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose, and continued. "The first was: 'never turn your back on an angry woman when she's holding a full pitcher of mead'. But that's not quite relevant to this particular situation, and I believe has much more to do with how he met my mother. At any rate, the second was: 'in times of war, often the greatest enemy is to be found within your own ranks, and wears a familiar face'."

Harry tensed a little. That sounded like... it had to be about Snape. "Are you saying that... that Professor Snape is really a..." he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised.

But Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry; although when I heard my father say that for the first time, I interpreted it in a similar way. But later I came to understand that what he'd been trying to tell me, albeit indirectly, was that it is often our own inner convictions--the beliefs we each carry about who we are, and our stubborn preference for them over any truths that might come to light, that create vulnerabilities which might then be exploited by anyone astute enough to perceive them."

Okay. That was just... confusing. "So, what he was trying to tell you... or what you're trying to tell me, is that... um..."

Dumbledore's eyes had regained their customary twinkle. "Well, to put it a bit more simply, that a vital skill in the struggle for survival is the ability to accept, and come to terms with, new truths; and sometimes to let go of certain beliefs we've always held about ourselves or others."

Harry shifted restlessly in his chair. "And your father taught you that when you were my age?" Dumbledore nodded. Harry knitted his brow. "But you said it didn't make sense to you until later--was it very much later?"

Dumbledore's warm chuckle filled the room. "Yes indeed, much later; at least, much later as I reckoned time in those days. But I never forgot it."

"All right," Harry said, hoping that someday he might be able to look back on this conversation and find that it made sense. He thought about it for a moment, trying to burn the words into his memory, and then embarrassed himself by yawning hugely, the cracking sound his jaw made clearly audible.

"You need to rest," Dumbledore said kindly. "I have only one or two further things to tell you, and then you can return to Grimmauld Place."

At those words, all weariness left him and he sat bolt upright. "Grimmauld... but, I thought... well, I mean, with what's happened, with everything, since he's... there, I thought maybe I would be staying here."

Dumbledore's eyes leveled at his own. "Harry, if what you told me is correct, then Professor Snape's masquerade as a Death Eater has been exposed, and Voldemort's followers have been robbed of their new headquarters, all in one day." He paused for a moment, studying Harry intently, and then continued. "The desire for retaliation, for vengeance, will be at its height right now, and I don't want either one of you to be left alone. You're the only one--that we know of, at least--who can be in Severus' company without any... unpleasant effects."

"That's what you think," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, actually, it is." He shifted, and then sat down in the chair next to Harry's own. "I'm asking you, once again, to trust me, to believe me when I tell you that both you and Professor Snape are absolutely vital to any hopes we have of defeating Voldemort."

Harry stared at him. He'd never heard it put quite that way before--sounding as if he and Snape were somehow in it together--and frankly, he didn't care for it much.

Dumbledore didn't appear to notice his discomfiture, however. "Your own destiny you already know about. Severus' role, on the other hand--well, as I've said before, that's between he and I. But even without the benefit of a prophecy, I can tell you that regardless of how you feel about him, your destinies are indeed intertwined--and you'll need each other before all is said and done."

Harry shuddered. "Do you have to put it like that?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Perhaps not. But at any rate, I'm asking you once again if you can trust me--if you can return to Number Twelve, and stay there until I am able to find a solution to this problem."

"But..." oh, this was terrible, terrible. Today he'd spent more time with Snape than he ever had before, and it had been... well, not the worst day of his life, but certainly one he never, ever wanted to go through again. "But what will we *do*?" He asked finally, as close as he could get to coming straight out and asking how they were ever supposed to survive each other.

"There are many ways in which you can both be helpful," Dumbledore said, and Harry tried not to snort at the idea of Snape ever being 'helpful'. "You can resume your Occlumency lessons, for a start. In addition, I may need assistance from both of you with regard to Professor Snape's curse; I'll do everything I can here, but there is quite a unique difficulty in trying to remove an unknown curse without being able to approach the bearer of it. And there are other possibilities which you might learn of, in time. But for right now, today, you can simply work on getting along."

At that, Harry did snort--as if anything at all about trying to 'get along' with Snape could ever be termed 'simple'. "If you're sure that this is what I have to do..."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I am not going to tell you what you have to do, Harry. But this is what I ask of you, in light of what I learned from you today and my hopes for the future."

The difference between that and actually telling him what he had to do looked pretty small to Harry, although he didn't say so. "All right," he said finally, shrugging. "I'll try." He got to his feet, not really trying to keep the sullen expression off his face as he moved towards the fireplace, for what would (hopefully) be his last Floo trip in this endless, endless day.

"Harry?"

He turned. "What?"

"Good luck to you."

He nodded. It was all he really felt he had the energy for. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll need it."

Well, that much was true. Between Voldemort's followers being out in force looking for both of them, an unknown ancient curse to be broken, and being stuck at Grimmauld Place with a cursed, angry Snape until further notice--yes, he'd need all the luck he could get.

***

Nothing had changed at Grimmauld Place since he'd left it--at least, nothing looked any different, and when he finally brought himself to knock at the door of the third floor room Snape had holed up in he got the same 'go away!' as before, at which point he gave up and went to have a bath.

After a prolonged and deeply satisfying soak, when he was warm and clean and wrapped up in pyjamas and his flannel robe, he made his sleepy and fumbling way to the kitchen. He was exhausted, but despite his earlier meal in Dumbledore's office his stomach had already started rumbling again, loudly enough that he knew it wouldn't let him sleep.

It occurred to him that Snape was probably hungry as well, but he'd be damned if he was going to go out of his way to find out. He did (grudgingly) take out extra food, however, in case Snape decided to come down. Harry hoped he wouldn't. If Snape spent the whole time they were here locked in a room upstairs, this would be a snap--but he left the food out anyway.

He was halfway through a tremendous and very messy triple-decker fried egg and ham sarnie when he heard a careful, measured tread on the steps, and then Snape swept into the room--thankfully, mercifully, clothed--wearing an obviously borrowed robe, about a foot too short for him.

He said nothing at all to Harry, and didn't even glance at the food left out on the table, but went immediately to the cupboards and began searching through them, grumbling something too soft for Harry to hear under his breath.

Harry watched him for a while, then finally swallowed a large chunk of sandwich and cleared his throat. "Er... aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

Snape whirled to face him, looking pale and angry and frustrated. "No," he said coldly. "I know where you've been, and who you've been with. I see that you are here now, and you don't exactly appear to be packing to leave. Unlike you, I possess a fully functioning brain, including the ability to assess evidential data and then extrapolate rational conclusions."

Harry blinked, and opened his mouth, but Snape had only paused for a quick breath, and ran right over him. "Of all people and against all reason, you, for causes I admit I cannot begin to fathom, are the only person who seems to be able to be in my presence without attempting to attach yourself to my leg. It should also be noted that your idiotic exploits this morning resulted in disastrous consequences to me personally, in that by this time every Death Eater in the country will know of my duplicity, thus ending my long-standing efforts at obtaining vital information regarding Voldemort's plans and activities. Finally, just before I was stricken with a terrible curse that was originally intended for you, it did not escape my attention that you utterly ruined any covert attempts to investigate the latest lair of Voldemort's fiends by letting them know that we knew perfectly well exactly where it was."

Another quick breath, and Harry wondered how long Snape had been storing all this up. "It stands to reason, therefore, that the Dark Lord and all his followers will be putting forth their utmost efforts to discover and annihilate both of us. It stands to further reason, consequently, that I am stuck here in this desolate, miserable hole of a house, with no other company but yours, until further notice. So no, I am not going to ask you why you're here. The answer to that question is already outstandingly evident--you are here because the Fates, Albus Dumbledore, and the spirit of Merlin himself all hate me tremendously." Snape spun away again, and went back to hunting through the cabinets, slamming the doors shut when he finished with each one.

Harry blinked again, feeling rather overwhelmed. Snape seemed to get more and more out of temper with each slam, until Harry almost expected to see steam coming out of his ears. Finally, he spoke up. "Um. Can I help you find something?"

Snape turned to him, his face livid. "Alcohol!" he snarled.

Harry wasn't quite prepared for that. "What?"

"Whisky, you babbling idiot!" Snape thundered. "Where is it? Firewhisky, lager, ale, wine, mead, absinthe--bloody Pepper-Up potion if this hideous dump stocks nothing better. Alcohol. I know perfectly well that your Godfather was not a teetotaler--so where in blazes is the *alcohol*?"

"Pantry. The door to the right, just outside the kitchen," Harry said, realizing only after Snape had stalked past him and out the door that without meaning to he'd clutched his sandwich to his chest, thoroughly spoiling both his supper and his pyjamas. "Loathsome git," he muttered, tossing the remains into the bin and wiping himself off as best he could with his napkin. Of course, loathsome git didn't sum it up (he'd have to curse for probably a solid year to do that), but it was all he had energy for right now.

A wave of fatigue swept over him, and a deep, heartfelt yearning for his bed: smooth sheets, piles of warm blankets, and a great soft pillow... Oh yes, he was going right to bed, right, directly, immediately to bed, straightaway--

But despite that intention, he waited. He waited until he heard the slam of the pantry door, pounding footsteps heading up the stairs, and the far fainter slam of the door from the third floor room before he left the kitchen. Not that he was afraid.

As he crept to his room, he wondered dispiritedly if he wouldn't have been better off if he'd spent this summer with the Dursleys.

***

She was close, so close behind him--through every twist and turn he took in desperation he could hear her getting closer, closing in on him as he pelted through the maze of this empty, ruined city. He ran and ran, ran endlessly, ran through grey wastes of rubble that skittered underfoot and made his heart lurch in his chest, because if he lost his footing that would be it--she would be on him, furious strength and flat basilisk eyes and something else at her core; a howling and hungry darkness that would rend the flesh from his bones. He ran until he ached, and ran on until he was past aching, numb with horror and panic that made him slow, while she gained and gained and gained.

Then he was up against it, up against a blank, crumbling stone wall at the end of a shattered corridor with no way out. Running was finished and so was he, no cover, no refuge, no place to hide. He reached for his wand, but when he pulled his hand from his pocket it held only wood, a useless branch of wood that burst into growth as he watched, green leaves budding, spreading, rustling--she would hear it--and he tossed it away. There was nothing for him there, and he was alone. Alone and helpless, dizzy and weak, lost in the heart of a dead city while the pursuing footsteps of murderous rage thundered in his ears, getting louder every moment. He closed his eyes and clutched the mute, icy stone beneath his hands, something to feel and hold to besides her teeth.

He heard a careful, measured tread, swift and purposeful. His blood burned with sudden alarm and his eyes flew open to see Snape towering over him, face white as chalk under a filigree tracery of black designs: snakes and sigils and runes and other things that avoided his eye, flickering and changing. Harry cringed and tried to curl in on himself but was held, crushed into the stone with every limb immobilized, that monstrous, deadly face bare centimetres from his own.

"Strange," Snape said silkily, and the word slipped into Harry's unwilling ears and twined around his brain, "I didn't know you could be so easily cowed."

As he said it, Snape's eyes went from black to yellow to green, brilliant green. Harry felt the earth pull at him, felt Snape pull at him, and in that moment all the horror broke apart even while his heart sped until he thought it might fly from his chest, from horror to... this, this other extremity he had no name for, this embodiment of something that left him stunned and trembling, arching his head back and back and there were hands on him now, and they were welcome; and lips, soft on the exposed throat he'd fought so hard to protect.

"Here," Snape whispered to him in Parseltongue, forked tongue, demon tongue; flickering out at him, hot on his skin. "Right here," a warm hand cupping him right there, shocking him, breaking his breath in his throat while the earth rose up, a forest of vines climbing up, pushing through the grey dust and weaving all together, intertwined together, bursting into green and blazing life--

And then it seemed very much as if the world exploded.

***

Harry almost didn't make it to the loo, sliding the last few feet on his knees to slam against the cold porcelain of the basin before he let it all come up, retching up revulsion and misery as much as his supper. For what seemed like forever that was all he could do, twisting like a tortured lump of tissue in a bath of acid, his mind mercifully blank of everything but the pain in his throat and stomach.

When he was finally done he got slowly to his feet, shivering; as unsteady and weak-kneed as if he'd been hit with a jelly-legs jinx, and staggered over to the sink to rinse his mouth, over and over until he could bring himself to sip some water and brush his teeth. He realized then how cold he was, clammy and damp with sweat, vomit, and some other fluids left over from his dream that he really didn't want to think about. He tore off his pyjamas and got into the shower, setting the water as scalding hot as he could stand it.

The shaking just wouldn't stop. He would feel his stomach start to settle, feel some small measure of calm return to him, and then his eyes would drift closed and right away images from his dream would leap out at him, and then the shaking would set in again. His mind felt paralyzed; unable to think about it, equally unable to think about anything else.

He stayed in the shower until his skin was bright red and the tips of his fingers wrinkled, then climbed out and dried himself off, scrubbing with the towel until he felt chafed. He didn't want to even touch his pyjamas, so he used his wand to levitate them into the laundry bin, wrapped himself securely in his towel, and left the room.

It had been pitch-dark when he had woken up, but when he emerged from the loo he saw the first faint pink of dawn touching the horizon through the window at the end of the hallway. He crept back to his bedroom for clothes--no way was he going back to sleep, or anywhere near that wreck of a bed--and when he was dressed, made his way down to the kitchen to think.

***

Harry found Professor Lupin, thankfully alone, walking in the gardens at Hogwarts.

"Good morning, Harry," Lupin said cheerfully, sounding like he was having a fairly good morning himself. Harry could see why--he'd never seen the gardens before at high summer, and they were spectacular, all riot and blooming colour, the trees alive with birds.

"Yes, I--I mean, good morning to you, too. Are you... d'you feel better?"

Lupin smiled. "I feel fine, thank you. And how are you? I would think, after yesterday, that you must be--"

"I don't really want to talk about it," Harry blurted out, cursing himself when he saw how careful and shuttered Lupin's face became.

"Oh, all right," Lupin agreed casually. "But if you're here to see the Headmaster, I don't think he's up quite yet--"

"No," Harry said, struggling to get the words out. "I didn't, I... I came to ask... to talk with you. About something. But I can go away, if you're busy--"

"Not at all," Lupin replied, his face relaxing into a smile as he waved Harry towards a nearby bench. "I'm always up early in the mornings; well, at least, except for the mornings after a full moon. Normally I just wander around on my own--I'm glad of the company."

Harry sat down. Lupin sat next to him, looking at him expectantly. Harry cleared his throat, and picked nervously at his thumbnail. Talking to Lupin had seemed like a good idea earlier, when he realized that he would have to talk to *somebody*, but now that it came down to it, it was much more difficult than he'd expected. How could he talk to someone else about what he could hardly bear to think about it himself?

Finally, he took a deep breath, and plunged. "I... I had a dream," he said.

Lupin's eyes widened. "A dream--you mean, you had another vision? Was it--is someone hurt, or..."

"No, no!" Harry said, shaking his head. "Not like that; I haven't had one of those since... since the last time." Lupin relaxed, sighing with relief. "No, this was... different, this was a dream where I... um. I... ah, things, er, sort of... oh bugger."

Lupin smiled, but it was a gentle smile. "Ah. *That* sort of dream."

Harry released a shaky breath. "Yeah."

There was a pause, and then Lupin cleared his throat. "Actually, Harry, it may surprise you, but I've been waiting for this for some time now." Harry tensed, and looked at him in alarm. "Don't worry," Lupin continued softly, "there's nothing to be worried about. It's just--you're growing up, that's all. Believe it or not I can still remember being your age, and at the time I had all sorts of questions about... well, everything. Of course, I know you would undoubtedly rather have talked to Sirius, but..."

For a moment there were no more words, and both of them looked out over the garden, where the birds held sway. "You know," Lupin finally continued in a quiet, fond voice, "he said something to me once, not long before we lost him, wondering how on earth he was going to cope with it when and if you ever came to him with... questions. He was in quite a panic over it."

Harry smiled a little, ignoring the hot jab in his chest that was part fondness and part pain. "What did you tell him?"

"Oh..." a momentary lull in the bird racket, and Harry heard Lupin swallow. "I told him that I myself had loads of experience with that sort of thing--three younger brothers, plus the time I've spent teaching--and that he had nothing to worry about; that the worst that could happen was that he'd say the wrong thing and leave you scarred for life--"

And then they were both laughing, and it was sad and funny all at once, and for the first time since he'd woken up Harry felt like maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay.

When the laughter died away, Lupin grew serious again. "But that's not really the point that I wanted to make. What I was trying to say was that I hoped you'd feel comfortable coming to me, and I'm glad you did. So I am entirely at your service. Now--what about this dream of yours?"

Harry stared at the ground, and felt his cheeks burn. "Well, it was, um. Scary."

"Hm. Scary. In what way? Scary, as in... what?"

Harry blinked fiercely. "Scary as in definitely not normal. Scary as in..." he choked for a moment, then forced the words out in a rush. "I'm not going to give you any details and please don't ask me but I woke up from it and was sick and I couldn't stop shaking and even now I can't think about without wondering if I'm really, really ill... in the head. Or something."

"Hm," Lupin said quietly. "That must've been some dream."

Harry shivered, cold even in the hot sun. "It was."

A warm hand patted his shoulder briefly, and that helped, a little. "Believe it or not, I understand. So, Harry--I know you said you don't want to give any details, and I'm not going to press you on that, but I have some questions which you might be able to answer without divulging anything... private. I'd like to ask them, and then, if you don't want to answer, just say so. Agreed?"

Harry nodded, still not able to look up from the ground.

"Very well. First of all, this dream... was it a nightmare?"

Harry glanced at him once, briefly. "Yes, I told you it was... it was bloody awful."

"I grasped that," Lupin said patiently. "But what I'm asking is if this dream of yours had the 'regular' components of a nightmare--dark places, danger, falling, being chased, not being able to escape, monsters--things like that."

Harry thought it over carefully. "I... at first, yes. It did at first."

Lupin nodded. "And then it changed?"

"Oh. Did it ever."

"Right. And then, at that point, did you find yourself... well, enjoying something which you would never, under ordinary circumstances, consider enjoyable?"

Harry looked up then, staring in wonder. "Who... how--how do you know about that?"

Lupin patted his shoulder again, and this time his hand stayed there, warm and comfortable. "Don't panic, Harry--I don't know anything at all about your dream. But as I said--I do have a certain amount of experience with this."

"You mean," Harry paused, swallowing, "you mean this happens--these kinds of dreams, only scary, I mean--they happen to other people?"

Lupin nodded solemnly. "Oh yes. All the time."

"But... my mates... they all seem to *like* them so much!" he couldn't fathom it, he just couldn't. "I mean, just last term Ron and Seamus spent three bloody days trying to find a potion or a spell to bring them about--and here I felt terrible because they've been talking about it for the past year and I thought it would never happen to me, and now it did, and now I'd be willing to spend three solid *weeks* trying to find a way to never, ever have one again!"

Lupin had his lips pressed tightly together for a moment, but then he seemed to collect himself. "Well, you see, Harry, with these dreams... there are many different kinds, and not all of them are frightening. Your mates, though, they don't talk about the frightening ones, because of course the worst thing in the world for a young man your age is for his friends to think he's afraid of... well, anything, really, but especially something like this. So of course they don't talk about those ones."

Harry felt almost like he was floating, as if a whole new world had just been revealed to him. "Oh. That's... wow."

Lupin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and then his hand dropped away. "Yes. And now--there are two things I want to tell you about this dream of yours." He slouched a little on the bench, his voice falling into the same low, rhythmic cadence he used when he taught, which Harry found oddly comforting. "First of all, it might help you to understand all this if you consider that what makes sex such a driving force for all of us is its intensity--emotional and physical intensity. Now fear, quite often, is also emotionally and physically intense--any boggart can teach that."

"Or a dementor," Harry said softly.

Lupin nodded. "Exactly. Now at your age, what we have is a whole new and unknown world opening up, added to a whole lot of intensity. So, in dreams, it seems that quite often the easiest way to get that combination across is through--"

"Fear," Harry said, awash in that wonderful and rare sensation he got when a concept or lesson that had baffled him suddenly became clear.

"Spot on. Fear. Very well done, Harry. Now, as for the bits of your dream which you think shouldn't have been enjoyable--"

Harry's sense of gratification dissolved at once into embarrassment, and he looked back at the ground. "Uh-huh?"

"It's all right, really. You know... do you remember all that you learned in Professor Trelawney's class, about the symbology of dreams?"

Uh-oh. "I... studied, I mean, I..."

"Relax," Lupin told him. "I was simply going to ask you to forget everything you've learned from her."

Harry's lips twitched. "Done."

"Excellent. You see, it's not the classification and hierarchy of symbols that you need to know right now, but rather the fact that dreams are most often, in and of themselves, symbolic. Do you see?"

Harry blinked. "Um..."

"Let me put it to you this way: in dreams, the things you dream about are often reflections, or symbols, of other things. So if, for example, you had a dream about wearing nothing but a kilt while your best friend smears you with butterscotch pudding, that doesn't necessarily mean that in your daily life you're going to be... er, aroused by kilts, your friend, or pudding. All right?"

Harry smiled--he couldn't help it. "What's wrong with being aroused by pudding?"

Lupin grinned back, and ruffled his hair. "Nothing at all. I'm a pro-pudding man myself, even if I don't personally go that way."

Harry leaned his head into the touch for a moment, but then his grin faltered and he pulled back a little. It sounded good, so far at least, but still, he wondered... "But how can I be sure?"

Lupin met his eyes. "It's easier than you might think. Very easy, actually. Simply ask yourself: the things that happened in your dream, the things that you enjoyed--do you want those things to happen in real life?"

Harry choked, then shuddered. "No! I... no."

"There you go, then. It's that simple."

Harry sighed, and let his eyes fall closed. A great weight lifted from his heart, and for a moment he felt as blithe and free as any bird in the garden. It wasn't about Snape after all--Snape was just a symbol. Not Snape. Symbol. There remained the rather disturbing question of what precisely Snape might be a symbol of, but surely he didn't have to think about that just yet. He opened his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

"You're most welcome. Now, how about joining me and the rest of the Number Twelve exiles for breakfast, before you go back? We all miss you, you know."

"I... yes, I'd like that." The thought of exiles brought back all the memories of yesterday, and he regretted again his curt refusal to speak of it before. Now that he felt more comfortable, he found that he did indeed have questions. "Um... Professor?"

Lupin gave him a sad smile, "Not anymore, Harry, but--yes?"

Harry looked away. "Yesterday, when you were at Grimmauld Place with... with Snape, do you remember what you said?"

Lupin sighed. "No, and I suppose I should be grateful for that, although I admit, I do find it a bit disturbing not to remember anything. But the truth of it is that I must have waxed romantic over Snape--and between you and me, I think I'd rather be smeared with pudding."

Harry kicked his feet through the pebbles under the bench. "You weren't bad, really. You weren't, I mean, it wasn't you--the curse, you know. But you did say something about... about when you were both in school, you said he..." He stopped, unable to bring himself to say it.

Harry glanced over to see Lupin with his face buried in his hands. "I brought up his crush, didn't I?"

"Yeah."

Lupin scrubbed both hands through his wild, grey-streaked hair. "How very mortifying. For both of us. He'll never forgive me for that--"

"So it's true, then?"

Lupin regarded him solemnly. "It was a schoolboy crush, Harry. I didn't mind, even back then; I thought it was... sweet, if rather sad. But I never should have let on to Sirius and James. That was when all the trouble really started, actually."

A deep, terrible suspicion gnawed at Harry's stomach. He didn't want to know, didn't want to ask, and yet... he had to. "Was it... did they pick on him because of... you know, the bloke having a crush on another bloke thing?"

When Lupin spoke, his voice was very careful. "If you're asking if James and Sirius were narrowminded bigots, the answer is no. But their teasing... well, yes, it did take that form at first. I wasn't happy about it myself, but then again, I didn't do anything to stop them."

Harry felt his heart sink, all his former relief turned to misery. He shouldn't have asked. "But... how do you know they weren't... bigots, like you said?"

Lupin looked out over the garden. "I know because they never, not once, picked on me for liking blokes, and they knew that about me almost from the day we met. It was Snape, Harry--they didn't like him, and he didn't like them, and they brought out the worst in each other. Back then, they'd say anything they could to get to him. We were young--we were all so young. And quite often, we were exceptionally foolish."

Harry sat still, trying not to betray his surprise. Lupin had trusted him with something... well, he supposed it was a fairly big something, at that. He was glad of it, and yet, the news that Lupin (and possibly Snape) liked blokes didn't seem as much to handle as the other revelation, the further examples of how his father and Sirius had been cruel. Even if it was only to Snape. "I need to think about this," he said softly.

Lupin nodded, and got to his feet. "I understand. Feel free to come see me any time, Harry."

The cool, polite look on Lupin's face suggested that his comment might have been misunderstood, so Harry got up at once and reached out to give him a hug. Lupin looked surprised for a moment, then smiled and patted his back gently until he let go.

"Thanks for helping me," Harry said, "you really did. And I'll come for breakfast soon, I promise--tomorrow, if I can. I just... I need a bit of time to think."

Lupin nodded. "I understand. And... if you need anything, just let me know, all right?"

"I will." Harry turned and trudged away, hands in his pockets, wondering if the worries he took away with him were really any easier to bear than the ones he'd left behind.

***

When Harry returned to Grimmauld Place, he first crept silently up the stairs to the third floor. Snape's door was still closed, which was actually rather a relief. He went back downstairs and set about washing up the few dishes from last night's supper.

He was just finishing the last one when a loud rumble echoed through the kitchen, and for one moment Harry clung to the edge of the sink, thinking that perhaps it was an earthquake. But when he turned off the tap he heard a series of soft, popping sounds, and he turned to find the kitchen suddenly full of crates, boxes, and woven sacks, and two envelopes resting atop the highest stack of boxes, one with his own name written across it in Dumbledore's elegant script, the other bearing Snape's.

He dried his hands and reached for his own envelope, a bit resentful that he had to stand on tiptoe to do it. He sat down at the table, broke the seal, and pulled out the folded parchment within.

_Dear Harry--

Since I am not sure at this point how long it will take to reverse the effects of Severus' curse, I thought it best to make sure that you were both well supplied with whatever you might need for the duration._

Harry looked away from the letter for a moment, eyeing the piled supplies dubiously. The duration? Either Dumbledore was desperate to keep the two of them as busy as possible, or he thought that they might very well be stuck here for a solid year. He shivered a little at the thought, and bent to the letter again.

_I want to assure you that I am entirely mindful of the fact that neither of you are exactly pleased with your present situation, and consequently I am indeed striving diligently to find a way to relieve both you and the good Professor from your current constraints.

As I mentioned to you last night, I do ask for your help with my efforts. Given the unavailability of Professor Snape, we'll need some samples from him to aid us in our research, as not much is known about the originator (by the way, information about the background and fields of study of the originator of any unknown curse is often the key to success in lifting it--a little fact that just might come up on a certain young man's Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T.s--but I digress). At any rate, if you would be so kind as to assist Professor Snape in harvesting a proper sample for us, and return it to me via Floo at your earliest opportunity, that would be extremely helpful. I have sent you, among other things, all the equipment you'll need to do so._

Harry put the letter down again. Sample? A sample of *what*? He stared blindly at the parchment for a moment, his mind racing, and then swallowed. He hoped to God it was penmanship they wanted a sample of.

_And finally, Harry, I'd like to remind you once more that it would be a great help, not only to me, but to all of us, if you would learn Occlumency. I fear before the end that you might have a great need for that particular skill, and accordingly I have sent something along which I hope will aid you--Professor Snape will no doubt explain its use and function to you.

And there, I must close. But please rest assured that we are doing everything we can for you, that you are very much in all of our thoughts, and that everyone here as well as I will remain--

Your devoted friend,

Albus Dumbledore_

Harry carefully refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. He pondered the letter's contents for a few moments, then pushed back from the table, got to his feet, and regarded the dozens of boxes with some trepidation, sighing heavily. Nothing else for it, really. He shrugged, yawned, and got about the business of unpacking.

***

Harry's spirits didn't lift much as he went through one box after another--really, how long did Dumbledore expect them to stay locked up here? The variety and assortment of supplies was simply staggering. There were a great many foodstuffs for the kitchen and pantry, and that made some kind of sense, but also there were at least five boxes of books (how much could two people--neither of whom were Hermione, anyway--possibly read?), heaps and heaps of clothing (apparently Snape's--Harry hung it all over the banister at the bottom of the stairs and just refused to look at it again), and a tremendous amount of complicated-looking equipment (most of it familiar from his work at Potions, and he couldn't say he was glad to see a single bit of it), which he piled in the parlour, for lack of a better place.

There were also a few things he wasn't familiar with at all, and these he placed on the table in the hallway; a random collection of unknowns. There were three fragile glass bulbs with odd caps at the top that looked almost like Christmas tree ornaments: a double layer of glass, inner and outer, with some sort of sparkly, milky substance caught between the two layers. He set them down carefully, and used books to hem them in so they wouldn't roll off. There was something that resembled a muggle Slinky (Dudley had owned several when he was young, and although Harry had never been allowed to touch them, he'd always thought they were sort of cool), only it appeared to be made out of gold, and had a series of multicoloured beads strung along its length. There was also a strange item that looked like a cross between an oscilloscope and a crystal cluster, which started to glow brilliantly the moment he touched it. He put it down on the table as quickly as he could, and the glow promptly vanished.

When the last box had finally been unpacked, Harry found himself drawn back to the hall table. He had just picked up the slinky-thing and was idly poking the beads on it when he heard the stairs creak, and looked up to find Snape descending from above in what would undoubtedly have been a grand sweep, if he hadn't still been wearing the too-short robes. Harry caught a glimpse of a gartered sock and looked quickly back down, biting his lip.

"Mr. Potter, that is not a toy." Snape said curtly.

"Okay," Harry agreed, "but what is it?" He let it hang from one hand and inspected its coils closely.

"It's a potency indicator," Snape replied, and Harry glanced up, then looked back down with some alarm. It hung limply from his hand, doing nothing, nothing at all. He glanced down at himself, then back at the slinky, and abruptly put it down. "For potion ingredients, idiot," Snape said from between clenched teeth, and Harry turned his attention to the other items on the table, his back to Snape to hide his flushed face.

Snape joined him, however, and Harry turned to see him picking up the oscilloscope-crystal item with great care. It began to glow at once and Snape studied it carefully, turning it this way and that, looking somewhat surprised. "I'm astonished that the Headmaster brought himself to part with this," he said. "They're very rare."

"What is it?"

"It's a gyrospectroscopic prism," Snape replied calmly.

Harry waited for more. Snape said nothing. Finally Harry rolled his eyes, and gave up. "Oh. Well--thank goodness he sent *that*. I don't know how we'd ever have managed without one of those--"

"It is designed to enhance deliberately directed magic," Snape said. "For your Occlumency lessons, I would guess." He frowned. "Which Albus undoubtedly wants me to resume as soon as possible. Imagine my delight."

Harry felt like he could have said the same, but he didn't. "Yes, um... there's letters. That is, there was a letter for each of us, from him. Here's yours." He picked it up from where he'd left it atop a pile of books stacked in the hallway, and handed it over.

Snape took it, his lips pursed. "Ah. Another fine assortment of platitudes and motivational cliches from our well-intentioned leader, no doubt. Just when my unbridled zeal was beginning to wane."

"I'm sure he's doing all he can for you," Harry said softly.

"A notion I will relish throughout the remainder of my cursed existence," Snape growled. He pocketed the letter, and seemed about to leave when his attention was caught by the three glass bulbs on the table. He went very still, and it looked to Harry as if his already pale face got even whiter. "Oh bloody hell."

Harry picked up one of the bulbs. "What are these, anyway?"

"Put that down!" Snape demanded, his voice unusually harsh. Harry put it down. Snape closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he seemed entirely normal--normal for Snape, anyway. "They're collection bulbs. For blood samples. I'll have to... never mind." Moving quickly, Snape turned and caught up the bundle of clothes Harry had left on the banister. He went to the foot of the stairs, and paused. "Mr. Potter, I doubt if the potency indicator was the only item of potion-making equipment our esteemed leader would have sent--"

"No, there's dead loads of it. I put it all in the parlour."

Snape's mouth twisted. "I see. I shall try to find a more suitable location for it later."

Harry looked up at him curiously. "What's wrong with the parlour?"

Snape scowled at him. "The same thing that's wrong with this entire, wretched house, only more so. This wasn't always a home for wayward Aurors, you know." With that, Snape mounted the stairs, and Harry waited until he heard the third-floor door shut before he picked up one of the bulbs again, studying it as he thought things over.

Harry did know, actually, although he didn't particularly want to. But it made sense--before Sirius had taken up residency in the house, it had been the stronghold of a very Dark family. It had never occurred to him until now, but of course Snape had probably been here before, for... for whatever it was that Death Eaters did when they got together--probably not tea and biscuits. The whole thing just made Harry... uncomfortable.

This particular discomfort had become quite familiar, however. It seemed like the more he learned about Snape the more some part of him wanted to feel sorry for the man--and that was very uncomfortable indeed. Even Snape's absurd speech last night, though it had been so much sanctimonious drivel, still it had affected him just a bit, evoked an empathy he really felt he couldn't afford to display, and desperately wished to avoid. Added to the knowledge of what Snape had gone through in his childhood, and then later with... in school, and the recent discovery regarding the direction that teasing had taken at first... it just seemed like too much. Hating Snape was one thing, but pitying him... well, where the hell would that lead him?

Nowhere, Harry promised himself silently, rolling one of the bulbs slowly between his palms. Nowhere at all.

***

"Go away!"

As this was Snape's customary response every time Harry knocked at his door, Harry wasn't put off much. "Professor," he called, "I've come to... I've got those bulb things."

He heard some muttering from the other side of the door, but nothing he could make out. The door finally swung open to reveal Snape, looking pale and angry, but much more like his regular self in his own robes, a sheaf of folded parchment in his hand. "Potter," he said brusquely. "It seems the Headmaster is enamored of the notion that you should assist with this process--"

"I know," Harry said. "That's why I'm here."

Snape's lips tightened to a thin line. "Personally, I think it highly likely that this attempt at amateur phlebotomy will end with me being completely exsanguinated, but I suppose it must be done." He turned and walked away, leaving the door standing open. Cradling the three bulbs carefully against his chest, Harry stepped into the room.

A large wardrobe stood open against one of the walls, and all of Snape's robes hung neatly inside. Except for that, there were no traces whatsoever that the room had been occupied by anyone--there was a tidily made bed, a small table in the corner beneath one of the windows, and three chairs scattered about. That was all. Harry thought for a moment of the disarray and general clutter of his own room, and then dismissed it.

Snape had moved over to the table, and was rolling up his sleeve with rapid, impatient movements. He had also started muttering again, but Harry didn't catch any of it until, "...and I suppose I should simply be grateful that it's you doing it, and not Longbottom--Merlin forbid--and all because of this charming situation where I don't dare set foot outside this bloody house without being torn to bits by my adoring public--"

"If it's any consolation," Harry said brightly, "I still despise you."

Snape's head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed. "You can't imagine what a relief that is to me." With his sleeve rolled to just above the elbow, he regarded Harry and the containers he held with some suspicion. "Do you have any idea whatsoever as to how to use those properly?"

Harry shook his head. Of course he didn't. And despite his earlier attempt at humour he certainly wasn't any happier about any of this than Snape was himself--but it was probably the quickest way to get Snape out of the house and back to the musty dungeons where he belonged.

Snape sighed. "Listen carefully. Removing the cap at the top of the bulb will expose the... the needle--which is self-guided, by the way, so you needn't go poking me with it. When it's in place, hold the collar still and twist the bulb clockwise. That will allow the bulb to draw. When the first one is filled, turning it counter-clockwise will seal and release it, and then you can remove the entire cap from the next, and attach it."

That sounded simple enough. Harry lifted one of the bulbs and examined it. "What's the sparkly stuff for?"

"It's a suspension compound, which acts not only as an anti-coagulant, but also preserves any magical qualities which might otherwise be lost."

Harry looked at him with some curiosity. "How do you know all this?"

Snape's lip curled derisively. "I know because for the most part, I have spent my life in ways far more profitable than zooming around on a broomstick or sticking my nose in places it doesn't belong."

That didn't seem quite fair, as Harry was under the impression that Snape had done quite a bit of the latter, but he didn't say anything.

Snape gestured to the window with his exposed arm, and sank down into the chair next to the table. "The best light will be over here, I think. And I'm afraid I'll have to sit down for this." His voice sounded forced, as if he were struggling to get each word past his lips.

Harry joined him, setting the bulbs down gently. "Why?"

Snape's black eyes, a little too wide despite the man's scowl, met his. "Because, Mr. Potter, I have a pronounced aversion to needles. It's none of your business--just get on with it."

Harry sat down, nervousness fluttering in his stomach now that it was time to... to just get on with it. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt--if Snape knew the extent of it, he'd probably flee the room shrieking. He got himself situated, got all three bulbs lined up neatly and close to hand, and then turned to Snape's arm, pale with a tracery of blue veins and tightly corded muscle. For a moment he was only grateful that it wasn't the one with the Dark Mark...

The Dark Ma

Ink Stained Fingers Archive

A Choriambic Progression