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Chapter Text

Mmmmm. House-elf cooking really was good, thought Harry as he licked the last traces of salt from his fingers. His father would have given him a look for that, at the very least. His brother would have sneered, or more likely, said something scathing about Gryffindor manners.

As it was, though, both Snape and Draco had already finished lunch and left the table. If Harry listened closely, he could hear the sporadic sound of chopping coming from Snape's private potions laboratory, and the slight rustling of robes as Snape moved from one counter to another.

His hearing wasn't good enough to discern what Draco was doing in the bedroom, but Harry figured he was probably writing a letter to Rhiannon. He wrote one almost every day, after all. Long letters, sheet after sheet of parchment filled with Draco's graceful script. He even wrote the letters by hand instead of dictating them to the spelled quill he tended to use for his essays.

Harry didn't think that was because Draco favoured the personal touch, however. More likely, he just didn't want Harry hearing the content of his letters. They were definitely love-letters, and Harry didn't need to read--or hear--them to realise as much. He knew just from seeing Draco's expression as he rolled up the scroll.

Head over heels. No other way to describe it, really.

Then Draco would notice Harry looking, and his features would shift into aloof lines, as if he were embarrassed to have been caught looking so love-struck. The expression of cool disdain never really worked, though. The giddiness still dancing in Draco's eyes gave him away every time.

So far, Harry had managed to ignore the impulse to tease Draco about it. Harry wouldn't have thought twice about teasing Seamus or Dean or Ron, but Draco? He was more brittle, somehow. Plus, he was likely to take it wrong, considering how critical Harry had been of his relationship with Rhiannon.

Harry still had his doubts, still thought that Draco was on the rebound from Pansy's betrayal, but now, he saw that there was no point in saying so. All that would do was alienate Draco. Harry nodded to himself, determined. He liked having a brother. Loved it, in fact, and he wasn't about to do anything that would drive Draco away.

Not one negative word about Rhiannon, Harry promised himself. Not a single one.

Harry glanced at his empty plate, wondering if he should ask the elves for more chips. That was one of the best things about being back at Hogwarts--no more cooking duties. Not that Harry minded so very much; he was used to that after all his summers with the Dursleys, but it was also nice to know that if he wanted food now, all he had to do was toss some powder into the Floo and announce his order. That would change when school started, of course. Harry would move back to Gryffindor and except for the occasional meal down here, he'd eat in the Great Hall with everyone else.

Well, when he wasn't sneaking down to the kitchens for a bite of this or that.

After a moment, Harry decided he wasn't feeling peckish enough for a second helping of chips. Really, he ought to write some letters of his own. It had been almost a week since the Order meeting, and apart from Percy's memorial service, Harry hadn't set foot outside the castle. He wondered how Ron was holding up.

Harry dragged some parchment from a drawer and tried to think of what to write. Trouble was, he couldn't think of anything. Ron knew that Harry hadn't liked Percy much, so sympathy was bound to sound fake as hell, even if Harry meant it in the best way. Even worse, if Harry just wrote a regular letter, ignoring the horrible events at the Ministry . . . well, that would be awfully cold, wouldn't it?

Maybe he should write to Hermione, instead. Yeah, that was easier. So much so, in fact, that Harry wasted no time getting started.

Dear Hermione,

How are you? I hope Draco isn't driving you mental with his constant stream of letters to Rhiannon. When you agreed to make sure his post got passed along, you probably weren't expecting him to write almost every day. Knowing you, though, I suspect you're not too annoyed.

Of course she wasn't. After all, the letters proved that Draco was becoming more attached to his girlfriend--and by extension, more tolerant of all things Muggle.

So, seventh year. You know, part of me really can't believe it's already here. Maybe that's because I spent so much of sixth year out of classes. Not that I really regret it--what I ended up with is worth more than what I missed out on, but I still do a double-take when I realise that this next year is really my last. I don't know, maybe I'd feel the same way in any case. It's hard for me to think of leaving Hogwarts, even though I do have another home, now.

Draco spends hours every day reading those Muggle Studies books you gave him, and I've been steadily working my way through your translation of the Bulgarian mirror book. With N.E.W.T.s this year, I think I won't have much time to devote to that once term starts, which makes me wish I had more time to figure out the mirror, first! Mastering a mirror is turning out to be practically impossible, by the way. You know how my magic is these days! I dropped the mirror you gave me, but I have another one to practise with, now. Fat lot of good that does me. The mirror won't listen to me no matter what I try.

Harry sighed, biting his quill for a few moments before he resumed writing.

Say hallo to your parents for me. Are you writing Ron? I can't think of what to say to him, even though I feel horrible about Percy dying. You know what I mean, I'm sure.

Well, here's something that ought to make you smile, anyway. Draco wants me to go live in Slytherin, this year. He knows perfectly well that I won't, of course, but he's brought it up three times since we left Devon. He says it would only be fair, claiming that since I'll be on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, the school as a whole will need some kind of reminder that I'm in Slytherin, too. I've told him that my special crest will have to be enough, and that's that, but you know Draco. He's not likely to give it up unless Dad tells him to, full stop. And you know, I don’t think Severus would ask me to move to Slytherin, but he gets this --look-- in his eye when Draco goes on about people needing to believe I'm a Slytherin in more than name only. I’m actually a little worried about what it might mean. Maybe he just wants me to eat at their table more, you think?

Enjoy the rest of your summer and whatever you do, don't study too much!

Love,

Harry

Harry blew on the ink to dry it, then tapped the parchment with a finger, murmuring the incantation to roll and seal the scroll.

"Owl this with yours, would you?" he asked as he opened the door to the bedroom he and Draco shared.

Draco hadn't been writing a letter at all, though. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, holding his ferret on his lap.

"No, Loki," Draco was saying, clearly exasperated. "You can't play with Sals like that. Harry'll have my head."

Harry dropped the scroll on his night table as he shook his head. "Was your pet trying to eat mine? Again?"

Draco glanced up. "I told you, Loki's just playing--"

"Yeah, with Sals between his jaws. I'm not exactly brimming with confidence in his intentions." Focussing on the snake image in the corner of his glasses, Harry started hissing. "Sals. Where are you, Sals? It's all right. The big rat can't get into your special box, you know. You'll be safe in there."

Sals came peeking out from beneath the bed, her tongue flickering as she bobbed her head to and fro as though checking for the "big rat." Harry wasn't trying to be snide when he put it that way. It just seemed that Parseltongue had no more exact word for ferret.

Scooping Sals up, Harry held her cradled in both his palms as he sat down on his bed. Since she was still moving in restless circles over his skin, Harry whispered to her a bit more, promising that Loki wouldn't hurt her.

Meanwhile, Draco lowered Loki to the floor, stroking the length of the ferret's back once before he let the animal go. Then, he leaned back against his headboard, his arms crossed as he studied Harry. "You don't know how easy you have it, being able to have a proper conversation with your pet."

"Sure I do." Harry tickled Sals under the chin one more time, and then gently set her next to the glass box he'd charmed to keep her safe. He watched as she slithered inside and coiled up. "I can't speak to owls, you know."

"Ha. With your history, that'll be next amazing talent you sprout."

"Well, it's not as though you have no talents of your own," said Harry, smiling. Now that he knew Draco, he could understand their past enmity quite a bit better. How many times had the other boy used hatred and cruel remarks to cover up jealousy and insecurity?

Too many to count, Harry was starting to think. "What was it that Dad said a couple of days ago? Makings of a Potions Master if you apply yourself?"

Draco scoffed. "As if I'd want to teach at a wizarding school. I'd have to live in, and I don't imagine that would fit in well with Rhiannon's opera career. No, I'm set on a brilliant rise to become the Ministry's top-ranking Auror."

"Going to out-rank your own brother, are you?" Harry laughed as he kicked off his trainers and stretched out on his bed.

"Of course I am," said Draco smugly. "Don't worry, though. I'm not in the least opposed to nepotism. I'll give you all the choice assignments. Though possibly not the ones investigating illegal brewing, not unless you get quite a bit better at Potions."

"Not much way to avoid that, is there? Seeing as I have to take the class even though it's not even required any longer." Harry's frown grew even more pronounced. "And as if that's not enough, Dad has to have me brewing during the summer, too! I didn't mind helping out with the Wolfsbane project before we went to Devon, but I didn't expect to have to brew all sorts of other things now that we're back. Before we know it, school'll start up again. I'd rather have my holiday actually be one."

Draco shrugged, which sparked Harry's sense of outrage even further. It was all well and good for Draco, who actually liked brewing. "If we hadn't got away to Devon, Dad would have had me slaving over a hot cauldron every day this summer, I bet!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You really are dense sometimes. You mean you truly didn't realise?"

The question--or maybe the knowing way Draco asked it--made Harry's gaze narrow. He hated it when Snape and Draco kept things from him. "Realise what?"

"Severus wanted to make sure that you weren't brooding about what happened at the Burrow."

Harry swallowed. Yeah, the memorial service for Percy had been awful, all right. Somehow, Harry hadn't expected it to be. Maybe because at the Order meeting, the Weasleys had been holding up pretty well. The ones he'd seen, at least.

To tell the truth, Harry's biggest worry when they Apparated to the service had been about Draco. The last funeral he'd seen had been Pansy's, and Harry figured that Draco would be reminded of how much he'd loved her. Of how much he'd lost.

But no, Draco hadn't been bothered at all to sit through the memorial service.

Harry had, though.

Pansy Parkinson's funeral had been a rather restrained affair, he realised now. Perhaps that was the Slytherin way to go about things. The Weasleys were about as far from Slytherins as anyone could get, though. They were heart-broken with grief, and didn't try to hide that fact.

Harry still ached with sympathy when he remembered the way fat tears had oozed out Ron's eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Suddenly, Ron doesn't do subtle wasn't so amusing, after all.

All the Weasleys had been crying, but Ginny had positively wept, and Mrs Weasley had actually thrown herself onto the empty casket and wailed. But then, she had every cause. Losing a child was her very worst fear, and now, it had come true.

Harry had shuddered, remembering the boggart he'd had to deal with during Aran's test near the end of the last term. If his father died, he didn't know what he'd do, but he doubted he'd handle it much better than Molly Weasley was dealing with this death.

"You would," said Snape firmly once they'd made it back home and Harry had admitted what was on his mind. "You must understand, Harry, that what the Weasleys are mourning now is not merely Percy himself. They're mourning the death of possibility. He died estranged from them, siding firmly with Fudge despite the man's obvious incapacity for logical thought, and because he's gone, they'll never have a chance to reconcile. It's a double death, in a way."

Harry had nodded his understanding, but scowled when he caught the look on Draco's face. "Shut up. Right now."

Draco had raised his chin. "Oh, I like that! I didn't even say anything!"

"You were going to," Harry had retorted, eyes narrowed. "I can tell."

"And what was I going to say, then?"

"That weeping and wailing like that is very lower-class!"

Draco's voice had taken on a distinct chill. "In point of fact, I would describe their behaviour as weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. But if I looked disgusted just now, it was at the thought that were I to die, my own mother would sit stone-faced and beautiful all through my funeral, breaking up only on the inside! And of course Lucius would only ever have thought that if I lacked enough cunning to figure out how to stay alive, then I bloody well must have deserved an early grave!"

"Oh." Harry had gulped, ashamed of jumping to conclusions. "Er, sorry, then. But . . . well, not that I'd want you to die, but when you do, your funeral won't be like that. You have me now, and Dad, and--"

"Oh, you'll weep buckets, I'm sure," said Draco, and not sarcastically. But then his voice shifted. "And you, Severus? Will you drop Slytherin decorum for a few seconds if you lose a son?"

Snape's eyes had flashed a warning that this was no joking matter. "I am not going to lose a son. The two of you are strong and healthy and more than twenty years my junior. Now, as it's late and we have a long day of brewing tomorrow, I suggest you both get some sleep."

Long day of brewing . . . Snape had explained that by stating that their summer practicals had been "woefully neglected," but now that Draco had explained, Harry could see the ploy for what it had been. Snape hadn't wanted Harry and Draco dwelling on death the day after the funeral.

"Would you really drop Potions if you didn't care about Severus' good opinion?" Draco suddenly asked, moving to the edge of his bed and leaning forward a bit. "I can't believe that. You may not enjoy the class, but you're certainly clever enough to decide that being over-qualified for the Auror's programme can only be to your benefit."

Harry rolled onto his side, one eyebrow cocked. "I thought you believed I'd get in on my name alone, no matter what."

"Oh, I do believe that," Draco freely admitted. "But you don't like that idea, so you'll make yourself as qualified as possible, I thought."

"Yeah, probably so." Harry chuckled. "Potions isn't so bad, these days. When I talk about dropping it if I hadn't been adopted, I really mean, I'd drop it if I still hated the very thought of walking into that room. Severus really wasn't very nice to me, you know. Hell, you were there!"

"And thought you deserved every point lost, and twice as many detentions," said Draco, chuckling too. "I'm happy we're past all that. Though, I don't know. Maybe without the old enmity to keep things lively, classes this year will just be . . . boring."

"Oh, I don't know. Things were pretty lively last year after you got admitted into classes again--"

"Only because we had the world's biggest git for Defence."

Harry smiled, popping his hands behind his head as he lay on his back again. "Yeah, but Dad was really something, eh? When I think back to Aran, that's what I remember. But that reminds me . . . I wonder what this Maura Morrighan'll be like. Would it be too much to ask, you think, that we end up having two decent years of Defence instruction? Just two out of seven?"

"One, you mean," said Draco, a little darkly.

Harry quickly rolled on his side to face his brother. "Remus was excellent!"

"Says the boy who got private tutelage." Draco sniffed.

"Oh, like you wanted private tutelage from him!"

"Touché."

Uh-oh. Draco looked like he was about to start brooding about his mother unknowingly having to live with Remus, so Harry spoke quickly to distract him. "I wonder what's going to be wrong with Morrighan? Probably Dumbledore knows by now to be careful that she's not some Death Eater on Polyjuice, and since she's a shepherdess and with animals all the time, I doubt she's prejudiced against Parselmouths--"

"A shepherdess?" asked Draco, his voice going a little bit squeaky. "You can't be serious."

"She's got a herd of hippogriffs or something."

Draco blanched, perhaps remembering his run-in with Buckbeak. "What's she going to teach us, some version of Care of Magical Creatures?"

"I had pretty much the same reaction," said Harry ruefully. "But Dumbledore seemed to think she'd be great."

"What a relief," drawled Draco. "His judgement's never once been in error before!"

"Yeah, I know. Dumbledore approving of her isn't exactly a glowing recommendation. Well, what the worst case? Er . . . she's never even heard of Voldemort?"

"Because she's been living out in the wilds with her herd!"

"Well, not exactly the wilds. Dumbledore told me she was from Ireland."

"Same thing! That's the absolute back of beyond, don't you know--"

Harry frowned. "Don't let Seamus hear you say that. You're lucky enough he didn't crack your skull open when you called him a potato-head last year."

"I did not call him anything quite so plebeian," drawled Draco. "Potato-head, honestly. I have much better insults at hand."

"You called him exactly that. When you flooed up to Gryffindor that time, when Dad's mark was burning."

"Oh." Draco swallowed. "All right. I'll admit that in the stress of worrying about Severus, I might have said a thing like that."

Harry chuckled, seeing right through the excuse. "Sure it wasn't the stress of being without a wand and surrounded by Gryffindors who thought you'd snuck into the tower to kill me in my sleep?"

"Oh, no, that couldn't have had anything to do with it," said Draco, his tone light and breezy.

Harry grinned at that, and let it go. Sitting up, he grabbed the notebooks stacked on his night table. Just as he'd told Hermione, he'd been reading them every chance he got, but it was tough slogging. He didn't think he could fault Hermione's translation, though. The subject matter was just so technical. Who would ever have guessed that mirrors would be so difficult to enchant?

"Yeah, I'd better get back to it, too," said Draco, pulling a Muggle Studies text off the pile on his night table. "I want to be caught up to seventh year before term starts."

"Learn anything interesting, yet?"

"Mostly, that I wouldn't understand the subject at all if I hadn't spent time with Rhiannon this summer. Can you imagine? The first book I read tried to explain a telly, and didn't even have any pictures go with the explanation! I'd never have caught on properly if I hadn't watched one for myself." Draco slanted him a glance as he settled in to read. "Did you know they're fairly new? Just fifty years or so."

"Uh, yeah. I didn't know how new exactly, but yeah."

Draco nodded. "All right, then I'll believe the book. But I thought, you know . . . I don't know, I just sort of thought that Muggles had almost always had them."

"I think the Muggle world changes a lot. Faster than this one, at any rate."

Draco looked mildly horrified. "You mean everything I'm studying is going to be out of date soon?"

"Probably not that soon, but someday, yeah." Harry shrugged. "But the history stuff, that won't change, right?"

"A good thing fourth year seems to focus on history, then," Draco muttered. "Quiet now, Harry. I'm trying to concentrate."

Harry shot Draco a mild glare. He wasn't the one nattering on about the telly . . . but he wanted to concentrate too, so he didn't make a fuss.

The room lapsed into silence as both boys began to study in earnest.

---------------------------------------------------

"Anything in the post?" asked Draco the next night when Snape came in from a meeting with the headmaster.

Strange, thought Harry. Draco asked that all the time, of course. He was always hoping for a letter from Rhiannon. Usually, though, he sounded almost chirpy at the prospect. Tonight he sounded cautious. Or maybe, resigned.

Snape shook his head. "Nothing."

Draco sighed, but not theatrically, not this time. "All right. I wish that owls could deliver things down here, that's all."

"They don't deliver to Gryffindor either, if that's any consolation," said Harry.

"It's not."

"It's not always convenient dealing with the owls and their routines," said Snape, sounding cross. "Now, if you'll excuse me?" He whirled and went down the hall to his bedroom.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I wonder what's got into him?"

As it turned out, Harry didn't have to wonder long. Snape was still scowling as they all sat down to dinner that night.

Harry wasn't exactly sure he should ask, but the man had said he didn't want to be a closed book, so . . . "Dad? Something on your mind?"

"I've received my class lists."

Oh. That didn't sound so bad.

"My advanced courses have dropped to fewer than half the usual number of students."

Harry frowned, thinking that over. "Just because the Ministry dropped the Potions N.E.W.T. from Auror apprentice requirements? I'm pretty sure Draco and I are the only ones interested in applying for that, and we're both still in your class--"

"Besides," Draco put in, "weren't the offices of MLE destroyed along with all the rest? So maybe the new policy got . . . er, blown to bits?"

"A pity MLE wasn't blown to bits before they formulated their asinine new policy," said Snape coldly.

"Dad!" Harry tried for a laugh, but it came out like a weak, strangled thing. "You don't mean that--"

"I think you're old enough to understand macabre humour. And no, Draco, the policy stands. It was published in the Ministry career circulars that go out across Britain, which makes it official until rescinded. As for my class lists . . ." Snape sneered. "Another bloody circular was distributed a few days ago. The new heads of several other departments have decided that if MLE felt my Potions curricula to be too challenging, it must be so. Never mind that they've barely got their feet wet and are in no position to be changing things already."

"They did it for something to do," said Draco after a moment, his voice contemplative. "So nobody could accuse them of sitting about on their hands while the Ministry is physically rebuilt."

Snape's face creased as he scowled. "They wouldn't have done it at all if MLE hadn't taken it into their daft head to muck about where no mucking was needed."

Harry nodded. "They think if MLE did it, it must be all right, as ideas go--"

Snape snorted. "As if you, in particular, haven't made it perfectly clear that you agree with this nonsense about my courses being too challenging."

Harry winced. "It's not that I agree, exactly. It's just . . . I'm not like you and Draco, naturally good at Potions and eager to spend hours brewing them."

"And do you suppose that the province of a father is to allow you to give up on worthwhile endeavours merely because they don't come to you as easily as speaking to snakes and throwing off Imperius?" Snape's gaze abruptly sharpened. "You do agree it's worthwhile, one would hope."

"Yeah, of course," said Harry, stung. "All I have to do is think of Remus!"

"Of course," drawled Snape.

"I know you don't despise him as much as you used to, so enough with the attitude. It's just--" Harry ran his hands through his hair, mussing it. He decided to ignore Draco's blatantly fastidious shudder. "Not everybody needs to be an expert at it, all right?"

"Aurors who wish to survive the war do," stressed Snape, speaking at the same time as Draco.

"You're just used to everything coming easy," the other boy said, raising his chin. "Flying, and getting on with snakes and hippogriffs, and all the rest! Well, sometimes magic is actual work, Harry."

"I know that, or did you not notice how hard I had to work to get mine back?"

Draco scoffed. "And then you end up with powers like Merlin's own. Yes, I do so pity you, Harry."

"Shut up--"

"Yes, well I shall, just as soon as you stop insulting Dad, whinging on about Potions being such a bane to your existence!"

"Now, now, Draco," said Snape in a suspiciously cheerful tone. "If your brother wishes to express in no uncertain terms his utter failure to appreciate the fine discipline of Potions, he is at liberty. After all, I did tell him that here in the privacy of his own home, he has leave to say any stupid thing he likes. "

"Yes, I suppose--"

Harry crossed his arms tightly in front of him. "I don't appreciate being called stupid just because I don't much care for brewing."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I consider your comments, not you, to be idiotic. I think you understand that perfectly well."

"Yeah, yeah . . ." Harry relaxed his arms, shrugging for good measure. "So who's on the list, anyway?"

Snape wordlessly withdrew a narrow scroll from his robes and passed it to Harry, who winced a little when he saw just how short the list of names for seventh-year was. "Ouch. I see what you mean. Just me, Draco, Hermione, Neville, Ernie, Padma, and Terry. What happened to Ron?"

The Potions Master shrugged. "He has apparently declined."

Draco looked happy about that, blast him, though he did say, "Still, why is Longbottom bothering to keep on? At least Weasley had a smidgen of aptitude."

"A Potions N.E.W.T. must still be required to go very far in Herbology," murmured Harry as he scanned the rest of his father's class list. "And Ron was already a little iffy about whether he needed more Potions at all, since he's not sure what he wants to do after Hogwarts."

"Perhaps Mr Longbottom's summer session has rendered him more prepared than usual," said Snape.

Harry threw his father a grateful smile, hoping that Neville had learned a lot, and hadn't been too miserable doing it. But things in Austria had probably gone well, since Snape had said he'd tried to find a tutor whose teaching style would work better for Neville. Harry went back to looking at the list. "Oh. As far as I can tell, you have all the seventh-years in your ethics course."

"Only because Albus has made it an absolute requirement," said Snape, his tone sour.

Harry grinned. "You know, Dad, you never have struck me as the kind of teacher who longs to be popular. But if you do want that, all you have to do is ask to teach Defence. You were brilliant last year, absolutely bloody brilliant. I bet you'll get another standing ovation when the headmaster makes the announcement, and--"

"It was hardly a standing ovation. And you know I've no real desire to devote less time to Potions--"

"But we need some decent Defence instruction for once! Look at what just happened to the Ministry! If this Rufus Scrimgeour is a hard-nosed practical kind of leader, like the headmaster seemed to think, he ought to make sure we get a good teacher, especially now that the war's on in earnest. I mean, we haven't had anybody worth a grain of salt since Remus--"

"The Ministry has interfered enough in Hogwarts already, in my view," drawled Snape.

Oh, right. That had been a particularly bad argument to use, Harry realised.

"You're forgetting about the curse, Harry," said Draco.

"No, I'm not. Dad could always go back to Potions after one year of teaching Defence--"

"Do you know that for certain? Have you analysed this curse, then? Do you know exactly how it operates?" Draco's glare was fierce. "Severus might end up unable to stay at Hogwarts at all. And isn't that a good idea, with the war and all, to remove a place of refuge, not to mention that this insane idea of yours could undermine the adoption wards!"

"Well, you know we could always ward the cottage," Harry pointed out. "Er . . . why haven't we done that, by the way?"

"Don't you recall our discussion about my rooms here regarding me as the owner? Twenty years of habitation?"

Harry thought about that for a moment. "But you said the warding spells could attach themselves to the Dursley house no matter how long they'd lived there, because they held clear title."

Snape gave him an incredulous look.

"What?"

Draco actually made a choking noise.

Harry shot him a nasty look before gesturing for Snape to answer.

"Do you really think," his father finally asked, "that I would have brought you, injured and bleeding, to any place that Voldemort could possibly associate with me?"

"But it's Unplottable, and under Fidelius--"

"Plots within plots, I told you," murmured Draco, shaking his head.

"I arranged for the title to be clouded, long ago. I knew the cottage might need to serve as a bolt-hole at some point. I wanted it to have every protection possible, mundane as well as magical."

Harry had to admit, that did make sense. "And you haven't lived in the cottage enough for it to believe you're the owner regardless. Right."

Snape shrugged. "Besides which, any attempt to ward the cottage would require your cousin's presence there. Since the attempt would doubtless fail, it seems foolish to endanger him."

"Well, we'd have to include Dudley in the Fidelius spell, of course--"

Snape's lips tightened, the expression grim. "I can tell you from personal observation that Voldemort does not possess much respect for Light magic. He believes, for example, that torture combined with Legilimency can overcome the strictures imposed by Fidelius. The results are far from pleasant."

"All right, all right." Harry gave up, on all of it. He wouldn't get his Dad teaching Defence again. He just hoped that they'd get somebody decent.

Maura Morrighan . . . Harry had his doubts.

Draco tilted his head a little to one side, looking at the scroll Harry was still holding. "Maybe it's a good thing that your sixth- and seventh-year classes are so small, Severus. Don't you always say you have too much marking to do? Considering that you're taking on this ethics course, you probably need to be reading fewer Potions essays."

Snape's scowl actually got worse. "Which brings me to the subject of this afternoon's conference with the headmaster. He has determined that as my advanced classes are so reduced in size, the sixth and seventh years should be combined, thus reducing my teaching load to compensate for the addition of ethics!"

Harry blinked, and looked at the parchment in his hand again. "Oh, we'll be in class with Luna."

"That nutter who was hanging about in whatever classes she felt like, last year?" Draco barked a laugh. "Please. How did she earn an Outstanding on her Potions O.W.L.?"

"My personal theory," drawled Severus, "is that she bribed the scoring committee."

"Luna wouldn't do that."

Snape's voice went completely dark. "Are you quite certain?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, quite. The way Luna tends to think, that wouldn't even cross her mind. And if it did, she'd offer them a radish."

Snape inclined his head as though to concede the point.

"Must've been luck," Harry decided.

"The purpose of the O.W.L. requirement is to winnow out students who depend on luck--"

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, come on. You've invented a bunch of potions, and improved the Wolfsbane and all that. Are you going to tell me that you've never had a bit of luck when you were trying new things?"

"Inspiration," corrected Snape coolly. "Intuition, gleaned from long years observing the interactions of potions components--"

"There's some luck in all that."

Snape sighed. "I can see I'll never make a true brewer out of you. Alas. Well, at least you'll learn to master the challenging seventh-year potions I assign. But enough of that. Draco, would you set the menu for us?"

"I want a hamburger," called Harry as Draco got up and moved toward the Floo.

"We'll see if you really do want that. You're getting whatever suits."

Interesting, Harry thought. Apparently he'd wanted a steak and chips, while Draco ended up with a hamburger. Not with chips, though. His was accompanied by roasted baby red potatoes flecked with some green spice. Parsley, Harry decided when the scent of it came wafting his way. And probably some garlic, too.

Still, Harry couldn't help but laugh. "You really wanted that, Draco? I remember you thought it was disgusting to watch me eat one."

"I don't think I did want this," said Draco slowly. "I was thinking of something more like braised quail, or perhaps a fillet of sole in a light cream sauce . . ."

"You didn't want it at all?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Well, I was reading about Muggle foods a few days ago, and I remember thinking I should probably have tried one of these while it was summer and I had the chance. But I haven't given it a thought, since."

"First time we've ordered whatever suits in a while, though." Harry grinned. "The elves are keeping track, you think?"

"That's a bit creepy." Shrugging, Draco looked down at his plate, then picked up his knife and fork.

"Oh, come on. Pick it up with your hands, already! You know that's the way, you've seen me eat them!"

"I've also seen you chew with your mouth open. Forgive me if I don't consider you to be the epitome of fine manners." With that, though, Draco did set down his utensils and reach out with his fingers. He picked the hamburger up gingerly, like he thought it was a snake about to bite him.

It was a bit of a struggle, but Harry managed not to laugh. He turned his attention to his own meal and asked Snape how things were going with re-building the Ministry. The Obliviators who hadn't been at work on the day of the blast had been working 'round-the-clock shifts ever since. Because the Muggle news had widely reported the explosion--no way around that, as the streets surrounding the Ministry had caved in--there wasn't much chance of making all Britain forget the entire incident. The Obliviators, however, had managed to persuade the news media that the cave-in was the result of a terrorist attack. Meanwhile, the Ministry structure itself was being re-built as quickly as possible, the layout and design precisely as before.

"For expediency's sake, I imagine," murmured Draco as he set down his hamburger and started in on his potatoes.

"Eh, maybe not," said Harry. "That's kind of a government thing, isn't it, that they don't much like change. I remember in primary school, we learned that when parts of Parliament were destroyed during World War II, they were re-built to look exactly the same as before, even though . . . huh, can't remember. Something about how all the members didn't even have a seat."

"World War II?" asked Draco, his voice completely blank.

"Oh, come on, you've got to have heard of that." Harry frowned. "You told me once that Muggles had weapons that could level whole cities. I'm pretty sure that's World War II stuff, right there."

"I don't know about the war," said Draco stiffly.

"It's only the biggest event of the entire century!"

"For Muggles, so I expect I'll get to it as I keep on with the books Hermione gave me. We wizards most likely had other things on our minds."

"Grindelwald, for example," said Snape, who had just polished off the last of his endive salad. "His rise and defeat occupies roughly the same time period, I believe."

Personally, Harry thought that if most wizards had never even heard of the world wars, then Muggle Studies should probably be a required class. But he didn't have much hope of winning that argument, so he skipped to the other thing that was bothering him.

"The terrorist attack explanation," he said, a little slowly. "That's . . . I don't know. It seems a bit harsh to make Londoners think the city has been targeted like that, when it hasn't. Well, not exactly."

"The most successful sort of lie is usually something close to the truth," said Snape, sipping the tea that had appeared for him. "It was an attack, and Voldemort isn't far removed from a terrorist, as I understand the term."

"He's not, but it still just seems . . ." Harry shivered.

"Like war," said Snape softly. "I've lived through one; I know how unsettling it can be to adjust."

"Yeah, maybe that's it." Harry tapped his fingertips on the table, but stopped when he realised it would look like he was brooding.

"Dessert?" asked Snape, clearly changing the subject. Harry shook his head.

"None for me either, thank you," said Draco. "I want to write to Rhiannon again."

Harry's lips turned down. He wasn't going to speak against Draco's romance, but he did think he ought to point something out, particularly since Draco had been so anxious, earlier. "You're writing her almost every day."

"So?"

"Well, how many times has she written you?"

"Two, not that it's any of your concern."

Harry cleared his throat, wondering if he ought to scrap this whole line of thought. In the end, though, he couldn't. "Is a letter a day such a good idea? You don't want Rhiannon to end up wondering if you're, you know, obsessed or something. I mean, enough to let her know you haven't forgotten her and you miss her and all that, but . . . she might think it's a bit weird, getting so many letters all the time."

"She'll think I'm in love."

"Well, I think--"

"I do believe Draco understands what you think," Snape interrupted. "He's an adult, in case it slipped your notice. He's able to decide for himself exactly how often he will pen letters to his petite amie."

"Quite so," said Draco smugly. "Well-said, Severus."

Snape's brow furrowed. Harry could tell it meant he was annoyed by the flattery. "Furthermore," the man went on without a pause, "Draco is perfectly well-aware that the Grangers are doing him an enormous favour in helping to transfer his post. I feel certain that he will not continue to inconvenience them with an excessive number of letters to pass along, particularly since their daughter will soon return to school."

Harry could almost, almost, hear Draco gulping.

"All right, I'll be more considerate," he finally said, his voice grudging, that time.

"Quite so," said Snape, almost as smugly as Draco had. One tap of his wand and the table cleared itself.

Harry abruptly stood up. "I . . . actually, I . . . er, I have some things for you, Draco."

"Hmm?"

Harry wasn't sure why he felt quite so embarrassed and tongue-tied. That was one thing that really set him apart from Draco, who had practically delivered a speech when it had been his turn to give presents. "Yeah. You know, for your birthday. It is your regular one today. I mean, it's your former birthday, you know. The eighth of August?"

"Is it? I hadn't given it a single thought," said Draco, chin lifted high, even as he adjusted his sitting position so he could shove his hands into his pockets. His expression was almost completely shuttered. Closed-off, like he was too proud to show that he was hurt.

But why should he be hurt? Harry couldn't have given him presents when he'd turned seventeen, considering that Draco had aged himself in secret. And he couldn't have had them ready for their dual party, since that had been a surprise to him as well.

Waiting until Draco's proper birthday rolled around had been the best Harry could manage. And what was Draco expecting, anyway? This was the usual day for him to get his presents, wasn't it . . .

Oh. Oh, no.

Harry saw then, what he hadn't seen before. No wonder Draco had asked specifically if anything had come for him. For once, he hadn't been thinking of Rhiannon at all. He'd been thinking of people who'd known him all his life. People like his mother.

Harry's stomach felt like it sank into his toes as the full truth came to him. Draco had been waiting all day, hoping to get a gift, or maybe even just a card or a letter. Something, anything, that would tell him that his mother was thinking about him, that she wished him well.

And that woman . . . that goddamned horrible woman hadn't sent a thing!

Harry clenched his fists, wishing he could blast Narcissa Malfoy across whatever room she was in, at the moment. She knew it was her son's birthday, damn it all! She didn't have any excuse for neglecting him like this, since she had no way of knowing that Draco had taken the aging potion. Well, unless she happened to be looking at his birth certificate, but that hardly seemed likely, considering she was in France and it was almost certainly tucked away somewhere at Malfoy Manor.

Of course, she might have felt her parental burden lift, the way Severus had . . . but no, probably not. After all, Narcissa Malfoy had given up her parental rights when Draco had been emancipated. The Wizard Family Services casewitch had made the whole thing sound like it had been done in a legal, official manner, too. Like a binding magical contract, something like that.

So as far as Draco's mother could possibly know, today was Draco's birthday. And not just any birthday, but his coming of age! That was supposed to be a highly significant day for wizarding families! Narcissa Malfoy had to acknowledge it in some way, didn't she?

A card, a note, even just an owl Draco would recognize, so he'd know his mother was thinking of him!

And instead, he'd received nothing. Absolutely nothing.

When Harry glanced at Draco, the other boy's face looked chiselled from stone. Unfortunately, that made him resemble the statue of Lucius standing beneath the Owlery.

In that moment, Harry hated Narcissa Malfoy like never before.

"Yeah, I have some presents for you," he said, feeling horrible that he hadn't handed them over sooner. What had made him think that waiting for Draco's "real" birthday had been such a good idea? He wanted to kick himself.

Hard.

"There's no need," said Draco in a dull voice. "That is, I appreciate the sentiment, Harry. Of course I do. But you've given me so much already that I . . . well, gifts aren't what makes a family real, in any case."

Harry wondered if Draco was thinking of his mother when he said that.

"Maybe not, but they're important all the same," said Harry, trying to smile. He suddenly saw what had never been clear to him before. It was all right, sometimes, to want presents. It didn't make you just like Dudley. Or, that was, like how Dudley used to be.

"You don't have to rub it in--"

Harry shook his head. "I wasn't. I didn't mean . . .oh, hell. Let me just go get your presents."

As Harry pulled them out of their hiding places, he thought it was likely a miracle that Draco hadn't found all of them, every last one. But that, of course, was why he'd been extra careful when he'd owl-ordered. He'd arranged for his purchases to go directly to Dumbledore, and then he'd snuck them down to the dungeons at times when he was sure that Draco was busy in the Potions lab. Still, it had been a bit tricky managing the whole thing.

Though, it had given him a chance to have a couple of chats with Dumbledore, so that was all right.

"And I think it wisest, in the circumstances, that she come here at intervals, rather than have you go to her--" Snape was saying as Harry came back into the living room, three brightly wrapped packages in his hands.

"Rhiannon's coming here to visit Draco?" he asked, a bit confused. "Er, won't that require reciprocal magic, like with Dudley?"

"Not Rhiannon," said Draco in heavy tones. "Marsha. How's this for a birthday surprise? Apparently Severus thinks we're both still mental enough to need professional assistance--"

"I did not say that, nor do I think it," Snape interrupted, shaking his head. "The good doctor has helped you both; that is what I think."

"Is it safe for her to come here, though?"

"Honestly, Harry." Draco rolled his eyes. "I know you think I ought to pay less attention to blood status, but you ought to pay a little more, as there are actual ramifications. She's a squib, and squibs have no trouble seeing or entering Hogwarts."

"I meant," said Harry, setting down the presents since the biggest one was making his arms start to ache a bit, "is it safe for her to be seen coming here? If any of the Death Eaters get wind of the fact that she's our own personal therapist, I can't imagine what they'd do. Oh, wait--I can imagine! And why's that, hmm?"

"Oh." Draco's voice was very small. "I didn't think of that."

"Appropriate measures are being taken to safeguard the good doctor."

Harry nodded, deciding he didn't need to know the details. More information was better than less, but sometimes, the best course of all, he thought, was for him to trust his father to handle things. Sitting down at the table, he gestured toward the gifts. "So . . . happy belated birthday!"

Draco didn't make a move to take them, which was so different from his antics at Christmas that it said a lot. The Narcissa factor was getting to him, obviously. Or maybe he was even thinking about Lucius, dead now, but not quite gone, on account of that portrait. Either way, he needed a distraction.

Harry pushed the presents across the table. "Really, I am sorry I didn't have them for you at our party. But, perils of a surprise party, I guess."

Draco's expression cleared, like he was making a conscious effort to put his troubles from his mind. "Well, let's see. The last time you chose a present for me, it ended up saving my life. Quite a legacy, Harry. I can't think how you'll top it."

Harry just smiled. He'd been a bit worried, when Draco had started speaking, that the other boy was going to complain that Harry's Christmas present had scarred him. He certainly did still feel self-conscious about the large marred area on his chest, Harry knew. He'd kept it concealed all summer.

Rhiannon had never even seen it, or at least, not as far as Harry knew.

"You'll just have to open them," said Harry, resisting an urge to smirk.

"I know that look!" accused Draco. "You got me something made by the Weasley twins!"

"And if I did? Those chocolates that make me speak Parseltongue could be dead useful."

"True, true." Draco flashed him a quick smile, then finally reached out for one of the three gifts.

"No snitch wrapping paper, this time?"

Harry shook his head. He hadn't taken his business back to that shop, that was for certain.

Draco drew in a quick breath when he'd torn off the plain green wrappings and lifted off the top of the large, flat box. "New Quidditch robes? Oooh, really nice ones, too."

Harry grinned. "Well, you know. You're definitely going to lose against Gryffindor, but you might as well look good doing it."

"Wanker."

"Prat."

"So good to see you both behaving as adults," drawled Snape.

"All in good fun, Severus. Thank you, Harry."

"That's the present present," replied Harry.

"Pardon?"

"You're my brother past, present, and future? That bit?"

"Ah." Draco pulled another wrapped box towards him and looked at Harry in question.

"Past."

"Do tell. Whatever could it be, whatever could it be . . . a ferret, perhaps? That would be unoriginal of you, but then, you are about three-fifths Gryffindor, by my reckoning . . ."

"That's right, it's the world's smallest ferret."

"Sure it is." Draco had got into the box by then. "Oh. Gloves. You must have been in a mood to attire me?"

"Not particularly."

"You didn't think to borrow a pair of my own, to measure?" asked Draco as he tried to tug them on. "Bit snug, these are."

"They're my size."

"Come again?"

Suddenly nervous, Harry cleared his throat. Time for the speech, then. Not that he'd really prepared one. He knew what he wanted to say. "It's just . . . well, I could hardly put my actual hand in the box, but what I was trying to say was . . . I wish I'd given it to you already, Draco. When you first asked? You remember, my hand, that day on the train?"

"I haven't forgotten," said Draco, shaking his head. "It's just as well you turned me down. Better, probably, considering that Lucius was the one who told me to befriend you. He never did explain his exact plan, but I somehow doubt it would have been to your benefit."

Harry made a face. "Yeah, I can't really imagine that."

"So you see?" Draco gave him an encouraging nod. "We'd never have become real friends if you'd shaken my hand, that day. Sooner or later, Lucius would have ordered me to betray you, and back then I'd have done it, no questions asked. So . . . it's like Severus says. Even unfortunate decisions can turn out for good when you take the long view."

Harry shot their father a glance. "I see we both get the same lectures."

"Not all the same. I'd definitely bet my vault on that." Draco's voice lightened as he continued. "But thank you for the gloves, Harry. I appreciate the sentiment. Truly."

Harry nodded as he pushed the last present over. The biggest box of all. "Now, for your future."

"I can't imagine . . ." Draco pulled the wrappings off a little more slowly, this time. Harry wasn't sure if he was trying to make his birthday last, or if he was a little reluctant to face Harry's vision of his future. When he lifted his last present out of its wrappings, though, his reaction was a little anti-climactic. "What is it?"

Harry pulled the boom box towards him and pointed at the controls as he talked. "Well, this knob here tunes the radio. . . er, that's like a Muggle wireless. And in here is where you put CD's, which are disks with music recorded onto them. I got you some to start you out."

Draco fished until he found them. "Beetles is spelled wrong--"

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it really is."

"Trust me."

Draco's smile at that was slight, but somehow very warm. "I do. Good feeling, really."

"Yeah, for me, too."

Using a perfectly manicured fingernail, Draco slit the plastic wrapping on the CD case and pulled the disk out. Harry showed him how to load it. "You push here to make it play."

Draco pressed the button three times in a row. "It doesn't work."

"It's not plugged in."

"And not likely to be," put in Snape, giving Harry a pointed look.

"Oh, right. Electricity," Draco said, nodding like he thought knowing the word made him wise beyond his years. "Can't it use batteries?"

Harry whistled. "You have been studying. And yeah, it can, but like Dad said, not here. Too much magic around. I thought you understood about that. You knew you'd have to call Rhiannon from Grimmauld Place if we could find you a mobile . . ."

"I was just asking if it would function on batteries, not expecting them to work here." Draco ran his hands over the portable stereo, sighing. "So this is my future, eh? Muggle accoutrements? You've changed your mind about Rhiannon?"

Harry had no trouble, that time, interpreting his father's glance. A warning, pure through. Not that Harry would have said anything to upset Draco on his birthday--or sort-of birthday.

"I don't know what'll happen, romance-wise," Harry said softly. "But I do know that you've taken a giant step into a new world. Whatever happens, I don't expect you'll step back, eh?"

Draco smiled. "Muggles are actually quite interesting when you look at them with an open mind."

"An open mind?"

"Well, more of one, anyway," admitted Draco. "Did you know, all these machines and such are fairly new? It's not just the telly. Go back just a few hundred years and Muggles were living much more like we do, only without the magic."

"Industrial Revolution, yeah."

Draco's smile grew wider. "Now I'm thinking it's a good thing you were Muggle-raised. I mean, I'd hate to have to go to Hermione with every question."

"She wouldn't mind."

"Probably not." Standing, Draco scooped up his presents. "Thank you, Harry. It was good of you to remember."

"I should have had them ready earlier."

Draco shook his head. "No, I understand. Twelve times an hour, at least, I remember the attack on the Ministry and wonder what the Dark Lord is planning next. You've had a lot on your mind . . . I think everyone must, these days." He gave a wan smile.

The other boy was thinking of his mother again, Harry just knew it.

And as much as Harry detested Narcissa Malfoy, he suddenly wished she would get in touch. For her to abandon Draco like this . . . well, she'd done it before, so it wasn't as though Harry was in any doubt about her utter selfishness, but he still ached for his brother. In fact, he ached so much that he wanted to do or say anything he could to make things better.

"Er, maybe your mother did send you something. The package could have gone astray, or maybe that redirecting spell lingered on as an echo after Dumbledore cancelled it, and your present got sent to Devon, or--"

"Harry," said Snape in a warning tone.

Draco just shook his head. "It's all right, Severus. If Harry's astute enough to read my mood . . . well, that sorts. We are brothers, after all."

"I just wish--"

That time, Harry stopped on his own.

"I'm sure my mother has her reasons," said Draco, shaking his head. "She must feel she needs to stay underground, and she knows well enough that even anonymous owls can sometimes be traced. Besides . . ."

"Besides?" prompted Snape, standing up and coming around to Draco's side of the table.

Draco's smile that time was still wan, but somehow lopsided, as well. "I haven't written her on the Continent, you see. A Malfoy family owl could likely find her, but I'm supposedly estranged from my father, so it would raise eyebrows for me to have access to one. But if she wrote me first, I'd feel I have to reply. And if that got noticed . . . it'd raise questions best left unasked, you see? She's supposed to be a loyal Death Eater, and I'm the enemy, these days."

"She is a loyal--"

"Harry," Snape said again.

"She's doing her best!" snapped Draco. "She is, and until you know differently, Harry, you ought to give her the benefit of the doubt. That's what I'm doing regarding your werewolf friend, you'll notice. For all I know, he did something to drive my mother straight out of Britain, it was so awful!"

Harry shot to his feet. "Remus wouldn't do anything awful!"

Snape drew in a sharp breath, but remained in his chair. "He wouldn't do anything unwarranted, of that I have no doubt. Awful, however . . . well, that's a matter of interpretation, isn't it? It all depends on circumstance."

"Are you trying to say that he's touched my mother? That way, and that's why she left the country?" Draco bared his teeth. "To get away from his rabid paws?"

"Definitely not. You may rely on me in this regard, Draco; Lupin is not in any way attracted to your mother."

Draco's fists, Harry noticed, were still clenched. "How can you know? Legilimency?"

"Not as such. But I do know Lupin. Do you trust me, Draco?"

The boy hesitated, but then he nodded. Reluctantly, but he did do it. Then, he gathered up his presents. "Thank you, Harry. I think I'll turn in, now."

"Good night," said Harry and Snape both, in unison.

Once the bedroom door had shut behind Draco, Harry eyed his father carefully. "When you said awful, you were talking about what Remus did at the Ministry, weren't you?"

Snape moved into the living room, taking a seat in his favourite chair, releasing a slight sigh as he relaxed into it. "I was actually speaking in more general terms than even that. This is war, Harry. Sometimes, the greater good is something almost unthinkable in times of peace. And yet, it is the greater good. Or perhaps, the only viable choice at all."

Harry wasn’t so sure about that. But as he sank down onto the couch, he remembered something that made his father's words snap into vivid focus. "Like holding me down on Samhain."

"Like that, yes. Unthinkable."

"And the greater good," finished Harry. "Yeah . . . it was. Is this the kind of thing you're going to teach in your ethics class?"

"I don't think ethics can be taught in quite the way you envision. But this is the sort of thing we'll be discussing, yes. Your own experiences could provide apt illustrations, if you're willing to share them."

Harry winced. "People don't understand when I explain. They think it was all thrilling and exciting and . . . glamorous or something, and they refuse to believe me when I tell them it's not like that at all."

"You speak from experience?"

"D.A."

"Ah."

"Should probably start that up again, though," Harry realised. "Assuming that Defence this year is a joke, which is a pretty sure bet considering we're getting a shepherdess in to teach. Er . . . would you care to help us? That way, you know, you could teach Defence and still avoid the curse."

Snape slanted him a glance. "Forgetting something, aren't you?"

Harry puzzled over that for a moment. What could his father mean? Not the curse; Harry had mentioned that . . . "Er . . . no?"

"You're to play a part come September first," snapped Snape, clearly annoyed that Harry could overlook that. "As far as outsiders are concerned, you're a weak wizard. Keeping Voldemort convinced of that may well prove critical."

"Shite," groaned Harry. "Oh! Er, sorry, sir. Um, I mean Dad, that is."

Snape gave him a level look and didn't say anything at all. Somehow, that was more of a rebuke than words could be.

On the heels of that, an alarming thought occurred to him. Or two, actually. "Do you think I'd better pretend I can't Apparate well when I get tested? And, er, I have been Occluding pretty successfully, you know. For a long time, with just that one lapse. Don't you think Voldemort's probably already figured out that I'm not as weak as he's heard?"

Snape paused to consider that. "He tends to believe what his followers report. I should know," he added dryly. "From what I learned of him, I would expect him to harmonise all this information by assuming that your improvement in Occlumency is due to my shielding you."

"You . . . shielding me," Harry said, fairly goggling. "Any reason why you didn't just shield me, then, year before last when I was having such an awful time? Voldemort wouldn't have been able to trick me, then! Sirius would still be alive!"

Another level stare, but at least this one wasn't so silent. "It requires a certain level of intimacy. I know your mind well enough now to manage it, I would think. But then? I didn't know you, let alone the rather meandering pathways your mind tends to wander."

"Oh."

Snape's eyes darkened. "You must learn to forgive yourself, Harry. What happened to Black wasn't--"

"Yeah, yeah, wasn't my fault. Believe me, I know the lecture by heart--"

"Wasn't born of malice, I was going to say," interrupted Snape. "It was an error in judgement, and your failure to apply yourself to Occlumency two years ago was another, and my failure to make more of a genuine effort to teach you . . . that was an error in judgement of my own. One of many, I quite assure you."

Snape leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "You must forgive yourself, Harry. You meant to do only good towards Black, but you are as capable of error as anyone else. It's all a part of being human."

Then I don't want to be human, Harry immediately thought, his own hands clenching. He didn't say it, though. From the distance of more than a year, he could see that yelling it at the headmaster had only made him seem every bit the child. And since he was an adult now . . . "But Hermione tried to tell me! She thought it was probably a trap," he said instead, every word painful. He wasn't sure he'd admitted the full truth to his father before, wasn't sure he'd told him how stupid, how absolutely brainless he'd been, how he'd ignored every bit of good advice he'd got--

"Yet even thinking that, she accompanied you to the Ministry," said Snape, very softly.

Harry smiled, the ache in his heart easing a little. "Yeah, Hermione wouldn't let me walk into a trap alone. And now you're thinking, I bet, that figures, since she's an idiot Gryffindor."

"In fact, I was as that moment thinking: points to Gryffindor."

Harry's smile grew wider. "Really? You'll give us some points?"

"In my view, Minerva already awarded ample." A ghost of a smile briefly curled Snape's lips. "But for me to think of Gryffindor in that context is quite alarming. I do believe I must have forgiven Miss Granger for her rash letter-writing last year."

Harry chuckled. "I should have reminded you sooner that Hermione went to the Ministry with me."

Snape sat back, his hands no longer clenched together. Instead, he lightly drummed his fingertips together. "Quite possibly," he finally said. "Loving you as I do . . .it's difficult to hold a grudge against anyone who would risk their life for you."

"Remember that the next time you're annoyed with me, then," called Draco, strolling back into the living room. He looked like he'd showered and washed his hair, but he'd obviously been eavesdropping for the last little bit. "I faced Lucius down for him, remember."

Harry turned to study his brother. Yes, Draco had faced Lucius down, but his way of doing it had been to pretend to crumple. Still, there was a time and place for stealth, Harry supposed.

You are foolish to overlook any tactic that may win us this war, he heard Snape say inside his mind, the words an echo from a long time before. They took on a new significance now. Draco understood about cunning, a lot better than Gryffindors did, anyway, and an awful lot of the students in the D.A. had been Gryffindors, hadn't they--

"That's it!" Harry suddenly exclaimed. "Draco can lead the D.A.! We'll say I'd be pants at teaching Defence since my magic's gone wonky, and I'm passing the baton to my brother!"

Draco looked up, his expression about as condescending as Harry had ever seen. "In the first place, I don't want your baton, whatever that is. And in the second, you're barking mad if you think that Dumbledore's Army is going to listen to a word I say. Inquisitorial Squad, Harry?"

"No, no, it's perfect," Harry went on, turning in his chair. "Look, Hermione trusts you these days, and Ron knows you're on our side even if he doesn't like you so well, and oh, I guess Ginny might think you're all right, but--"

"Your point being?"

"Everybody else in Gryffindor still has their doubts about you. This'll show them, like nothing else could, that your change of allegiances is for keeps. I mean, think about it, Draco! You know scads about dark magic, but instead of using it against them, you're showing them how to defend? How to defeat Death Eaters? And won't it look great on your application to the Auror programme, that you can say you had a leadership position teaching students Defence?"

"Hmm . . ."

"That last gambit was your most effective yet," drawled Snape, clearly enjoying their bantering. "However, I know you can do better, Harry. You've tried to manipulate me a few times, as I recall."

"Tried, ha. Did," said Harry, grinning, ignoring Snape's glare. He could tell it was more mock than real. "About this, though . . . oh, I know. Draco?"

The other boy met his gaze, one eyebrow raised. "Think you have me, do you?"

"I know I have you."

"Do tell."

Harry rubbed his hands together. "You'll get to lord it over a bunch of Gryffindors who think they're better at magic than you are. You'll get to show them just how wrong they are. And what's more, you'll get to boss them about. I know you loved that part of being a prefect, so how can you resist?"

Draco glanced at their father. "Tell me I can take points, eh? All I like."

"No."

Draco made a face, but then he shrugged. "That's a blow, but regardless, you've almost persuaded me. I think all I truly need is an assurance that my excellent work and dedication will be rewarded with points for Slytherin at the leaving feast, and perhaps I shall gracefully accede to your request."

"Perhaps you can also talk normal English."

"One says words and talks with friends, but speaks a language, Harry."

Harry was just about to make a rude gesture when Snape spoke. "Albus' penchant for awarding last-minute points is his own prerogative, Draco. I'm not about to waste my breath petitioning him, though I've no doubt the attempt would amuse him greatly."

"Oh, very well. I'll do it anyway," said Draco. "And in the interests of amicable inter-house relations, I'll even dumb my vocabulary down to words that the average Gryffindor can understand. Two syllable limit, Severus? Or do you think I'd better reduce that to one?"

Harry did make that rude gesture, then. "You know what? You're a right arse."

Draco laughed. "One syllable it is, based on Harry's dominant speech pattern!"

After that, though, he quickly sobered. "I'll do my best for Dumbledore's Army, Harry, but persuading your little friends to let me teach them? That's another matter entirely."

"Oh, I'll be there," said Harry. "I'll Slytherin them into it."

"Watching that should be entertaining. And Severus? You'll be there as well? To help, as Harry was asking? You know, I rather fancy having you for an assistant."

Snape's answering smile was razor sharp. "Yes, I'd be pleased to duel you."

"Duel?" Draco's voice squeaked. "I didn't say duel, did I?"

"You're probably stuck with it. At least you won't have Dad and me and Hermione and Ron all firing curses at you at the same time!"

"Yes, my heart weeps for you. Those dark powers of yours are quite the trial. Now, perhaps you didn't notice, but Dad never did actually say that he'd come to these D.A. meetings."

Huh. Harry hadn't noticed that. "Well?"

"I've no particular desire to teach Defence at all," answered Snape. "But as this project is worthwhile, yes. I will help you."

"Thanks, Dad."

Snape gave Harry an annoyed look, but didn't remark on that. "Time for bed, both of you. Someone from the Department of Magical Transportation will be coming here tomorrow to examine your Apparition skills."

Harry bounced a little as he sat there. "Tomorrow, really?"

"Yes, but save your thanks for Albus."

"I'll do that," Harry promised, even as he remembered what they'd been talking about before. "Um . . . should I fake being kind of bad at it, you think? For appearances' sake?"

"Apparating well enough to be licensed is no great matter."

"That's right, Harry. It's not as though the examiner will ask us to Apparate to Outer Mongolia, though with your powers you just might make it there." Draco glanced from Harry to Snape and back. "Well then, thank you, both of you, for helping to make my birthday so wonderful. Good night, then."

As the bedroom door softly clicked behind Draco, Harry turned to his father. "Both of us? Did he mean the surprise party?"

"I suspect he meant that I let him have a bit of a lie-in this morning."

That's right . . . Snape had. And in doing that, he'd given Draco something familiar for his birthday. Something he'd have got from Narcissa, if he still lived with her. Snape had realised, all along, that Draco might be a little sensitive today. And he'd realised that Narcissa would probably ignore Draco's special day. "You really are a good dad," Harry said finally.

"I enjoy telling myself that I'm at least learning by experience," said Snape dryly. "You should likely go to bed as well, so you're at your best for the examiner tomorrow."

"In a minute. I was wondering about what Draco said, about Apparating all the way to Mongolia. My dark powers wouldn't help with that, would they? There's no incantation to cast in Parseltongue."

"I don't know," said Snape slowly. "You appear to break all the rules, Harry. And I don't mean school rules."

"I can break those too--"

"Yes, I am aware," drawled Snape, standing and stretching before pinning his dark gaze on Harry. "I would hope you've grown out of such nonsense."

"I only break them in a good cause--"

"Let's hope that you will have less cause now that you have an adult you can trust."

"Yeah, me," quipped Harry, but then his voice softened. "And you. Of course. I can't imagine life without you, and Draco, and . . . and this," he said, sweeping an arm in a half-circle to indicate his home. He didn't want to say thanks again, but he did want to get the point across. "Er . . . sometimes, I even think that never having it must have made me a little bit mental."

"Don't ever think that." Snape walked the short distance to where Harry was sitting and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You have issues, but so does everyone who's ever lived. I think that growing up the way you did merely makes you more aware of how rewarding it can be to have a real family." Snape gave him a long, guarded look. "In that, we are alike, you and I."

Harry smiled as he looked up at his father. It wasn't exactly an open discussion about Hostilian, but he thought it was a start. "Yeah. That we are, Severus. 'Night, then."

To Harry's surprise, Snape squeezed his shoulder again, and then actually bent to drop a kiss on the top of his head. "Good night, Harry."

Chapter Text

Harry was on pins and needles all morning, wondering when the examiner from the Department of Magical Transportation would arrive. It wasn't until after lunch that the magical doorbell finally chimed inside his head, but when it did, the list he read on the door parchment wasn't what he'd been expecting at all.

Albus Dumbledore, Rufus Scrimgeour.

Draco fairly goggled. "The Minister himself is here?"

Harry worried his lower lip with his teeth. "Looks like it. Um, I hope he's not planning to watch us take our Apparition tests."

"If you aren't competent under pressure, then you aren't competent at all," said Snape. A moment later, he was calmly casting the spell to open the door. "Headmaster," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Minister."

"Professor Snape," said Scrimgeour, nodding in return.

Harry pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Totally inappropriate, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He'd seen Scrimgeour's picture in the paper, but the image there hadn't even come close to capturing the reality of the man's appearance. His hair was so mane-like that he reminded Harry of an African lion, and he wore a fierce expression to match.

"These are my sons," Snape was saying, still in that same smooth voice. "Draco Snape and Harry Potter."

Scrimgeour ignored Draco completely and stared at Harry, his eyes so focussed they looked almost beady. "Interesting crest you've got there."

Oh. Harry and Draco had wanted to look their best for the examiner, so they were both wearing their school robes.

"Half-Slytherin then, are you?"

"No," said Harry. "I'm a full Slytherin. But I'm a full Gryffindor, too."

Scrimgeour cracked a smile. "Is that so?"

The smile, Harry felt sure, was supposed to be disarming, but somehow it was patronising instead. In fact, it really set his teeth on edge. Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Yeah, that's so."

"You were in Slytherin yourself, Minister?" asked Draco, a wholly pleasant smile on his face, though his eyes, when he glanced at Harry, seemed to be glittering in warning. Well, Harry supposed that he had probably sounded a tad belligerent the moment before.

"Yes, yes, many a long year ago."

Dumbledore chuckled, though Harry couldn't hear in the noise any real appreciation of Scrimgeour's droll tone. It sounded more like the headmaster was trying to smooth things over so they could all move past Harry's comment.

Embarrassing, that. Even Snape was glaring a little, as if he thought that by now, Harry ought to know about decorum without being told. Oops.

"It's very good to meet you," said Harry, deliberately letting his arms fall to his sides as he tried to make up for his gaffe. He probably wouldn't have thought to change his posture, but he and Marsha had talked quite a bit about body language and the things it could communicate. "How is the rebuilding of the Ministry coming along?"

Scrimgeour's expression grew grim. All at once, he looked every bit the battle-hardened Auror he was reputed to be. "The physical rebuilding, fine. We've people enough who can handle that job, and thankfully, we've finally finished smoothing things over with the Muggles. The Prime Minister was not pleased, I can tell you that. Not pleased at all."

Snape had stopped glaring at Harry by then and was politely nodding, his expression perfectly schooled into one of interest and concern.

Draco, on the other hand, had gone more pale than usual. "The Muggle Minister knows? I mean, the truth? About our world, and magic, and what just happened, the war, all that?"

Scrimgeour cracked a lopsided smile, even as his gaze hardened. "Well, of course he does, young man! We've a good working relationship with the Muggle government. Have to, in times like these. Though I will say, as prime ministers go, there've been a fair few we'd rather have Obliviated. But that's neither here nor there. Are the two of you ready to take your license test?"

Draco's mouth dropped open, but he recovered quickly enough. "Yes, of course, Minister."

"Good, because I haven't got all day. Well? Come along with me, now."

Scrimgeour had already turned toward the door before Harry caught on. "Er . . . you're here to test us?"

"Well, I didn't come for tea," the man answered, his eyes narrowed again.

"Certainly not," chimed in Draco. "Harry, Minister Scrimgeour is a busy man with plenty to do. We oughtn't keep him waiting."

"Got it in one," growled Scrimgeour, nodding in approval. Draco practically preened, but not while the minister was watching, of course. "There's not a department in the Ministry that still has all its key personnel, and some divisions don't have a soul left after the attack."

Harry's stomach sank. "I didn't think there were that many killed. I mean, it was an awful lot of people. I saw the lists in the paper, and all those obituaries, but . . ."

Scrimgeour reached out a meaty hand and patted Harry on the shoulder. That was patronising, too, but Harry was too upset to mind, this time.

"Rats, all of 'em," the Minister said. "Rats leaving a sinking ship. Not that we're sinking, mind. We'll beat You-Know-Who yet, we surely will. But yes, a considerable number of employees have decided not to return to work, and it's made a bad situation worse. That's why I'm here, in fact. Not a single worker in the Department of Magical Transportation has been there for longer than a week, and if you think I'm going to let any one of them oversee the Boy-Who-Lived's Apparition test, then you've got another think coming."

Harry held in a grimace at the way Scrimgeour had just referred to him. "But if you're so busy, why are you bothering to supervise license exams?"

At that, Scrimgeour actually laughed, a harsh sound that sounded contemptuous and impatient all at once. "I'm not supervising license exams. I'm just seeing to yours. Oh, and your brother's, since I'm here anyway."

Draco didn't preen at that, Harry noticed.

"Everybody else can damned well wait until the department is fully functional again. But you, after what happened to you last Samhain? No, sir. You're a target, Potter, and I won't have it said that you couldn't Apparate to safety because a Ministry glitch meant you hadn't got your license yet."

Harry couldn't help but stare. "But if I was in danger I'd Apparate whether I had my license or not, and anyway, even if I'd known how on Samhain, it wouldn't have helped any, since there were all sorts of wards about, and--"

"Harry," interrupted Dumbledore in a pleasant yet hard tone, "the Minister has taken time out of his busy schedule to make sure you won't be forced to break the law. You're more likely than the average young man to need to Apparate, after all."

Harry heard what hadn't been said out loud. A little gratitude wouldn't come amiss . . . And the worst part was, Dumbledore was right. Harry hated getting special treatment, but he was a target in a lot of ways, so it was only sensible to get him licensed, he supposed. Still, the rebuke stung.

Harry struggled to stop himself from blushing like a child, but since the room felt like it was getting warmer, he didn't think he'd succeeded so well. "Thank you, Minister."

"No thanks needed. Come along as I said, and we'll get you taken care of. Oh, and you as well, young Mr Snape."

Draco's whole posture stiffened, and no wonder. He wouldn't like being treated as an afterthought.

Ha, thought Harry, who would find it refreshing if it ever happened to him.

Snape made a move as though to accompany them, but Scrimgeour held up a hand. "I believe I have the situation well in hand, Professor."

Harry was a bit shocked to see his father looking like he might insist on coming with them, even if it might mean offending the Minister.

Dumbledore beamed a beatific smile all around. "Just as well, Severus, just as well. I wanted to discuss the new curriculum with you, in any case."

"Potions?" rapped out Scrimgeour. "I'll have you know, Professor Snape, that I didn't approve of MLE asking you to change your courses, didn't approve at all. We may need more Aurors, but not requiring a N.E.W.T. in Potions just means that we'll have more to teach them when they apprentice to us. Damned stupid move on MLE's part, damned stupid from start to finish."

Harry blinked. "But . . . you were head Auror when those decisions were made. Couldn't you . . ."

Scrimgeour grimaced. "Welcome to decision-making by committee. Sure way to guarantee awful results. You need a man in charge who knows what he's doing. A man who's willing to take charge, by Merlin."

"Then why don't you?" blurted Harry, which was strange considering that he was sort of jealous of the students who'd been able to drop seventh-year Potions class from their programmes. Even stranger, though, was the idea that "take charge" Scrimgeour hadn't reversed MLE's decision once he'd had the power to do so.

"Full Slytherin, are you now?" Scrimgeour shook his head.

Harry didn't know what that meant, or not exactly, but since Snape was glaring a little bit again, and Draco was practically rolling his eyes, he figured they'd explain it to him later. Well, Draco would scoff, and Snape would most likely lecture.

"Abrire," said Snape then, waving his wand at the door. He nodded once, the gesture rather solemn. "Minister." And then, to Harry's complete embarrassment, "Be good, both of you."

Scrimgeour chuckled, the sound hearty as he led them out.

---------------------------------------------------

"I thought we'd have to leave the grounds," said Harry as he glanced around the Great Hall. "The wards, all that?"

Scrimgeour waved a hand. "Your headmaster has altered some of them for a time. Best we stay here."

"But I'm sure you could protect us," said Draco. "I've studied your career in detail, Minister Scrimgeour. I want to train as an Auror when I leave school, you see."

And you want to put a good word in for yourself right now, Harry thought, almost amused. By flattering the Minister . . .

"Auror, eh?" Scrimgeour looked Draco up and down. "You think you're MLE material, do you?"

Draco, Harry saw, was too clever to fall into that trap. "I've a lot left to learn," he admitted. "But I have more motive than most to learn it well."

"There is that," said Scrimgeour, scratching at his chin a little, even as his eyes narrowed. "I know who you are. You weren't born a Snape, that much is sure."

It was a subtle slur against Draco's family, but then, Draco had insulted Lucius himself, plenty of times. The Minister's comment didn't seem to perturb him, at any rate. "Yes, I come from a line of dark wizards," he admitted, looking Scrimgeour in the eye. "I'm not one myself, however."

"No surprise you want to be an Auror, then, eh?" Scrimgeour leaned over a little, like he was trying to intimidate Draco. "You'd like to have an ear to the ground, as it were. Know when they're coming after you, be able to hold your own when you have to fight them off."

It was exactly what Draco himself had told Harry about wanting to be an Auror, but hearing it from Scrimgeour made the other boy bristle. "I meant," he said coolly, lifting his chin a notch, "that I'm determined to make sure my brother survives the war. I want the skills I'll need to watch his back, and there's no better place to learn them than at MLE."

Scrimgeour stepped back half a step. "Hmm. More to you than meets the eye. Maybe. But you can't tell me you aren't also in it for yourself."

"Of course," acknowledged Draco, shrugging.

A slight smile curled the Minister's lips. "By the way, I heard that Slytherin did well on account of you, this past year. Both an interesting Quidditch final, and a large number of points awarded at the Leaving Feast."

Harry couldn't help but snort, just slightly.

The other two both heard him, though. "Something to say?" asked Draco frostily. "I thought you didn't begrudge Slytherin the House Cup."

"I don't!" exclaimed Harry. "It's just that I didn't expect something like that to matter to someone who's been away from the school for . . ." Oh, God. He'd been about to say fifty years, but he'd stopped himself in time. For all he knew, it had only been thirty or forty, and Scrimgeour would have felt like Harry was saying he looked older than he was.

"Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin," said Scrimgeour. "Some things never change."

"Harry was in Gryffindor alone for five years, and it left a mark," said Draco in a stage whisper. "That house is really very strange."

Scrimgeour smiled, the expression just a little bit vindictive. "As I said, some things never change. Now, if you would both move to the far end of the hall, and then Apparate back to join me here, we'll begin."

---------------------------------------------------

Almost an hour later, Harry was feeling winded and trying not to show it. He'd thought at first that Scrimgeour's Apparition test might be nothing but a formality, but instead, the man had put both Harry and Draco through a whole series of tasks, each one more difficult than the last.

Apparating across a large room. Then through a stone wall. Then through several. Then from the dungeons to the Owlery, Harry and Draco forced to follow Scrimgeour only a second after he'd left them behind. And on and on.

By the final test, Quidditch pitch to the Great Hall, Harry was starting to get queasy. He could Apparate perfectly well these days--Draco had seen to that--but the sensation of feeling himself melting still wasn't one he much enjoyed. And certainly not fifteen times in a row.

"I'm satisfied that the pair of you are competent beginners," Scrimgeour pronounced, withdrawing something from the pocket of his long, brown cloak.

Draco didn't look like he appreciated that last word, but he had enough sense not to complain about it. After all, what was he going to say, that he'd been illegally Apparating himself for years, now?

"That last little trip was really all I needed to see," continued Scrimgeour.

Draco might be able to hold his tongue, but Harry couldn't. "Then why couldn't we just have started with that one?"

"And risk a splinching? No, I couldn't have that. It wouldn't look right."

A dark suspicion began churning in Harry's mind. "Wouldn't look right to who?"

"He means whom," said Draco.

Harry shot his brother an irritated glance, but soon returned his attention to Scrimgeour. The man wasn't beaming the way Dumbledore often did, but he did look pleased with himself. "Well, you surely must realise by now that your doings are of interest to the wizarding world, Potter. The press will want to know whether you've achieved a license or not."

"You told reporters you were coming here?" asked Harry, appalled.

"Lower your voice, Harry," said Draco easily. "Of course he did. If the Minister is going to take an hour out of his busy schedule to make sure you can be licensed, the least he deserves in return for his valuable time is a little publicity."

Harry wanted to cringe at the idea. Instead, he remembered that he was an adult now, and drew himself up to his full height. "You didn't come here to help make sure I'd be safe! You're just using me, the same as Fudge always would!"

"Minister Fudge, may he rest in peace, called you a liar whenever it suited him, Potter. This is hardly the same thing. It's just sensible, letting the public know that this time, the Ministry and you see eye to eye about the war."

"And me getting an Apparition license is going to say all that?" asked Harry scornfully.

"People will read between the lines, yes."

Harry tightened his fists. "And what if we don't?"

"Pardon?"

"What if we don't see eye to eye about the war, Minister?" As far as Harry was concerned, that was practically guaranteed. He had dark powers which not even the Order knew about yet, and he might have to use them. Might, hell. Wasn't that what the prophecy was all about? A power the Dark Lord knows not . . .

As long as Scrimgeour and the Ministry didn't know about the kind of magic Harry could wield, it wouldn't be possible for them to cooperate about the war. Not truly.

Scrimgeour laughed. "You may be a full Slytherin, Potter, but the length of time you've been one shows. Just since your adoption, wasn't it? I hope we will see eye to eye, given you're a public figure whether you like it or not. But if we don't . . ." He leaned a little bit closer, his eyes mirthful. "I likely won't mention it to the press, eh?"

"It's just strategy," Draco put in, as if Harry hadn't figured that much out on his own. "After what happened to the Ministry, they need some positive stories out there, don't you think? So people think things are coming together, again."

"Minister Fudge, may he rest in peace," Scrimgeour continued, "is being critiqued now for not believing you earlier, Potter, and according you some proper respect. People are drawing a straight line from that mistake to the Tragedy of the Thirty-First."

The Tragedy of the Thirty-First.

Harry had seen the phrase in print a few times, but he hadn't realised it was really catching on as a way to refer to the destruction of the Ministry. Great. Just great. Now his birthday had a title, too.

"At any rate," continued Scrimgeour, "I'm going to make it clear that the present Ministry is not repeating the previous Minister's error. And if you don't like the way I'm doing it, Potter, I don't particularly care."

"Fine, fine," said Harry, trying not to be too grudging about it, since he didn't have much choice in the matter. It wasn't like he could stop Scrimgeour from talking to the press. And the man might have a point, anyway, about public confidence. Maybe . . .

"Good," said the Minister shortly. "Now, if you'll both just tap your wands to these, you'll be licensed." Leaning down, he set a pair of metal disks on the Hufflepuff table. They looked like coins except they were rather greenish and were imprinted with an image of a broomstick flying over a hearth.

Harry tapped first and saw the witch on the broomstick wink at him. He tried to notice if Draco's did the same, but he wasn't close enough to see properly.

"Thank you again for coming personally, Minister," said Draco. "I know you had your reasons, but I still do appreciate it."

"Yeah," echoed Harry, feeling like he was being given a rather large hint. "It's good to be licensed."

"Good to have such an upstanding, impressive young man on the Ministry's side," said Scrimgeour, which Harry thought was both pompous and rude, considering that the man had overlooked Draco once again. "Anything I can do for you, Potter, anything at all, you just let me know. You defeated You-Know-Who as a baby and with the way he's been after you ever since? I know I'm not alone in thinking there must be something to that. But you're not alone, not now, and I want that to be very clear. My Ministry's not about to make the sad mistakes of my predecessor."

Harry was about to say that if Scrimgeour wanted to do something useful, he could start by saying Voldemort instead of You-Know-Who. He figured, though, that the man would just ignore advice like that coming from a seventeen-year-old. "Thanks," he settled for saying.

"I mean it, young man. Anything I can do for you, you're to owl immediately."

Sure, so I can owe you. Thanks, but no thanks, thought Harry, but he remembered to be all pleasantries on the surface. No point in offending the Minister; Snape and Dumbledore had been right about that. "I'll keep that in mind, Minister."

"See that you do, see that you do." Scrimgeour held out his hand. "I'll make sure that your licenses are duly registered before night falls."

"Thank you, Minister," said Harry again, shaking the proffered hand.

When Scrimgeour chuckled lightly, and Draco actually snickered, Harry knew he must have muffed that, somehow. His embarrassment only got worse when his brother placed his greenish disk into the Minister's still-outstretched hand.

Blushing a bit, Harry copied Draco's action. Scrimgeour studied him for a moment, then gave a brisk nod and spun on his heel, clearly headed for the Entrance Hall instead of the dungeons.

"He's not going back to tell Dumbledore he's leaving?" asked Harry when the man was far enough away not to hear his whisper.

"No reason why he should," said Draco in an equally quiet voice. One thing living with Snape taught you, Harry thought, was to be careful how loudly you spoke. "He wouldn't want to give the impression that he needs the headmaster's permission to come and go at Hogwarts."

Huh. Probably not, but it still struck Harry as a little rude. "Well, thanks anyway," he said.

"Pardon?"

"For not saying something insufferable when I shook his hand. Something about the Muggle-raised not knowing their socks from their shoes."

"Well, I'd hardly want to look biased against Muggles in front of the Minister. I'm on the side of the Light and that sort of attitude isn't politically correct."

"You're supposed to say that you're not biased, not that it wouldn't look right to be seen that way."

"You're supposed to think on more than one level at a time, you so-called full Slytherin. I am in fact not as biased as I used to be, but in this sort of situation, appearances count for a lot more than reality."

Harry knew that was true, but he found it rather depressing, all the same.

"Let's see if we can still Apparate around the castle!" said Draco, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "That's a real treat, it is!"

"Aren't you exhausted?" Harry'd had enough Apparition for one day.

"Oh, the longer you've been Apparating, the less tired it makes you. And I've been competent for years. Unlike the Muggle-raised among us." Draco stuck out his tongue.

Harry couldn't help but laugh as he clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I'm walking home. You do whatever you like, but don't blame me if the headmaster raises the wards in the middle your fun, and you end up splinched nine ways to Sunday."

Draco shuddered. "One splinching was enough. Some days, my hand still doesn't feel quite right. I'll walk, I suppose."

He made it sound like a terrible imposition, but that was just . . . Draco. Harry smiled and changed the subject to Quidditch as they made their way back.

---------------------------------------------------

"I hate mirrors," Harry muttered, several days later.

"How many times do I have to tell you, your scar is not hideous and disfiguring--"

Harry threw a pillow at Draco. It was either that, or throw the mirror he'd been wrestling with for hours that afternoon. The stupid thing simply wouldn't listen to him. No matter what Harry said or did, it just sat in his left palm, inert, reflecting nothing more interesting than his own face.

Which he was sick and tired of staring at.

"The library's got nothing. Hermione's translations have something, but I can't seem to make it work for me. Well, maybe I could if I stopped Occluding, but I'm not about to do that again any time soon." Harry shuddered, remembering the awful sound of Voldemort inside his own mind, taunting him. "Not even that wizarding research centre at Edinburgh had anything relevant--"

"Perhaps the Ministry does," said Draco calmly as he turned a page in the Muggle Studies book he'd been reading all week.

"The Ministry?"

"The Minister." Draco set the book down, marking his page with a spell, and gave Harry his full attention. "Anything you need, remember? Why don't you just take him up on it?"

"It's better not to be obligated."

"You won't be. He won't even think you are, Harry. You're still in school, for Merlin's sake, and it's not as though you're signing a magically binding contract."

"But Scrimgeour'll think--"

"He'll think that you're keeping your options open, and that your options include cooperation with the Ministry." Draco arched an eyebrow. "Do you know what he'll think if you keep up your radio silence, after an offer like the one he made?"

"Radio silence!"

"Muggles have the most fascinating terminology." Draco showed Harry the spine of his book.

"His-story and Her-story: Muggles from the Age of Reason to the Cold War," Harry read out loud in disbelief. "Yeah, that's some . . . terminology, all right."

"I'm still trying to figure out why they called it the Cold War," mused Draco. "My best guess at the moment has something to do with Siberia. But enough of that. Do try to focus, Harry. Scrimgeour. The man extended you a clear hand of friendship. If you do nothing whatsoever to take it, he'll think you've decided not to work with the Ministry. So write him, already. Ask him about mirrors!"

"Why would he know anything about them?"

"Maybe the Department of Mysteries can help you out. Who knows? The point is, Scrimgeour is a resource, in more ways than one. Don't just waste that."

"All right, fine," muttered Harry. The thought of asking Scrimgeour for anything gave him the heebie-jeebies, and for a moment, he thought about listening to his instincts. But then again, he might just be reacting to the fact that Fudge had been Minister for Magic for so long. No wonder Harry was leery.

"Albus just sent our post through the Floo," said Snape as he came into the boys' bedroom. "Package from Miss Granger for Draco Snape. Imagine that."

"Package from Rhiannon," whooped Draco, leaping up from his bed. "Out, everybody out! I need privacy! I need to read in peace! I need--"

"You need a calming draught," said Snape dryly.

"Oh, hush. Out, out! Harry wants help writing a letter, anyway. You two go and work in the living room. Out!"

Once the bedroom door was closed, Snape raised an eyebrow.

"To Scrimgeour," muttered Harry. "He said I could ask him for anything I needed, and I thought . . . ha, Draco thought that I ought to ask him about mirrors."

Snape took a moment to consider that, his dark eyes gleaming as he calculated schemes and plots and plans. Then, he asked an unexpected question. A stupid question. Probably a first for him, Harry figured.

"How much do you want this?"

"More than . . ." Harry swallowed. He shouldn't feel this way, not now that he had a proper family, but he couldn't seem to stop it. "More than anything."

Snape laid a hand on his shoulder. "Then write to the Minister."

"He won't use it against me, later?"

"It's not impossible. But on balance . . . I think not."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least the decision was made. Of course, Scrimgeour might not be able to help . . . but neither would he be able, later on, to claim that Harry had rejected his offer of friendship.

"Would you like assistance, as Draco suggested?"

"With your vocabulary? It needs to sound like a seventeen-year-old wrote it. Maybe you can read my draft when I'm done."

Snape merely inclined his head and left Harry to it.

---------------------------------------------------

Draco had been close to insufferable ever since he got that package from Rhiannon. Insufferable in a good way, though. Apparently, she'd used the word love in her closing. Harry didn't think that "Love, Rhiannon," was proof of anything much, but Draco obviously felt like he'd ended up in heaven without dying first.

Of course, maybe that had something to do with the sweets she'd sent along. Too much sugar in the blood, Harry thought. That was why Draco was acting like such a giddy fool.

"These are unbelievable," he said, for about the fifth time. "They're amazing. No magical ingredients at all, and they taste better than the finest Mexican wizard chocolate!"

"They're just peanut butter cups," said Harry wearily.

"Well, I've never had them before--" Draco narrowed his eyes. "I'd think you could understand, Mr Dudley-always-got-all-the-biscuits-and-left-me-none."

"Yeah, well I didn't eat ten pounds of shortbread in twenty-four hours, trying to make up!"

"Of course not." Draco grinned. "Because shortbread has got nothing on these!"

"You're going to make yourself sick."

At that, Draco's face fell. "I'm already sick. I have a 'boom box,' and I still can't listen to the CD Rhiannon sent me! And you wonder that I console myself with food?"

Harry was tired of that complaint too, but he could sympathise with it. It must be frustrating as hell for Draco to get a cast recording of Rhiannon's new opera, the one he'd never got a chance to go and see. Rhiannon obviously hadn't understood Draco's explanations about school so well, since she'd written for him to listen to it as soon as possible. She was dying to hear what he thought, she'd said.

And Draco couldn't get it to play unless they left Hogwarts.

Draco had suggested they spend a few hours at "his house," which ought to be safe enough, considering Fidelius and all the rest, but Snape had said that Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was actually quite busy at the moment.

"And I don't want anyone else, not anyone, to know that Rhiannon is important to me," Draco had agreed, clearly glum.

Harry had wrinkled his brow. "Well, just because you're listening to an opera doesn't mean people will assume you're in love with the lead singer--"

"It's a risk, and I won't put her at risk."

Harry had thought then that the subject was closed--apart from Draco's moaning over it, of course--but now, his brother's eyebrows were drawing together as if he'd just had a brilliant idea.

"Severus."

The Potions Master glanced up from the lesson plans he was preparing.

"The other teachers are starting to arrive by now, aren't they, to get ready for the new term? Is Professor Flitwick in residence, yet?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Fuck." Draco flopped down onto the couch.

"I had no idea you were so fond of Filius, Draco."

That got the man a scowl. "I just thought he might help me with some complex charms. You know, ones that would temporarily block out the magical aura around here so electronics would work."

"Interesting project." Snape tapped the feathery end of his quill against his chin. "Perhaps Professor Burbage could be of assistance."

Draco blinked. "Do you really think so?"

Snape's lips curled. "Never having taken Muggle Studies myself, I can't say for certain. However, it seems logical that if anyone would know the answer to your problem, it would be she. One would hope she's able to demonstrate Muggle machines and such during her class sessions."

Draco stood up, nodding. "I should introduce myself, at any rate, since I'll be joining her classes. Oh . . . you're pretty strict about which students you admit to your N.E.W.T. level sections, Severus. I don't know if Professor Burbage is the same, but if she gives me any trouble, will you put in a good word for me?"

"She won't give you any trouble."

"But what if--"

Harry chuckled. "My money says he's already put in a good word for you."

Draco beamed. "Oh, excellent."

"Just do not thank me," muttered Snape, turning his attention back to the books and parchments he had scattered across the dining table.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Draco airily, but before he left, the Beatles CD and his boom box in hand, he laid a peanut butter cup alongside Snape's left hand.

---------------------------------------------------

A reply from the Minister came while Draco was out, though it didn't say much.

Dear Mr Potter,

Mirrors are not a common topic of study in Britain, as you have already realised. To my knowledge, the Ministry has no research programme concerning them, though I will say for the record that I can't confirm or deny any of the activities that may or may not occur in the Department of Mysteries.

That said, I am heartened that you would think to come to me with your research project. Nothing is certain, but I may be able to assist you. As it turns out, early on during my Auror career, I spent several months investigating a mirror-smuggling ring on the Continent. I may still have some contacts that could prove useful to you.

I will be in touch when I know anything more definite.

Sincerely yours,

Rufus Scrimgeour
Minister for Magic

"He ought to sign himself Acting Minister," was Snape's comment when Harry sat down at the table and showed him the letter.

"You didn't call him that when he popped around."

Snape snorted, actually snorted. "What possible good could have come from my reminding the man that his position of power is, in fact, temporary? My use of the full title was a courtesy, nothing more. But he would be better served to show a modicum of modesty rather than appear as though he is hungry for even more power than he has already been given."

Harry shrugged. "I guess."

Snape shot him a critical glance. "You don't think like a Slytherin."

Harry ignored that. "Do you think he really investigated mirror smugglers? Seems awfully coincidental. I think maybe he's going to make some new contacts for me, but he wants to impress me with how well-connected he already is."

"Perhaps you do sometimes think like a Slytherin."

"Gee, thanks, Dad."

"What did I say?" asked Snape in tones of innocence.

"Only that you'd rather I be more Slytherin than Gryffindor!"

"I did not say that."

"Might as well have--"

Snape's lips curled into a wry smile. "Harry . . . I do believe you were never quite this cheeky before you came of age."

Harry thought it was something else. "No, it's just that I'm comfortable with you, now. Really comfortable. Enough to say, you know, any stupid thing I like."

"Ah. Well that is good, I suppose." Snape's eyebrows drew together. "I've actually been thinking quite a bit about the problem of your houses."

"Problem!" Harry almost gritted his teeth. "You would rather I--"

"That line of thought serves no purpose," interrupted Snape. "You are what you are, Harry, and I love you as you are. Which is not to say that you are perfect. You are, however, a good example to others in many ways."

Harry wondered if his father was thinking of Draco when he said that.

"And that, I suppose, is my greatest concern."

That didn't make sense. "You're worried that I'm a good example?"

"Yes, because you are seen by your peers as a Gryffindor alone."

Harry bristled. "I've never, never tried to pretend I was that, not since you adopted me. I wear this crest you designed proudly. Did I ever complain about the two-house thing?"

"No. You have made me very proud indeed," said Snape softly.

"All right, then." Harry was still feeling miffed, but he tried to let that go.

"The issue, however, remains."

"What issue?"

Snape wove his fingers together, his eyes dark with thought. "In many quarters, Slytherin is seen as the personification of evil, and even the revelation that I have served the Light for many years did not do much to dispel that reputation. Students who are sorted into Slytherin often come to believe that they themselves must be dark. This alone can influence them onto paths best avoided."

"Yeah," said Harry thickly. He could see how that might happen, especially with impressionable eleven-year-olds. "I'm not sure what this has to do with me, Dad."

Snape met his eyes. "You recently proclaimed yourself a full Slytherin, but I fear that very few of your school-mates regard you that way. Any virtue they see in you is attributed to Gryffindor."

"Oh. Like the good parts of me couldn't possibly have to do with Slytherin. I get it."

Snape nodded, his features growing even more grim. "And like it or not, Harry, your own decisions have tended to feed the perception that to you, Slytherin is merely something reflected from your position as my son, not something inherent to your character."

"My own decisions." Harry grimaced. "Oh, God. You're thinking I'd better play on the Slytherin team, aren't you?"

"No. You are a Seeker, after all. I would not do that to Draco."

So it was only because of Draco that their father wasn't demanding Harry switch teams! Harry blew out his breath, thoroughly irritated by then. "Well, what do you want me to do? I visited Slytherin a lot last year, trying to show I was one of them. I stood with them during your duel with Aran. But I can't go and . . . live with them, Severus. That would be mad. Somebody would try to kill me in my sleep!"

"The fact remains that you live in Gryffindor, and fly for Gryffindor, and most often eat with Gryffindor. And too, last year you followed the course programme of the Gryffindors."

"All I did was go back into the classes I'd been in before I lost my magic!"

"Harry," said Snape slowly, "I am not blaming you for the situation; I'm merely discussing it with you. Your placement in two houses is an opportunity to help the other students, and the Slytherins themselves, to see that there are thoroughly good elements in Slytherin. I fear the message is being lost en route, which I count a true shame."

Oh. Harry got it, then. Snape didn't think it was Harry's fault, but the problem bothered him and he wanted to talk it out. Actually, he was talking to Harry like an adult . . . sharing his concerns and worries, instead of pretending he didn't have any, since he was the father and Harry was the son.

When Harry thought about it like that, he didn't mind the conversation so much, even though it was uncomfortable. How could it not be? He was a little bit to blame, after all. He'd bragged to Scrimgeour that he was a full Slytherin, but most of the time when he thought about the houses, he considered himself a Gryffindor. Habit, really. Five plus years of it.

None of which was much help now, Harry glumly supposed.

"Maybe, er . . ." Harry gulped. "Draco'll probably kill me himself, but maybe he and I can trade off being Seeker? I . . . I could play for Slytherin half the time, and--"

"That wouldn't be fair to Slytherin."

"To Slytherin?" gasped Harry, almost laughing with nervous tension. Not that he expected Snape to care a whit about fairness to Gryffindor, but still--

"Yes. A Quidditch team performs best when it has a consistent roster."

All right. Harry could see that. "And it wouldn't be fair to Draco. Or me, damn it. I've been looking forward to flying against him again. You know, a friendly competition, this time."

"I know that you and Draco get on very well, but you'd best not underestimate his fervour on the pitch. It won't be a friendly competition by any definition of the term," Snape stated baldly. "Your brother has things to prove."

"To me, or to Slytherin?"

"Primarily to himself. Or have you never noticed that he is jealous of your magical abilities?"

Well, that was putting it bluntly. Harry was glad that Draco wasn't in their quarters at the moment. But then, if he had been, Snape wouldn't be saying these things.

A chill passed over Harry, because of course his next thought was to wonder what Snape said about him when he wasn't around.

"Well, everybody has issues," Harry said lightly, trying to pass it off. He couldn't help it if some of Draco's revolved around Parseltongue and the like. "The real question is what we're going to do about Slytherin."

"We are going to do nothing. I am the Head of Slytherin and I will handle the matter."

"How?" Which reminded Harry. "Do you set my course schedule for the coming term, or does McGonagall?"

"Are you, by chance, trying to avoid taking Transfoogriffination?"

"Avoid what?"

Snape cracked a smile. "You called it that once, while talking to me."

"I did not!"

"You were heavily sedated and nattering on like I was all three of your best friends combined."

"Three?"

"Weasley, Granger, and Lupin."

"Oh." Harry glared. "And you looked like Remus, right. I remember now. That's not very nice, making fun of the way I was babbling, or whatever."

"And I try so very hard to be nice," mocked Snape. Then his voice grew more serious. "It's a fond memory, because I learned much about you that I would otherwise never have known. Don't begrudge me the small amusement. Now, as for your course programme, I will set it, as I am not merely your Head of House, but your father. If Minerva attempts to gainsay me, she will well regret it."

"Shouldn't I really set it myself, seeing as I'm all grown up?"

"All grown up, are you?" Snape chuckled. "Be that as it may, you're under the auspices of Hogwarts for purposes of schooling, which means that your Head of House holds sway."

"Heads of House," Harry reminded him.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Yes, Harry, you are in two houses. I do believe we just covered that. And for the record, you are taking Transfiguration."

Harry sat up straight. "I never said I was trying to get out of it!"

"Good."

"Though I'm not looking forward to it." Harry sighed. "It's not my best subject. I need it to be an Auror, though."

"I would think that the seventh-year course would prove rather fascinating for you, considering your father's talent."

For once, Harry had no urge to shoot back, "you're my father." That was a wonderful feeling, knowing that he could have them both . . . then, Snape's words penetrated.

"You mean . . . animagus training?"

"The topic is featured in the final year, though relatively few students turn out to have the talent for it."

"Ha," said Harry. "I think a lot more animagi exist than the Ministry knows. I mean, if three students in my dad's year managed it, the talent can't be as rare as all that."

"Perhaps not." Snape shrugged. "In any case, you may have an advantage over your classmates. Animagus tendencies can travel in bloodlines."

Harry almost whooped. What if he turned out to be an animagus? That would be great. . . oh, shite. It would also be one more thing for Draco to be jealous of, assuming he wasn't one as well. And maybe even worse . . . "What if I turn out to be a stag?"

"And there my greatest worry was a lion."

"You mean you wouldn't mind?"

"No, Harry, I would not mind. I told you, the old wounds have healed. And if . . ."

"If what?"

Snape unlaced his fingers and laid his hands flat upon the table, leaning forward, his eyes an intense black as he gazed at Harry. "If by chance you should get the Mirror of All Souls working, and you see your parents there, I will not fight with James, whatever he may say."

"That's . . . quite a promise," murmured Harry, more than a little startled. "I can't really say I ever much knew him, but from the things I've heard . . . and uh, seen, he might want to fight with you."

"I did know him," said Snape. "And it is as I told you: he would want you to have what you need."

"Even if what I need is you? And a Malfoy for a brother?"

"A Snape for a brother, I will thank you to remember. But, yes. When James died, he was no longer that immature boy you saw in my Pensieve. Your godfather, on the other hand . . ."

"He'll take it worse."

"I would say so. Your father and I learned to work together in the Order, but Black and I could never be in the same room without things going from bad to worse."

"Yeah, I noticed that," said Harry morosely.

"Though of course there is no guarantee that the mirror can be repaired at all, and certainly none that it can reach those who have fallen behind the Veil." Snape sighed. "I don't know whether it's wrong to get your hopes up, though in case your efforts bear fruit, it's best to be prepared."

Harry slumped in his chair. "I don't think it's possible to be prepared for a thing like this. Maybe . . . maybe that stupid mirror stopped working for a reason. Maybe it's a bad idea to try to talk to the dead. Though if that's true, I guess I should stop chatting with Nearly Headless Nick."

"Whatever happens, or doesn't happen, we will make our way through it," said Snape softly.

"Yeah." Harry nodded, wishing his head didn't feel so . . . heavy. Five stone, at least. "Yeah."

---------------------------------------------------

"No dice," said Draco glumly when he came back that evening. "We worked for hours. We slaved."

"No dice?" asked Snape.

"Muggle slang. Professor Burbage said it's not in the books, but she does a unit on it every year, so as we tried to charm this . . . this contraption--" Draco gave the boom box on the table a bit of a shove. "She decided that she'd do her best to catch me up. And the best way to acquire vocabulary," he mimicked in a girlish voice, "is to make it your own."

"What on earth does that mean?" asked Harry.

"Oh, only that every time she came out with some bizarre phrase, I had to work into whatever we were discussing. Three times," grumbled Draco.

Harry snickered.

"And it had to sound natural!" Draco started laughing too, just a bit. "Wait. It gets worse."

"Do tell," said Snape, one eyebrow raised.

Draco started laughing so hard that it took him a minute to tell the story. "Well, when we couldn't get the boom box to do anything, I was bitterly disappointed. Of course I was. But she didn't know it was Rhiannon I wanted to hear--she thought I was upset that I wouldn't get to listen to the B- B- Beatles--"

"So?"

Draco sucked in a huge draught of air, obviously trying to get his laughter under control. "She felt sorry for me, I guess. So she started singing their songs herself! One after another after another while I tried to figure out how to get the hell out of there, politely--"

"Oh, God." Harry slapped a hand over his mouth, but giggles still oozed out.

"And she's a horrible singer. Off-key, screechy, and then she dragged out this banged up guitar that she can't play right!" Draco gulped, sounding like he had the hiccoughs for a second.

"Not exactly opera, in other words," drawled Snape.

"I haven't got to the worst part yet!" Draco paused, then blurted, "She made me sing along with her!"

Harry grinned, thinking this should be good. "What song? Sing it!"

"You wish."

"Come on, sing it!"

"I'll just say it was this total rubbish about some nutter named Lucy. And she wouldn't let me leave until I sang it all the way through!"

"Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds!" Harry screamed with laughter. Only when he had calmed was he able to ask, "Are you still going to take her class?"

Draco shrugged out of his robes and hung them neatly by the door. "Oh, sure. Say what you like about her dreadful taste in music. She meant well."

"Very mature, Draco." Snape strode to the Floo, but then paused as if considering. "Would you like to set the menu?"

"You can do it." Draco yawned as he dropped into a chair and moved his boom box to the floor beside his chair. "She did say that she uses an old wind-up Victrola to play Muggle music for her classes, and that I ought to be able to find the Beatles on LP, whatever that is. Do you think Rhiannon's cast recording would be available that way?"

Harry chewed his lip. "Um, I dunno. But there's probably some company or other that could convert it over for you."

"I can see that I'm about to ask Hermione for another favour," said Draco dryly.

"It might be expensive--"

"Well, that's no matter. How many Galleons do you think I should send along?"

"You might insult her if you send money!"

"Oh. What do you suggest, then?"

Harry sighed. "Fine, I'll owl her--"

"No, you won't. She's my friend, too," said Draco, his chin raised. "I will owl her, thank you very much."

"No need to thank me," quipped Harry as their father sat down with them and plates of some fancy lobster dish appeared on the table.

---------------------------------------------------

A few days later, Harry was a little bit startled to get a formal-looking letter through the Floo. It was written on what looked like double-thick parchment, tied with a bright orange ribbon and sealed with wax. When Harry looked closely, he saw that the wax bore the impression of the Hogwarts crest.

Perhaps the most intriguing thing of all, however, was that Draco had received what appeared to be an identical scroll.

Snape's lectures on caution in mind, Harry cast a few spells looking for jinxes and hexes and such. Draco did the same, and not just because of the things their father had said. It was also just . . . very strange, getting a letter from Hogwarts when they were there already.

"Maybe we should wait for Dad," said Harry. "This is a bit creepy, don't you think?"

"He might not be back for hours. You know how long his talks with the headmaster can be."

"Then maybe we should wait for hours--"

"Oh, don't be such a prat. I've tested the scrolls; they're safe enough." With no more warning than that, Draco whipped the ribbon off his and broke the seal.

Harry flinched, almost expecting an explosion, but nothing happened.

Nothing except Draco whistling, long and low between his teeth. "Well, would you look at that. Apparently I'm being invited up to the headmaster's office for a private chat."

"Not that private," muttered Harry. "Dad's there right now."

"You're probably invited, too." Draco made an impatient gesture. "Go on!"

Harry opened his scroll then, to read:

Dear Harry,

Please join me in my office at once as your father and I would like to discuss an important matter with you.

Sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster,
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

When he glanced over at Draco's, he saw that the letters were identical except for the name at the top. "Weird." Harry's throat suddenly started feeling tight. "Do you think we're in some sort of trouble?"

"We haven't done anything wrong! Not lately, at any rate."

Harry still had a bad feeling, but he shrugged it off. "At once, it says. I suppose that means we'd better floo."

One whirling trip later, and Harry was exiting the hearth in Dumbledore's office, tripping a bit over his own feet. At least he didn't outright fall over, but he still felt clumsy, especially when Draco emerged from the Floo a moment later, his step brisk, elegant, and self-assured.

"You wished to see us, Headmaster?"

"We wanted to see you, Draco. You and Harry both," answered Snape as he stood up. Harry hadn't seen him; one of the perils of those high-backed chairs the Slytherins seemed to favour. Not that the headmaster was a Slytherin, of course.

Although, Harry reflected, he didn't know that for certain, did he . . .

"What can we do for you?" asked Draco in a tone that suggested he was having a private audience with the Minister himself. Harry saw through that, though. Those perfect manners of Draco's often came out when he was uncertain of himself, and under stress.

Which meant that Harry wasn't the only one wondering what on earth was going on.

"Have a seat, my boys." Dumbledore beamed, gesturing for Severus to sit down again. As soon as everyone was seated, the headmaster clapped his hands three times in quick succession. A vaguely Chinese-looking house elf appeared. "Ah, Yozzi. Thank you for coming so quickly. We'd like some light refreshment, if you would. A cup of tea for me, I think, and a plate of gherkins to share. Oh, and chocolate-dipped biscuits, and . . . a wee splash of Galliano for you, Severus?"

Snape rolled his eyes, but assented with a curt nod of his head.

"Draco?"

"A glass of Butterbeer would be lovely, thank you," said Draco to the headmaster. He didn't even glance at the elf.

"Lemonade, please," said Harry, talking to Yozzi.

"Anything else, my boys?"

When Draco and Harry both shook their heads, the elf vanished with a slight popping noise.

"Boys," said Draco then. "We are of age. I know you're aware of that."

Snape chuckled lightly. "I think you're fated to lose that argument, since he still calls me his boy."

"But you're--" Draco cut off whatever he'd been about to say, though it didn't take a lot of imagination to guess the word that would have come next. Ancient, probably, Harry thought, holding back a laugh.

Snape scowled, but instead of replying, began to sip at his Galliano, which had just arrived.

"Severus," said the headmaster, laying aside his tea after he'd drained half the cup, "if you would be so good as to do the honours?"

Honours?

Snape nodded stiffly, leaned forward to set his tiny glass on Dumbledore's desk, and fished in his cloak pocket for a moment. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding two shiny silver badges emblazoned with a snake twined around the letter P.

"It is my privilege as Head of Slytherin to extend to each of you the position of seventh-year prefect," he said, moving to stand. He went toward Draco's chair first. "Will you accept?"

Draco nodded, his features composed, if a little pale. Not from fright, though. Harry thought this was just an emotional moment for him. Well, of course it was. His prefect status had been stripped from him the year before, and when he'd been readmitted to classes, he hadn't got it back.

"Thank you, Severus," said Draco quietly as Snape pinned the badge to his robes.

Harry's turn, then.

"Will you accept?" asked Snape, dark eyes glimmering as he stood before Harry.

"Uh . . ." Harry swallowed. His first thought was to say that a girl should really get the post, since that was the tradition, wasn't it? One boy and one girl? When he thought of the seventh-year Slytherin girls, though . . . well, that answered that question. "Yes."

He almost said Thank you, as Draco had, but managed to keep the words inside, even though Snape hadn't rebuked his brother for them.

Dumbledore poured himself another cup of tea and raised it, as if in tribute. "To two fine boys . . . excuse me, Draco. To two fine young men. And to an excellent year."

Draco's smile was razor-sharp. "It will be. If Zabini crosses me again with that Malshite business, I can take points."

"This isn't the Inquisitorial Squad, Draco."

"Seventh-year prefects can take points!"

"You, however, will not take points from Slytherin," said Snape sternly.

"Why not? You did."

"Not for something as inconsequential as name-calling."

"Ha. You took points just because I called him Potter, which actually is his name!"

"That had a deeper purpose, and you know it."

"True, true." Draco smoothed down his robes, admiring his badge with definite pride in his eyes. Huh . . . he'd never complained about it much, so Harry hadn't known that losing his prefect's badge had meant so much to him.

"I doubt that Mr Zabini will be so foolish as to cross you again, however," said Snape, resuming his seat. "The Leaving Feast last year left no doubt as to your value to Slytherin, and that badge will convince even the most obstinate students that you have been fully restored to your former standing."

"And that's why you did it?" asked Draco, one eyebrow raised.

"Among other reasons."

Draco chuckled and sank back into his chair. "How much time did you spend considering whether Crabbe or Goyle should take my spot?"

"Now, now," said the headmaster mildly. "Gloating hardly becomes you."

"Yes, sir."

Harry traced a finger over his badge, hardly able to believe his eyes. A prefect, him! He raised his gaze to meet his father's, unable to stop the word from tumbling out. "Thanks, Dad. I . . . you know, I'd got used to the idea that I'd never get one of these."

Snape gave him a considering look. "Perhaps that explains why I was so singularly unsuccessful guiding that conversation about the houses a few days ago."

Guiding that conversation . . . Harry felt like a light bulb had gone on inside his head. "You were talking all along about making me a prefect? Why didn't you just say so?"

"I would rather the idea had come from you."

"Like I'm going to demand to be made a prefect!"

Dumbledore cleared his throat, which made Harry colour. "Oh. Well, I guess I did demand it once, but I was pretty upset at the time . . ." He turned to the headmaster. "You don't still think I have too much on my plate?"

"Well, you have a father now," said Dumbledore, very softly. "I fancy he knows you better than I do, and he thought you would make a splendid prefect indeed."

"Yeah, because I'll set such a good example," said Harry wryly, but not bitterly. Snape's idea was actually a pretty good one. "Nobody'll forget I'm a Slytherin, not now."

"If you feel I am using you--"

Crap. "No, I didn't mean it like that," said Harry earnestly. "I am honoured, Severus. Honestly."

"He's honestly honoured," said Draco, snickering.

"I am," said Harry, glaring briefly at his brother. "It's all right with me that the badge serves more than one purpose at once. After all, that's what Slytherin is all about, isn't it? Seeing things on more than one level?"

"Well said, Harry, well said." Dumbledore beamed, and picked up both the small trays that had appeared on his desk a few moments earlier. "Gherkin? Biscuit?"

To Harry's surprise, Snape took one of the tiny pickles. He didn't bite into it, but merely held it between a thumb and forefinger. "Far more than one level. For example, your application to the Auror Apprentice Programme can only be enhanced by your having held a leadership position at school."

"Excuse me," said Draco, "you mean our applications, don't you?"

"Yours as well, of course."

Draco's eyes began to gleam. "Hmm. That brings up a good question. What about Head Boy? If I'm fully restored to my former standing, then I'm in line for that, surely?"

"Don't press your luck," said Harry.

"You were expelled unjustly, Draco," said the headmaster, "but you did in fact attack a fellow student last year. Not to mention a certain incident involving pastries, hmm?"

Draco slumped a little. "I don't even deserve to be a prefect; that's what you mean."

Dumbledore stroked a hand down his beard, his fingers twisting in the wiry strands. "Indeed, that is not what I mean. I am very happy to welcome you back into the small community of prefects. You made some terrible mistakes last year, but then, you had far more terrible background to overcome than most wizards could comprehend. And in the end, you distinguished yourself quite impressively, as I believe I made clear?"

"Yes, you did," said Draco, sitting up straighter, the kind words clearly warming him.

"So, as that's settled--"

"All hail the Head Boy," interrupted Draco, sounding just a little bit put out as he turned to Harry and gave a dramatic wave.

"Oh, sure, since I have all that prefect experience. Five whole minutes of it--"

"Indeed, the Head Boy and Girl shall be chosen from the ranks of those who have diligently performed their prefect duties from fifth year onwards," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Ron and Hermione," said Harry eagerly, nabbing a biscuit and munching into it. "Right? Oh, come on! You can tell me! I won't breathe a word!"

Dumbledore peered over the top of his spectacles. "The selection, in fact, has yet to be made."

Harry's face fell. "All right. Well, thanks for this little celebration, then. Though I suppose it is a bit of a special occasion, appointing seventh-year prefects instead of just having them continue on from the previous year."

"Did your have lemonade include a dash of Babbling Beverage?" asked Draco.

"What?" Harry glanced around to see that both his father and brother were looking bemused. Only Dumbledore seemed to understand what he'd been trying to say.

"Ah. I believe Harry's thinking of the custom in Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall sends out letters to inform students that they have been appointed prefects."

"Letters?" Draco sounded appalled. "No personal touch at all? No ceremony, for such an important moment? What about their badges?"

"I believe she owls those with the letters."

"How perfectly barbaric." Draco shuddered. "But then, what can you expect from Gryffindor?"

Harry knew that McGonagall had a different way of running her House--very different from Snape--but that didn't mean he was going to stand for much more of this. "There's nothing wrong with Gryffindor!"

"Did I say there was?"

"Yes, to Scrimgeour!"

"Minister Scrimgeour, Harry," chided Dumbledore.

Harry snorted. He'd thought everybody was past all that, unless he was actually in class. "You told him that Gryffindor was a very odd House!"

"Well, you lot are. Owling badges about!"

Harry's anger abruptly lost its edge. "I'm a Slytherin too, Draco," he said quietly.

Draco crossed his arms. "I forget that sometimes."

If even his own brother did that, it was no wonder the rest of the students did the same. "Well, that stops now," said Harry, adjusting his badge a little. He almost wished it were bigger, just so it could make a point. "I'm going to make it a point this year, to show everybody that I'm just as much a Slytherin as a Gryffindor. Slytherin prefect is a good start."

"Seventh-year Slytherin prefect," added Snape. "Which is to say . . . the two of you will be second only to myself and Albus in terms of authority over the House."

"Right," said Harry, nodding. "A lot more time in Slytherin. Helping the first-years settle in, all that. House meetings."

It came to Harry then, like a ray of light from above, that he'd actually been reluctant before, to really embrace Slytherin the way he should. He'd told himself that he was only being sensible, but there were things he could have done . . . he hadn't wanted to do them, that was all.

Now, he did.

"I need a spot for me in Slytherin, Dad. In, you know, the seventh-years' dormitory. Which shouldn't be a problem, really. I mean, now that Nott's not around."

For once, Draco didn't make fun of his phrasing. "You're moving in? Really?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll live in both. Trade off nights as the mood strikes, I guess. But, you know, just having a bed with my name on it will send a message. Namely, that I really am a Slytherin. It's not just something I'm stuck with. It's a part of me."

Snape finished his Galliano and set the glass aside. "You aren't still afraid of being murdered in your bed at night?"

"Zabini," spat Draco. "We can put all the strongest locking charms we like on our door, Harry, but he'll still be in the room with us."

"He might prank me, but he's not going to kill me," said Harry, though his laugh emerged a little bit nervously. "Look, when I said they might kill me in my sleep, I was thinking more of nasty pieces of work like Marcus Flint. Who's long gone, of course. I don't know . . . it hadn't really sunk in that we're the seventh-years now."

Draco considered that, and after a moment, nodded. Then, he grinned. "Larissa's going to be after you all the time, you know. I want to see Sals. I want you to tell Sals something for me. I want to feed Sals!"

"She won't want to feed her for long. It's gross, watching Sals eat." Harry reached over and gave his brother a light shove. "Maybe she'll get interested in your ferret, instead."

"No dice. I can't converse with Loki."

"Harry," said Snape, his hands folded in his lap, "I do hope you haven't felt pressured into this decision. Your change of mind is . . . rather abrupt."

"Paradigm shift." Harry shrugged. "I don't know. It just suddenly struck me that I'm both, but I really have been leaning hard in one direction. It's time to find a better balance. So, yeah. Inscribe my name on Nott's old bed. Except . . . er, can I have a different bed moved in? I don't really want to sleep on his mattress, eww."

"Brand-new beds for all the seventh-year boys!" declared Draco. "My treat! Er . . . do you think I can forget about Zabini, though? And maybe Crabbe; he wasn't so nice to me last year, was he?"

"What are your perfect manners telling you?" asked Snape, eyes narrowed in challenge.

"New beds all around. Oh, well. This'll be good practice for redecorating my house, I suppose."

Dumbledore, Harry noticed, hadn't said a thing about the new living arrangements. He'd just sat and listened, steadily eating gherkin after gherkin, his old eyes . . . well, not exactly calculating, but he was definitely thinking the matter through. "Sir? It's all right with you, isn't it, if I have a bed in Slytherin, too?"

The headmaster's head jerked, as if he were coming out of a trance. To Harry, though, the motion looked a little too deliberate. "What? Oh . . . well, it's a bit unusual, as rooming arrangements go, but . . ." He glanced briefly at Snape. "I have the greatest of faith in your father's judgment, Harry. If he thinks the idea a sound one, I cannot disagree."

Harry took that to mean that Dumbledore wasn't in love with the idea, but wasn't willing to alienate Snape--and Harry--over the matter. Still, no point in letting on that he'd read between the lines. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Harry," said Snape, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. That alone told Harry how moved the man was. He didn't want Dumbledore to know, and really, Harry couldn't blame him.

After all, Harry didn't want Dumbledore to know how pleased he was that he'd got it right. Snape had been hinting before, for Harry to come up with some way to get himself seen as a Slytherin, and Harry had completely missed the point.

But this time, he'd got it right.

"The prefects' password for the year, sir?" asked Draco. For a moment, Harry was irritated by the question. Couldn't it have waited?

But then, he decided that Snape probably needed a change of subject, and Draco had picked up on that.

"Mollycoddles," said Dumbledore with a wave of his wand.

"Mollycoddles?"

"Harry understands me. Don't you, my boy?"

Harry nodded. Dumbledore wanted him to know that he was loved by Gryffindors, too. Dumbledore was worried that Harry was leaning too far toward Slytherin . . .

"Well, come on, Harry," said Draco, tugging on his hand. "You've never seen any of the prefects' baths! You'll be glad you learned to swim; the tubs are absolutely massive--"

Harry decided not to ruin Draco's glee by mentioning that he already knew all that. "We'll see you later, Dad. I guess Draco and I have things to do."

"Things to do, places to see, beds to order! Oh, this is going to be the best year ever!" Draco was still nattering on as the spiral staircase wound them down and around. "I think we'll have to stick with silver-and-green for a colour scheme, but we can do whatever we like with all the rest. Do you like dark woods, Harry? Or maybe we should have the beds made out of maple, to celebrate my new wand. That'll stick in Zabini's craw, all right--"

Laughing, Harry let himself be pulled down the corridor . . . and into Draco's own peculiar brand of madness.

Chapter Text

Harry had been convinced for years that August was the longest month of the year. Even before he'd started at Hogwarts, August had meant that school was right around the corner. After a summer with the Dursleys, Harry couldn't wait for a chance to get away from them for several hours a day. Once he'd started at Hogwarts, going to school had been even more brilliant. Months at a time without Dudley's bullying, Uncle Vernon's bellowing, and Aunt Petunia's high, shrill voice.

No matter his other problems, Hogwarts had been a haven for him.

But of course, that had only made the summers seem even longer than before, and August was always the worst.

Harry hadn't been expecting this August to crawl along so slowly, but then, he'd never counted on just how annoying Draco's whinging could be.

Fifty times a day, Harry heard the same words, the same complaints, repeated in dozens of different ways. They always boiled down to the same exact thing, though.

I miss Rhiannon. I want Rhiannon. I can't stand to be apart from Rhiannon.

It got to the point where Harry actually told Draco to shut up, already. That didn't go over so well. Draco had lifted his chin in the way he had, and glared with eyes like chips of ice. That was bad enough, but what he said was far worse.

"I'm not surprised you can't understand. You've never been in love. Not completely, hopelessly, rest-of-your-life, head-over-heels in love," Draco announced in a smarmy tone. "You don't know what it's like to miss somebody with your whole heart--"

Harry couldn’t stand it. If he stayed there, he was going to hex Draco. Or deck him. Or maybe both.

So Harry left, slamming the door on his way out, and headed without thinking to the one place that would prove Draco wrong. Harry did understand what it was like to miss someone, he did. The moment he was in front of the Mirror of All Souls, he sat down cross-legged, and tried to get himself under control. Sometimes, he could hardly stand Draco. The other boy believed he was always right, for one thing. He thought just because Harry hadn't been "in love," that Harry didn't know what it was like to miss someone!

Well, Draco didn't know what he was talking about, that was all. Harry's grief over Sirius was at least a hundred times worse than Draco's longing for Rhiannon, because at least she was alive. Draco could contact her any time he liked. So what if he was restricted to letters for the moment? At least he had a way to talk with her!

Harry ground his teeth together until they hurt, but it didn't help at all. He still wanted to stomp back home and pound some sense into Draco.

Instead, he forced himself to look up at the mirror, proof positive that there was more than one kind of love in the world. Proof that he did know what it was like to miss people and want them near.

Standing up, Harry started walking around the mirror, circling it over and over like a shark closing in on prey. He had to be able to solve it, he just had to. He'd go mad if he didn't. Here was a chance to talk to his parents, to really converse with them for the first time ever. He'd been too shocked in the graveyard to do anything but listen to their frantic instructions. Besides, there had hardly been time for anything more. But with the mirror, he could have a chance to really get to know them, so there wouldn't be this awful, aching, gaping hole in his heart.

It shouldn't be there; Harry knew it shouldn't. He had Snape now. He loved Snape, and he could hardly ask for a better father, or one who understood him more thoroughly.

But still, when Harry thought about the mirror, the hole in his heart seemed to grow in size.

Probably because there was room in the hole to fit more than just his parents. Harry missed Sirius, too, missed him with an intensity that was actually frightening, sometimes.

Ha, in comparison, Draco's whinging on about Rhiannon struck Harry as stupid and shallow. So what if Draco hadn't seen her for two whole weeks? Harry hadn't seen Sirius in over a year, and if he couldn't get the mirror working, he'd never see him.

Oh, but Harry didn't know a thing about missing a loved one!

He was still circling the mirror and fuming about the unfairness of life when the door to the room creaked open and his father stepped inside, his robes fluttering around his heels. "I thought we had an agreement," Snape said, his voice stern. "You're not to wander the castle alone."

Harry's temper snapped. "It makes a lot of sense that you made me a prefect then, doesn't it? What are people going to think when I need a bloody bodyguard? Are they going to respect Slytherin then, eh?"

Snape ignored the questions completely, stepping closer. "What's wrong, Harry?"

Two could play at that game, Harry thought viciously as he ignored that question. "I'm not supposed to wander the castle alone because we're keeping up appearances," he snarled. "Not because I actually am weak and frail and helpless! And it's summer now, with no students about except for Draco and me, so what's the big deal if I come here on my own?"

Snape frowned. "The state of mind you appear to be in, I'd be concerned what you might do."

Harry bared his teeth. "And here I thought that Draco was the only one in this family who liked to throw needles in my face!"

Harry wasn't sure what happened, then. All he knew was that one minute, he was screaming his head off like some kind of nutter, and the next, he was bursting into tears. Literally, hot blobs of tears flooding down his cheeks as he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

He whirled away, flinging up an arm to hide his face, and wished he could just vanish on the spot. God, how embarrassing, weeping like this, like Sirius had died just last week instead of months and months ago. Crying like a little baby when he was an adult now. Crying like a girl.

And yet none of those thoughts were enough to make him stop, even though he could hardly breathe by then. His chest felt like a troll was sitting on it--

But then from behind, two strong hands grasped his shoulders and turned him around. Without a word, Snape pulled him close and hugged him tight, holding him and letting him cry until Harry had no more tears inside him.

By the time Harry was through, his father's robes were damp with tears, and Harry felt like he'd just run a marathon. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for days.

Snape seemed to sense his exhaustion. Still holding onto Harry with one arm--supporting him, really--he summoned some bits of broken junk in the room, and effortlessly transfigured them into two padded chairs.

Harry stared at them, wondering if a padded room wouldn’t be more to the point. God, could he get much more mental? Snape deserved better than a son who burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Or one that could win a contest for World's Biggest Whinger.

"Come, sit," urged Snape, coaxing him over to a chair.

Harry didn't want to, but he gave in with bad grace. "How did you find me, anyway? Did you use my dad's map?"

Snape's eyes gleamed as he nodded. "Very useful bit of parchment, that map."

Harry suddenly had a bad feeling. "You aren't going to use it to get students in trouble, are you? For wandering after curfew?"

"Instead of walking the halls to find them? I must admit, the idea has crossed my mind."

"Well, you can't use it for that," said Harry, crossing his arms as he sat there.

"I can't?"

"Of course not!" Bloody hell, he should have remembered that his father was a Slytherin. "That's it, then. I want the map back, right now."

Snape withdrew an old, weathered parchment from a fold in his robes, but he made no effort to hold it out. "I need your solemn promise that no matter how much you are tempted, you absolutely will not use this map to see who is coming so that you may find secluded places in which to stick yourself."

"Of course I won't--"

"Think about it," Snape urged, his voice about as serious as Harry had ever heard it. "Think carefully before you promise. If I give you this map back, and you end up hurting yourself, I will have failed you as a father."

"It wouldn't be your fault that I start back with the needles--"

"So you do feel it is a possibility," said Snape grimly.

"Not a possibility," hedged Harry, but by then, he knew he was fooling only himself. And not even that well. "Shite. I guess if things got really bad, I might want to use the map for that."

"You're to come to me immediately if you feel any inclination to use a needle," said Snape sternly. "We have a standing agreement. Are you saying that having the map might convince you to ignore it?"

"Look, I'm not Trelawney." Harry sighed. "Oh, fine. Keep the stupid thing."

"It's a magnificent creation, worthy of your father's magical talents."

Harry smiled. He couldn't help it; he liked the fact that these days, Snape could so easily say something complimentary about James Potter. That alone made a huge difference to his mood. He could hardly believe he'd cried so hard just a few minutes earlier. "You have to promise not to use it to track students. Except, you know, if there's a true emergency or something like that. You can't use it just to get Gryffindors in trouble."

"I had it at the end of the previous term," Snape reminded him. "I don't recall using it that way, then."

"Well, you were slightly busy, weren't you?" Harry snorted. "And that wasn't a promise, Dad. So let's have one."

"Or?"

"Or I'll demand the map back, simple as that. And I'm an adult and it's my property, so you have no right to keep it if I say to give it back."

"Harry . . ." Snape gave him what Harry could only think of as an indulgent look. "Don't you know how much a child it makes you sound, to demand things on the basis of how you are such an adult?"

"Dad," said Harry, trying to match that look, "don't you know how transparent you sound right now? I've had almost a year in Slytherin. If you never make that promise I asked for, I'm going to notice."

Snape unfolded the map, which was still showing the rooms and corridors of Hogwarts, and said with a slight quirk to his lips. "Done being Slytherin, then. Though in this case, I'd hardly call it mischief managed."

The parchment wiped itself clean on the last two words.

"And?" asked Harry, trying not to make the question come out too demanding.

"And you are far, far more important to me than any opportunity to catch Gryffindors about after hours, you idiot child. I'm surprised you would need to be told a thing like that--"

"You still aren't promising."

Snape rolled his eyes, the gesture so dramatic that Harry knew his father was being sarcastic on purpose. His words weren't sarcastic at all, though. "I promise not to use your map to catch Gryffindors sneaking about after curfew."

Harry smiled, about to say, Now that wasn't so hard, was it . . . until something occurred to him. "Or Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws," he quickly added. "Yeah, forgot to mention them, didn't you?"

"So I'm allowed to terrorize my own house?" asked Snape mildly.

"Well, the clear presumption there is that you have no motive to take points from Slytherin," Harry pointed out, feeling cheeky. "But to be fair all around, just say 'students,' then."

"I promise not to use your map to catch students sneaking about after curfew. However, I retain the right to cancel all such promises if any sort of emergency arises."

Harry had assumed he would. And he was pretty sure that his father was using "emergency" in the broadest possible sense, but . . . "All right. That'll do."

"I do hope you realise that I could have kept the map without that nonsensical promise," said Snape. "You are of age and it is your property, but Heads of House still have every right to confiscate magical items that, in their opinion, do not belong at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling very stupid, by then.

"And your only recourse at that juncture would have been to threaten to withdraw from school."

"Which you know I wouldn't do." Harry tilted his head to one side. "Why'd you promise, then? You must have known that you had me."

"Because you are giving up something important," Snape said simply. "You will feel better about it if you believe that I am doing the same."

"It's Slytherins who feel that things have to be even--"

"And you are a Slytherin, are you not?"

Harry thought of his prefect's badge, pinned to one of his school robes. It was in his wardrobe at the moment, since there was no reason to dress like a student until term began. "Slytherin for everyone to see, this year," he said.

Snape tucked the map away in a pocket. "Indeed. Now, as for the concerns you expressed before, about how your prefect status will interact with the perception that you are a weak wizard . . ." Snape shrugged. "It's unfortunate that we must maintain that pretence, Harry. However, my interest that you be seen as a Slytherin was never rooted in the belief that my house needs to see Slytherins being powerful. What many of them fail to realise is that it is possible for a Slytherin to, as the headmaster would term it, 'choose what is right instead of what it easy.' Or expedient. Or advantageous."

"People will still think it's strange that a prefect needs an escort."

"Oh, yes." Snape smiled, the expression razor-thin. "But that won't pose a serious problem. In the immediate future, people will simply assume that I appointed you out of pure nepotism. When the full truth is known later, however . . . ?"

"What?"

"Think like a Slytherin. I know you can do that, when you put your mind to it."

Harry would once have thought that an insult, but it sounded more like a compliment, these days. Probably because he understood Slytherin, and Snape, a lot better. "Hmm. Well . . . later on, people will know I was never actually weak, right? They'll know that I was just pretending. Pretending for a long time . . . oh." Harry grinned. "That's just . . . devious, Dad. After the fact, they'll know that not only was I in Slytherin and wearing a badge to prove it, but they'll understand that I actually am Slytherin, through and through. To have fooled them all, like that, for so long!"

"More importantly, to have fooled them in pursuit of a tactical goal. This isn't a mere prank. It's strategy."

"Yeah, well I think they'll all know it was your idea, not mine--"

"But you are the one who will carry it off. And in the doing, you will prove yourself a consummate Slytherin."

"And the prefect's badge?"

Snape shrugged. "The point might be lost without that. You might merely be seen as a rather devious Gryffindor, but the badge will ensure that people draw the conclusion I wish."

"We wish," Harry corrected. "Draco said it, you know, that Goyle was just the first. We're going to make a lot more Slytherins see that Voldemort isn't any sort of answer. Not that Goyle has really seen that. He just wasn't willing to stop being friends with Draco over it."

"We shall use whatever means we must. However, speaking of your brother . . . before I came in search of you, he told me what happened this afternoon."

Oh, Draco had told him what had happened. Harry could hardly wait to hear his brother's version of events. "All right, what did he say?"

Snape gave him a knowing look. That alone told Harry that he wasn't going to like the answer. "He announced that you'd stormed off in a fit of pique because you can't manage to get a girlfriend of your own."

"Draco's a complete arsehole." Harry didn't care how blunt that was, or even how rude Snape thought he was. It was just the truth. The simple truth. And if Snape wanted to punish him for saying so, Harry thought darkly, then he could try, but Harry wasn't taking it back, no matter what the man decided to do about it, and--

"He's being an arsehole, I agree," said Snape calmly, cutting across Harry's thoughts. Frenzied thoughts, Harry suddenly realised. Had he really been about to tell his father that if Snape didn't like what Harry said, he could shove it straight up his big, fat, nose?

Ouch.

Snape didn't speak again until Harry looked at him, which took a while because Harry was pretty embarrassed by then, and not just over earlier. Honestly, crying and blubbering like a little kid was bad enough, but being tempted to yell insults about Snape's appearance?

Finally, though, he got his emotions under control and looked up. Occluding helped. Somewhere in between storming away from home and crying all over Snape, he'd lost his grip on his Occlumency without even realising.

Hmm, and Voldemort hadn't immediately pounced. Maybe that meant that Harry could risk dropping his shields once in a while. To work on the mirror, for instance. Maybe he'd only latched onto Harry so quickly at the party because he'd just destroyed the Ministry and he was feeling in the mood to gloat . . .

"Harry?"

Snape's voice came to him sounding like it was being wafted along by a wave of concern. Harry had the feeling that he'd been staring into space for a while by then, as he got his Occlumency back under control and then under the fire, thought about Voldemort. Actually, he had the feeling that Snape had said his name more than once.

Harry met his father's eyes. "Yeah. I'm all right, really. Just got lost in thought for a minute there. Um, you were saying? Something about how you agree with me that Draco's an arse?"

A thin hint of a smile barely lifted the man's lips. "I agreed that he was being an arse. That's quite a difference from believing that he actually is one."

Harry's thoughts rapidly flew back over the past year, over all the things Draco had said and done. Little, ordinary things like joking about with Harry, as well as momentous ones like getting over his fear of snakes enough to keep his wits about him in France. Yeah, after all that, Draco deserved more than to be called an arsehole. He wasn't one. Or at least, not any longer. Harry wasn't going to go so far as to think that Draco was only being an arse during his first five years at Hogwarts. "All right then, I get it," he said abruptly. "But if you want the truth--"

"Now when have I ever not wanted that?" Snape murmured, one eyebrow lifted.

Harry almost chuckled. "Well, you wanted it, so here it is. Draco's being a royal pain in the neck over missing his girlfriend, and I couldn't stand to listen to his whinging any longer, so I left."

Snape shifted in his chair. Strange . . . it didn't look like he leaned forward, exactly, but somehow he ended up closer to Harry. "And came here."

"Yeah." Harry swallowed, vaguely aware that he was feeling "defensive," as Marsha would put it. God, after the mental way he'd acted today, Snape would probably insist that Harry have daily sessions from now on. "Because I miss people too!"

"Of course you do." Snape paused for a moment, moving to lean his elbows on the arms of his chair, positioning his hands so that he could steeple his fingers together. "You never got to say good-bye, which makes things much harder than otherwise. I will urge you to understand, however, that losing someone is never easy under any circumstances."

Harry nodded, blinking rapidly because he was getting that stepped-on feeling once more. And damn it, he didn't want to burst into tears again. He'd already made a fool of himself too many times for one day.

"Your brother didn't get to say good-bye to Rhiannon."

Well, that helped Harry forget about crying. It made him glare daggers at his father, instead. "That's not the same thing. She's alive, for one. And for another, he did say good-bye to her. He just didn't get to do it in person."

"True." Snape tapped his fingers together, a sign that he was thinking. "He feels that he will never see her again, though, and at his age, letters hardly suffice. I fear his behaviour may grow increasingly erratic if his mental outlook does not improve, and with the war on? And this is his N.E.W.T year, as well. Hmm . . ."

"Dad?"

Harry felt like a total prat, but he also felt like he had to say it. "Could we stop talking about Draco? Please?"

Snape nodded, the motion abrupt. "Of course. I do wish I'd been able to find a solution for you, Harry." He gestured toward the mirror, which was shining like a newly-minted coin. It should be; Harry came here almost every day and cleaned it, hoping that some bright idea would occur to him and he'd be able to get it working.

Draco usually came with him, bringing along his Muggle Studies books so he'd have something to do while Harry puttered. Remembering that made Harry feel kind of bad that he'd been calling the other boy names. But he didn't want to think about Draco.

"Maybe I should just banish the mirror," said Harry, frowning. "Do you think I'm getting too obsessed with it?"

"It's not yours to banish, and as for the other . . ." Snape tapped his fingers together again, one after another. "I think you need some sort of final good-bye. Closure, if you will."

"You've been talking to Marsha about this, haven't you?" Harry didn't wait for an answer. "When do you do that, though?"

Marsha had come to the castle once since the Ministry attack, to see how Harry and Draco were "holding up," as she put it. Harry wasn't sure why she hadn't been more direct about the whole thing and called it a regular therapy session.

She was supposed to come back at least once more before term started, and after that, they would have sessions with her on an as-needed basis. Ha, maybe Draco was the one who needed daily sessions, since if you asked Harry, he was obsessive-compulsive over his girlfriend.

In any case, though, Harry did wonder when Snape had found time to consult with their therapist. The one time she'd come, she'd taken the train--apparently squibs had some way-or-other to get through the barrier at the station--and had walked to the castle from Hogsmeade. Snape had offered in an owl-post to Side-Along Apparate her, but she'd written back that she would enjoy a day on the train and a brisk walk. He had taken her back to Surrey, the two of them sharing a Portkey that Dumbledore had prepared for her alone. That didn't work out so well; Marsha had taken one look at it and had shaken her head. She didn't explain, but from the look on her face, Harry would guess that she'd had at least one bad experience with a Portkey. Maybe that kind of transport was even more violent for squibs than it was for wizards. Hard to imagine, really. But then, Harry loathed Portkeys.

Hmm, most likely because of his own bad experience with one.

Well, at least Marsha had been willing to Portkey home when Snape said he'd go with her to "absorb the brunt of the magic." Bit gallant of him, really. Draco had thought so too. The minute the two of them had left, he'd started in with the match-making talk that their father found so tiresome. Draco actually began to calculate how long Snape would have to be gone in order to sneak in a quick kiss--as if the man had any intention whatever of kissing Marsha Goode.

As if Marsha would put up with that kind of thing from the father of two boys she was counselling!

Draco had actually looked disappointed when Snape returned through the Floo just a minute later.

One minute . . . not enough time for much kissing, let alone conversation.

"Marsha has a Floo?" Harry had asked, blinking.

Snape had looked down his long nose at him. "Of course not. You've been in her office enough times. Did you see one there?"

"Oh, we thought you perhaps had escorted her to her flat, like a proper gentleman caller," Draco had chimed in.

Snape shot him a look that effectively silenced any comments like that. Then he returned his attention to Harry. "I Apparated from her office to your house--"

"My house," corrected Draco, who obviously hadn't been silenced for long.

"And I flooed from there," Snape had continued, ignoring Draco that time.

So between arriving by Portkey, Apparating out, and then flooing back to Hogwarts, Snape definitely hadn't had much time to talk to Marsha about Harry and the mirror, or Harry's need for "closure." So when had the topic come up?

"When you leave Draco and me alone in your quarters," asked Harry, returning to the point, "are you heading out to Surrey to talk with our therapist?"

"Occasionally," Snape admitted. "It's a simple matter to floo out to Grimmauld Place and then Apparate to her place of work."

Simple matter? "She might be with somebody, and you can't just solve that with an Obliviate. Marsha would have kittens if someone who already has . . . er, issues, ended up with amnesia too."

Snape tensed the tiniest bit, like he was suddenly uncomfortable. "Ah. We had to arrange something in regards to that. I proposed that she should keep her office free of outsiders at a certain time each day, in case I wished to speak with her--"

"Let me guess. She told you exactly what she thought of that idea."

"Quite," said Snape, shifting in his seat again. "The good doctor insisted that she could not guarantee to be alone, not when one of her patients might need her."

Harry wasn't so sure he liked being called a "patient," but since he was one, objecting would be pretty brainless. And anyway, Snape was still speaking.

"I tried to persuade her that you and Draco have needs that are paramount, and that she should tell her other . . . clients she was unavailable at that hour, but she refused to see matters that way."

So his father had noticed that Harry didn't like being referred to as a patient. Which went to prove, he supposed, that Marsha was right about body language expressing an awful lot. "Yeah, I imagine she would object to that. So what do you do, Apparate into her closet and listen to see if she's with anybody?"

Snape huffed slightly. "And breach client-therapist confidentiality, a subject I assure you I have heard far too much about in the space of a single summer? The woman would have a fit of apoplexy at the mere mention of my lurking in her office closet."

Harry grinned. "So I guess she meant the bit about not repeating what Draco and I say."

"She is disgustingly ethical on the matter."

"Even though you pump her for information every chance you get," said Harry with glee. "Ha!"

Snape gave him a piercing look, but didn’t pry into what Harry might discuss with his therapist. "As for how I contact her, I ring her from Grimmauld Place using a mobile phone obtained for just that purpose. Once we are speaking, she can inform me as to whether I am welcome to Apparate to her office so that we can converse in private."

"Well, don’t tell Draco you've got hold of another mobile. He'll be after you to let him go to Grimmauld Place so he can call Rhiannon."

"No, he wouldn't. He's far too concerned over her safety, and as I said, the house has been in use since shortly after the attack on the Ministry. Draco is not interested in his own comfort, not when it means doing anything that might divulge his petite amie's existence to outsiders."

Hmm, by that standard, Ron and Hermione counted as insiders, which was a nice thought. More than a thought, really; they did know all about the scheme to pretend he was a weak wizard. "So you won't tell Draco about the phone because it would be like taunting him." Harry sighed. "The way this effing mirror taunts me."

"I would do anything in my power to spare you that."

"I know," said Harry, a little sadly. "But you told me once that potions can't cure everything. I guess . . . neither can fathers, no matter how much they'd like to."

"Potions can't cure everything?" asked Snape in a tone of mock horror. "Are you certain?"

"Yeah, pretty sure, but my dad makes me learn them anyway," said Harry with a straight face. "Wants me to earn a N.E.W.T. in the subject, even though it's not even required any longer! Can you believe that?"

Snape's smile reached his eyes. "I do believe I can." A moment later, all humour dropped away from his expression. "Harry. Perhaps we should discuss what Draco said about your not having a girlfriend."

Harry stiffened. So he was bad with girls, so what? It wasn't like it mattered very much. "Look, I don’t even want one. You can trust me on that."

"I do trust you on that. In fact, I have been meaning to broach the matter with you."

"I'd rather not talk about it. At all," said Harry in a low voice. Didn't his father understand that Harry would rather be like everybody else, would rather not be singled out like this? The only thing worse than it being true was dwelling on it. "I can't change anything, so what's the point?"

When Harry glanced up, it looked to him like his father was choosing his words with even more care than usual. "The point, perhaps, is that it is neither healthy nor wise to continue on as you have been doing."

Harry shook his head. For once, his father was wrong. Dead wrong. It was both healthy and wise for Harry to go it alone. So healthy and wise, in fact, that he didn't even care that he rarely thought about romance. Why would he want to give Voldemort another target? It was bad enough that Voldemort would set his sights on Draco and Snape, and if Harry had been thinking straight . . . well, no, the adoption and everything that had followed weren't things he could regret, but he wasn't about to drag anybody else into the war zone that surrounded him.

Harry sighed. "Dad . . . I can't control much in this mess, but at least I can control that one thing, all right? I can choose to say no. I won't do it. I just won't, and no offence, but talking isn't going to help at all, so let's just stop now."

Snape looked . . . well, not exactly horrified, but disturbed, at any rate. "Harry . . . denying yourself what you want romantically is only going to cause bigger problems in the long run."

"No, it's not. It's going to avoid problems." Harry was a little surprised that Snape couldn't see that, but then, he thought that Rhiannon was really good for Draco, war or no war. So maybe he thought that Harry ought to relax and let himself be a normal teenager. One who went on dates and thought about snogging all the time. "And anyway, I've decided not to want romance, you see? I can't afford to let myself want a . . . a thing like that."

"A thing like that," repeated Snape, shaking his head. "You speak as if your desires aren't normal, but let me assure you, they are. There is nothing wrong with--"

"I don't have desires," insisted Harry, his hands clenching. "Not that kind. I can't. I won't. It's my choice not to have them, and nothing you say is going to argue me into them. I'm fine doing without. Really, I am."

Snape sat back, almost like he felt defeated. "Just tell me that you'll talk to someone, Harry. The good doctor, perhaps."

"Her?" Harry almost scoffed. "She can't possibly understand what this is like." And then, because his father was looking so distressed, Harry started over. "Well, we have touched on it, actually. But . . . there's no point in discussing it further, don't you understand? No point."

"All right, Harry," said Snape in a heavy voice as he slowly rose to his feet. "Why don't you come home? It's long past time for lunch."

Harry wasn't hungry, but he nodded and followed his father out the door.

Harry had pretty much given up on Scrimgeour ever helping him with the mirror. Not that he'd really expected anything from the man. Harry had thought all along that the Minister's story of having contacts in a mirror-smuggling ring rang false, and when the middle of August came and went without any further word, Harry figured that Scrimgeour had more important things to do than try to get information about a mirror that had been broken for almost a hundred years.

Then, late one afternoon, another letter from the Minister for Magic came whooshing out the Floo.

Harry wasn't too excited about it, actually. It probably wasn't anything but another empty promise to "look into it." Yeah, that sounded like Scrimgeour. He wanted a good relationship with Harry--a good relationship on his own terms, that was--so it was only expected that he would eventually write to assure Harry that he was continuing his efforts to help.

Slytherin, thought Harry. He's just being a Slytherin. If you can't help, pretend you can!

Snape insisted on checking the letter over for hexes and curses, because even with the Minister's seal on it, you couldn't be too cautious. Harry didn't care. It wasn't like he was anxious to be strung along.

The letter, though, wasn't at all what Harry had been expecting.

Dear Mr Potter,

My contacts on the Continent were reluctant to divulge what they consider to be "trade secrets," but I eventually prevailed by assuring them in no uncertain terms that you have no interest in competing with them professionally.

Common wisdom about mirrors holds that broken ones are almost impossible to repair save by those few individuals who are able to master the intricate art of learning to dominate mirrors in general. My contacts, however, have finally informed me that this is, in fact, not true. There is a trick that can provide a "shortcut," if you will, enabling one to skip over the laborious process of mastering a mirror and then attempting to transfer that mastery to mirrors originally spelled by other wizards.

I do not know of what use this trick will be for you, since it has very specific requirements, but in the interests of assisting you in any possible way, I will explain what I have learned.

Apparently, mirrors operate on principles somewhat similar to those that guide the behaviour of potions. You have no doubt learned from your esteemed father that in the field of potion-making, "like enhances like." Ingredients with similar magical properties can bind themselves together in a synergistic relationship in which the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. You will likely have learned to apply this principle when, for example, brewing explosive potions.

I bring up the parallel with potions in an effort to help you understand the principle as it applies to mirrors. This is quite counter-intuitive, but it appears that when it comes to mirrors, "broken enhances broken." One broken mirror can repair another, in other words. Of course, magic is never as simple as that sounds. The two mirrors must be broken in different ways, to begin with. The wizard who attempts the repair must have personally broken one of the mirrors to be used, but this can be problematic, since mirrors do not respond to wizards who abuse them as part of a deliberate bid toward repairs. Lastly, in order to accomplish the repair itself, one must engage in the risky business of combining magical artefacts. I have prevailed upon my contacts to provide information about the exact nature and method they employ in order to combine mirrors together, but unfortunately, that secret is guarded so zealously that it is passed on only by means of an Unbreakable Vow.

If I did not respect you as a sensible young man who has very sound guidance at home, I would not have disclosed this information at all, for attempting to combine magically imbued items can be a hazardous enterprise. I trust that you will avail yourself of the excellent advice available to you on this topic from not only your adoptive father, but also Headmaster Dumbledore. You will not, I am sure, attempt anything foolhardy on your own, because as we both know, your untimely death would be a terrible blow not only to those who love you, but also to the world in general at this time.

I hope that this information, limited as it is, proves of use in your quest. Do not hesitate to owl me if there are other ways in which I can be of assistance, Mr Potter. I look forward to continuing to build a close and amicable working relationship with you.

Sincerely,

Rufus Scrimgeour
Minister for Magic

Harry laughed out loud when he'd finished reading. "That's it! He's done it. I don't think he knows he's done it, and I'm not so sure I'll want to tell him, but he's done it!"

"He's gone mad," said Draco, cocking an eyebrow as he talked to Snape.

"Read it for yourself," sang Harry, flicking his fingers to waft the letter over to his brother.

"Harry, we've talked about this," said Snape. "You're getting into the habit of openly using your wandless magic. You need to conceal it. Draw your wand every time, even when among those who already know your secret."

"Right," said Harry, a little chastened. Not much, though. Nothing could wreck his mood, not after the news he'd got in that letter. Nothing, not even Draco's drawled commentary.

"Look, Harry, the solution is comparable to the use of potions. Potions, eh? So apparently the discipline does come in handy! I can tell already, it's going to be your favourite subject from now on!"

Harry laughed and made a face at his brother. "Well at least it doesn't say that I have to brew a potion--"

Draco suddenly made a derisive noise. "Oh, and isn't that sweet. Harry's not to die because it'll be such a blow to the world in general."

"Well, Scrimgeour did say it would be a loss for my loved ones as well--"

"What's this about Harry dying?" asked Snape, his long fingers reaching out to snatch the parchment from Draco's hands.

Harry almost laughed at the outraged look on his brother's face.

"Combining magical artefacts," muttered Snape when he'd finished reading. He didn't sound pleased.

"Yeah, but it'll be all right," Harry insisted, biting his lip because he would go mad if Snape refused him permission to try it. "I mean, Scrimgeour couldn't know this, but I already do have a broken mirror, one that fits all the . . . uh . . . --"

"Criteria," snapped Snape. "And I don't care how tailor-made you think that square mirror might be for this situation. If you think I'm about to let you apply untested wanded magic and get yourself killed or sucked alive into the afterlife, then--"

"But it's not untested, it's not!" shouted Harry, grabbing the letter back. "I've done it before. And yes, that was stupid of me, I admit it! Completely, totally stupid. But it worked! I know it's safe now!"

Snape gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with fury. "It worked once, Harry!"

Harry gnashed his teeth. "The point is, it worked! It was fine!"

Snape drew in a deep breath, his expression calming by what looked like sheer will. "Harry, your broken mirror has worked in a single context, and even that was not an unqualified success."

"It was perfectly safe."

"So safe that you broke Draco's picture frame in the process."

"Well, maybe that just goes back to the principle of 'like enhances like,'" said Harry. "Maybe that was a natural consequence of using a broken mirror on a working picture frame, since I didn't know what I was doing--"

"That is entirely my point. You don't know what you're doing," said Snape, sighing.

Harry abruptly sat down on the couch, trying not to fume. Throwing a fit wasn't going to get him what he wanted. "Why don't you sit down too?" he asked, trying to sound grown-up. "Let's talk about it."

Draco hadn't said anything since the letter had been snatched out of his hands, but he sat down as soon as Snape did and crossed his legs at the ankles, clearly settling in. Which was good, Harry figured. The whole family should be in on this sort of discussion.

"All right," said Harry, nodding at both of them. "Combining magical artefacts can be very dangerous. We all know that. But I already promised you that I wouldn't do anything on my own. You don't have to worry about that."

"Of course not," said Snape, rather snidely. "Because I have your mirror in my possession."

And he could insist on keeping it, Harry knew from their discussion about the map. Harry's only recourse would be to withdraw from school to get his property back, and there wasn't much point in that, since the Mirror of All Souls was here at Hogwarts.

Which meant that his father really had the upper hand.

"It's still leaking magic, by the way," said Snape, speaking in a much calmer voice.

"Well, that's fine," said Harry as mildly as he could. Reasoned argument . . . that was the right way to handle this. "I think I'd like it as broken as possible, if solving this is a case of broken enhancing broken."

"It's also missing a piece."

Harry nodded. "The shard I used before got sucked into the picture frame and didn't dissolve back out when I undid the spell."

"The broken part I can understand," said Draco. "But if the mirror is missing pieces, that could mean it won't combine properly with the Mirror of All Souls. I got the feeling the Minister was talking about mirrors that were at least intact."

"He never said that," argued Harry. "It might be that being extra broken will give us an advantage. What do you think, Dad?"

"Dad," repeated Snape, both his eyebrows lifting. "Are you starting that as well?"

When Harry just stared, Draco spoke. "He means calling him 'Dad' when you want something from him."

Harry's mouth dropped open for a second. "I do not! I call you Dad most of the time, and you know it."

"But you're attempting to manipulate me now. I also know that."

"Well, you usually approve of that," mumbled Harry. "You like seeing my Slytherin side come out."

"Not when it can get you killed, I don't!"

"Fine," said Harry shortly. "What do you think, Severus?"

The Potions Master crossed his arms. "I think that theoretical discussions of advanced wizardry are fascinating, and that this one needs to stay theoretical."

"You said you'd help me!"

"Not to commit suicide-by-magic, I didn't."

Harry crossed his own arms and sat back, disgusted. "So that's it, then? We're not even going to try? We're just going to give up because it might be a little bit dangerous?"

Snape abruptly rose to his feet and swept down the corridor towards his private office, his robes billowing behind him. Harry used expression alone to ask Draco what that was all about, and Draco shrugged.

In a moment more, Snape was back, a scroll of parchment in his hand. He unfurled it with a flourish as he took his seat, and handed it to Harry, who saw that it was his own essay from last year, the one on combining magical artefacts.

"Read."

"I don't need to read it. I remember what it said."

"Do you? And yet you just claimed that the endeavour, and I quote, 'might be a little bit dangerous.' Tell me, Harry, what happened to the wizard who combined a magic floater with a broom?"

"He . . . uh, he was swept out to sea."

Draco chortled, only to cut it out when Snape turned a fearsome glare on him, though he did murmur, "It's a good pun, Severus."

"A gruesome death is not a joke," rebuked Snape, which Harry thought the height of hypocrisy considering the macabre things Snape sometimes found amusing. But of course, this topic concerned his son, so he wasn't likely to see any humour in it. "And what happened to the witch who tried to merge wizarding books with a Pensieve so that she could live the books instead of bothering to read them through?"

"She got turned into a memory," whispered Harry, shuddering. That story had been particularly awful. The witch had ended up stuck in the Pensieve, nothing left of her but liquid goo. Worse than being a ghost . . . at least they could float around to visit different places. All this witch could do was stare at stone walls for eternity, since nobody dared retrieve the memory into their own heads.

"And what happened to--"

Harry flung the scroll onto the low table in front of the couch. "You don’t have to go through every paragraph. I do remember. But those people are beside the point, Severus. They're examples of people who rushed in without taking proper precautions. Well, I'll take them. And you'll be right there to see me take them, and to help me if the slightest thing goes wrong."

Snape sighed. "I would much rather be the one to take the risks myself, Harry."

Well, that was a pretty Gryffindor thing to say, wasn't it? Harry didn't want to get sidetracked, though, so he didn't mention that. Besides, Snape had some Gryffindor traits; he was certainly brave enough. He just tended to be strategic about putting his courage to use.

"Well, I wouldn't," said Harry, "because I love you and I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

"So you understand precisely how I feel."

"Yeah. I do, I really do. But you can't take the risks for me, anyway. Only I can do the Parseltongue magic that made this work before."

Snape inclined his head as if to acknowledge that. Harry decided that was progress.

He counted to five, assembling his thoughts, before he went on. "You know what else I learned from the essay you set me? All the witches and wizards I used as examples, every single one, broke the very first law of magical experimentation: they went into it alone. They didn't have anybody on hand to help if things went wrong. In most cases, they didn’t even tell anybody what they had planned. In a lot of these cases, it took investigators years to puzzle out just what could have caused these tragic accidents." Harry counted again, this time to ten, trying to decide how to word the final bit of his argument. "If you ask me, working alone . . . that's the mistake they made. Not combining artefacts. A lot of wizards have experimented on various magical items, and they're usually safe while they tinker, because they follow that first rule and make sure they have help available."

Snape closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This kind of discussion was easier when you didn't know how to conduct yourself as an adult."

All right, more than progress. Harry waited until his father looked at him again. "I'll work out a plan and write it down, so we can all go over it together. You'll know exactly what I intend to do and just how I expect the magic to behave at every stage, Severus. And we'll cast stasis spells all around to contain anything dangerous that may develop, though I really don't think anything will. Because honestly, I do already know how to work with Sirius' mirror. Maybe it'll be a little different combining it with the Mirror of All Souls, but we'll have every possible safeguard in place."

Snape stared at him, his dark eyes almost without expression. Damn . . . Harry wished he could tell what the man was thinking.

"When we 'all' go over your plan, whom do you intend to include?"

"Um . . . you, me, Draco, and . . ." Harry tried not to wince. "The headmaster."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You were expecting an objection?"

"Well, no, but . . . er, I don't mean to suggest that his magic is stronger than yours, or--"

"His magic is stronger than mine, Harry. So is yours, for that matter." Snape shrugged. "I can't deny that wizards do sometimes evaluate themselves and one another on that basis, but to shield you from harm, I would invite Merlin himself to supervise."

"Thanks," said Harry, smiling. "Wish we could include him."

A rustling noise had Harry glancing to the side, where Draco sat. The other boy's hands were shoved deep into his pockets, though until he spoke, Harry didn't know what had him so upset.

"I'll help with the spells, or just watching for anomalies, or anything else you think could be of use," he said quietly. "But . . . but . . . " Draco cleared his throat. Several times. "Once that mirror is working, I don't want to stand anywhere in the . . . the area that's being reflected. I . . . I can't."

Snape rose to his feet and crossed the room to Draco's chair, crouching down to look his son in the eyes. "Draco," he said, very softly. "No-one will make you do anything of the kind."

Draco gulped. "I know. I'm just afraid I might accidentally end up in . . . in the wrong place. And . . . and I'll see him."

Harry knew better than to reassure Draco that it couldn't happen. The mirror was only supposed to show you people you'd loved when they were alive, which meant that Lucius Malfoy might appear in it. Draco had definitely loved him once, and whatever he felt for the man now was complicated, to say the least.

Harry could empathise. Well, a little. Thank God, James Potter hadn't been a horrible person who'd ordered his own son's death, but Harry did know what it was like to feel ashamed of him. He was still ashamed of the way he'd tormented Snape for sport that time. Snape seemed to have got past that, but Harry couldn't, not completely.

Not until he saw his father in the mirror and asked him how he could have been such a complete and utter berk.

"I'm only worried on account of Harry," said Draco quickly, raising his chin a notch as he stared into Snape's dark eyes. "I don't care, otherwise."

Sure you don't, thought Harry.

"In fact," Draco went on, sounding defiant, "I think I'd like to see Lucius again. Wind him up a bit. You know, tell him that I'm going to marry a Muggle."

"Taunting Lucius Malfoy does not sound wise at all."

Draco curled a lip. "He's dead, and good riddance to him. What's he going to do?"

"He's managed to do enough damage as a portrait," said Snape sharply.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway." Draco slouched down into his chair, scowling. "Lucius Malfoy isn't in my heart, so there's not one chance I'll see him."

Which explained why Draco wanted to steer well-clear of the reflected area, thought Harry sarcastically. Not that he'd say anything like that. His brother was obviously distraught over the whole thing. He'd have to be, to admit--sort of--that he might see Lucius if he looked in the mirror.

In contrast, Harry suddenly realised, Snape had never said a thing about which people he might see. Hostilian, maybe? Or his mother, whose name Harry didn't know, not even after all this time? For that matter, was Snape's mother even dead? Harry didn't know, not for certain. He shivered a little, wanting to ask, but knowing that he'd better not.

"Are you all right, Harry?"

Harry wondered what his face must look like, for his father to say that. "Oh, yeah," he said, thinking quickly. "Just imagining, you know. About what I should ask my mum first. Because . . . um, we are going to try, aren't we?"

Snape rose to his feet. "I suppose you have persuaded me, but the final decision will rest with the headmaster. He is responsible for the castle, after all."

"We're not going to damage the castle--"

"Because your dark powers have never done such a thing?"

Harry winced, thinking of the damaged he'd caused to this very room. "Well, that wanded Lumos was just the once, you know--"

"Hospital wing windows," said Draco, his voice completely matter of fact. "And then you did something during my expulsion hearing. It felt like the foundations almost buckled."

"Well, I was out of control all those times," admitted Harry grudgingly. "I won't let that happen again."

"See that you do not." Snape tucked the letter from Scrimgeour into his robes. "I will go and discuss the matter with Albus."

Before he flooed off, however, he went into his office for a few moments. To fetch the broken mirror, no doubt.

Harry almost asked to see it, but decided that he'd get it back soon enough.

Dragging parchment and quill out of a drawer, he set to work writing up a detailed description of how the broken mirror had turned Draco's picture frame into a viewing plane, and how he planned to make it turn the Mirror of All Souls into something similar.

"Do you mind if I read that when you're done?" asked Draco from across the room, his voice a bit diffident.

Harry turned to stare at him. "I think everybody involved had better read it, so we all understand exactly how I plan to proceed."

Draco's forehead wrinkled. "Aren't you writing a thank-you note to the Minister?"

"Oh." Harry felt himself colouring a bit. "No. Hadn't thought of that. You really think it's necessary? I don't want to him to believe he's got me in his pocket and I'll agree with anything he wants."

"That's why I asked to read it. I can let you know if you're implying anything you'd rather not."

"I also don't know what to say." Harry scowled. "It's none of his business what sort of mirror I want to get working or who I want to talk with."

"You don't need to go into much detail." Draco paused. "Would you like me to write it so you can concentrate on the plan? I'll do my best to make it sound like you wrote it."

Harry thought that was quite a nice offer, though he had to say, "All right, but let's see what Dad thinks of it before we send it out." He suddenly grinned. "In fact, let's not tell him that you wrote it for me. I'll copy it over so it's in my handwriting. Do you think he'll be able to tell it's not really my work?"

Draco leaned his chin on his palm. "Hmm, I don't know . . ."

Snape, of course, knew at once that the letter sounded off. "Your brother wrote this for you?" he asked after scanning the parchment that Harry had handed him.

Harry sighed. "I knew I should have hid my smirk better."

"Either that, or Draco should learn to write in a less stilted manner. Harry would never use the word receipt in this context." His gaze swept over both his sons. "But I imagine that Minister Scrimgeour won't realise as much. It's a beautifully crafted letter, Draco. It makes all the right noises without saying anything at all."

Draco executed a sweeping bow, obviously delighted to hear such praise.

Only Slytherins, thought Harry, would be so proud of writing a letter that didn't say anything. But that was all right. Harry understood that, now. Scrimgeour had to know that Harry wasn't promising him anything. Not anything at all.

But for all that, Harry was hopeful that he'd be able to get on with the man a lot better than he'd got along with Fudge.

One week later, Harry stood in front of the Mirror of All Souls, holding his breath as Dumbledore finished casting the last of the spells that would magically seal Snape's quarters off from the rest of the castle for the duration of the experiment. Other spells had been cast earlier. Wards. Protection charms. Stabilisation barriers, and a whole host of advanced magic he couldn't even classify.

The lot of it was probably unnecessary, since Harry didn't think anything was going to go wrong. And weren't his instincts usually good? Besides, Snape had already arranged for the most potent protection of all: the blood wards.

As long as those remained in effect, nothing that intended harm toward Harry could enter Snape's rooms. With that in mind, Snape had moved the Mirror of All Souls into his living room.

And he'd shown Harry the condition of the wards, that green glowing strong and true, just the same as the last time he'd let Harry look at the spell coating the walls, ceiling, and floor. Harry had been a little surprised, in a way. He was of age, now. Didn't that mean that the spells would start to weaken?

"Mutual repudiation of the adoption is the only thing that can dissolve the spell," Snape had assured him. "As long as you are my son, you have a right to live here, and the wards will remain in full force. They're based on your mother's sacrifice, after all, and her love. A mother's love doesn't lessen when a child grows up."

Well, if that wasn't Slytherin code for I'll always love you, Harry didn't know what was.

"Can you think of any other precautions we might need, Severus?" asked Dumbledore as he walked around the room.

Snape flicked his wand a few times, his eyes narrowed in deep contemplation as he studied the spells already cast. "None, Headmaster."

"Then I suppose we should proceed."

Harry suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. This was it. After years of wondering and wishing, and months of Truthful Dreams showing him his early childhood, he was going to get to meet his parents. Really meet them, and talk to them face to face, and ask them . . . well, everything!

"One moment," said Snape smoothly.

Huh, the man was right in front of him instead of across the room where he'd been before. Harry hadn't noticed him move.

"Sir?"

"Don't be so nervous."

"Says the man who's predicted my death a million and a half times during this past week."

"Nonsense. I only mentioned the matter on seventeen occasions." A bare glimmer of a smile touched Snape's lips. "And that is not why you are nervous, in any case."

"No," admitted Harry in a low voice. "What am I going to say to them? I mean . . . Draco's had it right, all along. I don't know them!"

"I knew them. Everything will be all right."

A sick churning roiled through Harry's belly. What was wrong with him? Now that the moment was at hand, he should be excited, shouldn't he? "You're just saying that."

"Do I strike you as a man given to meaningless platitudes?"

"No," admitted Harry.

"Then everything will be all right. Albus has a done a fine job on the protection spells--"

"With your help, my boy. With your help."

"--and all that remains is for you to call James and Lily to you," continued Snape without acknowledging the interruption.

"Yeah," said Harry thickly. "Yeah. Let's do it."

"One moment," Snape said again. "Remove your school robe, Harry."

"No." Harry put a hand over his prefect's badge, pinned opposite his dual-house crest. "I'm not hiding the fact that I'm in Slytherin. That I’m a prefect for Slytherin. I'm not lying to them."

"I'm not asking you to lie, you idiot child--"

"Good, because I won't. And I won't act like I'm ashamed, because I'm not." Harry glared. "How can you think I would be?"

"It's not a matter of shame," said Snape, a bit of a glare about him as well, Harry noticed. "It's common courtesy toward your parents. They will have enough to absorb in the first few moments. Being pulled toward the realm of the living may well be a considerable shock, Harry. If you want to tell them all our news this evening, I'll make no attempt to stop you, but I don't believe it's necessary to throw your Slytherin status in their faces from the very first instant they see you. Give them a little while to become accustomed to seeing you at all."

Probably very good advice, Harry realised. "I just didn't want you to think I was choosing them over you," he mumbled as he shrugged off his robe. Draco came without a word and took it from him, disappearing into the bedroom for a moment.

Strange how . . . naked Harry suddenly felt. He usually went without robes when he was home, but now, wearing only jeans and a jumper, he felt almost defenceless.

He realised then that he'd been wearing the robes as some kind of armour. Though he shouldn’t need that, should he? Against his own parents?

Harry firmed his jaw and stood up straighter. "All right, then. Let's get started."

Walking over to the dining room table, he stared down at the broken mirror that was going to make all this possible. A single shard was what he'd used when he'd made the magic picture frame convey sound as well as sight, so now, Harry reached out to select another shard, one that would make the Mirror of All Souls work again.

His hand hovered over the mirror, Harry dithering as he tried to decide which shard would be the best. The largest one, so he'd have as big a chance as possible to make the artefacts combine?

Broken enhances broken, Harry suddenly thought. Magic often followed rules that didn't seem to make much sense. This was one such case, wasn't it? He needed the piece that was the most broken . . . which meant, he supposed, one that was as far removed as possible from an intact, working mirror.

Harry's instincts led his fingers to pluck out the smallest shard in the mirror, one that was no wider than his pinky finger, and only half again as long.

And then, because he actually might die, unlikely as it seemed, Harry walked back to his father and looked up into his eyes. Normally he wouldn't want to say a thing like this with the headmaster present, because it was a private kind of thing to say, wasn't it? Somehow, though, that didn't matter in the least. Not now. "I love you, Severus."

"Harry, James is not going to separate us, no matter what he says--"

"I know," Harry said quietly. "It's not that."

He went to Draco next. "I love you."

Draco laughed, the sound a bit strained. "And I love you, but could you stop being so maudlin? You're the one who insisted this was going to be perfectly safe."

Harry shrugged. "It will be. But I have to say what I have to say."

Draco made a face, probably at Harry's phrasing.

Harry had one more thing to say. He walked until he was standing before Dumbledore, not even seeing the pink and blue robes that had made him swallow a chuckle, earlier that evening. "Sir . . . we haven't always seen eye to eye about everything, but . . . but . . ."

The headmaster laid a hand on his shoulder, patting him the way one would touch a much younger child. "It's all right, Harry. I understand."

Harry smiled with relief.

"Go on, now," said Dumbledore, gesturing towards the mirror. "Your parents are waiting. And Sirius, no doubt."

"Yeah," said Harry again, his voice just as thick as before. "I guess it's time."

He turned to face the Mirror of All Souls, registering with his peripheral vision that Snape, Dumbledore, and Draco had taken up their positions, wands at the ready as they waited for Harry to begin.

With his left hand, Harry pressed the shard of the mirror against the silver, reflective surface of the mirror of all souls, willing them to combine together even before he angled his wand with his right hand, holding it so that his power would flow through it instead of around it.

Then, he glanced at the snake etched into the corner of his glasses, and said the incantation he'd worked out in advance. Show me Draco had been the key last time, but Harry had decided that his phrasing for this spell had better be something that worked with the magic already bonded to the Mirror of All Souls. It wouldn't respond to a demand to see a particular individual; it was designed to show you the people in your heart, after all.

"Show me what you will," he simply said, looking through that snake to see the mirror beyond.

A blast of power surged through his wand, so fiercely that Harry was glad he had one hand braced against the mirror.

The shard beneath his hand dissolved completely, and the surface of the Mirror of All Souls turned liquid to absorb it.

Harry was ready, though. He'd been expecting something like this. He stumbled, but yanked himself back from the mirror before he could fall forward.

For a long moment, the Mirror of All Souls seemed to be nothing but a frame surrounding a bank of fog. Held in a plane by invisible forces, the fog swirled and moved, twisting itself into eddies and rivers until Harry could swear it was alive.

Then, without any warning at all, the fog snapped taut and became a solid surface that looked like highly polished silver. Harry could see his reflection, but not clearly. He looked fuzzy. Out of focus a bit, the way he would appear if he took off his glasses before he stared into a mirror.

And that was all Harry saw in the mirror, which now looked to be broken beyond repair. Just himself. Just Harry, standing there and waiting for people who weren't going to arrive.

The thing wasn't even a mirror any longer, Harry thought with disgust. Not a proper one.

"It didn't work," he said, his voice catching. He had to struggle not to cry. Damn it, he'd been so sure, so absolutely positive--

And then there was another image in the mirror, a black blur moving behind him.

Harry stared, desperately hoping, longing for it to be someone coming forth from the netherworld.

The blur came closer, until Harry could see a pale face emerge from the blob of black. He knew, even before he felt the hands settle onto his shoulders, that it was Snape, coming to comfort him.

Or not, because Snape wasn't telling him that it would be all right, or turning him around so that Harry could hide his face as he tried to make his way through his frustration and disappointment.

The hands on his shoulders tightened. "Think," Snape whispered in his ear, his voice urgent. "Think with all your might about the people whom you wish to see. You must prove to the mirror that you love them, that they are truly in your heart."

So Harry closed his eyes, clenching them shut, and thought, as hard as he could. Images from his Truthful Dreams streamed into his mind, and he tried to pour into them all the love he'd ever felt for his parents. All the desperate, aching love for people he'd always wanted with him, no matter how hopeless and pointless it had been to want things he couldn't have. He saw himself as a child of no more than one, riding upon a toy broom while his father laughed and clapped his hands. He saw his mother, holding him close and rocking him as he sucked his thumb and listened to the soft lullaby she was singing.

And Sirius . . . Harry's memories of him were stronger still, based on reality rather than dreams. The Grim, coming to watch his Quidditch match. Saving Sirius from the Dementors, and then watching in sorrow as he had to leave Harry to go into hiding. Visiting Sirius, in any way he could. The cave, the firechats.

The Veil.

Harry whimpered a little, but the sound of his own grief was swallowed as just behind him, Snape made a noise rather like a gasp, his fingers suddenly clenching Harry's shoulders so tightly that they hurt.

As Harry's eyes snapped open, the pressure on his shoulders vanished completely, and Harry dimly registered that Snape had stepped away from him, moving back and to the side.

And no wonder, for when Harry looked into the mirror once more, he saw a new reflection.

Or not a reflection, since the man in the mirror wasn't actually in the room with them at all. But his spirit was there, because Harry had called him.

Harry's legs buckled, and he fell straight down onto the stone floor. The impact rocked through his knees, but he felt scarcely any pain. Not in his legs, at least. His heart was another matter; it was beating so hard that it felt like it would pound straight through his chest.

He stared into the mirror, whose surface was shining bright once more, almost like it was lit from within. The image there was perfectly in focus, sharp and bright, and so close that Harry could almost touch the man in the mirror, if he just reached out.

His eyes filled with tears, because he was afraid to do it, afraid to hope, afraid that the man in the mirror would vanish, or that he couldn't see Harry, or--

But he could see Harry.

The man sank to his knees as well and leaned forward, a smile breaking out across his familiar, beloved features.

Harry couldn't speak; his throat was too tight. He reached out his hand, laying it flat against the still surface of the mirror, his fingers splayed outwards.

From behind him, he heard another gasp, but nobody moved to stop him from touching the mirror.

The man in the mirror splayed his hand on his side, and pressed it flat against Harry's, though of course Harry still only felt the cool, hard surface of the mirror itself.

But that was all right, because by then, Harry believed. He forced one word out from between his lips, just a single word, but one that felt like it contained the whole world inside it. A whole world of love, and hope, and possibility.

A word that lived and breathed, even though the man in the mirror did neither.

"Sirius!"

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Four: "Sirius"

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight
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Chapter Text

Just one word, that was all Sirius said at first. Harry smiled more broadly, tucking his wand into his pocket so he could splay his other hand out onto the mirror as well. It was the closest he could come to trying to hug the man before him.

Sirius matched him motion for motion. His slightly wrinkled face -- aged before his time because of the hard years in Azkaban -- broke into a grin that seemed impossibly wide. How could a single expression hold such a huge amount of happiness?

"I've missed you," said Harry, leaning his forehead against the glass, breathing lightly so as not to fog the mirror. He didn't want to miss one glimpse of Sirius. "How . . . how are you?"

Even before he asked, Harry knew at least part of the answer. Sirius' hair was short now; he tended to let it grow long when he was depressed. Though . . . would hair even grow in the afterlife? Harry kind of doubted that. But when Sirius had fallen through the Veil, he'd had long hair, so if it was short now, that could only mean . . . well, that he wasn't upset to be dead, Harry supposed. Maybe his appearance now was like . . . a reflection of his inner state, or the state of his soul.

"I'm dead, Harry," Sirius whispered, very softly, like he thought maybe Harry didn't know that. "I fell through the Veil."

"I . . . I saw." Harry had to lean back then; he was breathing so fast and hard trying to hold back tears, that he'd ended up fogging the mirror after all. "I'm sorry, Sirius! I'm really, really sorry! I never wanted you to die!"

Oh God, he was crying despite his best efforts to hold back, and Sirius was leaning forward until it looked like his forehead was pressed against the glass, and his grey eyes were full of love and concern, and . . . and . . . Harry could hardly bear it.

"I know you didn't want that," said Sirius. "Wipe your eyes, Harry. It's all right."

In the circumstances, that was worse than a meaningless platitude. "How can it be all right? You're dead! And it's my fault!"

"Harry James Potter," said Sirius sternly, "I don't want to hear you say such a thing again. Ever again. I mean it. It's not your fault."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," said Harry, wiping at his eyes. He wished he had a hanky, because his nose was clogged up by then. "Bellatrix is the one who shot that hex that tripped you. But you wouldn't have been there at all if it weren't for me!"

God, now he was sniffling like a little kid. And the worst part was, he couldn't seem to stop it. He felt like he would throw up if he so much as tried. "I'm sorry!"

"Hasn't Albus talked to you about any of this?"

Oh, yeah, sure he had. Harry was hardly going to repeat that conversation. What was he going to say, that Dumbledore had claimed that it was Sirius' own fault he'd got killed, since Sirius had mistreated Kreacher?

"Yeah, some," said Harry sullenly. He hadn't liked that explanation then, and he liked it even less now.

"Then you should know the truth," said Sirius softly.

Harry shook his head wildly. He wasn't going to accept that. Not from Dumbledore, and not from Sirius. It wasn't Sirius' fault, it wasn't.

"Look at me, Harry."

Harry bit his lip and did as Sirius wanted.

"It was my time, Harry," Sirius explained, his fingers moving restlessly against the surface of the mirror. "Didn't Albus tell you that?"

Harry swallowed hard. "Um . . . no. That's not . . . um, that's not quite how he put it."

Sirius chuckled. "That surprises me, since Albus has always seemed so very wise, but I suppose that being dead does give one a unique perspective."

The smile faded from Sirius' face and was replaced by an expression of utter gravity. "Harry, I can say this as one who knows. It was my time. If I hadn't gone to the Ministry that day, I would have slipped in my own bathtub, or something equally humiliating. Instead, I died doing what I loved best. I was in the thick of it. I was fighting again, alongside people I love. Harry . . . I'd rather not have left you, but I wasn't going to get a choice about that bit. But dying as I did? It was a good death."

Harry sniffled. "You didn't look like you thought so when you were falling backwards."

"Give a man a few moments to recover from the shock," said Sirius with a smile. "But Harry, you must believe me. It was my time."

Harry didn't understand how he could be so calm and philosophical about it, but then, Harry had never been dead, so what would he know? Huh . . . maybe the phrase rest in peace was more apt than he'd ever believed. Sirius certainly did seem to be at peace.

"I want you to say it," said Sirius.

"Itwasyourtime," Harry mumbled, looking down at the stone floor.

"You can do better than that."

Harry looked up, into Sirius' clear grey eyes, so full of peace and love. "It was your time."

"Better," said Sirius. "Work on believing it, Harry. Because death . . . it's not so bad." He smiled. "James and Lily were waiting for me. They came to meet me. They asked me how you were."

Harry gulped, sliding off his knees to sit cross-legged. By then, he was hardly surprised that Sirius copied his every move. He didn't think his motions were controlling the other man; it was more as though Sirius wanted to be close to him, and with the mirror between them, separating the living from the dead, that was the only way. "My mum, my dad . . . how are they? Um . . . at peace, I guess?"

"Yes, very much so, though of course they've always missed you." Sirius smiled. "That's all right; they know that they'll see you again. They'll be here to meet you when it's your time, just as their own parents were here to meet them."

"But . . . but . . ." Harry laced his fingers together and squeezed as hard as he could. He wasn't going to cry again, no matter what it took. "You're here because I called you. I found a special sort of mirror to let me do that . . . but anyway, I called them, too. As hard as I possibly could. I called and called, and . . ." Harry gulped again, wondering if his memories of them just hadn't been strong enough. They were memories of his dreams, not his life . . . "Do you think they couldn't hear me?"

Sirius shook his head. "No, they heard. We were having tea together when you called.
We all heard you."

Harry was startled enough to exclaim, "You can drink tea where you are?"

"It's not real." Sirius shrugged. "But it's as real as we are. I can't explain, Harry. But not to worry; you don't need to understand all that until you're here. And though we do miss you, we don’t want you to arrive until it's your own proper time to join us. We want you to have as full and happy a life as you possibly can."

Harry nodded and went back to his original train of thought. He wasn't even sure what was wrong with him, asking after tea, of all things.

"But if my parents heard me calling, why didn't they come?"

Sirius leaned forward again, like he was trying to hug Harry. "They couldn't. I don't know why, Harry. I could walk toward your call without restraint, but when they tried, they couldn't move an inch."

Harry clenched his hands again, trying to accept that. What right did he have to complain? Talking to Sirius again was more than he'd ever expected to have.

"But why can't they come?" he suddenly wailed.

So much for not complaining.

"I don't know," Sirius repeated.

"Maybe I know," said Harry slowly. "Oh, God. It's the mirror, it's the stupid fucking mirror!"

"You have grown up a bit," said Sirius dryly. "This mirror you speak of . . . it only lets the more recently departed come through, perhaps?"

"No, not that mirror." Harry took a breath and tried his best to explain. "I found the Mirror of All Souls in Hogwarts. Um, it's summer, but I'm living in the castle--"

"Why aren't you with the Dursleys?"

"Oh. Um, long story, but they're dead." Harry narrowed his eyes. "You haven't seen them about?"

Draco made a horrible noise, rather like a cross between a groan and a gasp, and Harry remembered that he was worried about Muggles and wizards going to different places when they died. Huh . . . until that moment, Harry had pretty much forgotten that he wasn't alone with Sirius.

"No, but now that I know they might be around, I'll have to look for them," said Sirius grimly. "But that can wait. Tell me about the mirror you found. James and Lily will want to know."

Harry nodded. "Well, it's supposed to show you anybody you love that's er . . . passed on. But when I found it, it was broken. I've been trying to repair it for months, but nothing worked. And then, um . . . well, it's a little complicated, but I found a way to combine it with that little mirror you gave me. You know, the Christmas present? And that was enough to make the Mirror of All Souls wake up again. And that's probably why, that's all. Why my parents can't come, I mean."

Sirius was frowning. "I don't follow."

"Oh. Well, it's just that the mirror you gave me is maybe, you know, linked to you somehow, right? Since I was supposed to use it to talk to you." Harry swallowed again, proud of himself that he'd got all that out without getting too emotional. He had to be careful, though. If he thought about his parents being locked away from him, even though he did have the stupid mirror working now, he'd bawl for sure.

"That can't be it," said Sirius quietly. "Harry, I don't know why James and Lily had trouble following me toward your call, but I'm certain it's not what you're thinking. The two-way mirrors would work between any two wizards who spoke into them. They weren't keyed into my magic, or James', for that matter."

"Then why?"

"I don’t know." Sirius had said that several times by then, Harry knew, but he didn't sound impatient about repeating himself. Perhaps that was part of the wisdom that came from being dead, or maybe it was just that Sirius knew that Harry was still in shock over seeing him at all. "I'll try to find out, though. I will, Harry. We'll find out and we'll do something about it. All right?"

"Yeah, all right." Harry gave a tremulous smile, and told himself to be grateful for the chance to talk with Sirius. At least he had that much. "So . . . how are you?"

He'd asked that before, too, but Sirius didn't remark on it. "Things here are very different," he said, still sitting cross-legged but moving to lean on his arms, which he'd stretched out behind him. "There's no sense of time passing. I'm not certain whether time even exists here."

Harry wrinkled his forehead. "How could time not exist?"

"You'll know, someday." Sirius smiled. "Enough of me, Harry. Tell me about yourself. You look older, but I can't say by how much. You're still in school?"

Right, the timeless thing. Sirius didn't know how long had passed since he'd died.

"I just turned seventeen," said Harry. "Well, a few weeks ago. I'm starting seventh year in a couple more weeks."

"So you're all grown up," said Sirius softly. "How I'd have liked to see that."

"Well . . . you are seeing it, really." Harry gestured at himself.

"Yes, so I am. Still planning to become an Auror, then? Or have you changed your mind?"

"I wouldn't change my mind!"

"Well, you don't need to feel you're locked in," said Sirius in a grave tone. "You might find something else that suits you better."

"No, I won't," insisted Harry.

Sirius gave an amused smile which might have annoyed Harry if it had come from anyone else.

"No more trouble with the Wizengamot? Or Fudge?"

Harry blinked. "Um, Fudge died. Don't you know? There was an attack on the Ministry."

Sirius nodded. "Mmm, we've heard something about that. You have to understand, things here seem very distant from where you are. That's partly because we can't know anything directly." Another smile touched his lips. "That is, not usually. I suppose this talk will count as an exception. But normally, we only get news when someone we loved in life has passed on. That means that news can be delayed for years. Or decades, though it's hard for us to think that way because once you're here for a bit, you start forgetting about the flow of time."

"Uh-huh," said Harry, not really following all of that, though he did remember that the Latin inscription on the Mirror had said that the afterlife was timeless.

Sirius reached out his hand again, like he wanted to touch Harry, then let it fall to rest on his own knee. "It seems like it was recently that a large number of people arrived here all at once. The general impression we got was that they'd all died very suddenly, all of them at the Ministry, but none of them knew quite what had happened. Eventually people began to conclude that it had been some sort of attack, but to my knowledge, nobody's seen Fudge wandering about."

Oh, well that made perfect sense. "The wireless said he'd shown up as a ghost, actually. Nearly Headless Nick made it sound like ghosts can't move on to where you are."

"I've certainly never seen one here," said Sirius, smiling. "I don't think ghosts have much urge to haunt the dead. They're more tied to life than we are. You didn't answer my question, though."

"Oh, about the Wizengamot? No, they haven't tried to expel me again or anything. Fudge finally decided that Voldemort had come back like I kept saying. And the new bloke in charge, Scrimgeour, seems like a decent lot. More intelligent than Fudge, anyway--"

Harry abruptly stopped talking. Why was he wasting time comparing the two ministers?

"Starting seventh year, you said . . . so, a little over a year since I died, then?" asked Sirius, his forehead wrinkling. Clearly, sorting out a timeline was very difficult for him. Perhaps living -- or existing, anyway -- without time would do that to you. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Uh . . . well I told you that the Dursleys died," said Harry, wondering how to approach the rest of it. "I felt bad that I couldn't feel worse about it. Well, I did feel a bit bad about Aunt Petunia, since she looked just horrible near the end. Um, leukaemia. I gave her some of my bone marrow to try and help, but she had a bad reaction to it and died."

Sirius' fingers clenched, his hands curling into claws. "You gave her some of your bone marrow? Where was Albus when this was happening? Didn't anybody tell you, wasn't anybody there with you to stop you from doing such an impulsive thing?"

Harry swallowed. "Well, Snape was there."

"And he didn't stop you?" Sirius bared his teeth. "I'm going to kill him! I don't care if I'm dead already, I'm going to kill that greasy-haired son-of-a-bitch! What was he trying to do, get you killed? Loyal member of the Order, bollocks!"

"No, no, no," shouted Harry. "He tried to stop me--"

Sirius actually growled.

And then, in the flash of an instant, he transformed into Padfoot, who began pacing maniacally back and forth, his jaws open to show all his teeth, his mouth salivating like he was contemplating a good meal.

A meal of Snape served raw, no doubt.

Padfoot's growling filled the whole room.

Harry swallowed and leaned closer. "Listen, would you? Snape is a loyal member of the Order, and he did try to stop me, and it all turned out all right in the end. I got my magic back -- I'd lost it for a while -- and . . . Padfoot? Padfoot! Sirius!"

The image of the black dog began fading away, becoming transparent even as Harry screamed for him to come back.

A few seconds more and Padfoot was gone.

The mirror abruptly snapped back into its original state, looking just the way it had when Harry had first seen it, only cleaner.

Sighing, Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

"Accio headache draught," said Snape, pressing the vial into Harry's hand.

Harry downed it gratefully before slipping his glasses back onto his nose. "That didn't go so well."

"On the contrary, on the contrary," said Dumbledore, coming forward to look at Harry in that fatherly way he had. "For a first attempt, it was remarkable. You not only called him to you, but he was able to stay in this realm for quite some time."

"Not long enough," said Harry, sighing again. "He didn't let me explain."

"Well I should think, my boy, that that had something to do with his transformation. Sirius wasn't able to stay here long, not as Padfoot. You hadn't called Padfoot, after all."

"Next time I'll call them both. If I can," said Harry doubtfully. Would the mirror understand him if he thought of Sirius as two beings in one? It hadn't understood today that Sirius and Padfoot were one and the same, after all. Hell, it hadn't even understood that he really, really wanted to see his mum and dad!

"I wonder what he's telling my parents right now," said Harry, shivering.

"Oh, probably nothing yet," said Dumbledore breezily. "I expect he'll need to calm down before he can transform back."

"I think Sirius has better control over his Animagus form than that," murmured Harry.

"Mmm, he did in life, but you never know what may be true in death. It is, after all, the next great adventure."

Snape moved toward the mirror and looked it up and down before he turned to Harry to speak. "Black spent years at a time in his Animagus form when he was in Azkaban. It wouldn't surprise me if the forces that control the spirit realm tend to somewhat misread his soul."

"You mean they think he's Padfoot as much as he's Sirius? Well, he is, but . . . yeah, I see what you mean." Harry sighed. "My parents must be going mad, wondering why they couldn't come, and if Sirius is still pacing back and forth, too angry to be able to transform back . . . yeah. I can't even imagine how they must feel."

"Perhaps next time James and Lily will be able to answer your call," said Dumbledore, softly patting Harry on the shoulder.

They weren't, though. In fact, the next day, when Harry tried again, nobody came in answer to his call. Nobody at all.

"I don't understand what's wrong," said Harry, staring blankly at the mirror. It looked made of metal again, just the way it had before Sirius had come forth. Harry took that to mean that it was in a receptive sort of state, waiting for the souls who'd been called to come forward. This time, though, it didn't seem to matter how long and hard he thought about his parents and Sirius. Not even calling for Padfoot did him any good. The mirror remained empty of anyone save the four people in the room. Or three, rather; Draco was making sure to stay well away from the area being reflected.

"I don't understand either, my boy," said the headmaster softly. "Ah . . . Harry. If you don't mind, I should like to try to call a friend or two."

"Albus," said Snape in a critical tone, "I don't believe this is the time or place for your trip down memory lane--"

"It's all right, Dad," said Harry, sighing. "We should see if it'll work for other people, or if I've managed to break the thing."

"You haven't broken it," said Draco. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, I did break your picture frame--"

"Only because you forced it to do something it wasn't designed to do. This is different."

Harry nodded, not that he was convinced either way. Really, he was too depressed to know what he thought. "Go ahead, Professor Dumbledore."

"Ah, how do I . . ."

That had Harry smiling. It wasn't often that he got to teach magic to somebody like the headmaster. "Come and stand right next to me. Now, when I move away, you start thinking, as hard as you can, about the person you want to call. Um . . . I was going over memories, mostly. Trying to prove to the mirror that I really do love them. All right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I can see why you were such a fine teacher, Harry. Severus tells me you're going to continue with your club?"

"Mmm, but Draco's going to be in charge this time, since I have to look like I can barely manage magic." Harry waved toward the mirror. "Ready, sir?"

When the headmaster nodded again, Harry stepped to the side so the mirror would be reflecting Dumbledore alone.

It abruptly went back to its usual state, looking like a normal mirror again, instead of one made of polished metal.

Harry stared, a deep well of disappointment yawning inside him. Not that he cared much about who Dumbledore might call, but he did want to know that the mirror could work for other people. He wanted to find a way to persuade his father to use it, not that he was expecting such a discussion to be pleasant.

But if it wouldn't work for Dumbledore . . .

Harry sighed. "The state it's in now means it's switched off, I think. And now I've lost another shard of Sirius' mirror, and for nothing! I can only talk to him as many times as I have shards left, since one gets used up every time."

Dumbledore merely nodded.

"I wish I could break my mirror into smaller pieces," said Harry glumly. "I'd grind it into a powder if I could, so I'd never have to give Sirius up. But Scrimgeour said that mirrors don’t like that. If I break it on purpose, it'll probably stop working at all."

Dumbledore stroked a hand down his long beard as he spoke in what was perhaps the gentlest tone Harry had ever heard him use. "Perhaps that's as it should be, my boy."

"Should be?" Harry scowled. "Oh. You're thinking of the Mirror of Erised, aren't you? You're worried that if I had unlimited shards, I'd waste away sitting here and talking with Sirius."

"Worried, no." Dumbledore's lips curled in the barest hint of a smile. "Your father would never allow a thing like that. But it's better for the two of you not to have to argue over it, hmm?"

Harry didn't answer that. He couldn't.

Dumbledore studied the Mirror of All Souls for a moment longer, and then gave a philosophical shrug. "I don't know why it doesn't care to work for me, but then, you're just learning about this form of magic. It wouldn't surprise me if it took a little while for you to master it."

Draco had sat down at some point, but at that, he jumped to his feet and strode toward Harry. "Mastery, that's the whole point. I understand what's going on now. Of course the headmaster couldn't call anyone. I won't be able to, either. You're the only one here who's mastered a mirror, Harry."

Harry frowned. "But I didn't ever master a mirror, Draco. I couldn't manage it, and I gave up and used Parseltongue magic as a shortcut."

Draco pointed at the table where the small square mirror sat, its broken shards laid out carefully inside its frame. "No, you used Parseltongue magic to master it. That was the shortcut. Last year when you first used Parseltongue to make that mirror do what you wanted, it recognised you as its master. But because you didn't go through all those steps in the books and do things in the standard way, you ended up with . . ." Draco waved his hands. "I don't know, sort of a personalised version of control. The mirror listens to you and you alone, and that's still true when it's merged with another mirror, like this one."

"Great," said Harry, about as sarcastically as he could. He'd wanted his father to use the mirror, damn it. "It'll only work for me, and now it's not even doing that. That's just wonderful. No offence, but I hope for once that your 'great intuitive grasp' of magic is barking up the wrong tree."

Draco blinked. "Who says I have a great intuitive grasp of magic?"

"Severus." Harry glanced to the side, to see their father looking a trifle grim. But it was too late now to call the words back. "Didn't you know he thought that?"

A wide smile broke out over Draco's face. "Why, no. And that's a lovely thing to hear." He swivelled to face their father. "Of course, it would have been even more lovely to hear it from you."

"Your confidence when it comes to magic is already too high," said Snape. "You don't know everything, Draco."

"Of course not." Draco was still smiling. "Nobody does, not even Merlin himself. But I do know this." He turned his attention back to Harry. "You've mastered that mirror so thoroughly that you won't need to use snake language to make it obey you, not any longer. The small mirror will do as you say purely because you're the one saying it. You're its master, and nobody else, not even someone who does know Parseltongue, will be able to make it do a thing."

"You can't know that."

"Well, when you called for your godfather yesterday, were you thinking in Parseltongue?"

Harry made a face. "I wouldn't know, would I? It all sounds like English to me."

"Were you looking at a snake?"

"No, my eyes were closed," admitted Harry. "I wasn't even thinking about a snake. I was only thinking about my mum and dad and Sirius."

"So you called to them without any Parseltongue, then. And in the case of your godfather, it worked." Draco shrugged. "I might be wrong, but I don't think so. Next time, try merging the mirrors only using English."

"And risk wasting another shard? I don't think so."

"Well, it won't vanish if you can't make them merge, will it?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why is it so important to you to believe that I've gained some kind of peculiar, Harry-only mastery over that mirror?"

Draco shoved his hands into his pockets.

Oh. Harry got it, then. On some level, Draco was tempted by that mirror. But he didn't want to be, because he was in two minds about ever seeing Lucius again. Harry could understand that, since he could see both sides of the coin on that issue. A conversation between Draco and the soul of Lucius Malfoy sounded like a dreadful idea, but on the other hand, if Draco needed . . . well, some kind of closure, Harry supposed he could understand that.

"I'll think about trying English," said Harry, sighing. "But not today."

"Yes, tomorrow is another day," said Snape. "You can try again then."

"And waste another shard?" Harry felt tears pricking at his eyelids. "I'm afraid ever to try again, in case it fails over and over and all I end up doing is using up the entire mirror for nothing."

"But if you don't use it at all, then you are surely using it for nothing." Snape laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You need something to take your mind off this for a few hours. Come into the lab with me. I could use your help."

"I don't really feel like brewing--"

"When do you ever?" murmured Snape. "Harry, that wasn't a request. I can feel the low edge of a burn just beginning to curl around the edges of my mark. I'd like your assistance with the stasis potion."

Harry gulped. "Oh, God. He's summoning his Death Eaters. What do you think it means?"

Snape grimaced, but only slightly. "For that answer, we will have to depend on the spy in the fold. No longer myself, unfortunately."

"Fortunately," whispered Harry. "I hate the thought of you being in that kind of danger. But then, I don't like to think about what it must be like for Remus, either."

"This is war, and each one of us does what he must," said Snape crisply. "For me, at the moment, that means dealing with the pain before it completely incapacitates me."

"Yeah, of course."

"I'll be in my office if you should need anything, Severus," said the headmaster.

"Go, yes. See if you have had any communications from Lupin."

As Dumbledore let himself out, Harry and Draco followed Snape into the lab. Draco, who had done this several more times than Harry, began fetching ingredients out of cabinets while Harry started low fires under a pair of cauldrons. They worked without speaking much, as by then the process was a routine that all three of them understood well.

When the twin cauldrons both needed to simmer, though, and there was nothing else to do for a bit, Harry turned to his father, who was sitting on a stool in the corner, cradling his arm in his right hand. "You should have said something sooner, Severus. Do you really think I'd have wanted to spend time on the mirror today, if I'd known you were in this kind of pain?"

"I know . . ." Snape gritted his teeth, his features tense. With agony, Harry knew, from the times he'd seen this before. "I know that you love the people you're trying to call. I'm not foolish enough to make you choose between us."

"So you'll just suffer pain instead?" Harry shook his head. "Marsha calls that being a martyr. You're . . . for such an intelligent man, you can be really stupid, you know that? I'd choose you, Severus. You're here for me and they're not, whatever the mirror can arrange."

"Thank you, Harry," said Snape in a low voice, leaning his head back on the stone wall. "Go and help your brother."

Harry nodded, and from then on, concentrated on the potion so that they could ease their father's pain as soon as possible.

---------------------------------------------------

It was a few days before Harry felt up to trying the mirror again. Snape had been a fair amount of pain, and though he'd tried to deny it, claiming that the numbing agent in the Lotion Potion was enough to deaden all sensation, the lines of stress around his eyes told another story.

Maybe the Lotion Potion had been enough once, but Snape had used it for so long that he had probably become accustomed to it.

And while his father was in pain, Harry wasn't going to add a visit with Sirius to the mix. Snape didn't need that. So yes, Harry was choosing between them. He was choosing his father.

By the third day after Snape's mark had burned, though, he seemed to be feeling much better, so Harry decided to try once more to contact Sirius. He might have waited longer, but term was starting in just a few days, and after that, he'd have much less free time. Besides, the Mirror of All Souls was still sitting in their living room, reminding him that he really should try again.

Harry just hoped that he didn't end up wasting another precious shard.

"Do you think we need to bring the headmaster down again?" he asked over breakfast that morning.

Snape shook his head. "He's still in Dover."

Harry nodded, and tried not to worry about Remus. Hard not to, though. Remus was apparently Voldemort's right-hand man, these days, and while part of Harry was impressed that Remus was doing so well at mimicking Lucius Malfoy, another part of him couldn't forget that on the night of the Ministry attack, Remus had done something to anger Voldemort. Something to anger him so much, in fact, that Remus had been terribly punished.

Well, at least the meeting that Voldemort had called, this last time, hadn't involved any torture. No, no torture; just mayhem. Voldemort had sent his Death Eaters across Britain to attack a number of landmarks all at once.

He was sending another message, it seemed. On the last day of July, he'd proven that he could act with impunity against the Ministry of Magic. Now, he was staking his claim to Britain itself, showing that it was his to do with as he pleased.

Death Eaters had toppled Hadrian's Wall. They'd shoved Blackpool Tower into the sea and had flooded both the stadium at Cardiff Arms Park and the tower at Glasgow University. They'd killed the ravens living at the Tower of London. They hadn't harmed Windsor Castle, but they'd turned the royal standard flying over it into a flag bearing the image of the Dark Mark.

And most dramatic of all, perhaps, they'd transfigured the White Cliffs of Dover into some kind of hard, green stone.

Everything else had been put back to rights, the Tower of London even boasting new ravens. Aurors and Obliviators who'd survived the destruction of the Ministry were working twenty hours a day to erase all sign of the attacks. But the White Cliffs of Dover had resisted every attempt to transfigure them back to their natural state. They were under a glamour to fool passing ships, but beneath that, they remained a witness to Voldemort's determination to control Britain.

Harry had been surprised, actually, that Stonehenge hadn't been targeted, but Draco and Snape had both shaken their heads at that idea. Voldemort knew better than to mock the ancient magic present at the site, it seemed.

Harry finished his orange juice and glanced over at the mirror standing in the living room. "Should we wait until the headmaster finishes in Dover then, you think?"

"No need. He's confident, as am I, that the mirror poses you no danger. In fact, if you would rather speak with your loved ones alone . . .?"

Snape left the question hanging in the air.

"Maybe later on, after I've told them about the adoption," said Harry. "Until then, I want my whole family there with me. I really did mean to tell Sirius, you know, that first day. I was trying to work up to it so he'd understand how it happened."

"You needn't concern yourself with my feelings," said Snape, shrugging. "You can tell anyone or not as you choose. That's always been true."

"And I'm proud to claim you as my father; that's always been true, too," retorted Harry. "Besides, you don't know me very well if you think I want to lie to my parents." Harry flushed, remembering a time or two when he'd been less than honest with Snape. "About major things," he added.

Draco chortled, but cut it out when Harry glared at him.

---------------------------------------------------

This time, to Harry's great relief, Sirius came at once.

Still no sign of his parents, but Harry pushed that thought aside. At least the mirror was working again.

"Harry," said Sirius warmly. "I was hoping you would call me again. I didn't mean to leave you last time."

"I don't think you can stay if you turn into Padfoot. So don't turn into him, all right?" Harry stepped closer to the mirror. "Does anger always affect you like that, these days?"

"It seems so," said Sirius ruefully. "Any sort of rage and I find myself on all fours whether I like it or not."

"Well, you have to try harder not to get angry while we're talking." Harry swallowed. "I can only call you a certain number of times."

"How many?"

Harry hadn't counted the shards. He was afraid to. "A couple of dozen, something like that. But . . . but when the little mirror I'm using is all used up, we'll have to say good-bye, Sirius. For . . . forever."

"No, not forever. Just until it's your time to join us here."

That reminded Harry. "I tried to call my parents again. Actually, a couple of days ago I called and called for all of you, but nobody came. I . . . I don’t understand. Couldn't you hear me?"

Sirius sighed and sank down to sit cross-legged, gesturing for Harry to do the same. "This will take a little while to explain, Harry."

Harry settled in, leaning closer. "I've got all day."

Sirius trailed a hand along the lower edge of the mirror, his fingers somehow communicating an intense depth of sadness.

"What is it?"

"I have something terrible to tell you. I don't want to say it."

"Then don't."

"No, that would be even worse." Sirius shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders. It was long again, Harry suddenly realised. He hadn't noticed earlier, but it was just as long as it had been during that awful year when Sirius had been forced to stay in his family home, listening to Kreacher's evil mutterings and his mother's portrait screeching about blood purity.

"You're sad," said Harry, fingering a lock of his own hair.

Sirius caught the reference at once and glanced at the ends of his hair, hanging lankly to his shoulders. "Yes. The afterlife seems to pick up on my moods quite readily. The hair, Padfoot . . . other things as well. It's not like that for the others here. I think I'm different because of the way I arrived. But enough of that. You said that you were calling for me? I didn't hear you, Harry. James and Lily and I had gone away on . . . a little voyage, I suppose you would say, though that's not really an accurate description."

Harry laced his fingers together in his lap. "You . . . you went off travelling? When you knew I might be calling?"

"We went off to find an answer to your question," said Sirius softly. "You wanted to know why James and Lily couldn't follow me towards your call."

"Oh. Yeah . . ." Harry was afraid to ask, because in some ways, he knew the answer already. Sirius had said he had terrible news, after all. "Did you find out about that?"

"Yes." Sirius paused. "You aren't going to like it."

"They can't come," said Harry, something inside him dying. "That's what you found out."

"I'm truly sorry," whispered Sirius. "Harry, I would die again if it would help. I'd step aside . . . I'd do anything it took. But . . . there's nothing I can do."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing back the impulse to cry. He'd done enough of that last time. And really, he asked himself, what had he lost? Only something he'd never had to begin with.

Only something he'd wanted with his whole heart.

"Why can't they come?" Harry finally asked, when he thought he could speak without blubbering.

"Do you remember the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

Harry almost hit the mirror with his fist, he was so frustrated. "Who cares about the stupid tournament? Tell me why my parents can't come to talk with me!"

"I am," said Sirius calmly. "Think back, Harry. The Third Task. You saw your parents there."

"Echoes of them, anyway. That's how Dumbledore explained it. They came out of Voldemort's wand. Priori Incantatem."

"I don't know if echoes is the best word." Sirius laid a hand on the mirror, his fingers splayed outward. It meant that he wanted to be touching Harry when he said the rest, Harry thought, matching the motion. They weren't touching, of course, but it was all they had.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, because they told me what to do, helped me escape. How could they do that if they were only echoes?"

"Your parents remember being there in the graveyard with you, but they were here at the same time. Echoes . . . I don't know. At any rate, James and Lily told me that some time after they'd seen you there, they felt an odd sensation. A spell, Harry, coursing through them and then wrapping itself completely around them. They didn't know what it was. It came and went, and seemed to do them no harm, and after a while, they stopped wondering about it."

Harry shivered. "Go . . . go on."

Sirius smiled, very sadly. "When I got back from seeing you last time, when I calmed down enough to speak again, that is, I told James and Lily everything we'd spoken about. They were frantic to hear news of you, of course. Once we'd exhausted that topic, we began trying to determine why they couldn't follow me, and that was when Lily remembered the spell that she and James had once felt course through them. She said it had felt like a binding, and that when she tried to move toward your call, it seemed to her that same binding was upon her again, holding her back."

"A binding?" Harry cleared his throat, moving his fingers restlessly against the image of his godfather's. "I don't understand, Sirius."

"We didn't either, but the circumstances suggested that it might have something to do with Voldemort; Lily and James definitely felt that spell after they'd already seen you in that graveyard. With that in mind, all three of us went in search of Death Eaters."

A sudden noise behind him had Harry glancing back. He saw his father, off to the side, leaning on a wall like it was all that was keeping him standing. The noise had been him staggering, perhaps. Harry raised a questioning eyebrow and gestured toward his left sleeve, trying to ask if Snape's mark was flaring again.

Snape shook his head and waved for Harry to turn around, but his eyes looked haunted. Like . . . like he'd seen a ghost, and not the benign kind that tended to inhabit Hogwarts.

"Just a minute, Sirius," said Harry. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

By the time he reached Snape, Draco was at his side as well. "Are you all right, Severus?"

"Yes." Snape's voice was rough. "Continue with your conversation, Harry. I was merely startled for a moment."

Harry and Draco glanced at one another, green eyes and grey reflecting the same concern until Harry repeated the question Draco had already asked. "You're sure you're all right, Dad? Maybe you should sit down."

"Maybe I should, at that," muttered Snape. He sank into the nearest chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Go back, Harry. Before you lose another shard."

Damn, that was a good point. Since Snape seemed to be better, Harry rushed back to the mirror. Thankfully, Sirius was still in it, leaning left and right, looking like he was trying to peer around corners. "What's the matter? I can only see a small part of the room you're in."

"Uh . . . could you hear me talking, a minute ago?" Or hear anyone else?

"No, things went blank and silent the moment you stepped out of view."

Harry was a little ashamed of himself to be relieved at that. He should be annoyed that the Mirror of All Souls needed him in sight for any communication to go through. That meant that it was responding to him in particular, like Draco had said. But since Harry wasn't ready to explain about his adoption quite yet, it was a relief that Sirius hadn't heard him talking with Snape.

First he wanted to find out about his parents and this binding, and then he'd tell Sirius the rest. "So you went looking for Death Eaters, you said? Did you find any?"

"They're not in the immediate vicinity," said Sirius. "This place has . . . it's difficult to explain. A large number of rooms and corridors, organised very oddly. But yes, eventually we found one. Pitiful creature. A loyal follower of Voldemort, but he'd been tortured to death for his years of dedicated service. He was only too happy to turn on his master now, and tell us what we wanted to know."

Harry gulped. This was it, then. "And?"

Sirius moved forward until both his knees were touching the mirror. "Voldemort was enraged after the Third Task, Harry. Your parents had foiled him, helping you escape. He was certain that if he'd just had a few more moments, he could have broken his wand free of the stream joining it to yours, and killed you."

Harry shivered. "Yeah. Probably so."

"He wanted to make sure that your parents would never, ever be able to do such a thing again," said Sirius in a low tone. "He dredged up the very darkest of the Dark Arts and cast a horrible curse upon their spirits, binding them to never again come into the presence of your living body. He would probably have excluded them from your presence for both time and eternity, if he could have. That, thank Merlin, was beyond him."

The last bit of that was lost on Harry; he was too focussed on the first part. "So I'll never see them," he said dully. "I'll never see them again."

"No, no," said Sirius urgently. "That's not true, Harry. You'll see them when it's your time. Voldemort's nasty spell doesn't keep your soul away from them, only your living body."

"I hate him," said Harry flatly. "I hate his fucking guts."

"You should have seen James and Lily when we learned the truth," said Sirius. "James whipped out his wand and destroyed an entire wing of the building."

Harry didn't remember starting to cry, but his cheeks were damp when he swiped them with a furious hand. "I didn't think you could still do magic, there?"

"It's like the tea. Real and not real, all at the same time. Harry . . . are you all right?"

"No," said Harry shortly. "I wanted to see them, damn it. I really, really wanted to see them!"

"You will. I promise, Harry. You will see them again."

"Yeah, but not until I'm dead," spat Harry. "That's not fair! I wanted to see them now."

Sirius chuckled, very softly.

"Oh, what the hell's so funny?"

"Nothing," said Sirius, shaking his head. "I know you've very disappointed, Harry. Anyone would be. But I was just thinking that in a strange sort of way, you've finally got your wish. You're normal."

"Normal!"

"It's not fair, but almost everyone else in the world has to wait until death to see their loved ones. Well, in most cases; ghosts and portraits are exceptions, but they're also rare. Your average wizard has no choice but to wait. Isn't that what you've always wanted, to be like everyone else?"

Harry scowled. "I wouldn't mind being different just this once."

"I know," said Sirius kindly. "I wish that Voldemort hadn't bound your parents, of course I do. But the fact that he has . . . it makes you just like everyone else."

Harry sniffled. "It still ronks."

"Yes. It does."

"Well, tell them that I love them and I think about them every day," said Harry, trying to get over it. "Make sure you tell my dad that I'm going to be an Auror, and that DADA is my favourite subject . . . and . . ."

"I'll tell them everything," promised Sirius. "Your parents gave me some messages for you, once they understood that they wouldn't be able to speak with you in person. Lily said that . . . and James wanted you to know that . . ."

"What?" asked Harry, cupping a hand to his ear. "Your voice is fading out during all the good bits!"

Sirius raised his voice. "Lily said that . . . and James wanted you to know that . . . there, was that better?"

"I can see your lips moving but I can't hear the part about what they said!"

Sirius started to shout, so loudly that the surface of the mirror began to waver. "Lily said that . . . and James wanted you to--"

"Stop!" said Harry, shouting himself. He was afraid the magic might stop working if Sirius made the mirror vibrate too much. "It's no use. No matter how loudly you scream, those same words still go silent."

"It must be part of the binding."

"You think?" asked Harry sarcastically, then immediately felt bad. "Sorry, Sirius. I'm just frustrated. Git won't even let them get a message through to me. Could he be more of a prick?"

"I don’t think he could," said Sirius with a terrible look on his face.

"What?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"If it's about my parents and why I can't talk to them, then I need to know!"

"You don't need to know about the atrocities Voldemort committed in order to create such a dark binding."

Harry thought of Wormtail slicing off his own hand, and shuddered. "Yeah, all right."

"I can tell you this, though," said Sirius. "Specific messages may be under a taboo, but general statements shouldn't be. Your parents love you very much, Harry, and always have. They always want to know more about you and what you're doing with your life. I told you that we can get news, after a fashion. It's usually long delayed, but things like that don’t matter where we are."

Harry nodded. "Or sometimes not. Like you knew about the attack on the Ministry."

"That would have been hard to miss. So many arriving at once."

And all of them in possession of Harry's news, since Harry getting adopted had made the papers. It was hard to believe, though, that Sirius could already know that Harry was Snape's son. Wouldn't he have said something about that? Or more likely, yelled something?

"Um . . . so if you've been talking to all the recent arrivals, you must have heard that I'd lost my magic, then?"

Sirius tensed, his voice emerging as a harsh whisper. "You lost your magic?"

Hmm, then no, he probably hadn't heard Harry's personal story from any of the people killed in the Ministry. And he obviously hadn't heard Harry mention it last time, but he'd already been furious then.

"Yeah, but it's back now," Harry said quickly, so Sirius wouldn't get upset and transform. "But when I lost it . . . well, it was pretty big news. Nobody there mentioned it?"

"Perhaps someone will seek James and Lily out eventually," murmured Sirius. "You must understand, Harry, that people here usually spend time with their family first. How much time . . . well, you know about that. We can't measure it."

Harry closed his eyes. "Was your Mum awful to you?"

When he looked again, Sirius was smiling. "Oh, Harry. Don’t you know yet? I haven't seen her. You and James and Lily are my family."

A warm feeling coursed through Harry, hearing those words, and not just because it was nice to be loved. He was also thinking that if Sirius understood the idea of family as well as that . . . well, maybe he'd also understand that Harry's family could include people who weren't blood relatives or godfathers. "Um . . . okay. Well, I have a lot of news to tell you, Sirius. Good news. Great news."

"I can't wait." Sirius bounced a little as he sat there.

"You have to try not to get angry, though," warned Harry. "If you turn into Padfoot I think I'll lose you again. Um, and you have to try your best to . . . um, break it gently when you tell my mum and dad. Especially my dad."

"I thought you said this was going to be good news."

"It is good news. It's great news." Harry glanced to the side to smile at Snape, only to see that the man was holding himself stiffly, arms crossed over his chest like he was expecting the worst.

Well, nothing for it now but to tell Sirius and hope he understood. "You know how I told you that the Dursleys had died?"

"And good riddance," said Sirius fiercely. "Harry, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I must tell you this before you go on. Lily never intended to leave you with her horrible sister, and until I came here, she didn't even know that such a thing had happened. She thought you were living with me all that while. You were supposed to, if anything happened. I've never seen her so incensed. When Lily found out that I'd lost my temper and ended up in Azkaban, and you'd been packed off to live with her magic-hating sister, she wouldn't speak to me for . . . I don't know how long."

Harry gulped, the past coming alive for him in a way that it never had before. He'd blamed Dumbledore for a long time, for deciding to give him to the Dursleys when he was little, but the fact that Harry had ended up there . . . it was Sirius' fault, too. If he hadn't duelled with Wormtail in public like that, he'd have had a chance to explain that it had been Wormtail and not himself who had betrayed James and Lily Potter.

He might still have ended up in Azkaban, but then again, he might not have.

"She asked me how you'd been treated in that house, and I felt I owed her the truth," Sirius went on. "Which explains why she didn't know that her sister had died, Harry. Lily was so furious that she couldn't sense it when her sister arrived. That's how we know to go and meet people."

"Um, but wouldn't my Evans grandparents have known to meet Aunt Petunia, and they'd have come and told my mum that her sister had arrived?"

"Eventually, that may happen. Nobody here is in much of a rush. And too . . ." Sirius smiled. "Lily's mum and dad would know that Lily needs to heal before she can bear to see her sister. The mere fact that Lily didn't sense Petunia's arrival would tell them that much."

"But you can mix with Muggles, then," said Harry, a little loudly. He couldn't see Draco from where he was, but he was positive that Draco would perk up, hearing that.

Sirius stared at him. "Of course. Who told you that we can't? Harry . . . Muggles are every bit as human as we are. I was absolutely certain that you knew that."

He sounded concerned that Harry might have been mixing with the wrong crowd, picking up bad attitudes. That could be a problem, considering what Harry had to tell him. "Oh, I do know that," Harry assured his godfather. "No question about it. It's just that Nearly Headless Nick thinks that only wizards can become ghosts, that's all. So I wondered how it all worked."

"I don't know if it takes magic to become a ghost, but I know it doesn't take any to die," said Sirius. "There are pets here, too."

"Besides Snuffles?" Harry smiled to show he was joking.

"Yes, besides me," said Sirius dryly. "But what was the news you were trying to tell me? I don't know how long we'll have before the magic you've created begins to fail."

"I think we have until you turn into Padfoot, so don't," said Harry sternly. He sucked in a huge breath, and tried not to look like he was bracing himself, even though he was. He'd thought and thought about just how to phrase everything; during the past few days, he'd even written out several different versions, trying to decide the best way to break it to Sirius.

But now that the moment was upon him, he couldn't remember a single thing he'd practised. "Um . . . well, all right, here it is. I was kind of in a bad way for a long time last year. I mean, the Dursleys dying was the least of it. Lucius Malfoy kidnapped me for Voldemort--" Oops. He'd meant to leave Lucius out of the initial telling. Well, too late now. "--and um, well I don't want to be melodramatic, but he did torture me."

Sirius reached out a hand toward the mirror. "Oh, Harry."

"Eh, well it's all right now. I mean, obviously." Harry gestured at himself. "But at the time it was pretty awful. I was blind for a while, and even after that it took a long time for my vision to be healed completely. But it's perfect now. I have Snape to thank for that."

Sirius snapped his teeth together. "Then he did something right, thank Merlin. But he also let you mess about with your bone marrow, you said! Where on earth was Albus when all this was going on?"

"He didn't let me mess about with my bone marrow. That was my decision. It's my marrow, Sirius! Anyway, Snape told me not to do it, but I insisted. I was Aunt Petunia's only hope. I couldn't just let her die."

Harry almost expected Sirius to say that of course Harry could have, but Sirius knew him too well to say a thing like that. "You couldn't live with yourself," he said, sighing. "Right. Go on."

By then, Harry hardly knew how. It felt like he was telling the story completely out of order. "All right. Well, after the bone marrow transplant I lost my magic and we were trying to keep it a secret, so I couldn't come back to school. I stayed at Grimmauld Place for a while. With Remus helping me. But then I got kidnapped and ended up blind, and um . . . well, by then everybody knew I'd lost my magic anyway. Death Eaters blabbed it all. So I got to come home to Hogwarts, but I had to stay in the hospital wing because I was in pretty bad shape. I got better, though, mostly because Snape was brewing special potions 'round the clock for me."

"Snape," said Sirius, very grudgingly.

"Yes, Snape."

Harry waited a moment to see if Sirius would say something horrible, but he didn't. Well, Snape helping Harry heal wasn't really anything to complain about. And neither was the next bit.

"All right, so then I needed a safe place to stay, and the wards on the Dursley house were gone. Actually, the house was gone by then. Death Eaters destroyed it, and they were trying to get the Slytherins here to kill me. Because I'd escaped, which made Voldemort look bad. Which reminds me, and I really should have mentioned this part sooner, but I didn't really escape. I mean, I couldn't. I didn't even have any magic, and there were dozens of them surrounding me, watching me be tortured. I only got out alive because Snape rescued me."

"Snape rescued you."

"He was the only one who could," said Harry, leaning forward. "The headmaster and the Aurors were trying to break through to help me, but Voldemort's wards were too strong. But Snape, he was on the inside."

"Watching you be tortured, pretending to be one of them," spat Sirius. "Why the hell did you end up blinded if he was there, Harry? He should have saved you sooner!"

"He couldn't," cried Harry, frustrated. Though why he'd expected Sirius to understand straight away was a good question. The whole thing was very complicated. "He had a Portkey, but--"

"Aha! A Portkey he didn't use until you'd already been tortured and blinded! Sounds like Snivellus, all right--"

"If you don't shut up and listen I'm going to walk away and not come back!" shouted Harry. That horrible name was the final straw. "I mean it!"

Sirius pressed his lips together and clenched his fists, motioning for Harry to go on.

"He had a Portkey he couldn't use because Voldemort's wards were too strong, got it? He wanted to save me sooner!" Harry decided right then that there was no way he was going to mention that Snape had held him down to be blinded. "But he couldn't, and if he'd have tried, Voldemort would have killed him and then I would have had no way out. So all right, he waited. I've never blamed him for that and I never will. And then, even though I didn't have any magic really, I finally did some wild magic that blasted through Voldemort's wards. The second he could, Snape Portkeyed me out to safety."

Sirius gave a stiff nod. "Then I'm grateful to him, though he should have found a way--"

"There was no other way." Harry shook his head, trying to pick up the thread of the story. "All right, so then I was back at Hogwarts, in the hospital wing, but there were these rumours of pending attacks. Dumbledore was worried the hospital wing might be a target, and, you know, none of the Slytherins would dare attack Snape's quarters, so he . . . uh, took me in. I lived with him for most of last year and also this summer--"

"I may vomit."

"Sirius, don't," said Harry urgently. "Don’t be like this. Snape's been really good to me."

The man in the mirror ignored that completely. "Why didn't Albus take you in?"

"I . . . uh, well I was pretty angry with him at the time. He'd kept secrets from me all through fifth year and I thought you wouldn’t have got killed if I'd known more. Which means, I didn't trust him. I did trust Snape."

"You trusted Snape more than the headmaster?" Sirius was looking at him like he wanted ask if Harry was mental.

Harry could think of a hundred ways to reply to that, but he didn't want to justify himself. He shouldn’t have to.

"Yes. I still do, if that's your next question."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "What's happened to you?"

"I told you. I lost my magic and I was tortured and blinded, and--"

"No, I meant, what's happened to you up here?" Sirius tapped his temple. "You sound very confused, Harry. You can't trust Snape more than the headmaster. He's the head of the Order of the Phoenix, and Snape's a bad-tempered ex-Death Eater, for pity's sake!"

"The headmaster wants what's best for the war effort," said Harry simply. "But Snape wants what's best for me, Sirius."

"How can you believe that? Snape hates you, always has! You know that, Harry! You're James Potter's son!"

This was it, then. Harry couldn't think of a single reason to delay; he'd explained enough. "Yeah, I am. But the thing is . . ." He tried not to wince, though he really didn't enjoy the thought of hurting Sirius. "I'm his son too, Sirius. Snape's, I mean. He adopted me last December."

Sirius bared his teeth.

"Don't!" shouted Harry. "Don't turn into Padfoot again. Control yourself."

A low growl rumbled through the room, but Sirius managed to stay human. "Adopted you, did he? You're going to have to explain that one to me, Harry, because I don't think I understand."

Harry nodded, wishing then that he'd built up to it a little more. Though really, it felt like he'd been explaining for hours. "He took me in. I told you that. We started getting along, Sirius. I don't know how else to explain it. And then, well, the adoption was actually kind of necessary because of some special warding we were doing, another long story, but he really did want to adopt me by then."

"Of course," said Sirius, his lips twisting. "He's as Slytherin as they come. He's using you, Harry. Using your name. He'd have done it sooner if he'd seen a way, but he had to wait until you were vulnerable and in his clutches. He saw his chance and took it."

"It's not like that," said Harry, sighing. "Sirius . . . you know how much I've always wanted to be part of a family. And now, I am. Snape loves me. I mean, he even gave me swimming lessons."

"Swimming lessons!" Sirius bared his teeth again.

"Yes, and an allowance."

"Harry, you've got mountains of Galleons from James, and now you have all my things as well. Didn't Albus tell you? And you're of age, you said. You don't need an allowance!"

"It's what parents do," said Harry. "And Snape loves me, and--"

"He doesn't love you!"

Harry was fed up with arguing. "Well, it doesn't matter if he does or not, Sirius, because I love him."

"Just because he adopted you?"

"No, because he's my father!" shouted Harry. "Don't you get it? He's my dad, and yes, I love him, and nothing you can say is going to change my mind!"

Sirius threw his head back and made a horrible noise, something between a scream and a howl.

"No!" shouted Harry. "Don't transform! We have to talk about it until you understand, we have to--"

But it was too late. By then, what the mirror showed was a large black dog sitting on his haunches, his head flung back as he howled his fury to the skies.

Or to anyone who would listen.

"Sirius," said Harry, leaning closer. "Don't do this. Calm down and come back to me."

Growling, Padfoot jumped up and began turning around and around, like he was chasing his tail.

And then, he vanished, leaving Harry alone.

Except, he wasn't alone at all. He was with his family, and Snape was already coming forward to enclose him in a warm, tight hug.

"Sirius is an arsehole," said Harry mournfully, resting his cheek against the soft feel of his father's robes.

"I do hope you aren't expecting an argument," said Snape, his voice so droll that despite himself, Harry almost laughed.

"From you? No, not really." Harry stepped back from his father and tried to shrug off his annoyance with Sirius. He'd done what he could, and now . . . well, it was up to Sirius to come to terms with what Harry had told him. Or not. "So, Draco. What did you think of him? He's your second cousin or something, isn't he?"

"My mother's cousin, so he's my first cousin once removed. Or was, rather, seeing as he's dead."

Harry wasn't sure what to make of Draco's tone. It was sort of . . . supercilious.

"But what did you think of him?"

"He's a bit volatile for a proper Black, if you ask me." Draco came forward into the reflection zone, sighing as he glanced into the mirror. "But then I tell myself that my house and vault came from him, so a little gratitude wouldn't come amiss. And besides, unlike Lucius and my mother, Sirius Black did have the good sense to avoid getting entangled with the Dark . . . er, with Voldemort, that is. But that's a bit hard to remember sometimes, as I grew up hearing him praised for massacring those Muggles. So . . . I suppose I don't know what to think."

Harry nodded to show that he understood. "If he ever calms down, I'll introduce you properly. I'd like you to be able to get to know someone in your family who was on the side of the Light."

Draco smiled. "I do have people like that in my family, Harry. I have you and Severus."

Harry smiled, too. "I meant, you know, someone in your family tree."

"Well, you're both in that as well, but Sirius Black is no doubt closer. But speaking of family trees . . . I'm very sorry, Harry, about your parents not being able to come forward."

"Are you?" Huh . . . Harry was a little surprised to find he had an urge to shove his hands into his pockets. Draco must be rubbing off on him. "I thought you didn't approve."

"Well . . ." A faint line of colour rose on Draco's cheekbones. "I suppose I might have thought that it was disloyal to Severus. But I should have known that wasn't how you were looking at things."

"No." Grabbing Draco's hand, Harry pulled him more fully in front of the mirror, until they were standing side by side. "I think I'll have to stay in the conversation to make the mirror keep working," said Harry, "so we'll probably be like this. But who do you think should tell him about what I did with his vault and house?"

"You'd better do that. He doesn't know me. And I guess he won't ever, if he doesn't calm down enough to stay human--"

"Eh, he probably will. He'll want to talk to me again. Sorry I didn't get to mention you today, though. I did mean to."

"You had an awful lot to tell him. You still do, really."

"Nothing about your wandless magic or Lupin's mission," said Snape sternly as he came forward. "No Order business at all, in fact."

"Sirius is a member of the Order--"

"Not any longer, he isn't."

Harry was about to argue that, but Draco started talking before he could. "Besides, Harry, you heard how things are in that realm he's in. Our problems just aren't on their minds; they can't be, when getting news of them is so delayed. And what's the point of worrying him? He can't do anything, not from where he is."

"Yeah, I know, but--"

"You should give some thought to the revelation that Voldemort cursed your parents even after their deaths," interrupted Snape, his dark hair swaying as he shook his head. "Voldemort has established at least one point of contact between this realm and the afterlife." His voice went rough. "And now we know that there are Death Eaters present there. How can we be certain that some of them don't still report to him?"

"But my parents and Sirius wouldn't tell Death Eaters about the Order's plans!"

"Not knowingly, no. Of course not. But you heard your godfather. Information in the afterlife flows on a wave of emotion. They sense new arrivals, or not, based on apparently nothing but an emotional connection. We simply don't understand enough about the inner workings of that realm, Harry."

"Good thinking, Severus," said Draco.

Great intuitive grasp of magic, Harry thought again. If Draco thought that Snape's concerns made sense, then maybe they did.

"All right," he said, sighing. "You could be right. Sirius and Remus were the best of friends. Well, except while Remus thought Sirius actually had killed all those Muggles and betrayed my parents. But if he got really worried about Remus, like I am, then, I don't know. I suppose his emotions might carry the information around, especially in his case, since he seems so unable to . . . to control himself."

Snape gave a brisk nod. "Perhaps it's time to move the mirror to another location. I do believe I'd like to have my parlour back."

Harry's heart sank. "You don't want me to use it again?"

"No, you idiot child. I merely mean that it needn't stay here within the adoption wards any longer. I'm convinced that the process is safe enough. By the way, you handled Black's predictable overreaction quite maturely."

"Thanks," said Harry, though personally, he thought he'd been crying a lot lately. But then, finding out that his parents couldn't come speak to him had been an awful blow. Nothing to do but get through it, he told himself. No point in dwelling on things he couldn't have.

As if he would be able to stop himself.

Well, he could at least try. "Back to that old storeroom with it, then?"

"Perhaps a small room down the corridor from our quarters would be better."

A shorter walk . . . and within a stone's throw of Snape if Harry needed him for any reason. That sounded good, but only for later. For next time, Harry had something else in mind. "All right, but I'm calling Sirius again tomorrow and you're going to be right there, right next to me, Dad," he decided out loud. "No more keeping out of sight. There's no reason for that any longer."

"I hardly think that antagonising your godfather is prudent."

Harry smiled. "Maybe not, but he's my godfather. Like it was my marrow. I trusted my instincts then and ended up with the one thing I'd always wanted. Not to mention those wanded powers that'll help us end this stupid war. So I'm trusting my instincts again. You're going to be in the mirror with me."

Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes contemplative.

"Right?" asked Harry, because if he knew anything, it was that you didn't assume that silence meant consent. Not when dealing with a Slytherin.

"I shall wear my best robes," said Snape, giving a slight nod of agreement.

Harry appreciated the sentiment, even as he frowned. "Um, maybe not. Sirius might take that wrong."

"On the contrary, he might take offence if I wear anything else to be presented to a member of my son's family."

"Pureblood tradition," supplied Draco. "Though this one generally applies only when an adult has been adopted."

"And Harry is an adult now," said Snape calmly. "The fact that he was adopted prior to attaining his majority is irrelevant, since my introduction to Sirius Black is taking place afterwards."

Harry blinked. "But you already know him!"

"Not in this context," said Snape, clearly implacable.

"Adoption has a long and respected history among purebloods," added Draco, laughing a little. "Which tends to mean that loads of traditions have built up, and believe me, anybody raised a Black would have learned about them."

"In that case, I'll wear my best robes, too."

"That would be best, if you are so determined for the two of us to appear to him together."

"My best school robes," Harry clarified, almost expecting an argument. "Prefect's badge as well."

Snape merely shrugged, but Harry though he could see the faint glimmer of a smile in his eyes. Pride, maybe, that Harry wanted to acknowledge his membership in Slytherin.

All he said in reply, though, was, "Well, if you are determined to trust your instincts, I suppose you may as well trust all of them."

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Five: "Reflections"

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight
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Chapter Text

That night, Harry dreamed.

He was standing before the Mirror of All Souls, Severus at his side as Harry called and called for Sirius. No matter how he tried, though, nobody appeared in the murky blackness.

"He can't come," said Harry, balling his fists in frustration. "He must be off visiting Death Eaters again!"

Severus flinched, his pale features going even more pallid than usual, but Harry scarcely noticed. His thoughts were solely on Sirius.

"Maybe he can come and he doesn't want to," said Harry bitterly, striking the mirror until Severus grabbed his wrist to make him stop. "I as good as told him that I was choosing you over him, and Sirius never has been terribly stable, has he? He probably hates me now and never wants to see me again--"

"Perhaps you simply aren’t reaching out to his true spirit, his true soul," said Severus, very gently, one hand on Harry's shoulder now, caressing away the tension in his muscles. "Try calling for an ungrateful cur, my son."

Harry nodded, thinking that his father was right. But then, Severus was generally right, wasn't he? About everything.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated, long and hard, thinking of every last horrible about Sirius that he could. Startling Harry, scaring him the year he'd hung about pretending to be the Grim. Taunting Severus in school, complaining of boredom until James flipped Severus upside down for some entertainment. Sending Severus to the Shrieking Shack when he knew perfectly well that only death at a werewolf's hands was waiting within. Switching roles with Peter Pettigrew at the last minute like that, not having the brains to see that Peter was already working for Voldemort and would betray the Potters at the first opportunity--

"Harry," said Severus at his side. "The mirror. Look."

Harry opened his eyes to see an image swimming into view. "Sirius," he said, a little coldly after all the memories he'd just dredged forth.

"Harry." Sirius' gaze flicked to Snape. "Him. Why him, Harry? He doesn't even have the decency to wear his best robes."

"But he has!"

"Those are his best, are they?"

When Harry flicked a confused glance to the side, he saw that instead of formal robes in black and green, Severus was wearing cast-off rags that made Remus' usual attire look elegant.

"Why did you change?" he gasped.

"I didn't," said Snape coldly. "I never changed. You only think I have."

"Of course he hasn't changed," said Sirius, lips twisted, his voice a riot of contempt. "Why would you believe he ever could, Harry? He's a Death Eater, always has been. Ask him why he didn't tell you that your parents had been bound away from your presence! Well, go on, ask him! He was in Voldemort's service at the time--"

"Pretending," gasped Harry, stepping away from Snape and toward the mirror. "He was only pretending, so he could spy on Voldemort--"

"Was he?" Sirius snorted. "If that's the case, then ask him why he adopted you as his beloved son and never once told you that he'd cast your real parents away from your presence!"

Harry turned to Snape to do just that, only to see the man's eyes glint with evil glee as he pulled a Death Eater's mask out of a ragged cloak pocket and began to put it on--

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, suddenly awake, his gaze frantically searching the room, dimly lit by the muted glow of the wall sconces. Snape wasn't there, though.

The only things that greeted his eyes were the walls themselves, trunks and armoires, and Draco, shifting beneath his covers on the other side of the room.

In a moment more, his brother was stretching sleepily and sitting up, blinking until he saw Harry sitting up as well. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me that. You look like you've seen someone spit and roasted right before your eyes."

"Bad dream," said Harry shortly.

"How bad?"

Harry debated for a moment, then glanced to the side. "Dad was still a Death Eater."

Even in the dim light, Harry could see Draco clenching his hands in the blankets pooled around his legs. The other boy's tone of voice when he finally spoke, however, was deliberately light. "You know he's not, so laugh it off."

Harry turned and pinned his brother with a glare. "I don't hear you laughing. You know why not? It isn't funny."

"Well, you don't actually think . . . you aren't worried, are you?"

"Of course I'm not worried," said Harry, gritting his teeth. He could hardly believe that Draco would even need to ask. "I'm not stupid. It was just Sirius, trying to turn me against Dad!"

"No, it wasn't." Draco shook his head. "The dream came from inside your own head."

Yeah, Harry knew that. "Well, it was just me expecting Sirius to be an idiot, then."

"Is he such a terrible person?"

"No!" exclaimed Harry. "I'm not explaining things right. He's . . . well, he's great. And I love him. A lot. But, he and Snape are, um, pretty much enemies, that's all."

Draco nodded. "I'd gathered as much. There's nothing you can do about that, Harry."

"Except dream," muttered Harry, glancing away.

"I think you're just upset because you aren't used to it." When Harry looked at him blankly, Draco went on. "You're being pulled in two directions. Which is just a regular part of growing up if you have a mother and a father both. But things weren't like that for you, so no wonder you're dreaming about them fighting over you."

When Harry thought about that, it made sense. "Was that in the book, too?"

"What book?"

"Um, The Path to Recovery, something like that?"

"Some, yes. But the sixth-year Muggle Studies text also discusses dream interpretation, so it's been on my mind lately." Draco smiled. "Shall I go to Severus and ask him for some potion for you?"

That was a considerate offer, but Harry still rolled his eyes. "What, you aren't going to make me do it for myself this time? You don’t think I need to talk to him about the dream?"

"I don’t think Severus needs to hear that you're dreaming he's still a Death Eater, no," said Draco seriously.

Harry swivelled his legs off the bed and fished with his toes until he found his slippers. "I'll try not to mention that part. But I do have to ask him something."

"What?"

"Something that can't wait," said Harry grimly. "Go back to sleep, Draco."

Draco looked uncertain, but he lay back down, watching through narrowed eyes as Harry shrugged a night robe over his pyjamas and padded toward the door.

"Sir?" Harry knocked a little bit more loudly.

The door was abruptly flung open, Snape standing there in his own night robe, though his feet were bare. "I knew I should have given you some Dreamless Sleep. It's been a difficult day for you. Come in for a moment, Harry."

Harry did, but when Snape summoned a vial and pressed it into his hand, he made no move to drink it. "I actually didn’t come for the potion, sir."

"Sir," echoed Snape, shaking his head. "What's on your mind, Harry? Something Black said?"

"Um . . . yes." Harry sank down into a chair and tried to get his thoughts into some sort of order. "Well, sort of. That binding on my parents. Why didn't you tell me about it? I mean, I understand that you wouldn't want to hurt me, so maybe you wouldn't think I'd need to know about it, since I wouldn’t normally expect to be able to call them to me, anyway. But the minute I started talking about getting the mirror to work so that I could see them again . . . you really should have told me that I had no chance, no chance at all."

"I would have, of course." The rumpled bed compressed as Snape sat across from him. "Black's announcement came as a total surprise to me, Harry."

Harry swallowed, nodding, though he still had to ask, "He . . . Voldemort, I mean, he didn't ask you to brew a potion, or . . . or--"

"No," said Snape, folding his hands together in his lap. "I can't blame you for wondering; it's a reasonable deduction, given that I was spying when this must have taken place, but no. I swear to you, Harry, that I knew nothing of any scheme to bind your parents."

"Oh." Harry flushed, feeling like a right idiot. Of course Snape couldn't have known. The man loved him. He'd have told Harry about a thing like that. "Er . . . sorry, sir."

"Dad. Or Severus."

"Yeah." Harry swallowed. "Sorry, Dad. I should have had some faith in you."

"But you did. You came and asked me, straight away after your nightmare."

"How did you know I'd had a nightmare? I never said that." Harry frowned, concentrating for a moment on the fire that he nearly always kept burning around his thoughts these days. He scarcely noticed it any longer; Occlumency had got to be second nature. He could feel the sensation of flames blazing when he tried, though.

"No, I haven't been Legilimising you on the sly," said Snape, shaking his head. "I can often tell what you're thinking merely by the look on your face."

"Like just then."

"Yes."

Harry sighed, getting up off the chair to sit next to his father, instead. He felt better there, and better still when Severus draped an arm across his shoulders to pull him close for a moment. Perhaps that was what made Harry able to admit the truth. "I did have a nightmare. Awful stuff. I . . . I was talking to Sirius and he was trying to turn me against you."

"Seer dream," said Snape dryly.

"It wasn't a seer dream. It didn't follow the pattern, didn't have that whirling--"

"I was attempting irony. Badly, one must conclude."

"Well, even my regular dreams sometimes kind of . . . point to things," said Harry.

"Yes, I know."

"I don't suppose we can stop Sirius from saying something awful if that's what he wants to do." Harry sighed. "I'm . . . I don't know. I was really upset at first, thinking that you might have been involved in binding my parents away from me, but now I almost wish you had been, because . . . well, in that case you might be able to help me undo the binding, right?"

"Wrong."

Harry blinked. "What? You wouldn't help me?"

Snape's dark eyes narrowed as he stared down at Harry. "To dabble in necromancy?"

"It's not necromancy. We wouldn’t be trying to resurrect their, ugh, dead bodies, or anything like that--"

"The kind of spell that can reach beyond the grave to affect those who should be beyond all reach of magic, Harry? It would be classed among the necromantic arts, at the very least. And no, I would not under any circumstances assist you to manipulate magic as dark as that."

"But we'd be undoing an evil spell," said Harry, swallowing. "We'd be doing something good."

Snape abruptly pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. "No, we most certainly wouldn't." He paused for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. "I was in Voldemort's inner circle, Harry. One of his most trusted advisors--"

"That's what you think," muttered Harry, wanting to lash out. How could Snape say that it was evil to remove that awful binding? How could Snape want to keep him away from his parents? "Maybe he never trusted you at all. He didn't ask you to help him with this task, did he? Didn't even mention it to you!"

"I dare say he discussed it only with those involved in the casting," said Snape in a stony voice, "and demanded absolute silence from them. Voldemort likes to gloat, but not when he's uncertain of outcomes. I doubt he could be confident that his binding took effect. Now he could be, should he find a way to receive information that your parents have tried and failed to answer your call. But you have missed my point. Why would Voldemort have excluded me from the group of Death Eaters working with necromancy?"

"I . . . I don't know. He thought you might be a spy?"

"He wouldn't have told me other key things in that case. Try again. Why did he not demand I kill you here at Hogwarts? I certainly had plenty of opportunity, had I wished it."

Harry remembered then. "Oh. Your hands. You told Voldemort that you had to be careful if he wanted you able to make Light magic potions . . . you can't have blood on your hands. Is that just literal? You did help hold me down for the needles, but you kept away from the blood--"

"How could it be literal when it's not even true?"

"Did Voldemort take it literally, I meant?"

"I meant him to take it as expansively as possible." Snape winced, just a bit. "Perhaps that was a mistake. Most likely that was his reason for keeping me away from the ceremony that bound your parents. Had I been less fastidious about what I was willing to do as a spy, I would have been able to furnish Albus with more information."

Harry hated to hear his father talking that way. "No, you were right to think up a way to limit what you'd have to do at those horrid gatherings. I mean, working for the Light is a good thing, but if it makes you kill and maim, how can that be good?"

Snape crossed his arms across his chest. "You prefer to ignore the fact that I did all that, and worse, when I first joined the Dark Lord's ranks."

The Dark Lord. Harry shivered.

"But that was before you . . . er, redeemed yourself."

"I did not redeem myself, because I doubt that such a thing can be done," said Snape, staring at the wall instead of at Harry. "If anything, Albus redeemed me. Or attempted to. Nothing can truly erase the suffering I caused, Harry. You don't know-- you don't know about the things I did in his service."

A sick feeling swam through Harry's gut. That usually happened whenever he really tried to imagine his father's bitter past, which was why Harry tried his best not to imagine it. Severus was probably right about Harry wanting to ignore the whole thing, but what else was there to do? It was like Snape himself had said: nothing could change the facts about what he'd done back then.

"I don't need to know." Harry laid a hand on his father's forearm. "I know who you are now. That's what matters."

"Remember that if you ever find out what Lupin has had to do to maintain his guise. He has no tale of brewing with clean hands to save him from the worst of Voldemort's demands."

Another thing Harry tried not to think about, so he distracted himself with the first question that popped to mind. "Why did Voldemort believe you about clean hands, anyway? He would have known what you'd done for him during his first rise!"

"Oh, it was not difficult to convince him that the headmaster had insisted on 'purifying' me in an effort to render the Dark Mark inactive. 'Dumbledore was worried that you would return,' I simpered. Voldemort was only too delighted at the thought that Albus' rituals had failed. I played to his vanity."

Harry thought that over and nodded. He wasn't sure he'd ever have a use for that particular strategy, but he supposed it might come in handy. "So then . . . this spell to bind my parents . . . Sirius said it involved atrocities, but he wouldn't tell me anything more."

"One of the few intelligent decisions he's ever made."

"You mean you won't tell me, either?"

Snape turned his head to stare at him. "Have you not listened to a word I've said? I don't know what the ceremony involved!"

"I just thought . . ." Harry laced his fingers together in his lap. "If I knew for sure how he did it, then maybe I could find a way to undo it."

"You haven't been listening." Snape abruptly grabbed both his wrists and squeezed. "Harry, I don't know the precise details of this binding, but I do know that necromancy always involves sacrifice. Human sacrifice, and the darker the magic, the more innocent the sacrifice must be. To reach into the afterlife is dark enough, but to bind parents away from their own child, their only child? I frankly doubt that one was enough."

"One sacrifice?" Snape's words about innocence seemed to penetrate, then, and the truth flashed through to Harry. He thought his stomach might drop straight through the floor. "Oh, God. Babies, that's what you're talking about. One baby wasn't enough? He had innocent little babies killed so that he could--"

Snape wrapped him into a fierce embrace. "For once I could curse your instincts, Harry. I was trying not to say it. You don't need to think on such things. And you are not to blame yourself. This was Voldemort's doing, not yours. You bear no responsibility--"

"I know." Harry bit his lip to keep from crying. He wasn't sure why the idea would hit him so hard. After all, Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was just a baby, so it wasn't like he'd ever thought the man was above slaughtering a child. But sacrifice . . . that was different. Harry had been intended to be a sacrifice last Samhain, and it had involved more than mere killing. Torture, first . . .

"You're thinking about it, even now," said Snape, rubbing his back a little.

Sighing, Harry let himself relax and be held. He even leaned his head on his father's shoulder and felt the man's hair brush against his nose. Greasy hair, but somehow that was kind of comforting at the moment.

"All right, so now we know," said Harry softly. "Awful, but I'm not mental enough to blame myself. I can't help that it happened. But can't we use the information for good? Now that we understand, can't we find a way to reverse it? I . . . I'm sorry that I want so much to talk to my parents. I know I shouldn't need it. It's not even normal. I mean, Sirius was right about that, but . . . why won't you help me?"

Snape set him slightly away, positioning him so that their gazes would connect. "Because necromancy is pure evil, Harry."

"It doesn't have to be--"

"Yes, it has to be. I studied it once, before I ever turned to the Light. The only way to reverse a necromantic spell would be to recreate the ritual in precise detail, in every respect save one."

"No sacrifice?" asked Harry, voice feeble because from the look in Snape's eyes, he knew that guess had to be wrong.

"Double the sacrifice."

Harry clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. It didn't help, though. "Fuck, fuck!"

For once, Snape offered no rebuke about his language. Not even a critical glance.

"There's no other way?"

"No. Trust me."

"I do." Feeling defeated, Harry flopped onto his back on the bed. What he really wanted to do was to start firing off spells. Anything, as long as it would dispel the anger churning inside him. "I just wish . . ."

"Of course. The same thing you've always wished." Moving up on the bed, Snape sat with one leg bent as he settled a hand onto Harry's chest. "You have a hole in your heart that will never be completely filled."

Harry blinked back tears, because damn it, that was true, and it shouldn't be. "You fill it, Severus. I mean . . . how can you not? I love you. As much as I ever . . . well, hell. I love you more than I ever loved them, because I was too little to really know about love--"

Snape moved his hand to brush Harry's hair away from his face, his long fingers gentle as they swept across his skin. "You were too little to say the word, Harry. Not too little to love them."

Harry gulped, feeling ashamed that he wanted Snape's fingers to keep on stroking his hair. "Those poor babies--"

Snape's voice was soothing, just like his fingers. "Well, you heard Black. They were met by their loved ones, and someday, they'll see their parents again."

"And that's supposed to make it better? The idea that it was their time?" Harry laughed harshly as he lay there. "I don't understand that, anyway. Am I supposed to think they were going to fall out of their cribs that same day, if Voldemort hadn't snatched them? Am I supposed to believe that they were going to die anyway, and the only question is how? And what about all those people at the Ministry? Hundreds of them, and they were all going to die that day anyway, because it was their time?"

"I didn't say that it was their time," corrected Snape softly. "I only said that they were at peace."

"I know, but Sirius said . . ." When it seemed like Snape would move his hand away, Harry angled his neck to keep it close. Snape made a low noise of amusement, and resumed carding his fingers through his son's hair.

"Black told you what he believed. Nothing more, nothing less," said Snape. "Perhaps he needs to believe it. That place he's in . . . it does seem designed to let the dead rest in peace. I wouldn't be surprised if most of the souls there believe that they died because their time had come. If you're dead already, that could be a comforting thought, I suppose. That doesn't make it objectively true."

Harry sighed and looked up at his father, sitting so patiently beside him. And it was probably three in the morning, too. Harry really ought to go to bed and let Snape sleep. He couldn’t, though. Too much on his mind.

"So you think Sirius is wrong? He said he wasn't, he said he really knew the truth about life and death."

"I'm certain that he thinks he does." Snape moved his hand, resting the back of his fingers against Harry's cheek. "He loves you very much, and he didn't want to leave you. Certainly not like that, in the midst of battle, your safety still something very far from assured. He must have felt at first that he'd abandoned you."

"It wasn't his fault--"

"No, but I believe you are no stranger to inappropriate guilt."

"True," Harry admitted, smiling a little.

"I suspect the only way Black could come to terms with his own death was to rest on fate. A common human reaction to tragedy."

That had Harry smiling just a little bit more. "Sirius' death was a tragedy, was it? Can I get that in writing?"

"Don’t jest," said Snape sternly. "It was a tragedy for you. I'd have to be an imbecile not to realise as much. And the man did have his talents, so it was a tragedy for the Order as well."

"Right," said Harry, chastened. "So . . . Sirius has convinced himself that it was just his time, nothing to be done about it."

"They may all be convinced of it. I, however, remain sceptical."

"Yeah, me too, I think," murmured Harry. "I don't know, even before I fell asleep tonight I was wondering about that. Don't take this wrong, but I was even wondering what was the point in fighting Voldemort. I mean, theoretically. If he's going to die when he's supposed to die no matter what anybody else does, then why go to the effort to kill him? We could just have a holiday while we wait for him to slip in his shower."

It wasn't often that Severus grinned, but that image certainly got to him. A wide smile broke out across his features; in the next instant, he moved his hand from Harry's cheek to cover his own mouth.

"We could send him slippery soap to help it along," added Harry.

At that, Severus actually laughed.

"You do see the fallacy in your argument, I hope," the man said after a moment, though he was still smiling. "You're assuming that Voldemort is the one fated to die, when the prophecy itself speaks to some sort of battle between the two of you, with the outcome not known in advance."

"Well, yeah, but then I thought that if Sirius was right and I was going to die when my time came, no matter what, and I'm fated to lose to Voldemort, then there's no point in preparing to fight him, is there?"

"But Black is not right."

"No, I don't think he can be," whispered Harry. "I can't believe that my parents were going to drop dead that Halloween, whether he came by or not. No . . . he did it. If not for him, they'd be here with me. And . . . and Lucius Malfoy . . . I did that. He wasn't going to die anyway if I hadn't acted. I'm the one who would be dead, in that case, whether it was my time or not."

"All true."

"And if being dead really made Sirius so wise, he'd have had the brains to accept the adoption instead of throwing a fit like a little kid!"

"A kid is a baby goat," observed Severus dryly. "I do believe he threw a fit like a dog, if anything."

Harry reached behind him, grabbed a pillow, and flung it at his father, who chuckled as he batted it away. "On that note, perhaps you should return to your own bed."

Yawning, Harry sat up. In some ways, he'd rather stay here and talk all night, but that wasn't really very practical. "Can I have a lie-in tomorrow? Please?"

"As long as you like."

Harry blinked, surprised that Snape had capitulated so easily. Or at all, really. Except for birthdays, the man was pretty strict about not raising his sons to be "lazy good-for-nothings," as he put it. "Really?"

"Of course. The longer you sleep, the longer before I have to see Black once again."

"Very funny, Dad."

"I thought so."

Harry got to his feet. He didn't exactly feel better about things; never being able to see his parents in the mirror was still an awful blow. And the thought of what Voldemort had done in order to bind them . . . that was beyond awful.

But at least he wasn't still vaguely wondering if life was nothing but a script somebody else had already written. It couldn't be. Sirius was wrong about that, but if the thought somehow comforted him . . . well, all right. Harry could let him think that he'd died because it was just his time to go.

What he couldn't let him think, though, was that he could argue Harry out of loving Severus. Nothing could do that, Harry told himself.

Nothing.

Ever.

When Harry finally wandered out of his room the next day, he saw that the Mirror of All Souls had been moved as Snape had suggested.

Draco grinned when he saw him. "First Severus, and then you."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, Dad slept in as well, that's all."

"We were up pretty late. Talking." Draco looked curious, and Harry couldn’t blame him, not after the previous night's vague I have to ask him something. "I wanted to know if he'd had anything to do with binding my parents. But he didn't."

"You shouldn't have had to ask a thing like that!"

"Look, talking to dead people can get just a bit confusing," snapped Harry.

"To say the least," drawled Snape as he emerged from his bedroom, his hair sleek and straight. Harry tried not to stare, since it wasn't polite, but he couldn't miss the fact that Snape had washed his hair for once. Maybe it went along with wearing his best robes to be officially presented to Sirius. "We also debated predestination versus free will."

"We came down on the side of free will," added Harry.

Draco raised his chin. "Of course. Wasn't I more-or-less predestined to hate you and fight against you? And yet here I am, on your side. That's free will, right there."

"So it is, Draco," said Snape. "Ah, I see that the elves have moved the mirror. Shall we have lunch before we go and speak with your godfather?"

"Lunch and dinner both, maybe," muttered Harry, glancing at his watch. "No breakfast, I suppose. It's already gone eleven."

"You may certainly order breakfast foods if you wish."

Harry did. Full English breakfast, in fact, but then he wondered why he'd bothered, when he could barely eat a thing. Despondent, he trailed his fork through his egg, smearing yolk through the small piles of mushroom and tomato on his plate.

Snape regarded him critically over his cup of tea. "This reminds me of your behaviour before we went to Albus' office to fill out the adoption papers."

"Ha," said Harry. "Back then I just felt mixed-up. That's not a problem now. I'm proud to be your son. It's just . . . knowing that Sirius is going to hate me when I choose you over him . . . well, what's the bloody point in talking to him at all?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He is not going to hate you."

"Stop being such a pessimist," said Draco. "What happened to your Gryffindor side?"

"I'm a full Slytherin," said Harry, slanting his brother a smile.

"Be judicious about using that phrase around Black," cautioned Snape.

Harry pushed his chair back and stood up. "Let's just get it over with."

Without another word, he went into the bedroom to change his clothes. Proper wizarding trousers instead of jeans, and a long-sleeved uniform shirt. Then his best school cloak, a new one that Severus had bought him shortly before his birthday. Harry had already charmed his special crest onto it, as well as onto the other new cloaks he'd got that day.

He had to admit, having a father to go school-shopping with him had been great fun, as well as dead useful. Severus had suggested several books besides the "required" and "recommended" texts for his classes this term. Harry had protested at first, saying that the library would have whatever he needed, but Severus had insisted that copies he could keep on hand for reference all year would be a benefit.

Having an adult who cared enough about him to think of things like that had been a new experience for Harry.

Harry pinned on his prefect's badge and then went into the loo to try to do something with his hair. As usual, nothing much worked, but maybe that was just as well. He wanted to look his best for these formal "introductions," but he didn’t want Sirius to think he was trying to look like someone other than himself. He was just Harry, messy hair and all.

When he went back out into the living room, his family was waiting for him. Draco was wearing his best school robes and his own prefect's badge, which meant he looked much the same as Harry did, but Severus had put on formal dress robes narrowly edged with green. It made a welcome change from the usual stark, unbroken black.

"Shall we?"

Harry nodded, carefully picking up the frame which held the fragments of the two-way mirror. He tried not to look down at it. He didn't want to see the missing pieces, or start to count how many remained. What he wanted to do was pretend that he had a limitless supply and that Sirius would want to keep talking to him, now that he knew the truth about Harry's family situation.

The Mirror of All Souls was just two doors down from their quarters, in a room warded to open only to Harry, Draco, or Snape. "The password is butterscotch," said Snape in a quiet voice as he bid the door open.

"You're joking," said Draco, jaw dropping.

"The headmaster chose it."

When Draco still looked confused, Harry whispered that he'd explain about that later. Strange . . . Harry would have thought that Dumbledore's bizarre passwords were common knowledge. Not for Slytherins, apparently.

As the door closed behind them, Harry took up his position in front of the Mirror of All Souls. Somehow it looked more imposing than ever, but that was probably because there was nothing else in this room. Nothing at all, not even a rug on the stone floor. Well, they weren't wizards for nothing, Harry decided as he flexed his fingers, drawing his wand for show as his father insisted.

He tried to conjure three chairs and ended up with three . . . well, three of something, anyway. Footstools, maybe, he thought as he eyed them.

Draco made a show of sighing dramatically as he waved his wand to change them into matching wing-backed chairs made of dark wood and sleek grey leather.

"I could have done better if I'd cast wanded," muttered Harry.

"We'd have got a couch the size of London--"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Snape, "we have more important things to do than argue over the furnishings."

"Yeah, all right." Still, Harry wasted another minute shoving the chairs into place, all three of them before the mirror, but pushed back a little to begin with. Then he chose a precious shard of broken mirror and pressed it against the Mirror of All Souls as he said the incantation to make it come to life.

"English, I told you to try English," complained Draco as he stood off to one side.

"Habit. I'll try that later. If Sirius ever wants to talk with me again--"

"Call him," said Snape quietly.

"Not until you're standing by my side like I want."

Snape gave him a bit of a sour look but complied at once, his robes billowing majestically around him as he moved.

Harry glanced at Draco, apologetic. "Sorry, but I'll introduce you once we get the rest sorted out."

"You're supposed to introduce your adopted family in order of age precedence, in any case," said Draco, shrugging.

That could have sounded snooty, but really, it sounded like a simple fact, nothing more. Harry smiled gratefully and closed his eyes to call Sirius.

It seemed to take longer than before, but maybe that was just because he was feeling so worried about the whole thing. What if Sirius refused to come? What if all he wanted to do was scream that Harry was being stupid, that Harry had to listen to him? What if his dream came true and Sirius was going to accuse Snape of horrible things--

"Harry," said a voice warmly, the sound coming from just in front of him.

Harry's eyes snapped open to see Sirius standing before him, leaning in against the surface of the mirror, both his palms splayed out to hold his weight. "Sirius. You came."

"You can't have thought I wouldn't. Unless--" Strangely, Sirius looked like he was biting his own tongue. That was when Harry noticed that Sirius' hair was long and straggly. Well, no wonder he was upset . . . he was staring straight at Snape now.

Harry could see them both before him in the mirror, which was a bit odd since he couldn't see his own reflection at all. And Snape didn't look like a reflection -- he looked like he was behind the mirror, in the same place Sirius was.

But that just proved, he supposed, that the mirror wasn't behaving as a true mirror any longer. Maybe Snape looked like he was in the same place as Sirius because, well . . . both men were in his heart, weren't they?

Or maybe it was just a trick of the light.

It was strange to see them side by side because of something else, too. Harry never thought he would see the day when Severus was better groomed than Sirius. And wasn't that saying something, considering how messy Sirius often looked? Now, he looked worse than usual, mostly because standing alongside him was a man with hair so straight and black that it was shining, hanging like a perfect curtain around his face.

"Unless what?" asked Harry.

Sirius just shook his head, the look on his face so stubborn that Harry dropped the subject. Best just to get on with the important bit, he supposed. Tucking his wand away in a pocket, Harry turned to the side and gestured.

"Sirius, I would like to present you to my adoptive father, Severus Augustus Snape. Severus, this is Sirius Black, named my godfather by my parents James and Lily Potter."

Sirius' mouth dropped open, which was a bit odd considering he wasn't being told anything he hadn't already known, except possibly Snape's middle name. That wasn't it, though. Harry knew that the moment the man spoke.

"Harry . . . somebody's been teaching you about pureblood customs."

"That would be my father," said Harry, raising an eyebrow. It was a relief when Sirius didn't start howling or chasing his tail. Maybe there was hope, after all. "Are you going to follow the custom?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," said Sirius swiftly. He couldn't exactly shake Snape's hand, though, could he? Instead, he moved one of his palms lower, still keeping it splayed out on the glass.

Severus took a brisk step forward and matched the motion so that he and Sirius were hand-to-hand. "Kin of my kin shall be blood of my blood," said Snape quietly. Harry was impressed; it didn't sound like Snape had any misgivings. But then, the man did know how to hide his feelings.

"Kin of my kin shall be blood of my blood," echoed Sirius, and he definitely sounded a bit queasy at the prospect, but he did say it, so Harry was impressed with him as well.

Snape stepped back at once and took up his place by Harry's side once more.

Harry didn't know what to say, really. Of all the things he'd expected to hear Sirius say today, that sentence hadn't been one of them. "Um . . . what's got into you?"

"Common sense, one would hope," said Snape, eyes narrowed in challenge.

"Shut it, Snape," retorted Sirius before centring his gaze on Harry. "Adoptions aren't terribly common in pureblood families, but the tradition is one worthy of respect."

"You didn't think so yesterday--"

Sirius grimaced wrapped his arms around himself. "Well, I'll admit you took me by surprise and I didn't know what to think--"

"You know what you thought," said Harry. "You were pretty damned clear about it."

"All right, all right! I hated the idea, fine!" said Sirius, raising his voice.

That was more like it. Harry didn't want to fight with Sirius, but he wasn't about to listen to a bunch of half-truths, either. They either had honesty between them, or what they had wasn't worth much. "So what changed?"

Sirius scowled and said one word. Probably the last one Harry expected.

"James."

"My dad?" Harry stepped closer to the mirror. "He . . . what did he say to you?"

Sirius folded his arms across his chest and mumbled something.

Harry felt a little pang go through his heart. "You can't tell me?" he asked mournfully. "That horrid binding--"

"That's not it." Sirius sighed. "James wasn't trying to pass a message to you, Harry. He was just talking to me."

"Saying what, Sirius?"

A long stare and another mumble, but this time, Harry could make the words out. "Hetoldmetopullmyheadoutofmyarse."

Beside him, Snape sounded like he was swallowing a laugh.

Sirius rounded on him. "I thought I told you to shut it, Snape."

"Oh, but we're kin now, Black," said Snape, his voice rippling with some kind of dark humour. "We're blood. You said it yourself."

"Doesn't mean you can mock me!"

"Was I doing that? From my perspective, I was merely pleased to hear that James gave you such fine advice."

"James, is he?" asked Sirius, baring his teeth. "Since when do you call him that? Even when you were working in the Order with us during the first war, it was Potter! You even made a point of calling Lily that!"

"Well, it shall be James now that he is kin of my kin," said Snape calmly. "He and Lily can't come here to do the greeting ritual, obviously, but please do tell them that I welcome them both into my family, Sirius."

Sirius scowled again, but he'd stopped baring his teeth, so Harry wasn't too worried that he would transform. "My dad really told you to pull your head out of your arse?"

"And ask if you were happy," said Sirius. "And no, he didn't 'tell' me, Harry. It was more like a yell, but maybe that was just because my ears were ringing from Lily's slap. She said that Severus was a fine man who'd put himself at risk time and again for the Order, and how dare I insult her son's intelligence--"

"When did you do that?"

"I didn't!" Sirius' nostrils flared. "But Lily thought I had, the little--"

"Don't call my mum names!"

Sirius leaned closer to the mirror. "Oh, I adore your mum, Harry, but she's like a lioness when she gets her dander up. Packs a hell of a wallop."

"She sounds like Hermione. I like it."

"How is Hermione?"

"Oh, no you don't," said Harry, almost growling. "No changing the subject. What was that about insulting my intelligence?"

"Lily said that any son of hers ought to be able to choose for himself who he'd trust and who he wouldn't, and that for me to say otherwise was calling you a fool."

"Well, it is," said Snape, looking impassively into the mirror.

"Right," Sirius answered, but grudgingly.

"What did you say back to her?" asked Harry.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Before or after James let me up? Yeah, he was sort of . . . well, not sitting on me, exactly. Let's just say that I was flat on my back by then and he was determined to keep me there until I saw things his way. Both of them were annoyed as hell that I'd cut off what you were trying to tell me, Harry. So I said that of course you weren't a fool, but you'd had a hard time growing up and you might be a little bit confused about which adults to trust, and that was when James yelled at me again, to pull my head out of my arse and just ask."

"Are you ever going to do so?" asked Snape.

"I don't need to ask if Harry's happy," said Sirius, sighing. "He obviously is."

"I am, yeah." Harry put both his hands onto the mirror, smiling when Sirius matched the motion. "I'm really happy, Sirius. Severus is a great dad and I even have a brother now!"

"Oh, sweet Merlin," groaned Sirius. "You actually found a woman who could stand you, Snape?"

Off to the side, Draco clapped a hand over his mouth, looking like he was about to die from holding in the laughter.

Meanwhile, Snape scowled. "I believe we should refrain from personal attacks. Unless you'd like me to share with Harry during our unlimited conversation time," he said pointedly, "the thousands of things I find objectionable about you?"

"As if you haven't already," muttered Sirius.

"He hasn't," said Harry staunchly. "He knows I love you and that it would hurt me to hear bad things about you. Just like it hurts me to hear you say bad things about him, so like you said, shut it."

Sirius gave a shaky nod. "All right. For you, Harry? Anything." His gaze flicked a bit higher. "So then, what's this I hear about a brother for Harry?"

"I adopted another boy as well," said Snape, very coolly. Harry knew then that the man was wary about Sirius' reaction. Probably, his reaction to the name Malfoy.

"One wasn't enough for you?"

Harry thought that was snide, but Snape seemed to brush it off. "Apparently not."

Both men sort of stared at him, then, until Harry figured out that it was up to him to do the honours. "Oh. All right." He waved for Draco to come into view of the mirror. The other boy had both his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. Harry hoped he'd be able to relax soon. "Sirius, I would like to present you to my brother, Draco Gervais Alain Malfoy Snape. Draco, this is Sirius Black, named my godfather by my parents, James and Lily Potter."

"Draco Alain Gervais Malfoy Snape, actually," said Draco, looking a bit put out.

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"I'd like to think my own brother could remember my name!"

"Well, if it would stop changing, maybe I could!" retorted Harry.

"Gentlemen," said Snape softly. That was all he said, just the one word, but it was enough to make them both drop the argument.

Meanwhile, Sirius looked like he was calculating something as he stared at Harry. "Snape, you said. Did you change your own name, too?"

"No, of course not." Harry smiled.

"If you could tell him no to that, then why didn't you tell him no to that badge?" Sirius pointed, his finger shaking a little.

"Because I wanted to be a prefect," said Harry simply. "And for the record, Sirius, Severus didn't ask me to change my last name. In fact, he's gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I remember that I have two fathers. Just, you know, only one living one."

Sirius gnashed his teeth. "If he's so fair-minded about everything then why the hell did he make you leave Gryffindor? Both your parents were Gryffindors, Harry!"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," said Harry, a little sharply. "Look, don’t you see the lion on my crest? I'm still in Gryffindor. I'm also in Slytherin, that's all."

"You can't be in two houses."

"Well, I am."

"You can't be--"

"The counters lose points from both houses when I get docked."

Sirius shuddered. "Two houses. All right, Harry. But why did you agree?"

Harry hadn't actually agreed, not in the way Sirius meant. But explaining about the Hogwarts Charter, he thought, would pretty much miss the point. Harry didn't want to make it sound like he'd had no choice in the matter, because then Sirius would think that he'd been tricked into it.

"Because I'm fine with it," he said. "Sirius, the Sorting Hat suggested Slytherin for me, which used to really bother me, but I'm not twelve years old any longer. Cunning and ambition don't have to be evil traits, you know. It all depends on how you use them."

Sirius looked a bit sick.

"I'm still just Harry."

"Do . . . do you want me to tell your parents about this?"

"Yes," said Harry fiercely. "I'm not ashamed. It's part of who I am. And just as well, Sirius. Voldemort wants to kill me. If I want to survive, I'd better be just as cunning as he is, don't you think?"

"Fight fire with fire," murmured Sirius, swallowing.

"Yes, and I'm lucky to have Severus to help me," said Harry, thinking of cunning and his Occlumency image, all at once.

Sirius wasn't willing to agree to that, obviously. Instead of replying, he turned his attention to the boy standing at Harry's side. "Malfoy Snape? So . . . you're Narcissa's boy?"

"Yes, sir."

Sirius snorted. "Well, trust Lucius Malfoy to give you three first names. Pretentious git."

"I'm also a Black--"

"That's hardly to your credit. The Black family tree is steeped in evil."

"Not all of it," said Draco quietly. "There's you, and my aunt Andromeda, and--"

Sirius' gaze sharpened. "You know Andromeda?"

"Er . . . no. But since I started living with Severus, I've had occasion to meet her daughter."

Harry thought that was neatly put. No point in mentioning that the "occasion" was the fact that Draco was suspected of murder.

"Tonks," said Sirius, his voice dreamy, like it had been a long time since he'd thought of her. "You're the same relation to me that she is."

"Yes, sir."

Sirius' voice hardened. "But you were born a Malfoy. You look just like your father."

Draco looked like he didn't know how to reply to that. After a moment, he lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I was born a Malfoy but I don't look just like my father." He gestured to Severus.

Sirius sighed. "Have my cousin and her worthless husband both died?"

"No, sir," said Draco quietly. Harry wondered if he wanted to admit that Lucius, at least, was dead. That wasn't an option, though, not with Voldemort possibly able to access information from the afterlife.

"Then how did you come to be adopted?"

Harry saw Draco swallowing. He looked to their father for guidance, but Severus merely gestured for him to go ahead and speak. "Well, Lucius wanted me to take the Dark Mark, but . . . but I didn't want that, so I went to Albus Dumbledore for asylum. Lucius disowned me, tried to kill me, and . . . and . . ."

"And Narcissa just stood by, I imagine?"

"Something like that. She did try to help me some, but it wasn't safe for her to publicly defy Lucius--" Draco took a deep breath. "It was very good of Severus to take me in."

"You never struck me as the type to rescue waifs and strays, Snape."

"It wasn't like that," said Harry. "Severus loves him too, Sirius. And me, I love him. And . . . well, I should probably tell you now that . . . well, you know the things you left for me? The vault, the house? I gave it all to Draco."

Sirius briefly closed his eyes. "You gave it all to Draco."

"Yes. Don't be angry. Please, Sirius."

"Did they mean nothing to you, Harry? All my worldly goods, the only thing I could do for you in the event of my death?"

"I felt so guilty," whispered Harry, leaning close to the mirror again. "I knew you loved me and that was why you wanted me to have all your things, but I felt like such an idiot, letting myself get lured to the Ministry, getting you killed--"

"Harry, it was my time!"

"I know, I know," said Harry quickly, though he didn't know it at all. They weren't going to get into that, though. Sirius was at peace and after the life he'd had, he had a right to that peace.

And the living . . . well, maybe they weren't supposed to be at peace, Harry thought.

"I'm just telling you how I felt when I found out I'd inherited your things. I . . . I didn't want them, Sirius, because it seemed too much like I'd ended up benefiting from your death, and I didn't want to benefit from it. I wanted you back."

"So you gave it all away."

"Um, no, not then." Harry smiled. "Severus wouldn't let me. He said to wait, because I might feel differently later. And he was right."

Sirius' gaze flicked to Snape's for a moment, and then returned to Harry. "But you still gave it away."

"Yeah, but not to get rid of it. By then, it was more that I really wanted Draco in particular to have the inheritance. Because . . . well, you know how rich the Malfoys are, and Draco had lost everything, but he was on our side, fighting for the Light, and he saved my life, not sure I told you that, and . . . and . . ."

"Harry, just calm down," said Sirius softly, his eyes swimming with kindness. "I'm not angry with you. Just explain, that's all."

"Well, Draco's a Black," said Harry. "So your family home is more rightfully his than mine--"

"Not so, but go on."

Harry smiled, because he could tell by then that it was going to be all right. "I thought it was what you would do, if you were here, Sirius. He is kin of your kin and blood of your blood, and if you could have seen the way Draco stood by my side even when everything looked hopeless . . . well, you'd have wanted to help him, I was sure of it. He was like you, turning his back on a family steeped in evil, see? But you were gone and there was only me left, and I wanted to honour what you'd done in your life by giving it all to Draco who seemed like . . . I don't know. Your heir in a lot of ways, even though you never knew him."

Sirius turned to consider Draco for a moment, then nodded. "Well then . . ." He splayed a hand down low on the mirror again. "I suppose this is redundant, but that's hardly the point. You're Harry's brother now, so . . . kin of my kin shall be blood of my blood."

"Kin of my kin shall be blood of my blood," Draco repeated, his voice rough as he touched hands with Sirius. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I often heard your name while I was growing up, but of course there was a rather large misunderstanding about your loyalties . . . it came as quite a shock to learn that you weren't what I'd always assumed."

"Wicked as the day is long?" asked Sirius. "Not that the day is long or short here, come to think of it."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Draco said again.

"And you, Draco. Your aunt Andromeda was my favourite cousin, but Narcissa was all right until she married that black-hearted bigot," said Sirius, looking wistful. "So beautiful, Narcissa . . . she's doing well? Or don't you know?"

"We don't have much contact. We can't," added Draco, sticking to the pretence that Lucius Malfoy was still a threat. "But from what little I hear, she's well, yes."

Sirius nodded, his eyes still distant. "I hope so. I'll be here to meet her when she arrives, I think . . . but not if she comes alongside that terrible man she married."

"Yes, I think we've established that you can't abide Draco's birth father," interrupted Snape. "Are you under the impression that Draco has no feelings, Black? I can tell you from personal experience that having a dreadful father does not mean that one wants to hear him constantly maligned."

"Touchy, touchy," jibed Sirius. All at once, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, like a long-distant memory had suddenly come crashing through his mind. "But you would be, wouldn’t you? What do you think, Severus? Will Hostilian Snape come to meet you when you arrive?"

Snape went perfectly stiff, his voice glacial as he rasped, "Where did you hear that name?"

"Regulus."

"You've seen him there?" gasped Harry.

A deep frown wrinkled Sirius' face. "Actually, no. I haven't been able to find him. But from what you've said, Harry, I gather I haven't been here long. Perhaps we're not meant to meet yet . . ."

"But he was your little brother," said Harry sadly. "You shouldn't have to wait to see him."

"Waiting doesn't bother us. Not here." Sirius ran a hand down the mirror. "Don't grieve for me, Harry. Not about that, or anything else."

"All right," said Harry, wishing he could reach through the mirror to hug his godfather. Just as well that he couldn't, though. He could sense his father's tension, behind him. Mention of Hostilian Snape had definitely touched a nerve, but at least the conversation had moved past him--

Or not.

"Regulus told me about your father when he was still alive," said Sirius, his eyes blazing as he looked at Snape. "Can you guess what he said, Severus?"

Severus almost spat his answer. "The loyal Sirius Black, best friend of the Potters, having secret meetings with Death Eaters!"

"He was my brother!" roared Sirius. "And he was having second thoughts about what he'd got himself into! Of course I met with him!"

"Gentlemen, we are a family!" said Draco in a loud voice, but the attempt at peace-making fell flat. Sirius was still shouting.

"Unlike some people, I actually cared about my family! Even the ones gone wrong! Ask him, Harry. Go on, ask him. Ask your father what happened to his own father. Ask him!"

Harry didn't want to, because he'd learned through long and painful experience that Severus Snape valued his privacy. He wasn't ready to talk about his past, not even with his sons, and that was all right, because Harry could wait. Learning Snape's secrets wasn't worth much when they were forced from him; that wasn't what love was about.

But Snape wasn't going to have the opportunity to share his past when he was ready. Sirius would see to that . . . but not if Harry had anything to say about it.

"Shut up!" he roared, marching up to the mirror, coming so close that his nose bumped into it. "Shut up, Sirius! That's Snape's private business and he'll tell us when he wants us to know about it and if that's never, then that's just fine! I love him anyway and you aren't going to change that, so bloody well stop trying!"

Sirius took a step backwards. "I just think you ought to know what sort of man you're claiming as your father, Harry."

"I do know what sort of man he is. I know him a hundred times better than you ever did--"

"Perhaps it's time you know me better still," said Snape, still in that glacial tone. "Seeing as Black can't resist telling you what he thinks he knows."

"Oh, I know what I know," spat Sirius. "You're no fit father for anybody. How can you be? How can you possibly be?"

"Stop it!" yelled Harry.

But Sirius didn't.

"You should have told him, Snape. You really should have told him. But you knew he'd turn against you, didn't you?"

A wave of green washed into Snape's face, and for Harry, that was the final straw.

"Sirius, I'm going to turn against you if you keep hurting my dad, so shut the fuck up!" he screamed.

With that, Harry turned his back on the mirror and went to kneel before his father. Snape had fallen into one of the chairs Draco had transfigured earlier. Just seeing those three chairs made Harry want to scream again. What had he thought, that the four of them could sit down and have a normal discussion? That was never going to happen.

Harry laced his fingers through Snape's and pulled lightly. "Come on, Severus. Let's go home."

"Red--"

"No, Draco," said Snape hoarsely, before the other boy could complete the curse.

Harry glanced to the side to see Draco standing with his wand levelled on the mirror.

"Why the hell not?"

"Harry will want to talk with him again," answered Snape, pushing to his feet without once looking at the mirror. He moved like he'd aged decades in a single afternoon.

Draco snarled as he tucked his wand away and rushed to Severus' side.

Harry glared at Sirius as they passed in front of the mirror. "Go tell my dad that as far as I'm concerned, your head's still stuck up your arse."

"Harry--"

Harry turned his back, and didn't look behind him when Sirius called his name again.

---------------------------------------------------
Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Six: "Fathers and Sons"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or this fictional universe. JK Rowling, some publishers, and some film companies own everything. I'm not making anything from this except a hobby.

Timeline and Caveats: See Chapter 1.

"I am perfectly capable of standing on my own," said Snape in an icy tone as he shrugged off Harry and Draco's arms. An abrupt swish of his wand made the door to their quarters close with a thud.

"Yeah, of course you are," said Harry, nodding to show his support. "And you don't have to tell us anything. Right, Draco?"

"That may be right, but it's not very realistic," said Draco as he started taking off his outer robes. "I'm sure Severus would rather you hear about his father from him. Unless you're volunteering never to speak to Sirius Black again?"

"Ha. I just might," said Harry, scowling at his former optimism. What had he been thinking, that Sirius and Severus could chat with one another like one big happy family? That was never going to happen. Sirius was too much of a . . . a prick, Harry decided, almost grinding his teeth. "It'd serve him right if I shoved that mirror in a drawer and never, ever looked at it--"

"No," said Snape sharply. "Black is your only link to your parents. I won't have that cut off on my account. James and Lily may not be able to send you messages, but through Black, you can communicate with them."

"I meant it when I said I'd choose you--" retorted Harry.

"It would be a poor father indeed who asked you to make such a choice." Snape regarded Harry levelly for a moment. "You said once that you wanted to know me better. I do hope you meant it."

Harry swallowed. "I'm sure the story can't be that bad. I mean, whatever you did, you had your reasons, yeah?"

"Whatever I did," repeated Snape slowly. "Harry . . . if the story revolved merely around my own actions, it would be far easier to tell. I've warned you to have no illusions about me. But . . . there is more to this than Black realises."

Draco came around behind Severus and without a word, began to help him out of his formal robes. Snape stiffened at first, but then nodded and let the other boy get on with it. Harry took the opportunity to get comfortable as well. Only when they were all seated in the living room, Draco and Harry on the sofa while Snape occupied his favourite wingback chair, did Harry reply.

"You could just tell us the part that Sirius knows, if you like."

Snape's black gaze bored into him, those eyes looking like endless tunnels again. Without meaning to, Harry shivered.

"Without the proper context, I'll look even more black-hearted than I no doubt was," Snape finally answered. "Not that context can exonerate me. Before we begin, I will need a solemn promise from both of you never to discuss these matters with anyone other than myself. Harry, that includes Black."

"I solemnly promise," said Draco at once.

"I solemnly promise, too," said Harry, just as quickly.

Snape slumped in his chair as though somewhat at a loss. "I . . . I suppose it comes as no great shock to either of you to hear that I had less than an ideal childhood."

Harry's mouth went dry, probably because the look on his father's face was so very grim. Suddenly, he was convinced of only one thing: that he'd been wrong to want to hear all of this. He should never have asked at all, and he definitely shouldn't have pressed.

He'd take it all back if he could, but of course Sirius had made that impossible.

Snape fell silent, his eyebrows drawn together, a deep frown on his features.

"Maybe a potion would help," said Draco in a quiet voice.

"Veritaserum?" Snape curled a lip and glared.

"I didn't mean that. Something mild, just enough to loosen your tongue."

"Excellent idea. Whisky it is," said Snape in clipped tones. "The password to my drinks cabinet is paz y soledad. I'd like two fingers, neat, and do be sure to serve three glasses in all. You and Harry are of age, after all."

"I don’t want any--" Harry tried to protest.

"Three glasses!" snapped Snape.

Harry and Draco both jumped a little at his tone. Harry tried to pretend he hadn't, and thought that Draco was doing the same, since the other boy got up awfully fast to deal with the drinks.

Harry heard the clink of glasses being set out, and then Draco's voice, sounding hesitant. "Ogden's, or a single malt--"

"Glenmorangie," barked Snape, clearly at the end of his patience. The moment Draco returned, Snape snatched his drink and drained it.

If the tone of voice alone hadn't told Harry how upset their father was, that would have. Snape never guzzled spirits. He tended to nurse a drink instead, consuming it over the course of half an hour or more. Harry had seen him make one goblet of wine last all evening when he was marking papers.

"Another?" asked Draco blandly as he handed Harry a short, squat glass.

"No. Sit."

Draco did, sipping delicately at his whisky. Harry put his on a side table and crossed his hands in his lap.

"Spirits aren't a cure-all, apparently," drawled Snape. "I've still very little inclination to speak."

"There's really not much need," replied Draco. "I think I've figured it out, and frankly, I'd be shocked if Harry hasn't done the same."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, like he could feel a headache coming on. "Oh, do tell."

"Harry?"

Harry took that to mean that Draco didn't want to shock him with some terrible revelation, just in case Harry hadn't yet realised what must have happened to Hostilian Snape. But of course, Harry had.

That didn't mean it was easy to say. In fact, the whole idea made his stomach twist. "You . . . you killed your own father, didn't you?"

Snape bared his teeth, a low growling noise emerging from between them. "The two of you haven't much imagination. I didn't just kill my father. I obliterated him."

Harry swallowed, trying to figure out what the hell that meant. He couldn't, though. He was going to have to ask, and he really, really didn't want to.

He didn't have to, as it turned out. Draco spoke up before he could, and he managed to avoid the blunt question at hand. Draco really was a full Slytherin.

"You said we couldn't understand without some context. Why don't you stop trying to shock us, Severus, and give us some?"

“Pardon my reticence," snarled Snape. "I haven’t spent hours practicing this discourse in my bathroom mirror!"

Draco looked a bit deflated at that and opened his mouth to speak --to apologize, Harry figured-- but when Snape practically growled, he snapped his mouth shut.

Harry wiped his palms on his trousers and cleared his throat a bit. "Why don’t you just start at the beginning?" he asked, giving a shaky smile. "All right? We'll understand."

Snape scowled. "How can you possibly understand? Trust me, Harry. You can't, not unless you'd lived through what I did, and I would sooner obliterate myself than wish that on either one of you."

"Well," said Harry, "I understand one thing. You're my Dad and I love you, and whatever you did, or had to do, years and years before we ever met? It's got nothing to do with now, all right? Nothing to do with us."

"Agreed," said Draco, his nod lending emphasis to the word.

Snape sighed. "You two shouldn't make promises without knowing the full situation. It's hardly strategic. As for the beginning, Harry . . . I'm not certain when it first began, to be quite honest."

"Well, then start with what you told me once. Remember? It went something like, Once upon a time, I was an angry young man. The Dark Lord used that."

"That's as good a place as any, I suppose." Snape sighed again as he eyed the splash of whisky in Harry's glass. Harry almost expected him to ask for it. Instead, the man shook his head slightly and said, "We'll begin with what made me so angry, then. You both know that my father fancied himself an artist. What you don't know is that he was willing to go to great lengths in pursuit of his 'calling,' as he termed it."

Harry waited a moment, but Snape had fallen silent again. "I . . . I know he was abusive," he ventured. "I mean, I'd have realised that much by now even if I hadn't looked into your Pensieve."

Draco shot Harry a critical look, but didn't make any comment about such a horrible breach of manners. Instead, he spoke quietly to Severus. "I can understand what it's like to have an abusive father."

"Not like this, thank Merlin," Snape said as he exhaled. "Stop interrupting, both of you. Let me tell this in my own way."

"Of course," said Draco.

Harry merely nodded.

Snape took another long moment to marshal his thoughts. "First of all, you should understand that I was very poor, growing up. My father was a talented wizard who could have earned a decent living in any number of fields, but as he chose to devote all his time to his 'art' rather than the support of his family, we were in a desperate situation indeed. My mother did what she could, but she was often ill. So much so that she died when I was seven years old."

Snape shivered as if the memory still bothered him, even after all these years. "She shouldn't have died, not then. Not like that. Whatever Black may have to say about the afterlife, I refuse to believe that it was simply her time. No . . . he did it."

Harry drew in a breath, shocked, but remembered in time not to interrupt.

Snape shot him a glance. "Hostilian didn't kill her, Harry. Not directly. But what little money we had might have gone for potions and salves to treat her symptoms. With proper treatment, her consumption could even have been cured. But these things were dear, and there were no Galleons to spare, not when my father needed them for potions that would enhance his dubious talents."

"Oh," said Draco, clearly not worried about interrupting. "Titian's Tincture, things like that. Those cost the earth."

Snape nodded. "Not that one in particular, however, since my father practically spat on traditional forms of art. Oh no, he was part of the avant-garde. A true visionary, he thought himself. A purist with interest only in the abstract. Needless to say, this made him a laughingstock in the small circle of wizarding artists. What use is there in a painting that represents literally nothing? It will never be able to speak, as wizarding portraits are expected to do. My father couldn't ever hope to make a living from his art, not unless he lived among Muggles. Merlin only knows why he wasn't willing to do that. He admired them enough. Mondrian, Pollack, Picasso . . . I grew up blaming Muggles for our plight. Despising them, actually, with a hatred so intense I could feel it licking like flames inside me. If it wasn't for them filling his head with nonsensical ideas about shapes and splotches that meant nothing, nothing, he could perhaps have resigned himself to producing proper wizarding art and earned a living."

Harry nodded, puzzle pieces falling into place inside his mind. The way that Snape had once sneered that his father had been a purist . . . Harry had found the contempt a little baffling, since Snape at one point had himself believed in the superiority of pure wizarding blood. Snape's disdain for his father's purism made more sense now that Harry understood what the word implied in this case. It hadn't been about blood at all. Snape's father had actually liked Muggles . . . or at least he'd liked their art.

Which meant one thing, really: Snape's willingness to follow Voldemort made a lot more sense than ever before. Anybody who spoke against Muggles would have appealed to that hatred Snape had mentioned . . .

"You must have questions by now," Snape said, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes shadowed as he stared first at Harry and then at Draco.

"No, not really," murmured Harry. "Just . . . I imagine that things must have got even worse after you were left alone with Hostilian."

"And now we come to the crux of the matter," said Snape in an odd tone. "I don't think you can know how apt your comment is, Harry."

The spirits in Draco's glass sloshed as his hand began shaking. He abruptly put the glass down.

"Yes, you'd know, though, wouldn’t you?"

Draco shuddered as he sat beside Harry. "He . . . oh, Merlin. He did more than drink expensive potions in his quest to acquire more talent, didn't he? Dark Arts?"

Snape closed his eyes, his face a rigid mask that gave no clue to his emotions, but his voice gave everything away. It was a rasp of remembered pain, every sound underlain with the fury of a young child who had suffered without reason. Without recourse.

"Even before my mother died, my father was using me in ritual magic. At first, it was merely uncomfortable, but as he delved ever more deeply into Dark Arts, the rituals grew worse." Snape cleared his throat, his hands clenching, though his eyes remained closed, his features immobile. "There is an entire branch of the Dark Arts devoted to wish-fulfilment. Draco, you're no doubt aware of what that entails."

"Yes," said Draco as he quickly snatched up his glass and drained what remained, much as Snape had done before. "Do you want me to explain?"

"Please."

Shifting on the couch to face Harry, Draco made short work of it. "All rituals of this type are illegal because they rest on the premise that you can transform pain into positive magical energy if the conditions are right. You need . . ." He glanced once at Snape, and then hurried to keep speaking. "You need a young child, someone whose magic is immature, and you hurt them in these ritual ways, and try to harvest their agony so you can transform it into wish magic."

"Ritual ways?"

"You don’t want to know. Trust me, Harry. I really wish that I didn't know about them."

"You mean, Lucius, he . . ."

"No, not this." Draco made a scoffing sound. "He gave me books to read on the subject. His way of threatening me, I suppose. As if I can't understand what I read . . . by the time he had me reading in the Dark Arts, my own magic was developed enough that it would have fought back against the rituals. And anyway, Lucius was far too critical for any of the rituals to work. You have to hurt the child for no reason whatsoever, you see. It can't be punishment. It can only be done in service of the ritual itself."

"That's sick--"

"That's merely the tip of the wand," interrupted Snape, his eyes snapping open. "Draco forgot to mention the single most important factor in these rituals. The child has to be willing."

"Oh, my God," breathed Harry. "That's horrible."

"You see why only very young children will do." Snape's lips twisted. "You can convince a three-year-old of anything. Literally."

Harry nodded, thinking of the Dursleys, and how Snape had understood, better than anybody else, just what it had done to Harry to have been lied to for all those years. And then he thought about that vision he'd seen in the Pensieve. Snape's mother, cowed by her husband, unable to protect her child from these horrible practices. Though she could have left, couldn't she?

Maybe not, though. Not if she'd been so ill.

In fact, the more Harry thought about it, the more he was sure that Snape had glossed over that part of the story. The child Harry had seen in the Pensieve had looked half-starved, and the woman hadn't been much better.

Hostilian hadn't just diverted money that could have been better used for potions; he'd kept his family in such abject poverty that there hadn't even been enough money for food.

Once again, Harry was struck by the feeling that it was no wonder his father understood him so well. He'd known what it was like to starve, too . . .

"When my mother died, however . . ." Snape stopped and swallowed several times. "I'm not certain I should mention the rest. It's not something that men your age should have to contemplate. But . . ."

"It's the context," said Draco after a long moment of silence.

Snape nodded, looking down at his hands, then. Like he was ashamed, when he hadn't done anything to feel that way. Or at least, not when he was a child. Whatever had happened to Hostilian must have taken place later, since it had something to do with Voldemort . . .

"The abuse--" Snape started over. "The pain rituals upon which my father relied were all but useless by the time I was seven. My own magic had begun to develop, you see. It fought back . . . there was only one thing left to sacrifice to the dark rituals. My . . . my innocence. Such as it was. I'd seen so much of the Dark Arts by then that I already felt tainted with them."

That explained why Sirius had claimed that Snape knew so many curses when he'd arrived at Hogwarts. Still, Harry frowned. "You weren't tainted, Dad--"

"I didn't have a lot of magical innocence left, all the same," said Snape harshly, though he kept his gaze trained down. "But that wasn't the kind of innocence my father needed. As long as my mother was alive, he-- he refrained from the worst of the rituals. Merlin only knows why. If she did nothing to stop the other . . . perhaps he simply knew he couldn't face her after he'd put those darkest arts into practice."

"Where the hell was Wizard Family Services?" Draco suddenly erupted.

Snape lifted his head and gave a little shrug. "Just as well they weren't involved, Draco. I'd never have been permitted to adopt either one of you."

Harry blinked. "What? Why? It's not your fault that your father--" Was a bastard, was what he'd been going to say, but remembering Snape's remark about even abused children not wanting to hear their parents insulted, he changed course in mid-sentence. "It's not your fault he did those things."

"No, but had they known about my own childhood . . ." Snape sighed. "Sometimes victims of abuse become perpetrators of the same, Harry. It's not right or just for the Ministry to make decisions on that basis, but then, you know my opinion of the Ministry, adjunct offices included."

"I understand those ten thousand lines better now," said Draco in a hushed tone.

"Ronald Weasley's, or your own?" drawled Snape.

Draco's pale skin flushed. "His, of course. Actually, I'm surprised you didn't assign him ten million lines. That truly was a vile thing he said, accusing you of . . . when . . . yeah."

It had been vile, all right, but Harry still felt like he'd lost the drift of the conversation. "What does any of this have to do with Ron?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "What do you think the worst of the rituals were, Harry? Darkest arts, does that give you a clue?"

Harry swallowed. "Um, sacrificing a baby? But Dad's still here, so--"

"Hostilian was chasing wish magic, not necromancy!"

"Your brother doesn't deserve your scorn," said Snape in a tone that was somehow stern and level all at once. "He wasn't raised amidst the Dark Arts, the way you were."

"Well, what kind of innocence did you think Dad was talking about?" asked Draco, glaring.

"Oh," said Harry, feeling like an absolute imbecile. He closed his eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. "You mean your father would . . ."

"He's trying not to say it, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"That's quite enough, Draco," said Snape. "I can speak for myself."

"You don't have to," croaked Harry. "I . . . uh, I get it, now. He . . . he . . ."

"Touched me in an improper manner. To say the least." Snape's voice was calm, like he'd come to terms with all of this years earlier, but Harry knew that wasn't really true. Snape was still ashamed. Harry could understand that. Sometimes, late at night, he still blamed himself for the way his aunt and uncle hadn't loved him, even though he knew that he'd had no power, none, to change their feelings.

What you knew in your head didn't always match what you knew in your heart.

"That's . . . God, Dad. I don't even know what to say. That's just . . . beyond horrible."

"It was, yes." Sighing, Snape gestured toward Harry's glass of single malt. "I think you should drink that. The story's only going to get worse."

Harry didn't want alcohol, but now wasn't the time to argue with his father. Taking it in hand, he started sipping at it, trying not to make a face. Neat whisky was terrible, though. It burned his tongue and tasted awful.

Draco smiled very slightly and got up to toss powder into the Floo. "One butterbeer, chilled, with ice."

It shimmered into existence on the table; Draco scooped it up on his way back and poured Harry's whisky into the larger glass, a smooth twirl of his wand causing the drink to mix itself. "Try it now."

It still wasn't the greatest thing Harry had ever tasted, but at least it was drinkable. "Thanks."

Draco nodded as he took his place on the couch once again. "So, Severus. Go ahead and tell us the worst. I think it's safe to say that Harry and I will understand, whatever it is. In fact, I'm bloody well likely to approve--"

Snape skewered Draco with a withering look, but after a moment, he glanced down at his hands again. "I began to attend Hogwarts at the age of ten, which was the case then for children whose birthdays fell in the winter. Coming here was more of a relief than either of you can understand, though I suppose Harry has an inkling. For months at a time, I could avoid being dragged into my father's mad pursuit of talent. Holidays, however, continued to be . . . fraught with difficulty."

"Yeah," said Harry, swallowing as he thought of how he'd longed to stay at Hogwarts for the summer. And he, of course, had had very little reason, not when compared to his father. "Did you . . . uh, did you ever think about telling Dumbledore? Asking for help?"

"Did you?"

"I . . . I guess I hinted, sometimes. But no, not really."

"You were in the headmaster's favourite house, with every reason to trust him," said Snape quietly. "And still, all you could manage was to hint. Now imagine that from your first day here, you'd heard from your housemates that the headmaster despised and distrusted Slytherins on principle."

"That's not exactly true--"

"It's an oversimplification, but it's not entirely false, either. I still believe that if a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff had been lured into a werewolf's den, barely escaping with his life, the perpetrators would have been expelled. For some reason, when the target was a Slytherin, Albus found every reason to keep them in school." Snape waved a hand as though to say that it no longer mattered. "I wouldn't have told him in any case. There are some topics that children simply can't broach."

"And you need to stop blaming the victim," said Draco, crossing his arms and frowning at Harry.

"What . . . I'm not--"

"You're saying that he could have stopped it if only he'd done this or said that. It's an insidious way of putting the blame on the child, and that's not where the blame belongs."

Harry blanched.

The hard glitter in Draco's eyes vanished almost at once. "It's a common impulse, Harry," he said, lifting his shoulders slightly. "The fact that you go there probably just shows, you know, that you think of yourself in the same way. Like you could have done something about your own situation."

Harry made a face. "What made you so clever?"

"That recovery book, for one." Draco sat back again. "Bits and pieces of it have been coming back to me ever since Dad first started telling his story."

Harry nodded and swivelled to face his father. "Sorry. Really. I didn't mean it was your fault. I just . . . I just wish your father could have been stopped. That's all I meant."

"I know," said Snape. "We have a great deal in common, Harry. I spent years battling the idea that I should have asked for help. I couldn't, though, and not just because the matter was so very shameful, or because like you, I could barely imagine trusting an adult. It was also something that I think Draco can understand. Children don't stop loving their parents on account of abuse. In fact, it can lead to . . ."

"A neurotic striving for approval," whispered Draco.

"Oh, yes." Snape steepled his hands. "I used to sketch. And sculpt. Trying to show my father that I shared his interests. Trying to be worth something in his eyes. But when I was younger, I didn't really understand the depth of his contempt for traditional art forms, and I have no talent for anything but those. I soon learned that he would most likely Incendio my efforts the moment he spotted them, but for many years I kept on trying and hoping. And failing."

"Yeah, Dudley's crayon pictures always got taped to the 'fridge while mine were binned," said Harry. "Even when I tried really hard to make them good."

Snape nodded. "And when it came to Hostilian, rejecting my drawings was tantamount to rejecting me. After all, I'd learned from my earliest years that art was all that mattered to him. Literally. But still, I loved him at least as much as I hated him. And hatred . . . the impulse toward vengeance . . . it leaves you open to manipulation."

Voldemort, thought Harry, tensing. He didn't know what his father was going to say, but he knew it was going to be bad. Very bad.

"By the time I was fourteen years old, I was an accomplished brewer dabbling in creating my own potions. I could probably have passed the N.E.W.T. the year before. My love of the subject started early, about the time I first realised that my mother's frequent bouts of consumption could have been alleviated and even cured, had we been able to afford the correct potions. I vowed then and there that nobody I loved would ever suffer from such a lack again. I was driven to study and practice . . . but soon enough, anger had me turning my brewing talents toward purposes other than healing."

Snape sighed, picking up his empty glass and staring at it. "This part of the story is difficult, though I suppose it shouldn’t be. Both of you are old enough to understand. I . . . I . . . Sometime during my fourth year here, I began to feel stirrings of sexual attraction. Up until then, I'd dealt with what happened to me during the holidays by what your therapist would call avoidance, I suppose. I simply didn't think about it, not even when it was happening. Sometimes I almost felt as though I were two separate people, only one of whom had those experiences. But that all changed when I began to desire several of the young ladies in Slytherin and Ravenclaw. If I'd felt tainted before, it was nothing to the way I felt at the prospect of any sexual contact with another person. I desired it, yes. Physically, I was the same as any young man my age. Mentally, however? I was convinced that I could never have anyone that way, that I'd been so thoroughly defiled that nobody would ever, ever wish to touch me."

"That's not true; you weren't defiled at all--"

"I know that," Snape interrupted. "Believe me, Harry, I do know. And before either one of you draws insane conclusions, I'll state for the record that I've surmounted those feelings by now; I'm hardly a virgin. But I am speaking of how I felt and thought at the age of fourteen."

"Right," said Harry, his neck so hot that he knew he must be blushing. He knew that he was being silly, but the thought of his father having sex . . . it was just really embarrassing. When he'd joked about Snape getting together with Marsha, he'd only been thinking about them dating, not . . .

"This change . . . it also changed my feelings toward my father," continued Snape after a moment. "I began to understand more clearly just what he'd done to me. Or, not what he'd done, perhaps, but exactly how wrong he'd been. He'd sentenced me to a future of abject loneliness, and worse--at least for a boy that age--celibacy. I stopped avoiding the topic inside my own mind. Anger became fury, and fury became nothing short of rage. I lost all interest in healing potions, my experiments turning more and more toward the dark. I began brewing with my father in mind . . . and when I was fifteen, I succeeded in dosing him with something of my own creation."

Harry tensed. This was it. Obliteration, whatever that meant--

"It was a potion designed to cause him excruciating pain every time he laid so much as a finger on me."

Harry blew out a breath. "That doesn't sound dark. I mean, you were just protecting yourself."

"Protecting myself by means of the Dark Arts." Snape shrugged. "If I had to do it all again, I'd no doubt brew the same potion. I saw no other way out. Hostilian was stronger than I was, both physically and magically. I couldn't stop him, not in any kind of fair fight. But then, Slytherins aren't renowned for those. Still, it was the first step toward the Dark Lord, because my old Potions Master, one Horace Slughorn, took it upon himself to share my expertise with Lucius Malfoy, whom he'd taught a few years earlier." Snape's expression conveyed disdain. "Slughorn's practise was to curry favour with those he believed would become influential. Your father was one such, Draco. Slughorn couldn't have told Lucius what my special potion did; that knowledge was mine alone. But Slughorn did know enough about potions to recognise my talent in the subject. He recommended me to Malfoy, believing he was doing both of us a good turn. Who wouldn't want to work as a private brewer for a family as wealthy as the Malfoys?"

Draco drew in a breath. "I'm sorry, Severus. So sorry. I didn't know. It was Lucius who . . . ?"

"Brought me before Voldemort the first time, yes." Snape glanced without rancour at Draco. "Because of course, Lucius knew that the Dark Lord would be very interested in a private brewer, particularly one capable of inventing new potions. New potions that could inflict pain . . . oh, he was most certainly interested in me. Not that I was foolish enough to boast. He frightened me too much for that. I could see myself subject to his power, and the prospect was alarming, to say the least."

"Then, how . . . ?"

Draco, with his quick grasp of magic, had already figured it out. "You didn't yet know Occlumency."

Snape nodded, his fingers tensing on the glass he still held. "The Dark Lord read the truth about me within mere moments of our first encounter. Not just what I'd done to my father, but what had made it necessary to begin with. The full story of my shame and degradation at his hands. And yes, it's true that the Dark Lord frightened me, but what you must also understand is that after that, he knew exactly how to persuade me into his ranks. For a long while, he said nothing of what he'd learned about me, but he didn't hesitate to use the knowledge. That very night, he drew his followers--and me--into a circle and lectured us at length on the worthlessness of Muggles."

"Muggles," repeated Harry, nodding.

"Lucius remarked on it after we'd left," added Snape. "'The Dark Lord usually rails against Mudbloods,' he said. At the time, I thought little of the comment, but many months later I remembered it and realised how skilfully I'd been manipulated."

"That set the stage," continued Snape after a moment. "What followed was a series of more private meetings. Sometimes Lucius was invited; sometimes I was alone with the Dark Lord. We spoke more of Muggles, my contempt for them growing by leaps and bounds. But we also discussed me. My talents, my wishes, my plans for my own life. He . . . he was everything I'd ever hoped my own father could be. Someone who saw me as a person with worth. Of course, the Dark Lord saw no such thing. I was a tool to him, just as I'd been a tool to Hostilian. The difference was that this time, I didn’t know that I was being used."

Snape set his glass aside. "For more than a year, I basked in his attention and enjoyed our frequent meetings. He used my contempt for Muggles to guide my thinking into paths that would parallel his own. 'What is a Mudblood, Severus, except a Muggle with a smattering of magic?' he would ask. From there, it wasn't a large leap to believing that half-bloods were something less than full wizards, too. It's a seductive philosophy for the pure-blooded, of course. Most human beings enjoy feeling superior to their fellow man."

Draco began to fidget.

"Of course the Dark Lord said nothing at all about his own mixed blood." Snape sighed. "But my own credulity is a topic for another day. What matters now is what I did to Hostilian. During my seventh year at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord began to praise me more highly, speaking of how he would need my talents during the inevitable conflict to come. By then, I knew Occlumency; he'd seen to that so that I could defend my mind should the headmaster grow curious about my frequent absences from school."

Harry gulped, a lot of things making sense now. Voldemort was the one who'd taught Snape to shield his mind. No wonder his methods had been "harsh," as Snape had once put it.

Snape abruptly rose to his feet. "I will return in a moment, and then we'll finish this." Striding to the Floo, he took a pinch of powder and called out, "Headmaster's Office!"

Green flames roared up to whoosh him away.

Harry turned to Draco. "Do you think he needs Dumbledore here for some reason?"

"I can't really imagine why." Draco frowned. "All of this, even the parts we don't know yet . . . I'm sure the headmaster must know all about it. He probably made full disclosure a condition of taking Severus into the Order when he turned on the Dark Lord."

Harry made a face. "Voldemort, all right? It's hard enough hearing Dad call him that, even though I know he's doing it because . . . well, it's the context, I guess. But not you, too--"

"Voldemort, all right. I am trying, Harry."

"I know." Harry frowned. "I can't imagine why Dad would want Dumbledore down here, though. Telling us everything is hard enough with just the three of us in the room."

"Maybe Dumbledore knows something and Severus wants us to hear it directly from him."

"Maybe," said Harry doubtfully.

Draco got up and strode the length of the room and back. "You haven't finished your drink."

"It's pretty vile."

"A single malt mixed into Butterbeer? I've no doubt of that."

"You're the one who mixed it."

"I had to do something. Dad obviously wanted you to drink it--"

"I'm not sure what Dad is thinking," complained Harry. "It can't be good to teach us to drink away our stress."

"He's hardly doing that. Not even by example. You don't think that one double makes him drunk, do you? It's a relaxant."

"I thought we learned last year that alcohol is a depressant."

"Which makes you feel relaxed--"

"Fair enough--"

"I imagine it's Severus' way of treating us as adults," said Draco, one hand rubbing his chin. "Those things he had to explain . . . he wouldn't have done it if we weren't of age. It's not appropriate to talk of such things to children."

Coming from Draco of all people, that statement gave Harry pause. Just what sorts of things did purebloods think were and weren't appropriate for children? After all, Draco had been reading Dark Arts books before he'd even begun to attend Hogwarts! Not to mention Lucius Malfoy's idea of discipline: letting a snake crawl all over Draco just because he couldn't learn a spell fast enough, and wizard's beatings . . . And it wasn't just Malfoy, either. Last year, Snape had insisted that Harry go into that Pensieve to witness the way that Death Eaters tortured whole families--

Harry breathed in through his mouth, trying to forget those images. Besides, his brain felt twisted like a pretzel by then. As far as he was concerned, sometimes pureblood culture just didn't make sense.

One thing did make sense, though. Harry understood now why Snape had always dodged questions about what had made him join Voldemort in the first place. Not that Harry had ever really pressed those questions. He was glad now that he hadn't. Really glad.

"The drinks are a reminder to him that we're not children," continued Draco.

"Well, that explains why he always let us drink before we turned seventeen," said Harry, trying not to sound too scathing about it. So Snape wasn't consistent. Harry probably wasn't either, so almost straight away he waved a hand. "I know what you mean. Good thinking, really."

Draco peered at him. "Are you all right?"

Harry nodded. No need to ask what his brother meant. "Yeah. I know Dad always tells us how terrible vengeance is--"

"Yeah, do-as-I-say, not-as-I-do."

"But I can understand that," added Harry. "I mean, I can't blame him for killing the man who made his whole childhood so . . . unbelievably horrible. But he obviously has his regrets, and he can see now that it must have cemented Voldemort's power over him, so it's no wonder he tells us not to do the same. Are you all right, though?"

"I'm more relieved than ever that you killed Lucius," admitted Draco as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "He didn't . . . I mean, he never molested me, but you know how harsh he was, and the more I hear about Hostilian, the more I want to kill Lucius myself."

For his part, Harry felt relieved that he had killed Lucius, though his arms began to itch madly as he thought about it. He took the opportunity to scratch rather viciously while Draco gazed in the distance, but stopped when Draco turned to him. Then he had to speak quickly, hopefully before his brother noticed that something was wrong. Something else, that was.

"Er . . . if you want revenge, you could always set fire to Lucius' portrait--"

"The Order might need it," said Draco sourly. "You know that. But . . . hmm, as long as we're dreaming of vengeance, I hardly think that fire is the worst thing I could do to that portrait. You know what would be?"

When Harry shook his head, Draco flashed a smile full of glee. "Snogging Rhiannon right in front of him, that's what. I'd introduce her as a Muggle first, of course. Hell, if I had my way, I'd introduce her as my Muggle fiancée and watch him choke on the thought of his precious pure blood flowing into half-wizard children."

"Dumbledore's never going to add a Muggle to the Fidelius spell," Harry pointed out. "I'm not sure he could if he wanted to, and that would put her in danger, wouldn't it? And anyway, you promised Dad that you wouldn’t go anywhere near that portrait again."

"I said I wouldn't go near it alone. If I'm with Rhiannon, I won't be alone, will I?"

"He meant you could see it with Remus so the two of you could pry information out of it, and you know it!"

"Oh, relax. I said I was dreaming, didn't I?"

Harry wasn't sure he trusted the look on Draco's face. But . . . Rhiannon couldn't enter Grimmauld Place unless the headmaster agreed, so Draco didn't have much hope of putting his plan into action. Just as well; that portrait was absolutely vicious. Harry didn't want his brother anywhere near it. Harry shuddered just thinking about the vile, manipulative things that blasted portrait had said.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "Lucius knows! Or, knew, I mean."

"Knew what?"

"What happened to Hostilian. I think so, at least. When the portrait was telling me that I was fated to go dark, it said something about it. Something like, 'I wonder if Severus will put you down himself when you turn. He's certainly capable. Has he ever told you about--' I bet he was talking about Dad killing Hostilian."

"That's pretty vague."

"Yeah, but--"

"And Dad didn't just kill him. He obliterated him, remember?"

"What do you think that means?"

"You're about to find out," said Snape over the noise of the Floo whooshing him back. He stepped out, his arms full of a large stone basin.

Well, that explained the trip to the headmaster's office. Snape had gone to fetch the Pensieve.

"We weren't meaning to gossip, sir," said Harry, feeling bad that the Floo had allowed Snape to overhear their last couple of comments.

Snape set the Pensieve on their dining table, stretching out his arms once they were free of its considerable weight. "Harry, you wouldn't be normal if you and your brother had sat here in silence after the things you'd just heard. I prefer you normal, so enough said."

"You've always treated me like I was normal," said Harry with a smile.

"You are normal, you idiot child. Your circumstances, on the other hand, are frequently extraordinary."

That was one way of looking at it, thought Harry. He wished more people could see it like that.

Draco was staring at the Pensieve distrustfully. "I know what that is, but I don't have a lot of experience wandering about in one. You . . . you want us to see how the Dark Lord manipulated you, I suppose?"

Voldemort, Harry almost sighed, but for his father's sake, he refrained.

"Not exactly." Snape sat down in one of the straight-backed chairs around the dining table, his posture stiff. Controlled. "What I told you before was difficult enough to admit. This . . . I've never spoken of it. Not to anyone. Albus knows, but only because I allowed him into my mind. He deserved to know what sort of person he was taking into his confidence, such as it was."

"Such as it was?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You surely don't assume that he trusted me straight away, do you? He'd have been mad to so much as contemplate it. I could easily have been ordered to 'betray' the Dark Lord so that I could gain Albus' trust and learn the Order's secrets. No . . . even after I opened my mind to him, Albus regarded all my words and actions with a healthy degree of scepticism. I was delighted to see it. It would have been quite a blow to discover that I'd thrown in my lot with a credulous fool."

"Yeah, all right--"

"He grew to trust me completely, in time," added Snape. "I think you know that. His testimony kept me from Azkaban, after all."

"We trust you, too," said Draco in a plaintive voice. "There's no need for a Pensieve. We'll believe what you say."

"This will say more than I can." Snape walked the short distance to where Draco stood, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I understand your reluctance to stand in his presence again, but you know that this is just a memory. It isn't real."

"It was real for you," said Draco, blinking.

"Yes." Snape's hand tightened on his son's shoulder. "I can tell you what happened, how he persuaded me to this horror, why I agreed . . . but unless you see these things for yourself, I fear you won't truly comprehend the story. In the Pensieve you can see me as I was then, Draco."

"The context," whispered Draco, his voice almost breaking apart.

"Yes," said Snape again. "And too, I would like you to observe firsthand how very seductive the Dark Lord can be. You were at one meeting, but that was one reserved for torture." Snape glanced at Harry, a dark shimmer of sympathy haunting his eyes, but then he returned his full attention to his other son. "You've never seen the Dark Lord at his most persuasive. In case he ever turns the sharp edge of his wit to the task of twisting you the way he did me . . . well, forewarned is forearmed."

Draco finally nodded, though his mouth was turned down as though the prospect made him ill.

"And you?" asked Snape, turning toward Harry, though he kept his hand on Draco's shoulder. "Would you rather hear what happened than see it with your own eyes? You're likely to find it beyond disturbing."

"Torture, then," said Harry, biting his lip. "You don’t mean needles, do you?"

"A Dementor, actually." Snape peered closely at Harry. "You've some experience of what that means."

"More than some," muttered Harry, thinking of the awful sight of Dementors trying to feed on Sirius' soul. Not to mention the feeling of nearly being Kissed.

Or the sound of his mother's screams.

"It can't affect you," said Snape, obviously reading the look on his face. "You won't relive the night your parents died."

"Why should you have to relive the night your father died, though? You're planning on coming in with us, aren't you?"

"Of course." Snape's hands fell to his sides. "I want Draco to see for himself how persuasive the Dark Lord can be. You, on the other hand, have no real need of such knowledge. The Dark Lord--"

"Voldemort," interrupted Harry. He couldn't stand hearing the other, even though he understood why Snape had gone back to it. Still, if they were headed into that Pensieve, he wanted his father going in with the right attitude: namely, that Voldemort wasn't his lord. Not any longer.

"Voldemort won't be trying to subvert you," Snape continued, just a hint of an edge in his tone. "On the other hand, you've said many times that you want to know more about me. I can't think of a better way than witnessing this. However, it's your decision. We're past the point at which I'm willing to shove you into a Pensieve."

Harry knew exactly what his father was talking about. Are you a man or a boy? he'd asked once. Of course, he'd just been goading Harry, back then. Snape had wanted to get even for Harry's demanding questions about the Death Eater meeting Snape had attended.

He was asking the question again now, though much more indirectly. And the difference was, this time he wasn't trying to provoke a reaction. He only wanted Harry to go into that Pensieve if he was ready to do it. If he was a man, able to see his father's past for what it honestly had been. If he was ready to leave his childhood illusions behind.

Not that he'd had that many illusions about Snape to begin with. Harry knew he wasn't perfect. He'd always known that.

He had, however, tended to avoid thinking about the uglier aspects of Snape's past. Just as Snape, when he was younger, had avoided thinking on things that were too horrible to contemplate.

Are you a man or boy?

The words echoed inside his mind again, almost taunting him, but this time, he was goading himself. Snape wasn't pressuring him, not in any way.

"I'll go in with you," he said quietly.

Snape nodded, a single crisp motion that implied approval. Then he made his way back to the table, both his sons at his side. When he lifted his wand, Draco shivered. When the strand of memories that emerged from his temple was thick, sodden, and solid black, Harry gulped.

Tucking his wand away, Snape took Harry by the left hand and Draco by the right. "Ready?"

Together, the three of them plunged headfirst into the past.

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Seven: "January 9, 1977"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight and Mercredi

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Chapter Text

They landed on an open plain surrounded by gently rolling hills, great rectangular slabs of stone all around them. It was an almost moonless night, the glittering stars barely shedding enough light to see by. Harry squinted in the darkness and noticed that his father and brother were doing the same.

"Stonehenge," whispered Draco.

"Never let it be said that the-- that Voldemort has no sense of the dramatic," murmured Snape.

"Why did you come here alone?" asked Harry, gesturing towards the dim figure of a younger Severus Snape standing in the middle of the circle of stones.

"The date is the ninth of January."

"Your birthday--"

"Yes. Over the Christmas holidays, Voldemort had given me a Portkey timed to activate at midnight on the ninth." Snape's voice took on a mocking note. "Happy birthday to me."

"It wasn't just your birthday," said Draco, clearly appalled. "This is your seventh year, isn't it? And if you were ten that September when you first started school . . . this was your coming of age!"

"A flair for the dramatic, I told you."

"But didn't your father at least--"

"No," Snape interrupted Draco. "That potion I'd given him was still in effect, remember. He was angry with me. Obviously. He didn't say a word to me during the holidays. Not one, but that was a relief, to be honest. I was tired of hearing how worthless I was."

"Still, no coming of age ceremony--"

"Oh, but I had one," said Snape in a sardonic tone. "Watch."

Just a few seconds later, a loud crack echoed across the plain, and Voldemort appeared within the circle of stones, a few feet from young Severus, who immediately fell to his knees.

"My Lord."

Harry winced, but said nothing.

"Severus," said Voldemort warmly. "Thank you for meeting me here, and on your coming-of-age, no less. It must have been a busy day for you, and still you found time."

Snape let go of his sons' hands then, and stepped closer to the unfolding scene, letting each decide on his own if he wished to follow.

Harry gritted his teeth and stepped forward, Draco trailing behind.

"I can think of no higher honour than being allowed a private meeting with you on this of all days, my Lord," said Severus, tilting his head back as he continued to kneel.

"Oh, Severus," crooned Voldemort, one hand now stroking over Snape's hair, much the way one might pet a favoured hound. "So loyal. You truly are a treasure. You do know that, don't you?"

Severus trembled slightly as he knelt, the words clearly meaning the world to him.

Harry had to struggle not to cry. He knew what it felt like to be starved for affection. God, if Voldemort had been kind to him the first time they'd met, if Harry hadn't known that the man had killed his parents and tried to kill him . . . it was so easy to see why Snape had fallen into his trap.

"I would hope that I am of some use, my Lord," whispered Severus.

"Rise, my faithful one. I have something for you."

Hostilian, thought Harry, feeling sick.

But Voldemort had more finesse than to start with that, Harry soon realised.

"A gift to celebrate your coming-of-age," said Voldemort, a large, flat box covered in festive wrappings appearing in his hands. "Today you became a man. Allow me to be the first to greet you as such. The honour is mine, Severus Snape."

Severus' expression was tentative as he grasped hold of the box. "May I?"

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. "But of course."

Severus gasped as he drew a thick black cloak from the box. The clasp at the top glittered gold in the starlight, and the heavy folds of the cloak looked like velvet to Harry. Or perhaps even some sort of fur, skilfully woven into a smooth, graceful sweep of fabric.

Only then did Harry notice that young Severus' own robe was not just threadbare, but tattered in places. Yet he wasn't shivering, despite the January cold. Harry soon understood why.

"Warming charms are well and good," said Voldemort, shaking his head slightly. "But there is nothing like a fine cloak. If anyone deserves the best, Severus, you do."

Severus still looked awed, the expression becoming something more like worship as he lifted his gaze from the cloak to thank Voldemort. "My Lord is truly too generous--"

"Criticising me, Severus?"

"Oh no, my Lord," gushed Severus at once. "You always know best."

"Just so, just so," agreed Voldemort, nodding. "Off with that rag your father provided, then. It's time to look like what you are, Severus, whether he will acknowledge it or not. A strong, capable wizard well-able to distinguish between those who deserve to be a part of our world, and those who do not."

"Yes, my Lord," breathed Severus, dropping his own cloak to the brittle winter grass before donning the fine new one he'd been given. "Thank you."

Voldemort waved a hand in careless gesture. "It is nothing, Severus. There is much more I would like to give you. But first, we must talk of serious matters. You are a man, now. It is as a man that I would speak with you now."

"As my Lord desires."

Voldemort nodded brusquely and conjured a pair of chairs covered in green leather. He swept his cloak to the side as he sat down. Severus hesitated for a moment--wondering if he should kneel once more, Harry assumed.

But then he sat down as Voldemort obviously expected.

"A war is coming," said Voldemort. "You've heard me speak of this. A war between the wizards who would protect our world, and those who would destroy it in the name of inclusion. Of fairness. Tell me, Severus, is it fair that good, strong, pure-blooded children should have to see their education compromised by the presence of Mudbloods whose magic is doubtful at best?"

"No, my Lord," said Severus, leaning forward in his chair, his dark eyes gleaming, his expression rapt.

Harry felt ill watching it. Couldn't his father see that Voldemort was basing his conclusions on a tissue of lies? Snape had known Lily Evans. The Head Girl in his own year, for God's sake. He must have noticed that her magic wasn't weak, that Muggleborns could be just as powerfully magical as any other witch or wizard!

"Is it right that doddering fools like Albus Dumbledore should make decisions that affect the rest of us? Were you consulted, Severus? Were you asked if you would care to breathe the same air as Mudbloods?"

"No, my Lord."

"Yet you are forced to attend classes with them. Sit alongside them at meals. Fly alongside them in lessons. Bathe in the same facilities with them."

"At least Slytherin has few filthy half-bloods and even fewer Mudbloods, my Lord," said Severus in a voice that proved him eager to please.

Harry's gaze shot to Voldemort. Tom Riddle, really. He wasn't young, of course, but as wizards went, he wasn't old, either. He looked strong and healthy. Handsome, actually, not too different from the way he'd appeared in the Chamber of Secrets. He wasn't yet a monster; Harry assumed he'd only truly begun to look like one when he'd been reborn in the graveyard. The foulness of that magic . . .

But of course, he was a monster already. Inside, where it counted most. The things he was saying were proof of it. So much hatred . . .

For himself too, Harry suspected. And yet somehow Voldemort hadn't realised as much. He hadn't batted an eyelash when Severus had insulted half-bloods.

"Yes, you were fortunate at the Sorting," Voldemort was crooning, now, his voice oozing misplaced compassion. "I despair of those chosen for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, I surely do. How will they learn the truth when they are Sorted into Houses so bereft of those who understand it?"

"I've done my best, my Lord--"

"But subtly, subtly," interrupted Voldemort. "Which is as it should be, Severus. You're a loyal servant, far too important to lose to expulsion. We must have you become a fully-qualified wizard complete with several N.E.W.T.s to bolster your reputation as such. Think of your influence then, and be content."

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort suddenly chuckled. "And Gryffindor, Severus? Have you done your very best to sway the students of Gryffindor to see the way that things must be?"

Severus scowled. "My respect for you is such that I cannot lie, my Lord."

"I know you cannot lie," said Voldemort, tapping his forehead. "You remain unshielded in my presence, always. Which is as it should be. The student must not seek to supplant his master. Not ever, Severus."

"Of course not, my Lord."

"And Gryffindor?"

"I will beg your pardon on my knees if I have erred." Severus' voice trembled, but that didn't stop him. "I judged the house of Gryffindor to be a wasted effort. They are led by the Mudblood lover James Potter, who abuses his position as Head Boy to sneak nightly to the Astronomy Tower where his disgusting Mudblood girlfriend ruts with him like a slut in heat."

Harry gritted his teeth, not sure what bothered him more: Snape's insulting word choice, or the mental image of his parents having sex on the stone roof of the tower.

"Ah, a literal 'Mudblood lover,' in that case."

"And he a pureblood," said Snape, turning his face away to spit on the ground. "Gryffindor worships him, my Lord. Their very own Head Boy and Quidditch Captain. He can do no wrong in their eyes."

"And yet there are those who can see the truth," murmured Voldemort. "Even in Gryffindor."

"My Lord?"

"The time for that is not yet ripe," said Voldemort smoothly. "Let me merely say that I am pleased with you, Severus. You have done well."

"I seek only that your noble vision for our world may supplant the terrible times in which we live," said Severus, humbly bowing his head.

"We shall live in a world remade by truth. Ere we die, it shall be real. That, I promise you."

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort was smiling as Severus raised his face. "You want to help me bring our perfect world into existence, I know. Your dedication to the cause is appreciated. If I had more followers such as yourself-- ah, but you are not yet my follower, are you?"

"I am, my Lord," said Severus in those fervent tones usually reserved for vows. "I am. In truth, I am."

"You are my follower in truth, and in spirit also," said Voldemort, tilting his head to one side as he made a tsking noise. "But in body?"

Despite the dark night, Severus' face seemed to light up with some sort of inner glow. "You speak of your mark, my Lord?"

"Indeed. You would consent to be branded as mine, today and henceforth? Branded forevermore, until you breathe your very last?"

"I would be honoured to be considered worthy," said Severus, his voice ringing clear as a bell. "And I will breathe my very last in your service."

Voldemort studied the young man sitting alongside him for a long moment, and then he raised an eyebrow, his voice hardening slightly. "But you are not yet worthy."

Severus' expression fell. In the next instant he had slipped from his chair to kneel before Voldemort, his head deeply bowed.

Voldemort patted his head. "Oh, Severus. Do not despair. There is a way for you to prove yourself. You see, while you are strong of mind and magic, there is still one thing making you think yourself weak. Note that I do not say you are weak. But as long as you think of yourself that way, you will not come into your full strength."

"What must I do?" asked Severus, his voice nothing more than a thin reed of sound.

Voldemort placed a finger beneath his chin and tilted his face up. "Do you trust me, Severus?"

The younger version of Snape nodded, while the Snape standing beside Harry drew in a sharp breath. Harry took that to mean that something even worse was coming next.

"Do you love me, Severus?"

"Yes, my Lord," breathed Severus. Now that Harry was closer, he could see that the young man's eyes were glowing. "I love you with my whole heart."

Draco shuddered where he stood, but Harry gave no reaction. He'd tensed himself the moment before, expecting something like this. God, the Snape he was watching was so much like him . . . he just wanted someone to see and appreciate him. Given that, he'd been like low-hanging fruit, ripe for the plucking . . .

And he was so young. Younger than Harry was now, and making such a dreadful choice . . .

Harry gulped after all, the feeling washing over him that it could so easily have been him standing there. If Voldemort had played his cards differently, if he'd tried to "subvert" Harry, as Snape had put it--

No wonder Snape had wanted to make sure Draco saw all this . . .

Voldemort spoke again, his voice ringing with pride. "I think you are ready to become worthy."

"What must I do?" asked Severus once more.

"End it," said Voldemort, his tone so gentle that if Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought the man a fountain of kindness. "End your pain, Severus. It's time."

Severus blinked, swaying slightly on his knees. "My Lord? I . . . I don't understand."

Voldemort tapped his own forehead again. "I've been inside your mind, Severus. Can you really believe there is anything about you that I don't know? I've known from the first."

"Known?"

"About your father," said Voldemort quietly. "About the terrible things he did to you."

The younger Severus paled so rapidly that Harry thought he might pass out. "I-- I--"

"You thought I didn't know, Severus?" asked Voldemort, just as gently, his face twisting in sympathy. "How could I not? Occlumency comes naturally for you, to be sure, but you don't believe my Legilimency weak enough to fall before it, do you? You can resist that old fool who heads your school, but me? Never."

Snape shakily nodded in agreement. "But . . . those flashes, our lessons, the things you made me relive. They were never--"

"Oh yes, they were merely the ordinary frustrations of childhood. Augmented in your case, but mild in comparison to the true horrors you suffered at your father's hands. Of course." Voldemort smiled. "I saw those horrors the first time you came before me, before you'd learnt to discipline your mind. And knowing what you had endured, I was careful during our lessons not to draw forth any such memories. It wasn't yet time. But now that I know how well you love me . . ."

Severus nodded, his hands obviously twisting together under the fine cloak he wore.

"And so, your father." Voldemort made a sneering noise. "He's hardly worthy of the term, leading you so far astray from the truth. Or trying to, that is. You were stronger than he, weren't you? You didn't allow yourself to be seduced by Muggle culture, as he did. You saw his obsession for what it was: something worthy only of contempt, as he himself is worthy of contempt for the way he's treated you, all along."

A strange clacking noise began to echo through the clearing; it took Harry a moment to realise that it was coming from the younger version of Severus, whose teeth were chattering.

Voldemort smiled. "I know I haven't misjudged you. You're ready. You do trust me, don't you? You told me that you did."

Ugh. Such manipulation. Snape was like a fish, Harry thought. He'd taken the bait, and now, Voldemort was slowly, carefully reeling him in. Toward darkness.

"Yes, my Lord. I do trust you." When Harry looked closely, he could see the younger Snape swallowing convulsively, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Voldemort. "Of course I do."

If Voldemort noticed Snape's reluctant body language, he pretended otherwise. "Then trust me in this," he said, his voice calm, quiet, and soothing. "You will never be whole until you free yourself from your pain and rage and childhood fear, which is all you have binding you to your father. Let him go, Severus, for only then will you be fully able to give yourself to me. And only then can I accept you, hmm?"

Severus gave a shaky nod, even as Voldemort's finger, supporting his chin, caressed the skin there.

"You are ready?"

Another nod. It looked tentative to Harry, and he couldn’t think it had looked sincere to Voldemort, but then, sincerity wasn't the point. Voldemort had staged this scene in order to get Severus Snape into his clutches. Voldemort didn't care how he got there.

"What would you have me do, my Lord?"

"Why, whatever I command. A fitting goal for this, your initiation into my service. Once you are fully mine, you will go on as you have begun. Doing whatever I command, whether you understand my plans or not. You must demonstrate that you do indeed trust not just my intentions, but my wisdom as well."

"Yes, my Lord," murmured Severus, sounding more sure of himself when in fact, he didn't know what was coming. He knew it would involve his father, but Harry was positive he didn't know it would include a Dementor.

"And your father deserves to be punished for all he did," continued Voldemort, still stroking Severus' chin.

"He has been," said Severus quickly. "I brewed a most terrible potion--"

"Ah yes, the liquid Cruciatus." Voldemort's voice practically caressed the last word.

"I think of it that way," admitted Severus, his cheeks flushing. "As your lordship obviously knows. But it isn't quite accurate. It only hurts him if he--"

"Touches you, yes, I know. Or you him. And it only works at all because you found a way to harness your rage; the potion is specific to him alone. I told you, Severus. I know everything about you. For example, I know right now that you are confusing self-defence with punishment. Your father suffers only if he attempts to harm you once again. He has never suffered, never, for the things he did before you became such a wonderfully talented potion-maker."

Harry was surprised by Severus' reply to that. "He's suffered all along, my Lord. The ultimate punishment for one such as him is that the rituals always failed. His talent remains as non-existent as ever, his judgment of art and himself still deeply flawed."

"Ah, clever, clever Severus. Another thing I love about you."

The younger version of Severus preened under the praise.

"But that is not the sort of suffering he truly deserves, is it?" Voldemort gave his acolyte no chance to reply. "Together, we will resolve this matter and set you free."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Stand at my side," directed Voldemort in a voice so smooth it was almost oily. "Stand at my side in your fine furred cloak, and show him what sort of man you have become. One who doesn't need him, not for anything. For I will be your father now, Severus, and you, like all who follow me, will be my most beloved son."

Oh, God. Voldemort as a father-figure. Yet Harry could see how skilfully the man had cast himself into the role, and how desperately Snape had longed for someone to love and value him.

Harry could understand that, oh yes, because he'd longed with all his heart for the exact same thing.

Voldemort drew his wand and twirled it, his eyes gleaming with intent though he spoke no words. His magic was powerful enough that he didn't need any.

A wizard suddenly slammed down into the clearing, his arrival looking like he'd been delivered by a particularly vicious form of Portkey.

Beside Harry, Snape abruptly fell to his knees and wrapped both arms around himself.

"It's all right," Harry said urgently, bending down to grab his father by the hand, lacing their fingers together. "We don't have to stay. We've seen enough--"

"I should face what I did, and you should do the same," croaked Snape, even as Draco, who had rushed forward to pull Snape to his feet, repeated Harry's words that they should go.

"Be quiet and watch, both of you," rasped Snape, refusing to stand at Draco's urging. Maybe he thought his legs wouldn’t hold him. "I . . . I cannot come here again."

Since Snape wasn't leaving, Harry turned his attention back to the unfolding scene. The wizard who had arrived was clearly Hostilian Snape. He was tall and pale, with a hooked nose, dark eyes, and hair that seemed even blacker than his son's. For all that, though, the two men didn't really look alike, not to Harry. Hostilian's features were more twisted, his face deeply lined with wrinkles, his hands resembling claws as he scrabbled at the ropes binding him.

The evil he had practiced had left a mark, Harry thought. Just as it would leave a mark on Voldemort.

"You know who I am?" asked Voldemort in a booming voice.

Hostilian sneered, his face transforming into an uncanny mirror of the one Snape used to show Harry, back when he'd hated Harry. "Should I?"

"Indeed you should!" Voldemort stepped closer to the bound man, leaning forward to stare into his eyes. "You, who dedicated your life to the mad pursuit of art. I could have given you talent beyond your wildest dreams, Hostilian Snape. But you chose to devote yourself to the meaningless filth that Muggles call art. You contaminated your talent. You cursed yourself to remain in obscurity. You could have been great. Instead, you are nothing!"

Hostilian opened his mouth to speak, but with a wave of his hand, Voldemort cast him into silence.

"Severus," he said, beckoning. Once Snape was by his side, he continued speaking. "Here is your son, grown into a man this day. He has a talent too, but unlike you, he chooses to use it for good instead of evil. He shall be great while you become less than nothing."

Hostilian's mouth opened and shut as he tried to shout some sort of reply.

"You molested your own son," said Voldemort, practically hissing with rage. His wand snapped up. "You may answer the charge!"

"I didn't--"

Voldemort's wand slashed down again, cutting off any further sound from Hostilian.

"Severus? Speak."

For a moment, the younger Severus looked like he didn't know what to say. Then, his features cleared. Do as I command, Harry remembered Voldemort saying.

"You molested your own son," spat Severus.

"I judge you guilty, and you will answer for it," warned Voldemort. "Severus . . . lay your hands on him."

Snape hesitated, but only for an instant. Stepping forward, he planted both his palms atop his father's cheeks.

Hostilian convulsed in his bonds and screamed, though no noise emerged past the barrier of Voldemort's spell.

"Enough," said Voldemort after a moment. "You subjected your son to wish magic in a selfish, fruitless quest for talent!" His wand snapped up. "You may answer the charge!"

This time, Hostilian screeched, words tumbling quickly past his lips. "It wasn't fruitless and he wanted it, I tell you, he wanted it--"

A slashing motion of Voldemort's wand cut off the rest. "Speak, Severus."

"You subjected me to wish magic," said Snape furiously.

"And now you should answer his charge, my loyal one," said Voldemort, his voice as gentle with Snape as it had been harsh with Hostilian.

"I never wanted it," Severus growled, leaning forward to speak into his father's face. "I never wanted it and it was fruitless! Artist? You're a hack! And if you're planning to say next that I must have wanted it because I was willing, I'll rip your tongue out where you stand, I swear, Father! I might have been willing to undergo the pain rituals when I was younger, seeing as you'd warped me into thinking they were my duty, but after Mother died, I was never willing, never, and all the compulsion magic in the world won't change that simple fact!"

"I judge you guilty and you will answer for it. Lay hands on him, Severus."

When Severus placed his palms in exactly the same position as before, Hostilian obviously found it excruciating.

This time, Voldemort gave no command for it to stop.

"Do you know why you're in pain?" he asked in a conversational tone as he began to pace back and forth before the two men: one anguished, one looking like he hated himself and what he was doing every bit as much as he hated his father. "You brought it on yourself. You tormented your own son in terrible ways, and you wouldn't let up until he himself forced you by means of a marvellous potion. You may answer the charge."

At a nod from Voldemort, Snape finally moved his hands away.

Hostilian could barely speak; his voice emerged as an almost silent croak. "I . . . I never enjoyed-- and it was needful--"

"So that you could make art like a Muggle?" roared Voldemort. "I think not! You are hereby sentenced, Hostilian Snape! You are sentenced to a life of agony and torment and regret. An unending, eternal life of agony and torment and regret! Severus, my loyal lieutenant? Summon the Dementor."

Hostilian's mouth made a perfect circle as he screamed; this time, Voldemort hadn't bothered to silence him.

When the Snape who was on his knees began shaking uncontrollably, Harry moved closer to him and hugged him tight. Harry couldn't imagine what this must be like for his father . . . the only thing worse than knowing he had done such a thing must be to see it happen all over again.

"Watch," said Snape in a low tone, even as he shook in Harry's arms. "Watch."

Harry turned his head to see that the younger Severus looked confused. And no wonder. How did one summon a Dementor?

No sooner had he raised his wand, however, than a filmy grey shape was gliding forward from behind a stone in the distance. Either the Dementor had been lurking there all along, or Voldemort had wordlessly summoned it himself a few moments earlier.

Its ghostly robes floated like tattered cobwebs as it drifted toward the younger Severus, who began to gasp with obvious panic.

"Not him," snapped Voldemort, swishing his wand in commanding arcs that seemed to draw the Dementor towards the center of the stone circle, where Hostilian stood. Still tightly bound, still screaming, his eyes bulging as the Dementor approached.

"I'm sorry, Severus!" the man began to scream as he thrashed violently. He suddenly broke through the spell that had been holding him upright and plunged sideways to the ground, where he wriggled like a worm. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm your father, Severus! Don't do this to me, don't do this!"

The younger Snape clenched his hands and fell to his knees so suddenly that Harry thought his legs must have buckled.

Voldemort was at his side at once, kneeling down beside him to stroke his hair. Voldemort, on his knees . . . Harry knew then and there that the evil wizard would do anything, anything to persuade Severus into his service.

No wonder Dad wanted Draco to see this. No wonder he wanted him to know . . .

"Let your father scream and plead and wail," said Voldemort quietly as he continued to pet Severus' hair. "He can do you no more harm, my loyal one. Let him suffer. Forever. It's what he deserves."

A voice echoed in Harry's mind . . . how fortunate that we don't all get what we deserve . . .

"It's justice, Severus. It's what the Ministry would do to him for his crimes, were he to have a trial. This way is merely more expedient."

Harry almost gulped, remembering his father lecturing him on the danger of thinking oneself jury and executioner rolled into one. No wonder he'd known. No wonder . . .

Severus was gasping by then. "But the Kiss? I can't, I can't . . . the authorities, my Lord. The Aurors. Wouldn't it be better to--"

"Trust the Ministry?" Voldemort shook his head. "No, Severus. There would have to be an inquiry. Into all of it, every last bit. And the papers do love a scandal. Do you want to the world to read about your father's crimes? No, no. This is a private matter. Haven't I long respected it as such?"

Severus, Harry thought, looked defeated by that argument. He nodded dully. "I won't stop you, my Lord . . . but I must go, I must leave here, I must--"

"Remain in weakness? Oh no." To Harry's horror, Voldemort bent forward and dropped a slow, lingering kiss on the top of Severus' head. "I love you too well for that. You will have to give the order yourself. You are the one who must set this in motion, and so end it. You need to end it, for only then can you become the strong, whole wizard you were meant to be."

Strong . . . whole, when this very act was the one that had ultimately shattered Snape. A horrible act that could never, ever be undone . . . no wonder Snape had such strong views on vengeance. He didn't want Harry's anger to reduce him to doing something like this with his dark powers--

"But . . ." The younger Severus sounded like he was hyperventilating. "But what of his soul?"

"That's the beauty of Dementors," said Voldemort in that sweet, kind voice that Harry had grown to hate. "Your father's soul will be trapped inside the Dementor, reliving his worst memories for all eternity. And that's altogether fitting. Why should Hostilian Snape be allowed to move on as though he were a good, pure-blooded wizard who'd earned his rest?"

"He won't move on?" Severus, Harry thought, sounded horrified rather than relieved.

"No, and that's as it should be," crooned Voldemort. "Your father won't be able to haunt you, that way. No small piece of his soul will ever be able to animate a portrait. You'll be rid of him, Severus. Forever. And isn't that what you deserve?"

"No, Severus, no," howled Hostilian, still thrashing in his bonds. He'd managed to flip himself onto one side, his eyes seeking frantically for his son. "I'm your father, your father!"

"I'm more your father than he ever was." Voldemort pulled the younger Severus into a close hug, much as Harry and Draco were doing with the older one. Draco actually had his face buried against Severus' shoulder and was shaking as he clutched his father.

"Who has been proud of the strong wizard you've become?" continued Voldemort. "Who has shared your triumphs and your pains this past year? Who opened your mind to your birth talent? Who honoured your coming of age with a gift worthy of your talents?"

"You, my Lord," whispered Severus, his arms coming up to wrap themselves around Voldemort.

"Who truly appreciates you?"

"You, my lord." Severus rested his head on Voldemort's shoulder, his eyes clenched as he tilted his face to the side. "Only you."

"Severus, no--"

Voldemort slashed his wand through the air just once to render Hostilian mute, then shifted back on his knees, his eyes gleaming as he gazed at the young man facing him. "Come into my service now, Severus."

As Severus glanced once more at his father, shutters seemed to descend over his eyes. In the next moment, he drew his wand and laid it on the ground, clearly offering it to Voldemort. "In your service," he whispered, his voice rough.

"Excellent, my brave one. Excellent," breathed Voldemort, scooping up the wand and handing it back to Severus. "I knew you were strong enough to do this. I knew you wouldn't let him weaken you. Now, this particular Dementor is, at present, leashed to certain spells I've laboured long to develop. The incantation you need is--" Voldemort stopped speaking and began to write with his wand, fiery letters that hung in the air for the space of several seconds. Besamsempra. "The eternal kiss, eh? But you must think with all your heart and mind and soul of your father when you command the Dementor. The hatred in your spirit will be the force that animates the spell."

Harry knew what was going to happen; how could he not? Despite all that, he felt himself hoping against hope that this younger Severus would find the strength to turn the spell against Voldemort.

Can't you see what he's doing? he wanted to ask. Your father is no prince, but the greatest evil here is Voldemort! Set the Dementor on him and spare the world the horrors he'll inflict, then call the Aurors and have them throw the book at your father! Don't do this, not like this--

But of course, Severus did.

He rose slowly to his feet, his wand pointed at the Dementor who was hovering ten feet in the air, Hostilian Snape below. It was clearly waiting for orders; Hostilian looked like he was begging for his life still, but he didn't seem to be reliving his worst memories. The Dementor now was dormant. Silent. Waiting.

And then, the younger version of Severus Snape sent it into action. "Besamsempra!" he called, his voice strong and resolute, his arm steady as he held his wand focussed on the Dementor.

And his eyes, terrible. Like endless tunnels again. Like bottomless pits. An absolute lack of mercy or pity, and no end to the hatred. They weren't gleaming, not now. The young wizard's eyes were dark, clear through.

Harry shuddered, struggling not to turn away from the sight. He loved his father, even despite this, and he didn't want to make it seem like anything had changed.

Because the important things hadn't.

The Dementor swooped down like a bird of prey, its horrid mouth gaping, its bony fingers emerging from the folds of its robes, curling like a child's fingers in search of candy.

Voldemort released the silencing spell.

And then Harry heard it: the sound of Hostilian Snape's last earthly scream being sucked inside the Dementor, along with greyish wisps of something Harry thought he recognised, even if he couldn't identify it for certain.

His soul.

Hostilian went slack the way Sirius had when he was being Kissed, his fingers and feet twitching spasmodically while the Dementor's hands caressed his head as tenderly as would a lover. The smoky wisps drifting from his mouth became thicker and thicker, until they looked like a solid mass of sludge.

And then, the ultimate horror.

The Dementor's sucking lips latched onto Hostilian's unconscious ones, and a new noise echoed through the clearing.

The sound of a soul breaking free from its moorings, but not to be released in any natural fashion. This sucking, slurping sound was the noise of a human being's soul being swallowed alive.

The Dementor licked its fleshless lips as it drifted upwards again, leaving the shell of Hostilian Snape behind. The man was still alive, Harry knew. Still breathing, his chest rising and falling like clockwork. Inside the chest, his heart still beat.

But there was no more him left, or at least, not inside his body.

The younger Severus clenched his eyes shut and looked like he was holding in a scream, while the one Harry was holding simply shuddered, his gaze steady on his younger self.

Voldemort gave his new follower no time for regrets. With one sweeping motion of his wand, he caused the Dementor to vanish. "Severus," he said sharply, repeating the name until the young man looked at him. "Your arm."

"Yes, my Lord." The tone now wasn't so reverential as before, Harry thought. Severus' voice sounded dull. Numb . . .

But he didn't hesitate as he swept his cloak aside and rolled up his sleeve to bare his left arm to the chill of the January night.

Harry swallowed, seeing the pale, unmarked skin. No bandage now, no ugly mass of raw flesh. He wished his father's arm could look like that again.

Maybe it would, he thought, once Voldemort was dead for good.

When Voldemort touched his wand to Severus' inner arm, though, Severus gave a violent flinch.

"Second thoughts?" asked Voldemort, sounding highly displeased.

"Nobody can know," gasped Snape, waving toward the still-breathing body of his father. "Nobody can-- the Dementor, what I did . . . nobody can ever know."

By the last four words, he sounded like a broken man.

"I thought you trusted me, Severus," said Voldemort sadly.

"I do, I do, but--"

"You're young and not used to having someone who truly cares about you. Of course." Voldemort moved his wand away and patted Severus on the shoulder. "I understand. But I am worthy of your loyalty, as I shall demonstrate. I'll call a trusted servant to us and have him serve as bonder for an Unbreakable Vow. Will that satisfy?"

"Oh, yes, my Lord," breathed Severus in clear relief. "Thank you."

"If you don’t wish him to know the details, however, you'd best end your father's life," said Voldemort, his kind tone a complete contrast with the horrible suggestion he was making. "The state he's in just now, it's rather obvious that he's been Kissed."

Harry clenched his fists. How fiendish. How cruel, to demand that Snape do yet more! To make that the price of silence -- for that was what Voldemort was doing. Not in so many words, but that was what it all came down to.

And the younger version of Severus was in no fit state to negotiate better terms.

Though clearly, he wasn't blind to the implications of what he was about to do. "Priori Incantatem," he murmured. "If the Ministry should investigate . . . and it's well-known that I think very little of my father--"

"Oh, I'll see to it that there's nothing to investigate," said Voldemort, chuckling. "But for your peace of mind, Severus, by all means sheathe your own wand. Here . . . use his."

From an inner pocket of his robes, Voldemort drew forth a length of brown wood spotted with black.

Severus shivered, his fingers trembling as he took it, but then he walked quickly to the eerie form of his soulless father, and cast the spell.

"Avada Kedavra."

The light that emerged from the end of the borrowed wand was more a wash than a blast, but it was the exact shade of green that used to haunt Harry's nightmares.

"That killed him?" murmured Draco. "It didn't look-- I mean--"

"There wasn't much power behind it, no," said Snape, rising to his feet and pulling both his sons up with him. "Nor very much hatred. I suspect I'd already expended it."

"Then why . . ." Draco's voice trailed off as if he wasn't sure he should ask such a thing.

But Snape understood the unspoken question. "Because I truly wanted him to be dead, I suppose. Not just to hide what I'd done, either. By then, I thought it was the . . . the right thing to do."

He stumbled over those last few words, the irony clearly not lost on him.

"Well done, well done," said Voldemort warmly, though Harry thought his eyes were glittering in a way that meant that inside, he was displeased by the feeble spell. For now, though, he was clearly intent on encouraging Severus.

Of course . . . Severus Snape hadn't yet been branded with the Dark Mark. Voldemort was still seducing him.

Still luring him in.

Voldemort closed his eyes and waved his wand in a complicated swirl, a skull and snake emerging in wispy trails from the end of it. A moment later, someone Apparated into the circle of stones.

Someone strikingly familiar. "Sirius?" gasped Harry.

"Regulus," corrected Snape.

"Oh." In that one moment, a lot of things fell into place and suddenly made sense. How Regulus had known that Snape had done something to his father, but hadn't known about the Dementor--or he would have told Sirius about that, too.

"My Lord?" inquired Regulus, dropping gracefully into a kneel.

"Best you stand," said Voldemort as he knelt and gestured for Severus to do the same. "We shall need a bonder."

Regulus rose to his feet, drawing his wand while Voldemort and Severus grasped right hands. He touched the tip of his wand to their linked hands and with his free hand, gestured for Severus to speak.

Severus looked like he didn’t know what was expected, just as he'd looked surprised when Voldemort had grasped his hand.

"The vow needs three separate terms," said Voldemort calmly, sounding like mentor, teacher, and father rolled into one. "Be clear when you issue each, and wait for my agreement and the bonding spell to react before you speak the next."

Severus visibly swallowed. "My Lord . . . will you keep secret the information you have acquired about . . . about my father?"

"I will," said Voldemort, calmly watching as a lick of flame shot forth from Regulus' wand and wrapped around his wrist and Severus'.

"Will you also keep secret the . . . the events that happened here during the past hour?"

"I will."

A second band of flame joined the first, twining around it until they looked inseparable.

As Regulus and Voldemort looked on expectantly, Severus shifted on his knees, clearly trying to come up with something to offer as a third term. The things he might have asked! But then, Harry realised, Voldemort was hardly likely to agree to something that didn’t suit him.

"Will you forever keep those events secret?" Severus finally asked.

"I will," said Voldemort in confident tones.

A third flame shot around their hands and bound itself to the others, the whole thing a brilliantly glowing orange rope.

When Regulus lifted his wand, the bond marking the Vow vanished.

Voldemort pushed to his feet, though he motioned for Severus to remain on his knees. "You'll find some offal over there," he said to Regulus, carelessly motioning towards the dead body of Hostilian Snape. "Take care of it for us, will you? And dispose of this wand."

Regulus nodded respectfully as he took Hostilian's wand from Voldemort's outstretched hand, then turned away to do as his lord had bid.

The moment he was gone, the body with him, Voldemort spoke again. "Your arm, Severus?"

This time, Severus didn't flinch away when Voldemort's wand touched his inner arm.

"Mosmordre," said Voldemort, pressing the tip of his wand almost viciously against Severus' skin. A hissing noise followed, and then the smell of burning flesh.

Severus clenched his teeth and swayed on his knees, his face twisting in agony, but he didn't cry out or scream.

"That's . . . impressive," said Draco faintly, sounding ill.

"I wanted to prove myself," said Snape, beginning to back away from the scene unfolding in the middle of Stonehenge. "That he knew about my father might mean he looked on me as weak, I thought. I couldn't have that."

He sounded so calm that Harry couldn't stop his question. "Seeing yourself taking the Mark . . . it doesn't bother you?"

"Not like the other."

Draco's question emerged almost panicked. "There's nothing else we need to see here, is there?" he asked, his voice pitched high. "There's no more, nothing else--"

"No," said Snape, shaking his head. He sounded . . . odd, Harry thought. Calm still, but like he was holding on by a thread that might snap at any instant. "Come."

Grasping both his son's arms, he pulled them upwards by force of will.

The moment they were free of the Pensieve, Draco staggered to a chair and practically fell into it. "I didn't know," he babbled. "I . . . I only ever heard of his power, his grand plans, and then on Samhain I saw his cruelty for myself, but I never knew he could be so . . . so . . . so completely . . ."

"I think the word you want is charming," said Snape dryly. "Of course he can be. Terror and intimidation aren't his only tools; he knows how to persuade."

Draco shuddered, nodding. "I feel like . . . like I've just stepped aside and let a Killing Curse pass me by." He suddenly straightened in the chair, though his eyes looked just as haunted. "No, I feel like you just shoved me out of the way of that Killing Curse, Severus. Merlin . . . if it hadn't been for you, I'd have ended up in his circle. I know it. If you hadn't taken me in, I'd have had no choice but to go back to my family--"

"We're your family," said Harry.

"Oh, shut up," snarled Draco, shooting Harry an annoyed glance. "I know that. I'm trying to say something, here. I . . ." He swung his gaze back to Snape. "I owe you. Everything, and I don't think I ever even thanked you--"

"You know perfectly well that I don't want thanks."

"I know, but--"

"That is enough, Draco," said Snape sternly. "I didn't take you into that memory so you could babble like a Hufflepuff. I only wanted you prepared in case Voldemort ever attempts to subvert you. Now, have you any questions? Either of you?"

Harry had one. He didn't really like to ask it, but he wanted to understand his father's mindset on that fateful night all those years ago. "Yeah. Um . . . well, I can see how Voldemort made himself seem, I don't know, almost kind-hearted at times, but he's the one who taught you Occlumency, isn't he? And you'd already learned it by then, and you told me once that you learned it from someone whose methods were harsh, so . . ." He swallowed. "It just seems like that would have given you an idea what he was really like."

Snape finally sat down, his mouth twisting into a macabre smile. "Oh, but that was for my own good, Harry," he drawled, sarcasm in every word. "Yes, it was painful, but the Dark Lord only put me through it because I was so important. So skilled. Such a wonderful addition to his cause, and so on and so forth. I drank it all in like an absolute fool." Snape shrugged, his voice returning to its normal cadence. "And too, my lessons didn't last long. Occlumency is a birth power for me. I only needed to be pointed towards it."

Harry nodded, remembering that Snape had said that.

"Did he change straight away?" Draco suddenly asked. "No . . . that was badly put. I mean, as soon as you bore the Dark Mark, did he openly show his true colours?"

"He's more subtle than that."

"Then when . . ."

Snape stroked his chin, clearly thinking back. "The first time he subjected me to the true horror of his service was when I received my N.E.W.T. results. Divination, to be precise."

"Your Troll score," said Harry, swallowing. Yeah, that would have enraged Voldemort. Hadn't he just said that he wanted Snape to do well on his exams?

"An arrogant indulgence on my part. I should have known that I couldn't convince the Ministry scoring committee to see the subject for the fraud I thought it."

"I thought the Dark . . . I thought that Voldemort was more arrogant," said Draco. "Not that he isn't, but I was shocked he would agree to an Unbreakable Vow. Suggest it, even--"

"Oh, my God," said Harry, a chill sweeping over him. "But he broke it. He broke it and it didn't kill him!"

"What's this about?"

Harry gulped and looked his father in the eyes. "Lucius, or the portrait, I mean . . . it told me, well, by implication anyway, that you'd killed your father. I didn't put it together at the time . . . oh. Well, I suppose maybe Regulus told Lucius--"

"I told Lucius," said Snape calmly.

Harry gaped.

"Many years later, and I said nothing about the Dementor, of course."

"But why would you--"

Snape gave a grim smile. "Because I'd become aware of how Lucius was treating his own son. I mentioned that he would want to be careful not to be too harsh with Draco, because that sort of thing only breeds resentment, and it certainly hadn't worked out well for my own father, had it? I left it to Lucius to draw his own conclusions."

Draco paled. "I think he drew the wrong one. But . . . it was good of you to try."

"Don’t call me good. I am categorically not good," corrected Snape, glancing from Draco to Harry and back. "Have you any other questions?"

Harry only had one. He could see from the look on Draco's face that he was thinking the same thing, especially after what their father had just said. "Are you all right, Dad?"

Stupid question. What did he expect, that Snape would openly admit to feeling torn apart inside after reliving such a terrible memory?

Not bloody likely.

"I'm peckish," said Snape crisply, his eyes glittering in a way that warned Harry not to press the issue. "Draco, why don't you set the menu for dinner?"

Draco's eyes grew wide. "Is it that time-- oh, it is."

"Time can become rather distorted when one ventures into a Pensieve."

"Whatever suits, then?"

Harry could have clouted his brother for that. Of course Snape wouldn’t want to order that way. He probably wasn’t really hungry in the least! Or worse, "whatever suits" might result in nothing but a glass of spirits.

"Set the menu," said Snape tightly.

That time, Draco got the message and did as his father had asked.

Harry wasn’t surprised when dinner turned out to be a pretty subdued affair. He tried a couple of time to draw his father into conversation, but Snape batted away his efforts the way he might swat at a bothersome fly.

It was Draco who managed to keep Snape from brooding all evening long.

"We're brewing," he announced as soon as the meal was over.

"I think I'd like an early night--"

"We're brewing," the other boy said again. "Harry and I aren’t letting you go to your room until we've laid in a fresh supply of Dreamless Sleep."

"Really, Draco--"

"Really, Severus," said Draco, his tone an exact mirror of his father's.

"It's not as though the supply in my bathroom has gone off--" For all his protests, though, the dull glaze over Snape's eyes had begun to fade a little.

Draco had too much sense to point out that the prospect of brewing was starting to distrac Snape from his troubles. On the other hand, Harry didn't particularly like what he did point out. "Oh, but Harry hasn't had nearly enough brewing practice this summer. And with term about to start, he really should brush up on the basics. I'm sure you'd be the first to agree, yes?"

No doubt about it; Snape's eyes sparkled with a bit of mirth, that time. "Oh, yes. I couldn’t agree more. Harry?"

There wasn't a way out, Harry thought. He'd do anything for his dad. "All right. Might as well get back in practice. N.E.W.T. Potions . . . even though I don't need that exam any longer!"

Snape just stared at him.

"Officially need it, I meant," muttered Harry. "Oh . . . let's just get started on that brew."

"I think you should have some as well," said Draco that night after he and Harry were dressed for bed.

"Dreamless Sleep?"

In answer, Draco held out one of the vials they'd filled that evening.

Harry shook his head. "I'm all right."

"Really?" Draco cast a spell that caused Harry's sleeves to abruptly flip up to his elbows.

Harry scrambled to yank them back down, but by then, it was too late. Draco had seen the long scratches that marred each forearm. "I was just feeling a bit . . . frantic."

"So let's make sure you don't get even more 'frantic' in your sleep." Walking across the room, Draco thrust the vial into Harry's hand. "Come on. It's been a hard day for all of us. I had some too, if it makes you feel better. And you know that Dad took some."

"Just don't tell Dad," said Harry as he gave in and downed the potion. "He's got enough on his mind."

"That was obvious from the mere fact that he didn't notice you turning away to scratch like a hyena."

"Don't tell him!"

Draco took back the empty vial and gave Harry a considering look. "All right. But only because there wasn't any needle involved. Nothing's going to keep me quiet if I think you're sticking yourself, and that's final."

"Fine, whatever." Harry flopped into bed, wishing Dreamless Sleep worked faster. He didn't want to think just now. Not about anything.

"Too much spleenwort in that batch," said Draco as he climbed into bed. "I can tell. Dad really must be more affected than he's letting us know. He should have noticed."

"How can you tell there's too much spleenwort?"

"You don't feel it? A little . . . I don't know. It's not exactly like being drunk, but--"

"Yeah," said Harry, though part of him wasn't sure if that was just the power of suggestion. "I feel a little loopy."

"Maybe it'll help us sleep." Draco flicked his wand and plunged the room into darkness.

It didn't, though. Harry felt like his brain was spinning. Or maybe just his thoughts.

Draco seemed to be having the same problem, otherwise Harry didn't think he would ever have come out with his next comment.

"At least I understand now about the greasy hair."

"Huh?"

"Very common reaction. Classic, even, if one believes that book," murmured Draco in a dazed voice. "Dad didn't like what his father was doing to him, so he started trying early on to make himself as unattractive as possible--"

"I don't think we should be talking about Dad this way," said Harry, his arms itching again. "It's . . . it's not really our business, and he didn't tell us so we could gossip--"

"I just think it explains some things. Ron Weasley's lucky that Dad didn't toss him out a window--"

"Yeah, he is." Harry really did think that the ten thousand lines had been what his father had said, an effort to make sure that Ron saw enough of Harry to calm down and remain friends . . . but he also thought that Snape would have found another way to do that if he hadn't been so enraged by the slur against him. That particular slur . . . it really was a wonder Ron hadn't come out a lot worse.

"Hostilian Snape wasn't bad at art, though," continued Draco in a wandering voice. "Dad's wrong about that bit. That crest he drew, the one you duplicated for the well-wish? That was absolutely brilliant."

"Hermione duplicated it," said Harry crossly. "And it wasn't brilliant. How could it be, when we know now what the man did in order to get more talent?"

"Those rituals worked, that's all I mean--"

"Don't say that--"

"I didn't say that made them right--"

"We're gossiping again--" Harry had to take some deep breaths to settle his stomach. He wasn't sure if that was due to the Dreamless Sleep being slightly off, or to the feeling that they were wrong even to think about what Snape had suffered as a child. Snape had clearly meant to keep the whole thing a secret, and he would have succeeded if it hadn't been for Sirius. "We have to change the subject."

"Probably for the best . . . so then, I wonder how Rhiannon's doing." Draco made a sound like a yawn. "I think she must be starting uni soon. That's so strange. Why don't Muggles apprentice?"

"I think they used to. Maybe?" Harry yawned too, the potion catching up with him. "Um . . . ask your Muggle Studies teacher . . ."

"Yeah . . ." Harry heard a sound of shifting blankets. "Good night . . ."

"Night . . ."

For several long moments there was only silence, and then Draco's voice came again. "Jus' . . . don't scratch . . ."

The suggestion jolted Harry back to full awareness. "I'm not."

Draco yawned again. "No, I meant . . . when you talk to your moron of a godfather. Er . . . what are you planning to tell him, anyway?"

Harry only had to think about that for three seconds. "Nothing, really. We promised Dad, and even if we hadn't, there's no way I'd repeat any of that. Not his fucking business, is it?"

"Then . . . what are you going to say?"

Harry adjusted his blankets. "That I know everything, and not to ask, and that I love Severus as much as ever, and if he can't be civil about it, I can't talk to him until he can be."

"Sounds . . ." Draco's voice drifted off and then came back. "Yeah, all right . . ."

Harry wasn't sure if he went to sleep then, or a long while later. Instead of spinning, his thoughts seemed to be moving like treacle down a hill, so slow he could barely follow them.

All he really knew was that after he got to sleep, he didn't dream.

Not about anything.

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Eight: "The Hogwarts Express"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

"And I really can't say anything else," finished Harry, glaring fiercely at the image of Sirius sitting cross-legged in the Mirror of All Souls. "It's Severus' personal business. All you need to understand is that I know everything now, and I still trust him and want to be his son."

Sirius cleared his throat, licking his lips a few times before he said anything. He was clearly wary of Harry's temper. As well he should be. Harry had started this conversation with an ultimatum. Either Sirius would stop insulting Snape -- to Harry, at least -- or Harry would stop visiting him. His choice.

It probably didn't hurt that just a few moments after that, Harry had reminded Sirius that everybody had regrets. Everybody had done terrible things.

Like trying to get a classmate killed by a werewolf, for example. What was that except attempted murder, clear as day? It would have been actual murder if Harry's dad hadn't arrived in time to save . . . well, everybody, really. Snape from being killed, Remus from being found out and expelled, and Sirius from the full penalty of the law.

James Potter hadn’t been perfect, that was the truth, but saving everyone that day made up for a lot of things. Harry went warm inside thinking about it

"Are you sure, though, Harry?" Sirius finally asked, licking his lips again, "that Snape told you the whole truth about what happened to his father? I mean . . . no offence to Slytherin since you're one as well, now, but they do have the knack of . . . er, slanting facts in their favour."

It only took Harry three seconds to decide he wouldn't take offence. Sirius was trying to be reasonable; that was all that really counted. "Yeah, I'm sure. I saw the whole thing in a Pensieve, Sirius. Every last bit. And if you start spouting rubbish about how he must have hexed the Pensieve, I swear I'll--"

"No," interrupted Sirius slowly. "I don't know that such a thing can be done. And even if it can . . . listen, Harry. I'm not as bull-headed as you think. Last time when we were talking, I could tell that Snape . . . that Snape had some . . . some feelings for you. But damn it, Harry -- it's Snape!"

Harry smiled, most of his anger evaporating. Because here was Sirius' real issue, right? And as issues went, it just wasn't that serious. "Yeah, I know he's Snape, and you've never got on, you two. But Sirius? No offence to you, but that's your problem. I happen to--"

"Yes, yes, you love him," said Sirius in a long-suffering tone. "I did hear you the first ten times."

"More than that, I like him, Sirius. Look, it's a bit weird since he's my dad and all, but sometimes I feel like we're mates! I don't know . . . would I have got on with James like this? I think maybe not--"

"Harry." Sirius' tone was about as full of reproach as a voice could be, Harry thought. "How can you say a thing like that? James can't come forward to tell you himself, but he loves you, loves you dearly--"

"Oh, I know." Harry smiled. "You tell him that I don't doubt it, and that it was Severus, by the way, who proved to me that I don't have to choose, that I can have two dads, right? But what I meant was that with James, I'd have grown up with him, you see. It's a little different with Severus. I was close to grown, anyway, when we first started to get along--"

Harry leaned closer to the mirror, so close that his nose nearly bumped it. Sirius looked an inch away from laughing. "What?"

"I remember, that's all. What it was like to believe that sixteen is nearly grown."

Harry peered at him suspiciously. "Are you making fun?"

"A bit."

"Well, I'm seventeen now, anyway."

Sirius' lips twitched.

Harry gave him a pleading look. "Stop it."

Another twitch, but then, "All right."

"Do you think you'd end up mates with your dad if he raised you from when you were small?" asked Harry, his head tilted to one side.

"I'm afraid I'm not one to answer that, unfortunately."

"Yeah, well I can't ask Severus," muttered Harry, only to realise a second later that there was someone he could ask. "You're there with my dad, so talk to him about it, all right? Only, don't make it like a message he's trying to get to me, since then the magic'll interfere. Just . . . sound him out. And while you're at it, ask him and my mum for some good stories of when I was little. Tell them that I can remember loads of things, but--"

"You don't remember being one year old!"

"I do," insisted Harry. "This is what I mean about trusting me, Sirius. I really do know what I'm talking about."

Sirius shifted like he was uncomfortable sitting on the floor. Odd that he hadn't conjured a chair for himself, in that case. But then, maybe he'd just copied Harry, who didn't mind sitting cross-legged at all. "All right then, you remember."

Harry decided to take pity on him. "Only because Severus brewed me a potion. Truthful Dreams. It makes my memory kind of . . . open up while I sleep. And when I wake up, I can still remember what I learned."

"But how can you be sure that these dreams aren't just . . . dreams, Harry?"

"They're not like normal dreams. They're too real." Sirius still looked doubtful, Harry thought. "I had a little green blanket decorated with silver unicorns," he added. "I'm always rubbing my cheek against it. When I'm not chewing it, that is."

Sirius widened his eyes. "Lily used to complain about how you wouldn't stop gnawing that blanket!"

Harry smiled fondly. "It was so soft." He crossed his arms then, feeling smug. "I wouldn't know a thing about it if not for Severus."

"I suppose that was . . . good of him."

He'd said the word good so reluctantly that Harry couldn't help himself. "The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters, Sirius. Isn't that what you told me? He was one, but there was good in him even back then, and all the bad stuff? It was really a long time ago."

"It wasn't so long ago that he treated you worse than owl droppings!"

"Seems like it to me," said Harry, shrugging. "And he apologised, anyway. Even offered to write lines."

Sirius gaped.

Harry grinned. "But I declined."

"I see what you mean about an odd relationship."

"Ask my dad about being mates or not with his dad, then," said Harry, going back to his point. "And ask him for stories of when I was little. I'm sure that Truthful Dreams must have left things out. And . . . and . . ." Harry racked his brains, trying to remember what else he'd meant to say. "Oh, right. Tell my mum that I've got this brooch, this ugly glittery pear thing that Dudley said belonged to our great-great-grandmother . . . uh, Rose Anna Evans. See if you can find out if my mum used to ever wear it, all right? But . . . um, maybe leave off saying that it's ugly."

Sirius nodded. "There's no guarantee that this will work, Harry. I can definitely carry messages from you to your parents, but if they attempt to send some back--"

"Don't let them," Harry quickly put in. "Just talk like you want to know. Like talking to me got you interested."

"I'll do my best," said Sirius gravely. "At least this way I think James and Lily will speak to me again. They were so upset with me after last time that I thought I'd lost them as well as you. James asked me what I thought I was doing, trying to take away the only father you'd ever known."

Those words tugged at Harry's heart. "I know him too, through those memory dreams. Tell him that, Sirius, and that I know how much he loves me. I don't have to rely on other people to swear it's true, not now. I know it for myself."

Sirius cleared his throat. "That'll mean everything to him, Harry."

Harry doubted that. After all, James had Lily there with him. But it would probably mean something. "I'd better go now, but don't worry. I'll call you again."

"To hear what your parents had to say."

"And to talk to you, you berk."

Sirius flashed a smile as he nodded.

"'Bye," said Harry, a little sadly.

His intention to end the conversation was all it took to make the mirror ripple back into its usual appearance. Stepping close, Harry looked all around the floor to see if the shard he'd used had somehow come back out of the transformation, but it hadn't.

It had been used up, like the others.

Like it or not, he was steadily working his way through the pieces of the broken mirror. At some point, he'd have none left, and he'd have to truly say goodbye to Sirius, and through him, his parents. But this chance to talk with all of them was more than he ever thought he'd get, so Harry refused to think about how he was going to feel when the Mirror of All Souls fell silent for him.

"All is well, I trust?" asked Snape in his deep voice as soon as Harry let himself into their rooms.

"Yeah, but I'm surprised you'd guess it went all right," said Harry, shrugging off his school robes and hanging them from his usual hook. He'd worn them to make a point to Sirius. Dual crest, Slytherin prefect's pin . . .

"Oh, Black can be an imbecile but he's not completely lacking in common sense," drawled Snape. "The last thing he wants is to alienate you."

"You could have fooled me," muttered Harry, shaking his head. "Anyway, he thought it was good of you to give me Truthful Dreams. You know, so I could remember things from when I was only a year old?"

Walking closer, Snape raised an eyebrow. "As I recall, I dosed you with that potion because you'd had a nightmare."

"Well, yeah, but you gave it to me later knowing I wanted it so I could dream about my parents--"

Snape clicked his tongue. "Have you been misdirecting your own godfather? Cleverly enough that he didn't notice, too. How very Slytherin of you."

"Well, I am," said Harry, and then wondered why he felt defensive about it. Severus certainly sounded pleased. "And Sirius knows. Uh, that I'm in Slytherin, I mean."

"He knows about your crest. I doubt very much that he believes it suits you. But no matter. He'll learn."

"If we have enough time," said Harry, carefully laying the broken mirror flat on the table in the dining alcove. He had an impulse to smother it in cotton wool to keep it safe. Instead, he flopped into the nearest chair and stared at the mirror morosely. "I haven't counted the pieces left yet, because I don't really want to think about the end, but sooner or later I won't be able to avoid knowing there are only three left, then two, then . . ."

"You really can't complain about the gift this mirror represents." Severus dropped into the chair nearest Harry. "Most people who lose a parent simply have to wait."

By the end, his voice was so bleak it sounded hollow.

Harry wouldn’t have understood that before, but he did now. Snape's father wasn't in the afterlife, was he? His soul was stuck inside that Dementor, still. Not that Snape probably wanted to see his horrid father again, but even so, it couldn’t be easy knowing that Snape had sent him to a place like that.

Not Snape, not Snape, Harry told himself, a little frantically. Voldemort had tricked him into it. But Snape was the one who had let himself be tricked . . .

Harry decided he couldn't think about it any longer. He meant what he'd told Sirius: he still loved and trusted his father. But it was so strange, knowing these things. It meant he understood Severus Snape better than ever before . . . but it also meant that he understood less about everything else. Like life.

How could a father ever, ever do that to his own son?

"So, where's Draco?" asked Harry, eager for a distraction.

Snape's voice acquired a sardonic edge. "Where do you suppose he would be, hmm?"

Harry didn't have to think long. "In the Owlery, sending off a letter for Hermione to post to Rhiannon."

"A good guess, but in fact he's gone to consult with Miss Burbage again."

"Well, it can't be easy, jumping into seventh year Muggle Studies like that."

"I do wish he'd return, though. I've news for both of you."

Harry rubbed his hands together. "Well, his loss that I get to hear it first."

"Yes, I can see that you're devastated," said Snape dryly.

"Come on. Spill."

"You won't have to wait until the Welcoming Feast to see your friends. You'll be on the Express with them."

Harry grinned. "Brilliant! I can't wait to see the look on their faces when they find out that I'm a Slytherin prefect. I didn't want to tell them in a letter. No fun in that!"

"You aren't the least bit concerned about their reaction?"

Harry shook his head, though privately, he was a tiny bit concerned about Ron. Oh, he'd be all right with Harry being a Slytherin prefect, but when it came to living in Slytherin half the time? Harry wasn't sure. "What changed your mind about the train? I thought you said there wasn't any point since Draco and I already are here."

"You're a junior member of the Order, and as such, I expect you to keep this information strictly to yourself," said Snape sternly. "With the way Voldemort has been attacking landmarks, the headmaster is concerned that the Hogwarts Express could become a target."

"And that means you want me on it?"

"No, of course not." Snape scowled. "But I have more responsibilities than those of a father. Albus is arranging as much protection as possible on board the train. There will be extra Aurors guarding the students and watching out for anything suspicious, and the teachers have also been told to lend a hand. Including the new Defence instructor."

"Great." Harry made a face. "Bo Peep."

"Pardon?"

"She's a shepherdess, like Bo Peep. I'll show you." Harry made sure to draw his wand, holding it to cover his wandless magic. "Accio Draco's sixth-year Muggle Studies book!"

It contained a collection of nursery rhymes that Draco had asked Harry about. When they'd seen the illustration of Bo Peep, Draco and Harry had spent the better part of ten minutes chortling over it.

"Think she'll dress like that?" asked Harry, tempted to laugh again as he pointed at the colour drawing of a woman with a billowing blue checked skirt topped with what looked like a corset worn on the outside.

"Maura Morrighan is not a shepherdess in the sense you suggest," said Severus, closing the book with a decided snap.

"Dumbledore said she was."

"Not of sheep, certainly. She's skilled when it comes to magical creatures. Including dragons, I do believe."

"So she'll be like Hagrid in a dress?"

"I doubt the woman has a single dress to her name. Could we return to the point at issue?"

Harry bit back his next jibe about shepherdesses. "Right, of course. The Express. Where do I come in?"

"Several places, actually." Snape sighed. "You're a prefect, which means that you and Draco should attend the meeting on the train. More than that, though, is the fact that if the Express is attacked, you and Draco are competent to Apparate."

"So we'll just run away and leave the rest of the children to die, will we?" asked Harry, outraged.

"No, you'll be expected to Apparate them while the Order and Aurors hold the attack at bay."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling stupid.

"No matter how many teachers are on board, it won't be enough to get the students to safety. The Order will need all the help it can get, and as Albus pointed out, you and Draco are in fact . . ."

"Members."

"Junior members," Snape ground out.

Harry reached across the table and patted his father on the shoulder. "But adults now."

"All the same, I'd rather you were not on board." Snape sighed. "But then, should an attack transpire, I'd rather that none of the students were present, with the possible exception of Mr Zabini."

Harry frowned, thinking of how he'd have to room with that prat this year. Half the time at least. There were definite disadvantages to being in Slytherin.

On the other hand, what had Zabini done except call Draco names and manipulate some of the others to give him a hard time? Compared to what Nott had done last year, that wasn't much. "You don't really mean that about Zabini."

"I don't wish death upon annoying students?"

Harry chuckled. "No, you don't, and you won't be able to fool me on that account again. Don't worry though; your secret's safe with me. About the train, though . . . why don't the students just floo to the castle?"

"The Express must run in any case. Can you imagine a first-year Muggleborn's parents being willing to send their child through the fireplace? And too, the Acting Minister, in his infinite idiocy, has determined that our regular procedures will remain in effect. To do anything else, he told Albus, would merely offer aid and comfort to the enemy." Snape began to speak in a sniping tone. "We mustn't let You-Know-Who know that his actions have affected us, you know. That will only embolden him, and besides, what will the public think?"

"Scrimgeour's an arse. Putting children in danger just because it's better for his bloody public image to act like nothing's wrong--"

Snape held up a hand. "I don't believe the students will be in danger."

"Come again?"

Snape's smile was razor-sharp. "Think about it, Harry. Voldemort is undoubtedly insane, but the core of him is still steeped in what he learned in Slytherin. There's very little profit in slaughtering hundreds of schoolchildren. He wants control of the wizarding world. That's not the way to gain it."

"But he used children to attack the Ministry! Killed them doing it!"

"Yes, but not publicly. The Order knows for certain, but all anyone else has is speculation that the Ministry attack might be connected to the summer disappearances of Muggleborns and half-bloods."

"Why keep it a secret?" The moment Harry asked, he knew. "Oh, shite. If you release the information, Voldemort will know he has a mole in his ranks!"

Snape nodded. "War is made of hard decisions. Is it better to withhold information and preserve a tactical advantage?"

"Of course it is. It's Remus."

"Protecting him may mean the deaths of others," argued Snape. "Of course, protecting his position may ultimately reveal a means to end the war entirely, which will mean the salvation of others still."

"You're getting ready for that Ethics class."

"I sometimes find myself wondering if there can be any such thing in war," muttered Snape.

Harry patted his father's shoulder again. "If you don't think the train will be attacked, then why are you so annoyed I'll be on it?"

Snape glowered. "I don't like to see my children being used."

"Just because I can Apparate?"

"Your dark powers, rather. If the train is attacked, and the opportunity presents itself, Albus thinks you may be able to end the war in one fell stroke."

"Wouldn't that be a good thing?" asked Harry, puzzled because Snape sounded so angry at the mere prospect.

"You aren't ready."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Are you talking as my teacher or my father?"

"Your father, I suppose."

"Will you ever think I'm ready? I mean, as a father?"

"Probably not," admitted Snape with a grimace. "Sometimes I think it would have been better for the three of us to leave here for parts unknown."

"I couldn’t abandon my friends, Dad. You know that."

"Yet one more reason to have you on the train." Severus' lips lifted in a grim smile. "I know you too well, Harry. I truly do not believe that anything will happen, but if something did, you would never forgive yourself for not being there to help."

Harry's arms itched at the mere prospect. "Yeah," he said, swallowing. "Especially since I could maybe do more than just Apparate some of the children to safety."

"If anything happens, you're to adhere to your stated mission. That's what members of the Order do, Harry."

Harry almost opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. No point in announcing his plans, not when it meant only one thing: his father would keep him off the train. But the truth was that this all went back to ethics. Yeah, Harry had promised to take orders when he'd joined the Order of the Phoenix. But if he saw a way to use the advantage of surprise they'd so carefully preserved, a way to destroy Voldemort with a wanded spell, Harry would have to break his word.

Winning the war so he could keep his family and friends safe, after all, was more important than keeping a promise. A lot more important.

"I'll protect the children," he agreed out loud, hoping that his father would overlook the ambiguity of his wording. Considering that this was Snape, though, a distraction was probably in order. "But Draco and I aren't the only ones able to Apparate, remember. Hermione got her license before the Ministry was destroyed, and I'm sure a lot of the seventh years are competent, even if they aren't officially allowed to use the skill, yet."

"I doubt that Miss Granger or the others possess much experience in Side-Along Apparition."

Oh. Harry hadn't thought of that. "But . . . neither do I. And I don't think Draco knows how."

Snape smiled, the expression grim. "I suggest you both acquire the skill. Since the wards here will interfere, we'll go to Devon so you can practise."

One flick of the man's wand had the door to their quarters flying open. A second flick sent a galloping silver doe bounding down the corridor.

Harry stared after it, a little bemused. "A deer, really? Mine's a stag."

"I am aware of that," said Snape dryly.

"Bit weird they'd be so similar."

For some reason, Snape looked away, then.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Bollocks," snapped Harry. "What is it? You hate having a Patronus that's so much like Prongs? I thought you'd forgiven my dad! I thought you couldn't love his son and still hate him--"

"What I hate," said Snape, his words lashing out like a whip, "is having Patronus that's so much like yours, Harry!"

Harry took a step back and tried to hide how much that hurt. When he heard the wobble in his voice, he knew he'd failed. Miserably. "What . . . but why?"

Snape sighed, his anger clearly leaving him, though he still looked disturbed. "Think about it, Harry. What does the spell mean?"

"I . . . uh, I expect a saviour . . . oh."

"I'm supposed to support and protect you, not the other way around," said Snape, shaking his head. "And what can a doe to your stag mean except an acknowledgment that my magic is far weaker than yours?"

"It could just be a coincidence," said Harry. "Doesn't it have to be? I mean, when did you first master the spell? Long before you knew what my Patronus would be, right? Long before you knew I'd have dark powers."

"You're obviously unaware that Patronus forms can change."

Harry swallowed. "Has yours?"

Stupid question. Snape just stared at him in answer.

"Er . . . what did it used to be?"

"Something less revealing, I assure you."

So Snape didn't want to talk about it. Harry didn't like that, but he knew better than to pester the man. "Well, I’m sorry that the change bothers you," he said stiffly.

"You shouldn't have to be my saviour," said Snape in dark tones. "I am your father; I should be the one to save you from the darkness waiting outside these walls."

"You have, Severus," said Harry, seriously. "And I don't just mean on Samhain. You've saved me in a lot of ways. The needles. And steering clear of revenge fantasies. And having a family to call my own. I don't think you know what that means to me."

"And as for the other?"

Harry shrugged. He'd rather the prophecy not be true, except for the fact that if it wasn't, there might be no hope for any of them. "All I know is I wouldn't be able to save you if you hadn't saved me first."

Snape blew out a long, shuddering breath. "You're a good son, Harry."

"Is Harry playing at that again?" asked Draco as he walked through the open door.

"No more than you're playing at being a Muggle, spending so much time with Miss Burbage." Snape's expression was shuttered by then, as though he hadn't just finished having an emotional discussion with Harry.

"She asked about you."

Snape looked profoundly bored by that titbit. Harry really didn't understand what Draco was getting at, but the boy's next outrageous claim brought that into clear focus. "She thinks that an unmarried man with two sons could probably do with some feminine influence."

"I was unaware that you'd become so highly skilled in Legilimency, Draco."

Draco threw Harry an exasperated look, probably because Snape hadn't taken his bait.

"She mentioned as much, Severus. She's hoping that you'll ask her out."

"Miss Burbage did not mention that last bit," said Snape scathingly.

"No, but she hinted and hinted," said Draco earnestly. "Honestly, she did, Severus. She even said that she'd learnt to cook the Muggle way but it was no fun to have nobody to cook for, and did I think you'd mind if she brought a meal around for us all to share. I'm starting to think that the reason she's been so helpful lately is that she sees me as a way to get to you!"

Snape snorted. "She's been teaching here for years, Draco. I think I would have noticed if she was longing for a way to get to me."

"Would you have? I mean, no offence, but you're the most anti-social . . . er . . ."

Harry had to hide a smile. He couldn't help it, though. Draco was usually so smooth. Seeing him make an awful gaffe like that made Harry feel loads better about his own foot-in-mouth disease. "Severus doesn't like it when you say 'no offence' and then proceed to offend him," he drawled.

"Severus, in fact," bit out Snape, "knows perfectly well how anti-social he can be. Enough to ensure that Miss Burbage does not look upon me as a potential love interest!"

"Well, I'm sure she never used to," said Draco, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But now she sees you a little differently, don't you think? Far from being a loner, you've adopted not one son but two, which has to make you look less commitment-phobic, and I'm sure it doesn't hurt that one of them is Harry Potter. You know."

"I'll have you committed if you go on much more in this vein," said Snape sternly. "She's a colleague, do you hear me? The last thing I need or want is the complication of a romantic relationship, particularly one with a fellow teacher. I prefer to maintain a professional demeanour here at Hogwarts. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Draco, clearly subdued.

"If indeed the woman has become delusional, you're not to encourage her."

"But I still want her to tutor me!" Draco flashed Severus a grin that was sly and uncertain at the same time. "I don't have to dash all her hopes, do I? I don't have to march in there and tell her she's got no chance, hmm?"

"That's terrible," exclaimed Harry. "Tell him he has to, Dad."

"And imply that I'm aware of her . . . fixation?" Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's leaping from the cauldron into the flame, Harry. No, no, the best way to deal with this is to act as though I've absolutely no interest in her, not even enough to note her own interest. Assuming there is any."

"Oh, it's there," said Draco, nodding.

"I still think it's terrible to lead her on."

"You're not the one who needs to jump into a N.E.W.T. course without doing the six years that preceded it," said Draco haughtily, before turning back to their father. "Miss Burbage caught sight of your Patronus, by the way. 'Oh, how hauntingly lovely. I had no idea Severus was so sensitive,' were her exact words."

Snape groaned and raised both hands to his temples.

"Would it be so terrible to find somebody to love?" asked Draco softly. "She's a very pleasant woman, Severus. Not a quite the beauty Rhiannon is, of course, but not exactly a flobberworm, either."

"Draco, drop it," said Harry. "This wasn't funny when I thought you were taking the piss, and now that I think you're not, it's pushy and in bad taste."

"Bad taste!" Draco fixed a glare on Harry.

"We don't have time for brainless argument," snapped Snape. "You and Harry have a great deal to learn and very little time to practise. I'll explain more once we're in Devon."

He reached for the powder that would let them floo to Grimmauld Place.

Draco was as predictable as ever. "Oh, Devon. You know, Rhiannon's going to Uni in London, but her term hasn't started yet and she's still staying with her uncle in Exeter. Maybe this evening I could--"

"No."

"You can come with me," wheedled Draco. "Remember the trip wires you and Harry laid? None of them have sounded an alarm, have they? I'm sure it's safe--"

"No."

"But I haven't seen her for weeks, and this'll be my last chance before I'm caged here at Hogwarts for an entire year, and--"

"Enough, Draco!"

Draco fell silent, but pursed his lips.

Snape glared at his son for a moment, but then another expression flitted across his features. It came and went so swiftly that Harry barely caught it, but for an instant, it had looked as though Snape had something he longed to tell Draco.

Something that for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Gritting his teeth, Snape stepped into the Floo and pulled both his sons in after him, flinging the powder down with more force than was really needed. "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!"

Learning to Apparate another person was both difficult and painful, Harry soon found out. He managed, though, and so did Draco. It took them several solid days of practising, and about four splinchings each. Those hurt a lot more than Harry would have suspected; they gave him some sympathy for what Draco had suffered the night he'd stolen Harry's wand back from Lucius Malfoy.

Snape had the required potions on hand. Between those and healing spells, he patched them up and made them get "straight back on the broom," as he put it.

Draco said nothing more about Rhiannon until they'd finished practising that first night. Even then, he didn't mention her, but the way he demanded that they spend the night in Devon was almost the same thing. Clearly, he thought that if he could persuade Snape to that, it would be only one step further to get him to agree to a trip into Exeter.

Snape was adamant, though. Devon was as safe as he could make it, but it wasn't Hogwarts, and they were sleeping in the castle.

They returned the next day, and the next, for another torturous round of Side-Along practise.

By the final evening, Harry felt like he'd been knocked flat by a bus. Not even the prospect of seeing his friends in the morning could generate much enthusiasm. He actually wondered if he'd be able to wake up in time to board the Express. Never mind that it didn't leave until eleven a.m.

"It's because Apparition itself is fairly new to you," said Draco airily. "I've known how for years and years."

Harry didn't even have enough energy for a comeback. "Shut up," he groaned.

Draco turned to their father. "Well, since Harry's knackered anyway, perhaps this would be a good time for me to dash off and see Rhiannon."

"A pity I neglected to bring along any bottles of Waldenholfer's Acuity Draught," interrupted Severus. "How many times today have I already told you no?"

"A few." Draco beamed Snape a smile so bright it looked pasted on. "But what better time for it, eh? Tomorrow the students all return to Hogwarts, once term starts, I won't be able to see Rhiannon for months and months."

"No. And stop asking."

"Ten minutes, Severus. That's all I ask--"

"Which part of 'stop asking' did you fail to understand?"

"But it's my last chance, Dad--"

"One more word," thundered Severus, "and I'll regret what I've done for you, you ungrateful boy!"

Ouch.

Exhausted as he was, Harry could see how that hit home. It wasn't quite as bad as You don’t deserve to be my son, but . . . actually, maybe it was just as bad.

In any case, it was a lot worse than Draco deserved for saying dad in that wheedling voice.

Draco's whole expression seemed to crumple for an instant, but then his pride came roaring in and he straightened to his full height, his features going stoic, his eyes hardening into absolute granite. "So sorry to have inconvenienced you, Professor Snape, sir."

Without another word, he drew his wand and clutching it, vanished from sight.

"If he's gone to Exeter, I swear I'll snap that wand I gave him," erupted Snape, grabbing Harry and hurriedly Disapparating with him.

Just as well. Harry was pretty sure he couldn't have managed on his own. Not after the last couple of days.

They arrived in Grimmauld Place just in time to see a green flare flashing through the Floo.

"He's just gone home, Dad," said Harry, panting. "You'd better tell him that you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it," said Snape darkly. "But you're right; I'll have a talk with him."

Or not, as it turned out, because Draco had already taken a sleeping potion by the time Snape and Harry arrived.

"Wake him up," insisted Harry. "You must have an antidote, right?"

Leaning close to Draco's prone features, Snape carefully inhaled. When he stood up, he was shaking his head. "I could rouse him if it were truly urgent--"

Harry staggered to his own bed before his legs gave way from exhaustion. "It is urgent!"

"He'll be sick half the night if I drag him out of this sort of sleep." Snape closed his eyes. "I trust you remember how terrible it is for him to vomit."

"Oh."

"The morning will be soon enough to speak with him." Snape deftly summoned a tee-shirt and shorts from Harry's trunk as he moved closer, then thrust them into his son's hands. "Do you need help getting ready for bed?"

Harry would have burst out laughing, except that he was just too tired. "I'm seventeen, Severus."

"And about to faint, from the look of you."

That was probably true, but Draco wasn't the only one with pride, so Harry forced himself to his feet and made his way over to the bathroom. "You can tuck me in if you like," he tossed over his shoulder as he closed the door.

He felt like he was moving in slow-motion, but after what had to be far too long, he was dressed for bed with his face scrubbed and his teeth brushed.

He was also stunned, because when he opened the bathroom door, he saw that Severus was sitting on his bed . . . waiting to tuck him in.

Harry let him, and then he rolled on his side and hugged the blanket to him, grinning.

Only for ten seconds, though. After that, he was fast asleep.

As it turned out, the morning wasn't a good time to talk to Draco. He spent most of it in the bathroom, claiming that he had to be "properly attired" to greet his classmates, when really, he was just hiding in there so he wouldn't have to see Snape.

"Come on, Draco," Harry finally called through the door. "He didn't mean it!"

"I saw the look on his face; he most definitely did mean it, Potter," came Draco's reply, the words clipped and aloof.

"He was just annoyed with all your Rhiannon-whingeing!"

"Just because the man screams in horror at the idea of a romance of his own, is no reason to deny me a chance to see her!"

Harry knew that Draco was more rational than that. Saying such a thing just proved that he was mental from missing his girlfriend. Draco understood how dangerous it would be to go to Exeter, though. Harry was positive of that.

He was also positive that Draco wasn't going to admit--not right now--that he could see reason. Or at least, not that kind.

"Would you open the bloody door?" he shouted, out of patience. "Some of us have to pee!"

Draco abruptly flung the door open.

"Snape just needs a chance to talk with you," said Harry quickly. "Give him one. Don’t start the school year like this!"

"You don't appear to need the facilities," drawled Draco, looking Harry up and down in the instant before he slammed the door in Harry's face.

Sighing, Harry got his shoes and socks on and went to knock on Snape's bedroom door. He was actually pretty embarrassed to have to ask, but after the way Snape had waited to tuck him in, he thought it would be all right. "Can I use your bathroom? Draco won't let me in ours."

Snape moved aside to allow Harry entrance. "Sulking, I take it?"

"Something like that."

"Your brother is going to feel like an imbecile by five past eleven," said Snape cryptically.

Harry had reached the bathroom door by then, but that remark was so strange that he paused before going in. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said."

"I don't understand."

Snape sighed and pushed the bathroom door open. "I'd rather not discuss the matter, Harry. Try to do something with your hair. It's worse than usual."

Harry was about to say that Snape was a fine one to talk, wasn't he, but when he raised his eyes to retort, he realised that he didn't have much cause. Not this morning, at any rate.

Snape's hair was smooth and shiny, hanging in a sleek curtain around his face, but it didn't look oily.

"Uh . . ."

Snape's forehead creased with irritation, though the shove he gave Harry was very gentle.

Bemused, Harry closed the door behind him and set about trying to do something with his own hair. The spells Hermione had taught him only went so far, but after ten minutes, he'd managed to get his hair to lie mostly flat.

When he came out, Draco and Snape were having tea and toast together.

Silently.

Harry sighed and decided he'd better just stay out of it. Better that than have Draco remind him that Harry hadn't liked it when Draco had told him how to treat their father.

Besides . . . he wanted to see what Severus had meant about five past eleven.

Nothing could have prepared Harry for the sight that greeted them halfway down the long walk toward Platform 9 3/4.

"Dudley," gasped Harry, blinking to be sure it was really him. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" asked the blond boy. He was still horribly chubby, but nothing like the whale he'd been in years past. In fact, it looked to Harry like the other boy had got back on his diet and lost a little more weight. "I'm seeing you off to school."

Harry still felt dazed. "I . . . I can't believe it. How did you know where to find me?"

Dudley laughed. "I know I'm thick, Harry, but after six straight years, I did notice the day and time you left each year." His smile widened, though his blue eyes held more than a hint of sadness. "I didn't see you as much as I'd have liked to, this summer. And now I won't be able to see you again until June, will I? I thought I'd better not miss this chance."

Harry checked his watch. "The train leaves at eleven sharp, Dudley. I wish I'd known you'd be here. I'd have made sure to come earlier so we could have more time together."

Dudley's smile faded. "I know, but I didn't want you to do that. It . . . it might not be safe to hang about in the station. For you, I mean."

"Or you," said Harry thickly. "You . . . you understand, then? I know you went into hiding, but they don't tell me anything. Which is probably good. I mean, the fewer people who know, the better."

"I understand more now than I did at your party." Dudley grimaced. "I probably shouldn't even be here now, but--"

"No, indeed you should not," said Snape. "Though for my son's sake, I appreciate the sentiment. However, I believe you should say your good-byes now, and I will find someone who can see you safely returned to your place of residence."

By "someone," Snape meant someone who already knew where Dudley's hiding place was, Harry knew.

"Oh, well, I took the tube to Piers' new place and had him drive me here," said Dudley. "To confuse the trail, you know. And also because I don't have a car any longer."

"What happened to the car?"

Dudley rolled his eyes. "Oh, nothing, Harry. Your sort decided I ought not to have it, that's all. I don't know if it's in storage or turned it into a chicken, do I?"

Oh . . . the Order had thought the car might be too recognisable, then. Which made sense, considering that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had known where Harry used to live.

"If you don't get it back when this is all over, I'll buy you a new car," Harry promised. "Any kind you like."

Dudley immediately brightened; some things never changed. "Can I have a Hummer?"

"Can you afford the petrol?"

"A Mini, then."

Harry laughed. "Severus is right. We'd better get you back where you belong. But it means a lot that you came to see me, Dudley."

It was only a little awkward to reach out and hug him.

Maybe, in time, it would feel completely natural to have a cousin he could hug.

"'Bye, Harry," said Dudley, his voice quivering a little. "I . . . I don't know what's going on, exactly. They don't tell me much, but . . . but . . . you take care of yourself, all right?"

"You too, Dudley," said Harry thickly.

"Good-bye, Dudley," said Draco. "It was good to see you again."

Dudley started. "Oh. Hallo, Draco. Sorry. I didn't see you there."

Draco nodded, obviously not offended. "I understand. You were very glad of a chance to see Harry."

Snape manoeuvred Dudley a small distance down the platform, then peered closely at Draco before they left. "Remember what I told you."

"Of course," said Draco, his voice cooling. "Always, Severus."

As soon as their father had led Dudley away, Harry turned to his brother. "Remember what?"

"He reminded me over breakfast not to leave you alone," said Draco, just a little bit loudly. "Because of your . . . well, you know all about it."

Harry nodded grimly. It had been nice to forget about that for most of the summer, but now that school had started, the game was back on, he supposed. He had to maintain the illusion that he needed protection, that his magic wasn't back to what it used to be before he'd been blinded and all the rest.

Let alone that it was far stronger.

"We'd better get past the barrier in any case," added Draco in a lower voice.

"We've still got about twenty minutes to spare."

"True, but most of the Aurors are probably on the other side."

Shrugging, Harry adjusted his rucksack -- all he had with him, this time, which made for a nice change from a trolley. He wouldn’t even have brought that much, but he didn’t fancy a dash around the castle to fetch his robes for the Welcoming Feast.

Draco had shrunk his own robes and tucked them into a pocket but Snape, in true wizard style, had opted to transfigure his robes into a tweed three-piece suit that vaguely reminded Harry of Remus. When he used to look like himself, that was.

In a way, it was too bad that Remus had to act as though Lucius Malfoy were estranged from Draco. If they could appear to be on better terms, then "Lucius" could have come to the station to see his son off for his final year of schooling.

But then, Harry would have had to see Remus wearing Lucius' face. Harry had told Severus that he was up to that, but sometimes he wondered how true that really was. Those sculpted features, so cold and haughty . . . Harry couldn't help it; they reminded him of Samhain, of the sight of that needle coming towards his eye.

"Harry!" called a voice from further down the platform.

Harry turned to see who it was, and then wished he hadn't. Ugh. Just what he needed. "Hallo, Piers," he said, doing his best to sound as unwelcoming as possible. "I thought you were waiting in the car."

"Oh, so you have seen Dudley?"

"Didn't he just imply that?" asked Draco coldly. "How stupid are you?"

Harry made a sharp motion with one hand. "Let me handle this."

"Let me know if you need help," murmured Draco, though he did move off a few feet. He kept his wand hand in his deep trouser pocket, though.

Harry found that both endearing and annoying. It was all right for Draco to want to protect him, but please, from Piers? Harry could handle him on his own.

"If you're looking for Dudley, you're out of luck. You should just go back to your car and be on your way."

"Without him, you mean?"

"He won't need a ride back," said Harry shortly. "Change of plans."

A sly smile crawled across Piers' thin lips. "Just as well. I was hoping for a chance to see you alone, Harry." His eyes raked Harry up and down, the look in them frankly creepy. "I'd like to see more of you. A lot more."

His tone of voice left no doubt as to what he meant by that.

"Get lost, Piers. I'm not interested."

Piers' smile turned ugly, not that it had been remotely pleasant to begin with. "You don't know what I'm offering, little boy. Virgin, I'll bet. Well, you wouldn’t turn me down so fast if you knew what I could do for you--"

Harry had heard enough. More than enough. Turning his back on Piers, he started to walk away.

Piers' hand landed on Harry's shoulder, his fingers scrabbling to get a firm grip on fabric.

Harry snapped, then. Curling his right hand into a tight fist, he whirled without warning and smashed his fist straight into Piers' nose. Piers fell to the station floor and squealed like a stuck pig. Blood spurted from between the fingers he was clutching over his face.

Draco whistled, long and low.

Harry swallowed, feeling a little guilty as he looked down. He'd just meant to make Piers let go of him. He hadn't really intended to make him gush blood. Or make his own hand hurt so much, come to think of it. Harry flexed it a couple of times, wincing as he stretched out his fingers. Ow . . .

"Come on," said Draco, taking Harry by the arm and rushing him down the platform. "Time to go."

"Don’t tell Severus," said Harry as they ran. "I don't need a lecture."

"What makes you think you'd get one?"

"You got one, and all you did was throw Diet Coke at him."

"True--"

"Besides," said Harry as they reached Platform 9 3/4, "I don't think Dad would appreciate the way I just drew attention to myself."

Draco stopped a few feet shy of the barrier and pulled Harry out of the way of several students pushing trolleys towards it. "You never know. He might be pleased that you used some of those Muggle fighting skills he taught you. But don't worry; I won't say a thing."

"Thanks."

"Come on, let's go through together."

So Harry wouldn't be left alone on either side of the barrier? Harry would have rolled his eyes, but he had to clench them instead as he walked through the wall. The feeling of passing through it was a lot like Apparition, and after all that practise, he didn't exactly welcome the sensation.

"Harry!" called Hermione gaily as she waved to him from across the crowded platform. The minute she reached him, she gave him a close hug. "Oh, it's so good to see you!"

"You too, Hermione."

"I swear you've grown an inch since your birthday party--"

"I feel like the invisible man," drawled Draco.

Hermione punched Draco lightly in the arm. "I saw you. Sorry. How have you been, Draco?"

Draco lifted his shoulders a mere fraction of an inch. "I'm sure you can guess."

"Yeah . . . it's got to be rough," said Hermione, effortlessly picking up on the oblique Rhiannon reference. Like Draco, she kept her comments so vague as to be nearly meaningless to anybody who might overhear. "But this is your last year of school--"

"That won't make a difference unless things--" The war, Harry knew he meant, "--are settled."

"True." Hermione sighed a little. "Well, Harry and I will just have to keep you distracted, hmm?"

"Nothing could distract me from what really matters." Draco made an effort to smile. "On the other hand, I've still got a great deal of studying to do, to catch up with the rest of the Muggle Studies students. A pity you're not still in the class. I could use a partner."

"Did you get through all the books I gave you?"

Draco offered Hermione a hand to assist her to board the train. She didn't need help, but she still took his hand, and then the two of them were walking down the corridor together. Harry suddenly felt like the invisible man, the way they were chattering to one another.

"Oh, yes. Very helpful, Hermione. I can't thank you enough. I've been working with Miss Burbage, who's quite nice, though you know that, I suppose. She's set me some extra reading. Fiction, mostly--"

Harry didn't hear what else he said, because suddenly Luna Lovegood was standing in front of him. "Harry. I've been looking for you."

Harry wouldn't mind talking to her, not in the least, but he didn't want his brother to get in trouble for leaving him alone on the train. Draco was so engrossed in his conversation with Hermione about all things Muggle that he didn't seem to have noticed that Harry had fallen behind. "Wait for me, Draco," he called out, and then gave Luna his full attention. "How have you been? Good summer?"

She smiled in that vacant yet sincere way she had. "Oh, yes, marvellous. Dad and I went off to hunt Tibetan fuzzyprickles. We didn't find any, but . . ." She twirled around in place, looking almost like a ballerina. "It was almost as though we had. You know how they give you that sense of peace and contentment. I still feel like I'm floating."

Harry hated to bring her down to earth, but on the other hand, he needed to be sure she was at least aware of Voldemort's recent activity. Though with Luna . . . it might be a lost cause no matter what. "Um, you heard about the attack on the Ministry, right? A lot of people died."

"Yes. The Tragedy of the Thirty-First," she said, raising a hand to the corner of one eye. "Dad and I weren't in Britain at the time. We were still caught in the clouds."

Harry decided not to ask.

"But that reminds me," added Luna in a bright voice, as if they hadn't just been discussing the worst mass-murder in British wizarding history. She fished for a moment in her bright pink purse, and then pulled out a cucumber that had clearly seen better days. It wasn't quite rotting yet, but it was looking more than a little soft in places.

Luna thrust it out toward Harry. "Here you go!"

Harry managed not to make a face as he took it from her. "Uh . . . thanks, Luna. Er . . ." He almost hated to ask. "What's the occasion?"

Luna gave him an indulgent look, like that was the silliest question she'd ever heard. Or maybe like Harry was the cutest thing she'd ever seen.

All Harry knew was that Draco broke off his conversation with Hermione to chuckle softly.

"It's your coming-of-age present, of course," said Luna, just as though she gave out veg on a daily basis. For all Harry knew, though, she did. "I'm so sorry I wasn't at your party. I came home from Tibet and saw from the invitation that I'd missed it."

Harry nodded. "I wish you'd been there, but maybe one less person was a good thing, considering what happened that night."

"Why, what happened?"

"The Ministry attack, remember?"

"Oh, was your birthday on the thirty-first?" Luna frowned as she closed the flap on her overlarge purse. "Well, that's not right, it is? I don't think the papers should be calling your birthday a tragedy--"

Harry decided he was better off not trying to straighten her out. It was probably impossible, anyway. "So what do I do with the cucumber, then? I can't remember."

Luna giggled, twirling around again. "Oh, Harry! You're so funny!"

Before Harry could reply, she was scampering off, skipping her way down the length of the carriage. She gave Harry a little wave before she pulled open the door leading to the next carriage along.

Harry blew out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and caught up with Draco.

"Hungry?" asked Draco, looking down at the cucumber as they made their way to the front of the train.

"It's my coming-of-age present from Luna."

"Enough said." Draco drew his wand and banished the vegetable.

"Draco," said Hermione reprovingly. "That was a gift!"

"Eh, I was going to bin it anyway," admitted Harry as he wiped slightly gooey hands on his trousers. "Blast. I meant to tell her that she's with us for Potions this year."

"She's not in our year," said Hermione, pulling open the door to a compartment.

"Combined classes--"

Hermione suddenly made an apologetic noise in the back of her throat. "Oh. I should have said something sooner, Draco. I'd love to keep discussing your studies, but you know, this is one of the prefects' compartments, and--"

"So?"

Ron was already in the compartment, and had no trouble saying the part that was giving Hermione difficulty. "So you're not a prefect any longer, are you? Go and find another seat, somewhere else. We want to talk to Harry."

Draco plucked his shrunken robes from his pocket and with an elegant flourish of his wand, enlarged them. As he shrugged them on, he gave Harry a warning look. A work-with-me look.

"I happen to be a prefect again. See the badge? Much more aesthetically pleasing than your own garish lion emblems, I must say. Now, if you don’t mind . . ." He shouldered his way into the compartment. Then, he turned back, a look of astonishment plastered on his features. "Well, you heard them, Harry. Only prefects are allowed in here!"

Harry almost laughed, now that he understood the joke. "All right," he said, pulling his mouth down into a frown as he began to inch his way backwards. "I'll see you at the Welcoming Feast, I suppose, unless this year there's a special prefects' table set up . . ."

"Draco, he's your brother!" chided Hermione.

"Rules are rules--"

"As if you give a brass Knut about the rules--" put in Ron.

"Oh, and you lot do? Only when you're trying to keep me out of my rightful place, I see--"

Ron bared his teeth. "Snape only made you a prefect again because you're his sodding son, and you know it!"

"Au contraire, he did it because he knows whose side I'm on."

"What was his excuse last time?" Ron didn't wait for an answer. "Harry's not going anywhere without one of us. Are you mental, Malfoy? Don't you remember last year? Hermione and I got a Howler, and we're not about to get another one!"

"Snape."

"Where?"

"My name is Snape."

Ron crossed his arms. "Fine then, Snape. We aren't making Harry sit by himself, end of story. Just what kind of brother are you, anyway?"

"Let me understand you clearly," said Draco in a pleasant voice. "You won't break the rules for me, but you will for him. There's a word for that, you know. Hypocrisy."

"There's a higher rule at stake!" protested Ron.

"Just say you're a hypocrite and I'll let Harry in, straight away."

"That's enough, Draco," said Harry, digging in his rucksack for his own robes. They emerged wrinkled, but that wasn't what mattered. He flipped them until he found the prefect's badge, still pinned on, and thrust the wad of cloth forward. "I'm a prefect, too. See? Draco was just having you on."

"That wasn't funny," said Hermione, shaking her head at all of them before breaking out into a grin. "But you're a prefect, Harry! That's wonderful! All four of us, prefects!"

"Yeah, that's great, mate," said Ron gruffly as he stared at the gleaming badge. "I always did feel a little bit bad that you didn't get one of these."

"You forgot to tell him that he only got it because he's Snape's sodding son."

"Oh, stop it, Draco," said Hermione impatiently. "Ron didn't mean that."

"Sure I didn't--"

Hermione rounded on him. "Would you rather have Zabini in here? Or Crabbe, or Goyle? Name another seventh year Slytherin who will do more than Draco to help us, to help our side. Well?"

"Well . . ." Ron scowled. "Fine. Whatever."

He plonked himself down on a seat and crossed his arms, a mulish expression on his face.

Draco sat down too, the motion so refined and elegant that Harry knew he was mocking Ron. Harry wasn't happy, but at least Ron hadn't noticed.

As it was, Draco didn't have long to get comfortable. Just a moment later, Tonks flung the compartment door open, her Auror's robes flaring dramatically as she stepped inside. The effect would have been quite impressive if she hadn't immediately ruined it by tripping over her own feet.

She straightened, her wand out and trained on a single individual. "Draco Malfoy. Stand up, straight away. You're coming with me."

"It's Snape!" ground out Draco.

Harry was on his feet in an instant. "Why? What's the matter? Where are you taking him?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." Tonks made a small circular motion with her wand. "Draco Snape, then. Get up."

Draco rose, but slowly. "I . . . what's this about, then?"

"The Express is leaving in twelve minutes," said Hermione. "He's due at school. Be reasonable, Tonks!"

Tonks' hair abruptly turned a fiery orange. "You don't know why he's needed, so stay out of it."

"I don't know what it's about either!" cried Draco.

"Come alone peacefully or I'll have to use a binding spell," ordered Tonks in a booming voice. "Wouldn't that be humiliating? Bound and dragged away in front of all your classmates." Tonks leaned a little closer, clearly peering at Draco's robes. "And you a prefect, too!"

"Can't you tell us what this is about?" asked Hermione in a pleading voice.

Ron, Harry noticed, wasn't protesting the situation at all.

"I can't, no."

"Why not?"

That was Harry and Hermione speaking as one.

Tonks popped her gum. "I'm sworn to secrecy, why else?"

Harry did a double take then, because he could almost swear that Tonks had just winked at him. Maybe it was just some kind of metamorphmagus twitch, though. She certainly looked serious otherwise. "Come along now, Snape!"

Draco raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug, and started to follow her, though he motioned for Ron and Hermione to be certain to stay with Harry.

The hell with that, thought Harry. He jumped up to go with them, so he could find out what Tonks thought she was playing at.

"Draco's not going to want you to see this," said Tonks in a dark voice.

"Stay, Harry," urged Hermione, grabbing him by the sleeve when he ignored her.

"I'm not letting her haul my brother away to-- to-- I don't know where!"

"Oh yes, you are," snapped Tonks.

"You can't leave the train," added Ron. "Snape'll have our heads."

"But--"

"Quite right," said a new voice that seemed to appear from nowhere. Snape stepped past Tonks and entered the compartment, taking a seat and pulling Harry down next to him. He motioned for Tonks to go, and then flicked his wand to close and ward the door. That done, he turned to Harry and quirked an eyebrow. "You really are a fierce lion, aren't you?"

His voice was so full of good humour that Harry felt staggered. "I . . . what the hell are you on about? I can't believe you . . . you just let her take him away like that!"

"Five past eleven, remember?"

Harry blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"What are the two of you talking about?" asked Hermione.

Snape sat back, keeping one hand in the pocket of his robes as a slight smile played about his features. "I let her take him away because the time was running short, Harry. And trust me, Draco would not thank you for delaying him further."

"Could you please stop speaking in code?" demanded Hermione.

"Something your lauded wit can't unravel, Miss Granger?"

Snape was enjoying this far too much, Harry thought. "Dad, what did Tonks want with Draco?"

"Oh, very little." Snape began to look even more smug. "I dare say that Draco's petite amie will be another story."

Harry gaped, but retained enough presence of mind to avoid Rhiannon's name. "She's here?"

"In a manner of speaking. She's in disguise, of course, but Tonks will remove the glamour and give the little love-birds seven minutes alone," said Snape, checking his watch. "It would have been longer if you hadn't insisted on fighting her to the death, Harry."

"I didn't know--" Harry narrowed his eyes. "How could I have known? Tonks was being horrible to him!"

"Well, she couldn’t announce what she really had in mind," said Snape reasonably. "She's not aware that your friends are cognizant of the situation."

"She still didn't have to act like she was arresting Draco!"

"She may have been having a bit of fun at his expense," admitted Snape. "Think back to last year and you'll realise that there's more than a fair bit of tension between Draco and his cousin. I'd planned to be here with you when she arrived, but your own cousin scuppered that plan."

"Dudley's all right?"

"I saw him safely to the individual responsible for keeping him hidden." Snape's dark eyes went completely black. "We had words. To say the least."

"You and Dudley?" Harry gulped.

"Of course not. He wouldn't react well to that. No . . . I had words with his keeper, who was decidedly lax this morning. I warrant he'll be kept under closer scrutiny, now."

Interesting that Snape should be so convinced that Dudley should stay away from King's Cross, thought Harry. "Draco was just calling Ron a hypocrite, but he's got nothing on you! How could you have brought her here like this, after Draco and Hermione worked it all out to keep her well away from danger?"

All of Snape's humour abruptly died. "Because it's the lesser of two evils. As much as I'd like Draco to behave as an adult wizard, it's not lost on me that he's merely seventeen. He needed to see her."

"Even if it gets her killed?"

"If Draco becomes desperate enough to see her that he sneaks away from Hogwarts, he could get them both killed."

"Draco wouldn't--"

"Wouldn't he? This is the same boy who six months ago let love cloud his judgment so much that he left my rooms even though his seer-dreaming brother told him that it would get him thrown from a tower."

That was a good point, Harry thought. And just last night, Snape had been worried that Draco had snapped and gone to Exeter--

"This is what you meant!" he exclaimed. "When you said you'd regret what you'd done for Draco, you were talking about this, not the whole adoption! Why didn't you just tell him that?"

Snape took a moment to reply, but it wasn't as though he had to carefully consider his answer. Harry thought he seemed distracted . . . like he was checking on something. "Think strategically. What would it have done to Draco if I'd promised him this, and something had prevented Tonks from fetching the girl? She is an Auror, you understand, with a wide range of responsibilities."

"That wouldn’t have been good, no," said Hermione. "But I do agree with Harry, Professor Snape. It was very risky to bring her into the station, even in disguise."

Harry frowned. He thought so too; of course he did. But still . . . Harry had always appreciated Sirius coming to the station to see him, no matter how dangerous a stunt it had been.

"I didn't survive years as a spy by taking foolish chances. The young lady is nowhere near King's Cross. You have heard of Apparition, I trust?" Snape looked down his nose at Hermione.

Harry jumped as the train whistle sounded.

"Maybe he'll return a couple of minutes late," said Ron, sounding almost hopeful.

"If he does, Mr Weasley, I imagine he'll have better judgement than to steal a flying car with faulty invisibility charms."

That shut Ron's mouth.

Another whistle, and the train began slowly chugging its way forward.

"Oh, my God," breathed Harry.

The only thing that kept Harry from lunging to his feet was Snape’s strong arm, tight across his chest. "Your brother just leapt aboard. Literally."

Hermione stared. "Are you omniscient, now, sir?"

"Something like that."

Harry hid a smile as he suddenly figured it out. Snape had been keeping one hand in his pocket this entire time, which wasn't much like him. Harry thought he must be using that spy-glass again, the one he'd once used to keep tabs on Draco in Devon. He'd probably charmed the flat glass disk to warm when Draco was back on board the train. Or vibrate, something like that.

At least he hadn't had it out to actually watch Draco with Rhiannon. But no, Snape wouldn't do a thing like that.

It would lack decorum.

"I'll take my leave now," said Snape, rising to his feet. "I've no wish to embarrass Draco by being here when he returns from his affaire de coeur."

"We'll be here," said Harry.

Snape paused with his fingers on the compartment door. "Ah, but you aren't the one he was refusing to speak to, this morning."

The man hurried out, his robes billowing so much they nearly got caught in the door as it slid closed.

"Why was that prat refusing to talk to your father?" asked Ron.

"Long story," said Harry.

Hermione flashed him an understanding smile. She'd obviously picked up on the remarks from before and had figured things out. Harry wasn't surprised that it had gone over Ron's head, though. He'd still been fuming over the way Draco had been playing with him.

The train was clattering away at full speed by the time Draco slid the door to the compartment open. "No other prefects, yet?"

His voice was casual, which was a misstep in itself; if Tonks had almost arrested him, he wouldn't be so calm about the matter. On the other hand, perhaps he assumed that Snape had told everyone the truth, decorum or no.

"The new ones are meeting with Ernie and Padma," said Ron, crossing his arms. "Head Girl and Boy. I suppose that Hannah and Anthony are there too, basking in the reflected glory. The sixth-years were told to patrol the train. Ernie tried to tell me to do the same, but I told him that Hermione and I would have to stay with you. Snape's standing orders from last year." Ron's smile grew a little bit malicious. "Head Boy or not, he wasn't about to go against Snape."

"Ernie and Padma, eh?" asked Draco as he began to unfasten his cloak.

Hermione stifled a laugh, and Harry managed to look quickly away, but Ron never had been very circumspect. He snorted.

Loudly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," said Ron, grinning. "Don't mind me."

Draco glanced down and swore, then hurriedly began doing up his buttons again. This time, in the right order.

Hermione glanced at him just once. Too soon, obviously, since she said in a slightly faint voice. "Er . . . you might also want to charm away the lipstick."

"I thought I had--"

"On your . . .er, chest."

Harry pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at Draco's blush as he cast a quick spell to take care of it. Ironing charms followed, until he looked as crisp and presentable as if he hadn't just been snogging his girlfriend.

Now that his secret was out, though, his expression became less guarded. If anything, he began to look positively rapturous.

Harry cast a strong silencing charm on the door to the compartment, just in case.

That was all Hermione needed; she leaned forward avidly. "She's well, I take it?"

"Oh, yes." Draco licked his lips like he wished he could still be with Rhiannon. "She . . . well, I don't kiss and tell, but let's just say that she was very pleased to see me."

"Yeah, we got that much from the way she ripped your shirt off," said Ron sourly.

Huh . . . Harry would have expected Ron to be delighted that Draco had a girlfriend willing to do that, since he was so paranoid about Draco and Hermione. On the other hand, Ron was paranoid enough to see boggarts everywhere; maybe he thought that Rhiannon's interest in Draco might make Hermione wonder what she was missing, or something.

Not that Ron had thought it all out; he was reacting on instinct alone.

"She's got more class than to rip my shirt off," retorted Draco.

Hermione sighed with pleasure. "Oh, that's so wonderful to hear."

Draco laughed. "That she knows how to use buttons?"

"No, that you can so easily attribute good breeding to a Muggle," said Hermione softly.

"Not only can he do that," said Harry teasingly, "but he's almost ready to admit that Muggle brilliance includes more than classical music and opera. He couldn’t listen to the Beatles CD I got him for his birthday, but Miss Burbage's been playing him Revolver on her gramophone. Draco loves it."

"She had to explain what a submarine was, and then why it would be odd to have a yellow one," said Draco, laughing.

Hermione actually clapped her hands. "I can't tell you how lovely it is to see you so open to new ideas--"

"That's it," said Ron, jumping to his feet, the set of his shoulders stiff with resentment. "I'm not staying here to listen to the Draco Snape admiration society. I'll go patrol the train like Ernie asked."

Hermione waited until the door was closed behind him, then gestured to Harry. "Check the warding, would you?"

Harry kept his wand out as usual, but couldn't stop himself from blowing on his fingers as though they were red-hot. "Still stout and strong."

"So then . . ." Hermione rubbed her hands together. "Tell us everything, Draco."

"A gentleman never tells."

"Tell us what you can, then."

Draco nodded and sat back, his eyes glowing. "Well, she's wonderful. More than I ever knew. She . . ." He cleared his throat.

"Hmm?" Hermione's gentle prodding was all Draco needed.

"She saw my scar," he murmured. "I kept it hidden from her all summer long, you see. It's splotchy and ugly and I thought it would put her off. But . . . it didn't."

Hermione gently smiled. "Of course it didn't. She left lipstick all over it."

Draco blushed again, the colour more pronounced than before. "I just wish we'd had more time."

"Probably best you didn't," said Harry with a straight face. "You're a bit young to be a father."

Draco raised his chin. "You have to admit, we'd have beautiful children together."

"You would," agreed Hermione. "You will."

"Not until the war's over," said Draco, suddenly grim. He actually scowled. "I can't believe Severus took such a risk. What if somebody who saw me leaving figures things out?"

"They'd just think that Tonks had to question you about something." Harry had had similar thoughts earlier, of course, but since then, he'd had time to relax. "Dad planned the whole thing really well. Nobody will suspect a thing."

"Seeing her today was marvellous but now the school year ahead seems even longer," said Draco, a little petulantly.

"Time flies when there's a lot to learn," said Hermione, moving to sit beside Draco. "Let's get back to your studies. Tell me what else you've discovered in the past month. Or what's still confusing you."

Harry listened to them chatter on for a while, but the whole topic got boring fast. He already understood the things Hermione was explaining, and Draco's bizarre misunderstandings were only amusing the first five or ten times they happened. After that, they were just predictable.

After a while, he remembered to cancel the spells on the door. When the trolley witch came around, he bought sweets for everyone, and propped the door open as he ate his share. That way, he could have a bit of conversation with the people who were wandering to and fro as the countryside slipped past.

Just as well to have a distraction. He was starting to wish he hadn't hit Piers at all, since by now, his hand was starting to throb badly. Maybe he could nip off before the Welcoming Feast and ask Madame Pomfrey for some kind of salve.

Maybe not, though. Now that he had a father living in the castle, she'd probably report all injuries to him, and then Snape would want to know how he'd hurt his hand.

Best not to ask for help, he decided, turning away from Draco and Hermione so that he could spell a flap on his rucksack to be freezing cold. There, that was better. All he had to do was rest his hand across the cloth, and it would be feeling better in no time at all.

His hand wasn't even cold yet when he began to hear a consistent refrain from the students who'd been to the carriages near the back of the train. Have you seen her? Have you seen her?

"Who?" Harry finally asked a pair of goggle-eyed fifth years loitering near the loo.

"The new Defence instructor. She's amazing--"

"Amazing that you can know that without having had a single lesson," said Hermione crisply. "You know you're not supposed to wander this far forward. Back to your compartments."

"We wanted Anthony to get a look at her!"

"Well, he's busy with prefect duties. I’m sure he'll manage to catch sight of her in class. Now, off with you!"

When they were gone, Hermione leaned back with a huff. "Boys. Honestly."

"What?"

She glared briefly at Harry. "Isn't it obvious? She's 'amazing' and they want Goldstein to have a 'look' at her? She must be something to look at, that's all. And those two are Ravenclaws! I expect more."

"They're Ravenclaw males," said Draco dryly. "If the shepherdess is something amazing to look at, they're going to notice."

"Hannah!" called Hermione to the girl walking past. "Come and sit with us. Have you seen this new teacher everybody's talking about?"

Hannah flounced in, crossing her arms as she sat across from Hermione. As far from Harry as possible, Harry noticed. Well, Hannah never had really got used to Parseltongue, and she'd been one of the students most alarmed by it last year. The look she gave his prefect's badge said that she'd noticed it, and didn't necessarily approve.

Harry bitterly thought that she ought to approve, given that it bore a snake!

"Oh yes, I've seen her," Hannah practically growled. "Not that it was easy, what with all the boys falling dead at her feet. I can't imagine how that woman's going to teach anyone. But then, perhaps she'll figure out how to put on some clothes!"

"Do tell, do tell," said Draco, leaning forward.

Harry gave him a reproving look, thinking that Draco shouldn't be so avid, seeing as he was supposedly going to marry Rhiannon. Draco just stared back as if to say, I'm in love, Harry. I'm not dead.

"Clothes?" gasped Hermione. "You don't mean she's--"

"Going about completely indecent!" said Hannah, nodding.

"She's naked?" Draco started to get to his feet.

"She might as well be, the way that doe hide is clinging to her skin," retorted Hannah. "And really, is it so hard to tie your hair back? Hers is hanging loose to her hips, and it's got feathers and bits of things woven into it, and as if that isn't enough, she's stalking back and forth, making sure everybody sees her!"

"Well, she is supposed to be on patrol," said Harry reasonably.

At least, he thought the comment was reasonable. Both girls glared daggers at him.

"She sounds rather exotic," commented Draco.

"She could at least put on some robes!" exclaimed Hannah. "Or wear a dress instead of leathers that show her every curve!"

"Does she have many of those?" asked Draco. "Curves?"

"Boys," muttered Hermione.

"I don't think she has any dresses," said Harry thoughtfully. "Severus said she might not."

"Your father knows her?"

Harry shrugged as he glanced at Hermione. "I'm not sure. It sounded like he might."

Draco grinned. "She really doesn't sound at all like this Bo Peep character--"

Ron stumbled into the compartment, red-faced and panting.

"Don’t tell me," drawled Draco. "You met the new Defence instructor."

Ron cast a guilty look towards Hermione in the instant before he nodded.

"Well?" asked Draco. "All we've had is a feminine perspective. Tell us all about her."

"Yes, do tell us, Ronald," said Hermione in a tone that could have frozen hot coals.

It was a clear warning, but clearly, thoughts of Maura Morrighan wiped all caution from Ron's answer. "She's amazing," he groaned. "Worse than Fleur, Harry!"

"We heard she was practically naked," added Draco in a prompting voice.

"No, she's covered from neck to toe," said Ron, starting to pant again. "But . . . but, she's wearing clothes made of deerskin or something. From a distance you wonder if she's wearing much at all, since it's close to flesh-coloured. But when you get close, her blouse and trousers look . . . really soft. All you want to do is stare, and stroke your hand down them--"

"She's evil," said Hannah, clenching her fists. "She's bewitched every boy aboard!"

"It does sound like a spell might be at work--"

"Oh, it does not," said Draco, shaking his head at Hermione. "Though to be quite certain, I suppose I should go have a look for myself--"

"You sit back down, Draco Snape, or I'll never again believe a word you say!" snapped Hermione.

"What is she on about?" asked Hannah, speaking to Harry. "Oh, congratulations on making prefect, by the way."

Harry was grateful for a way to change the subject away from Hermione's oblique reference to Rhiannon. "I think she's just upset that Ron's being an arse--"

"Easy for you to say that. You haven't seen her!" retorted Ron.

"Ronald Weasley--"

"I'm really happy to be a prefect," Harry quickly continued. At least he knew a guaranteed way to get everybody's attention, he thought. "But being a prefect for Slytherin is going to mean some changes. I lived in Gryffindor last year, once I got back into classes, but this year I'm going to have to live in both my houses."

Harry would have thought that Ron would the one to be appalled. Instead, it was Hermione whose mouth dropped open in obvious horror. "Oh, Harry!" she exclaimed. "Is that wise? Some of them might have warmed to you last year, but some of them still want you dead!"

Harry pushed down his annoyance at the implication that he couldn't take care of himself. "Draco'll keep me safe."

"Yes . . . well . . . " Hermione cast Draco an imploring look. "See that you do."

Draco patted her on the hand and smiled. "I will, Hermione. You know I will."

Harry waited, but no explosion was forthcoming from Ron. "Well?" he finally asked.

"Well, what?"

"You're not going to yell?"

"Why would I yell?"

"Because I'm turning into a Slytherin, maybe? Because Severus and Draco have had me all to themselves all summer long and it shows?"

"You love your father and you want him to be proud of you," said Ron, shrugging. "That's not exactly a Slytherin-only trait, Harry. And anyway, the minute I saw that prefect's badge I knew you'd have duties."

"You--" Harry blinked. "I can't believe this. I thought you'd have a problem with me rooming with Draco half the time."

"Well, speaking as someone with brothers coming out of his ears . . ." Ron's grin that time was lopsided. "It boggles the mind that you'd want to room with yours."

Harry laughed, relieved. When had Ron got so mature? Last year, he'd really hated the idea that Harry and Draco were brothers.

Last year, though, Ron hadn't yet had one of his own brothers die. Maybe that had something to do with it.

"Just one thing," added Ron in a voice that was entirely too casual for Harry's liking.

Uh-oh . . .

"You are Seeking again, aren't you? For Gryffindor alone?"

Harry thought of Ginny, and then he thought of his birthday gift from Draco -- the upgrade to his Firebolt, bringing it to XL status. And then he thought of how this was his last year at Hogwarts . . .

But really, he'd made up his mind about this a while ago. He couldn’t wait to play against Draco in real competition again, this time as rivals but not enemies. "Yeah, I am."

"No playing for Slytherin?"

"No playing for Slytherin."

"Good enough for me," said Ron brightly, though his eyes were glittering darkly as he stared across the compartment at Draco. "One thing for you, too. One thing I'll swear by Merlin's beard. You let Harry get hurt, and I'll kill you."

Last year, Draco would have scoffed at that, mocking Ron's ability to do him any damage. Or he'd have reminded Ron of his own failure to protect Harry that day in Hogsmeade.

This year's Draco, though, merely inclined his head in a nod.

Harry thought that was about as good a response as anyone could expect, given the personalities involved.

Hermione left Draco's side and went to sit by Ron then, leaning her cheek against his shoulder, her head lightly bouncing against him as the train rumbled down the tracks.

They sat that way until Ernie came in and told them all to come along for the full prefects' meeting.

First, though, he asked the same thing everyone else was asking:

"Have you seen her?"

---------------------------------------------------

Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:

Chapter Nine: "Maura Morrighan"

~

Comments very welcome,

Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

"I can't believe this," said Hermione, scowling as she entered the Great Hall alongside Harry and Draco. "That woman still isn't wearing robes!"

Draco began craning his neck to see. A moment later, he stopped dead in his tracks, a low whistling noise emerging from between his teeth.

Harry spotted the new teacher then. She would be hard to miss, since she was the only person in the room wearing . . . well, not wearing robes, at any rate. He could hardly say that she was wearing Muggle clothing. Her doe hide trousers and blouse were as form-fitting as Ron had claimed, and both were decorated with beads and fringes. Her hair, a light chestnut brown, was long enough to hang past her hips, and strands of it were woven with what looked like primitive amulets: small stones, feathers, bits of shell.

"She looks like . . . like . . . a barbarian!" erupted Hermione.

"Now, now, we mustn't be culturally insensitive, Hermione," said Draco. "Just as Muggles have different traditions to wizards -- that's different, not inferior, mind -- the new Defence teacher no doubt has traditions different to your own. Being dressed according to her own cultural norms hardly makes her a barbarian."

"She's Irish!"

"So?"

"So she's dressed like . . . like . . . Pocahontas in drag, or something!" Hermione suddenly clouted Ron on the shoulder. "Stop staring!"

"Can't blame a bloke," muttered Ron under his breath.

Hermione turned a glare on all three young men with her, only to nod when her gaze slid across Harry. "Of course I can. You could both take a lesson from Harry. He's got better manners than the two of you combined!"

It was true that Harry wasn't staring at Maura Morrighan, let alone drooling like some of the other male students beginning to drift into the hall. He'd spotted her, and while her appearance was certainly exotic, he really couldn’t be arsed to care about her looks; by then, his hand was hurting too damned much. It was starting to feel like a thestral had stamped on a couple of his knuckles. Probably, he should have renewed his cooling spell on the way up to the castle, or better yet, cast a bit of a wanded magic so he could ice his hand properly.

How a simple punch to Piers' face could cause so much pain was beyond Harry, but he was starting to revise his plan to keep the injury strictly to himself. He needed to go to the hospital wing, even if Madam Pomfrey did end up informing his father.

So unfair . . . if Ron were knocked unconscious, his parents might be notified, but Harry didn't think Madam Pomfrey would report a little mishap with his hand.

Harry, though, whose father lived right there in the castle?

Sometimes having a parent on staff really ronked.

"One," Draco was saying in a snooty voice, "I have perfect manners, thank you very much. And two, if Harry isn't staring it's probably because he has more important things on his mind. All of Slytherin is about to find out that he's a prefect."

Hermione's pursed lips immediately lifted in a warm smile. "It'll be all right, Harry," she said, briefly patting his wrist.

His right wrist, unfortunately.

Harry went pale and yanked it away. Ow . . .

"You're really nervous, mate?" asked Ron. "Well, don't be. You ate with Slytherin quite a few times last year and lived to tell the tale."

"Draco'll keep me safe." Just as well that his friends had misunderstood. He didn't really want to talk about what had made him hit Piers, and besides, pretending that he needed protection could only bolster the "helpless Harry" story that Snape and Dumbledore insisted on.

Draco gave him an odd look, maybe because the comment was largely wasted; nobody much had been around to overhear him.

"Well, see you after dinner, Harry," said Hermione in a tone of forced brightness.

"I'm sleeping in Slytherin tonight. We've got a full-house meeting scheduled and it'd look a bit weird for me to leave for Gryffindor afterwards."

"Oh." Hermione swallowed, but it didn't take long for her insatiable curiosity to overcome her fears for Harry's safety. "Why do you need a full-house meeting?"

Draco gave her a pitying look. "We have a proper Head of House; that's why. Not my fault if Gryffindors hardly know what a house is for. And now, I'm afraid you must excuse us. Slytherin awaits!"

"I'll see you later," called Harry before turning to catch up to Draco. He'd sort of hoped he could sneak off before the feast -- Madam Pomfrey probably only needed a couple of minutes to heal his hand -- but there was no chance he could get away. Draco was showing off his own prefect's badge and making sure that everyone knew that Harry had one as well. The moment that was finished, it was time to sit down.

"Seventh year prefects with the seventh-years, of course," announced Draco when Harry started for the end of the table nearest the teachers. "The first-years sit there, Harry."

"I thought they might like someone to welcome them into Slytherin, chat them up a bit--"

"You know we're going to do that once we're all in the common room." When Harry hesitated, Draco rolled his eyes. "Show some respect for Slytherin traditions, would you?"

By then, Harry had noticed that Snape was watching them, so he gave in without further argument and took a seat between Crabbe and Goyle. It was the only place left, really, but it was a pretty bad choice since it meant he was facing Blaise Zabini.

Zabini, not too surprisingly, was a horse's arse, making snide comments about how expulsion should permanently disqualify a student from prefect status. After that, he started in on Harry.

"Bit surprised you'd accept that badge, Potter."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You're taking Parkinson's place."

"I'm sorry she's dead," said Harry levelly. "But she was plotting with Nott to get my brother killed, so I'm hardly likely to get sentimental about her prefect's slot."

Zabini's laugh was an ugly sound. "So it's true: Gryffindors are as dense as the castle walls. You're in the girl slot, Potter. Does that clear it up for you?"

Draco folded his hands together and leaned slightly back in his chair. "Such a shame when Slytherins know so little about the history of the house," he said calmly. "It's become somewhat of a pattern to have one male and one female prefect in each year, fifth year onward, of course, but it's hardly written in stone. Anthony Digglesworth and Stanley Stoveblack were prefects together from their fifth year on, just twenty years ago. Not quite ten years ago, Nora Spelunker and Heidi Heidelburger did the same. I can cite a wealth of other examples if you're too slow to have got the point, Zabini. Or perhaps you need Professor Snape to speak with you about the matter."

Zabini didn't say anything to that, but what was there to say? Everybody in the vicinity knew about his ten thousand lines. It only stood to reason that he'd be cautious after that.

As Zabini started talking across the table at Crabbe, Harry turned to Goyle. "So I heard that those exercises of Hermione's were really helpful this summer."

"Who?"

Harry stared. "Hermione."

"Granger," corrected Draco.

"Oh, her." Goyle looked like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands, considering there was nothing to eat yet. "Yeah."

Yeah? Harry tried again. "You sent her a book to thank her, she told us."

Goyle shrugged, clearly defensive. "Well, she likes to read, doesn't she?"

"She does," said Draco. "And that was a good choice of book for her, Greg. She learned all sorts of old-fashioned spells from it."

"So it was all right?" Goyle worried his lower lip with his teeth. "She's a Gryffindor--"

"Well, the Sorting Hat keeps telling us we have to get along with the other houses. I'm doing my part by putting up with Harry. See?"

Harry stuck out his tongue, only to have Draco narrow his eyes in a glare that was all too real. "Decorum, Harry. You're representing Slytherin now, not that rabble at the other table."

If the food had been served, Harry would have thrown some at him, decorum or no. Or maybe not, since even thinking about it made his hand ache worse.

"You work with Hermione all you like," Draco said to Goyle, ignoring Zabini's snort. "She's a good sort. Helped me over the summer, too."

"Oh yeah? How'd she help you?" snarled Zabini, turning away from Crabbe. He'd probably been eavesdropping the entire time.

Uh-oh . . . Draco was quick, though. He answered the question without reference to Rhiannon. "She gave me a head start toward catching up in Muggle Studies. I'm joining the N.E.W.T. class, you see."

"Muggle Studies!"

"Of course," said Draco placidly. "I want to be an Auror. What better way to demonstrate that I've grown past the immature us-versus-them mentality that I was unfortunately raised to believe?"

"You've lost your fucking mind," said Zabini viciously. "You're a pureblooded wizard, not one of these--"

"I'm not going to argue with someone whose best shot at me last year was Malshite," mocked Draco.

Zabini opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he was going to say was cut short by the Sorting Hat, which began another one of its sing-song chants about togetherness and brotherhood. Harry didn't even bother trying to listen. He'd heard it all before, and besides, his hand was hurting like the very devil by then. For a while there he'd started to think he'd fractured a knuckle, but now the pain was radiating through what felt like all the bones in his hand.

"Allenhamper, Nella!" called Professor McGonagall.

"Slytherin!"

A loud cry went up, the sound resonating along the entire length of the table.

The sound brought Harry out of his haze.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he studied the slight red-haired girl who approached the table and timidly took a seat at the very end. "Looks like a scrawny Weasley."

Harry carefully laid his injured hand on his knee under the table and tried to hold it perfectly still. That was easier contemplated than done, though. Harry ended up using his other hand to brace his right elbow. "It looks as though Larissa's taking Nella in hand," he said, trying to distract himself. It was true, though. The little second-year who had been so interested in Sals was waving for the newest Slytherin to move over and sit by her. After a moment of indecision, Nella slid down the bench.

As the Sorting Hat called out "Ravenclaw!" for a little boy who looked closer to nine than eleven, Draco leaned forward over the table, his grey eyes piercing. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," said Harry, trying not to wince. Now it didn't even matter if he held his hand still. It was throbbing no matter what he did.

Draco lowered his voice. "You look like your arms might be . . . itchy."

Hiding them under the table evidently had some drawbacks. "It's not that," said Harry, giving up on secrecy. "I'm trying to hold still. I . . . uh, I think I might have cracked a bone in my hand."

"You're joking-- oh, you're not." Draco looked down the length of the table. "Back in a moment."

It was no longer than that until he returned. "I've told Jeffries and Zimmery to take over for us. Come with me."

Harry recognised the names of the Slytherin sixth-year prefects from the meeting earlier in the train. "Come with you where?"

"Infirmary," snapped Draco.

"Madam Pomfrey might not even be there," said Harry, peering toward the head table. "Isn't she at the feast?"

"Then we'll ring the bell to summon her." Draco sighed. "Didn't McGonagall explain all this when you were a first year?"

Harry shook his head. Not for the first time, he wondered how different Hogwarts would seem to him if he'd had Snape as Head of House all along. Of course, Snape had hated him back then. Strange to think of that now . . . but on balance, he'd been better off in Gryffindor, even if McGonagall had a different style of dealing with her house.

"I'll just nip up to the head table to let Severus know where we're going."

"We'll be there and back before he misses us," argued Harry. "Let's just go."

Draco thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. "All right."

There was a bell, just as Draco had said. Almost as soon as Draco reached up to ring it, the Floo flared to life and Madam Pomfrey stepped out, her pinafore and apron as starched and stiff as ever. Harry had resented her bossiness the year before, but now that he was in such pain, she was a welcome sight.

He held out his injured hand, which was beginning to swell by then. "Thanks for coming so quickly. I've hurt my hand."

"Sit here," she said, indicating the bed nearest her office. She used a spell to levitate his hand. It felt like it was resting on a cushion of soft, velvety air. Harry sighed with relief.

"How did this happen?" she asked as she waved her wand three times over his hand, coming closer to the skin each time.

"Uh . . ."

"You don't need to know that," said Draco quickly. He'd come to stand near Harry.

"I didn't know you'd qualified as a medi-wizard," said Pomfrey. "Where did you train? Nowhere? Then kindly allow me to continue my examination. Now, Potter, how did this happen?"

"I hit someone, all right?"

The medi-witch made a tsking sound under her breath. "Fisticuffs, Potter? You shouldn't get caught up in such shenanigans. After everything that happened last year, you're delicate, and--"

"I am not!"

"You should have seen the other bloke," added Draco.

"Oh, hush, both of you," snapped Pomfrey. "This will sting a bit."

It did, but that only lasted a second. When she was through, the pain in his hand had vanished. He flexed his fingers and wrist. "Feels a bit stiff--"

"You'd fractured two knuckles and strained the tendons in your wrist. Of course it feels a bit stiff!" Pomfrey shook a finger at him. "Use it normally, but I'd advise you to avoid acting the hooligan in future!"

"Yes, ma'am," muttered Harry. Then, realising how ungrateful that had sounded, he cleared his throat. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. It feels much better now."

"I should think so. Your father will have to be informed, of course--"

"That's not necessary--"

"Indeed, it is not," said a deep voice from the doorway. Harry didn't need to turn to know who was there, but he turned anyway and saw Snape striding forward into the hospital wing. Great.

"But the boy was in a fight, Severus!"

"I've been aware of that for hours."

Harry swallowed, wondering what his father meant. "It wasn't anything very important," he rushed to say. "I ended up with a bit of a sore hand, that's all."

Severus flicked his gaze sideways.

"All healed," said Pomfrey. "The details will be added to his student file, if you have any questions."

Severus nodded. "That's in order, then. We'll return to the Welcoming Feast. Thank you, Poppy."

That was it? No lecture? Harry hopped off the bed and followed his father and brother out into the hall. "How did you know where to find us, Severus?" asked Draco.

Harry thought of the scrying glass Snape had used while on board the train, but quickly discounted that idea. The castle was supposed to have protections against things like that; Snape hadn't even known how the Marauder's Map could monitor what went on inside the castle walls.

"I noticed my sons leaving unexpectedly, and Poppy Pomfrey five minutes later, just the amount of time needed to walk to the hospital wing. I'm capable of simple deduction."

"What did you mean, that you already knew about Harry's fight?" asked Draco.

Harry could have clouted him for that. Hard.

"I'd hardly call a single punch a fight. An unprovoked punch, at that. I must say, I'm surprised at you, Harry."

"Sorry," muttered Harry. "But he . . . never mind." What was he going to say, that Piers had made a pass at him? That excuse sounded stupid even to him. "How do you know so much?" he asked, exasperated.

"Haven't you heard the old adage that fathers have eyes in the back of their heads? It's quite true."

"Dad--"

"Kingsley mentioned the incident. He was in disguise in the station, looking out for signs of trouble. We never expected those signs to come from you, Harry."

"Sorry," said Harry again, feeling even more miserable than before. He didn't like the feeling that he'd let people down.

"Kingsley took care of Mr Polkiss before the Muggle authorities could become involved," added Snape. "Harry, I'll expect you in my office directly after classes tomorrow. We need to talk."

"Yes, sir. Er . . . Dad."

Snape looked like he might say more, but they were at the open doors of the Great Hall by then.

" . . . where she has concentrated on developing means of communications among various types of magical creatures," Dumbledore's voice boomed out. "We are very pleased to welcome Professor Morrighan to Hogwarts!"

Applause erupted throughout the hall, interspersed with wolf-whistles.

All at once, the headmaster swept his wand over his head. "Professor Morrighan will be accorded all the respect she is due!" he roared.

A choking noise echoed through the hall as several young men lifted their hands to their mouths, bubbles oozing out from between their fingers.

"Bocalavare," said Draco gleefully. "Look! Zabini got hit!"

Ron was in the same state, Harry noticed as he made his way to his seat. Hermione -- along with a good number of other girls -- had been sitting with her arms crossed, but now she was looking satisfied.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, but I can shift for myself," said Maura Morrighan, her Irish accent making the words sound musical. Lifting her own wand, which looked more like a branch, since it was covered in moss and sprouting leaves in several places, she cancelled the spell. The fringe on her sleeve swayed as she waved her wand.

"She really is beautiful," said Draco, sighing.

"Eh," said Harry. What did things like that matter? He was too worried about the coming "talk" with Snape to care about Maura Morrighan. All that mattered was whether she could teach Defence. All in all, it struck him as unlikely. She didn't even use a proper wand!

As Harry and Draco sat down, Snape swept past them, continuing up to the head table. Huh. Harry hadn't thought about it before, but he was sitting alongside the new teacher. Since he hadn't sat next to Aran the year before, Harry didn't know what to make of it.

Dumbledore gave the usual warnings about the Dark Forest and the dangers of trying to feed centaurs, and then clapped his hands for the feast to begin. Food bloomed all over the tables. Roast chicken, heaps of mashed potatoes with gravy, and at least twelve different kinds of rolls.

As Harry started to help himself, Stephanie Zimmery appeared at Draco's side. She stood at attention to report, "Ten new students were sorted into Slytherin. I've recorded their names for you."

She passed over a parchment and returned to her seat.

Draco glanced at the list. "No names I really recognise, except that I think the Notts might have had some cousins named Leighton. We've got an Amanda Leighton on the list."

"Another Nott," said Harry heavily. "Wonderful."

"Well, she's just eleven," said Draco, tucking the parchment away in a cloak pocket as soon as Harry had had a good look. "I'm not even certain that she's related to Theodore." He turned his attention to Zabini. "So, what did we miss?"

"Where did you go?" returned Zabini, very coolly.

"I needed the loo," said Harry. "Couldn't wait."

"And you needed company?" Zabini guffawed.

Well, that was proof that he wasn't as observant as Snape. Which was a good thing, so for once Harry didn't mind saying, "I'm not supposed to wander the halls alone. Not with Voldemort out for my blood."

He was rather pleased to see Zabini flinching at the name.

"His own house isn't turning on him this year," added Draco. "That was absolutely disgraceful."

"Even for Slytherins," added Harry.

Oops. Not the best way to put things. Harry knew that even before Draco narrowed his eyes in a glare.

But then the other boy turned his attention back to Zabini. "Tell us what we missed. I'm not just asking you, Blaise. I'm telling you as a Slytherin prefect."

Surprisingly enough, that worked. Draco definitely knew how to manage his housemates. Harry reminded himself to pay better attention to his methods.

Though perhaps that technique from Harry Potter would be less than effective.

"Morrighan's apparently some sort of polymath," said Zabini.

"Her best subject is maths?" Harry gulped.

"That means she's an expert in several different fields," said Draco impatiently. "Which ones, then?"

"Well, for starters, she's a fully qualified Auror. Five years in the field, too."

Oh. That certainly sounded promising.

"When the Dark Lord fell when we were children, though, she left the Ministry and sort of drifted from one thing to another."

Perhaps not so promising, after all.

"Dumbledore claimed that she could teach Charms, Potions, or Arithmancy just as readily as Defence," continued Zabini. "But in the last few years she's been running a magical creature preserve in Ireland. Working on interspecies languages, it sounded like."

"So perhaps she's as competent and skilled as she is . . . ooh, la, la."

"That's what got me in trouble," said Zabini wryly. "I'd watch it if I were you."

Harry could hardly believe his ears; it sounded like Draco and Zabini were on good terms again, just like that. It was probably all a front, each boy playing the scene for his own advantage, but only one thing was certain: Harry really, really didn't understand Slytherins.

The full-house meeting consisted of the Slytherins standing in neat ranks, first-years in front, while Snape went over the rules and expectations for the house. All the prefects were introduced, even the ones who had served the year before, but of course, the new students wouldn’t know them.

To Harry's surprise, the house cheered for all their prefects, even him.

To his even greater surprise, they booed and hissed when Snape announced that Ernie and Padma were Head Girl and Boy. Actually, that wasn't so surprising, but the fact that Snape didn't reprimand them was.

"The password to your common room is to be held in strictest confidence," said Snape finally. "Woe betide the Slytherin who shares it with a student from another house. I do not tolerate insubordination."

All of the first-years widened their eyes, looking terrified; even Zabini shuddered slightly.

To Harry's utter shock, Snape crouched down on one knee and beckoned the youngest students closer. "But Slytherin is more than a list of requirements, as you will soon learn. We are a brotherhood, and you will find many here who will help you settle into classes and the castle's social life. When you have a question or concern, you should bring it to an older Slytherin. If you feel you need an adult, I am at your disposal. Tonight we will begin your orientation to Hogwarts. One of the prefects will meet with you to discuss the school schedule and other basic information so that when you begin classes tomorrow, you will not wander the halls in confusion."

He began calling out assignments; Harry was paired with Amanda Leighton.

With that, Snape sat down in the chair he usually used when in the common room, and crossed one leg over the other.

After a brief moment, the students broke ranks. Most headed for their rooms, but a few wandered over to speak with their Head of House.

The first-years milled about, looking like they didn't know quite what to do. Harry could sympathise with that; he remembered his first days at Hogwarts, when everything had been so new and strange.

He began to make his way over to the first-years, but before he could reach them, Larissa was tugging on his sleeve. "Harry!"

"Hallo--"

"Where's Sals? Where's Sals?"

"Up in my room, I think." Harry shrugged. "She wanders a bit, you know that. Oh-- did you know that Draco got a ferret for his birthday? Maybe he'll let you play with Loki if you ask nice."

"Drakey has a ferret?" Larissa's eyes shone, but only for a moment. "Snakes are better, though."

Harry had to laugh. Draco hated being called "Drakey." It made him want to encourage Larissa in the habit. "I have to talk with my first-year," he said. "I'll see you later."

"Will you be around the common room more this year?" asked Larissa, clearly hopeful.

"Yes," said Harry firmly.

"Sals too?"

"Sals too."

Amanda Leighton found Harry rather than the other way around. "You're Harry Potter," she said, thrusting out a small hand. "Mandy Leighton."

She looked impossibly young. Harry searched her face for any trace of resemblance to Nott, but didn't find any. As he shook her hand, he wondered how he could politely inquire about her relations. Are you cousins with the creep who tried to hand me over to Voldemort? seemed like a poor way to begin, considering that in his role as prefect, he was supposed to be making her feel welcome in Slytherin.

"I've read about you," said Amanda as Harry led her over to a vacant corner of the common room. He had a list of things to cover with her, but hoped he wouldn't need to look at it too often. He'd rather look like he knew what he was about.

"In the Prophet?"

Amanda shook her head. "That's boring. You were in my Wee Wizarding Wonders book."

Oh. "You're a pureblood, then?"

Once, he would have thought that a stupid question, but now he knew that there actually were some Muggleborns and such in Slytherin.

"Half-blood," she corrected. "Like you."

So maybe she wouldn't be out to kill him, even if she turned out to be related to Nott.

"My real dad died when I was little, though," she went on. "He was a Muggleborn. Then my mum married Nicholas Leighton and he adopted me."

So she wasn't related to Nott by blood, regardless. Harry knew he shouldn't feel better about that, but he did.

"Like me."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought your mum and dad both died when you were little."

"I meant the part about being adopted. Though I didn't change my name."

Amanda lowered her voice. "Snape is an ugly-sounding name, though."

Harry could remember a time when he would have agreed with her. "Is not."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Is everything going well, Mr Potter?"

Harry glanced up at his father, who had begun circulating the room, checking on the prefects' progress with their charges. The name threw him for a moment, but then he decided that Snape was dealing with him on a prefect-rather-than-son basis.

"Yes, Professor Snape," he answered dutifully. "This is Amanda Leighton. She's been telling me a bit about her background."

"Mandy, I told you," the little girl said, looking exasperated.

"A pleasure, Miss Leighton," said Snape, holding out his hand. "Welcome to Slytherin."

She shook it a little timidly, but then, Snape cut an imposing figure, towering over the first-years in his billowing black robes.

"See to it that you cover all particulars, Mr Potter," admonished Snape before moving toward another part of the common room.

"I already know the timetable and where the different classes are. In theory, at least. Theo used to tell me all about Hogwarts."

Harry managed not to visibly gulp. "Those Leightons, eh?"

"My step-father is cousins with Theo's father. I used to see him at Christmas and several times a summer, but . . . not this summer, of course."

Because Nott was in Azkaban. Harry did gulp, then. "Were you close?"

Amanda shrugged. "I don't know. He was six years older than me and liked to brag. I'm sorry he tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord. My step-father was really upset about it."

"He wasn't a Slytherin?"

Amanda's mouth twisted like she didn't understand the question. "No, he was. That's the point."

So it would have been all right to hand Harry over if Harry was in Gryffindor alone? Was that what she meant?

"And I told you, you were in my books when I was little. Giving you to the Dark Lord would be like handing over Hercules!"

"I'm not Hercules," said Harry, trying not to think about his dark powers. "And you should try to call him Voldemort."

"He shouldn't be after you now that you're a Slytherin," said Amanda, acting like she hadn't heard what Harry had just said.

"Why don't you tell me about the classes first-years take and where you expect to find them," suggested Harry, since he seemed to be getting nowhere in the other conversation. "And what you know about the teachers. Don't worry. I won't repeat anything you say to Professor Snape."

Amanda tilted her head to one side and looked at Harry curiously. "He adopted you. Are you always so formal with him?"

"In class or while doing prefect duties, I am." Harry smiled. "Otherwise, not so much."

"Oh. All right." Amanda started listing classes, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions . . . "

Harry's first night in Slytherin went about as well as could be expected. Zabini gave a long-suffering sigh when he saw Harry's trunk in the seventh-years' dormitory -- though actually it was Snape's old school chest. Now that he was sharing a room with Slytherins, Harry thought that the extra warding might prove useful.

Zabini was ridiculous enough to complain about the "extra bed" even though with Nott gone, the room held the usual number.

Then he started in on the new furniture that Draco had owl-ordered for all the seventh-years.

"A pity prefects don't get private rooms," said Draco.

Goyle, Harry found out, had an annoying habit of bouncing on his bed. Draco just shrugged. "Reinforced," he mouthed to Harry.

"Physically or magically?" Harry mouthed back.

"Both."

"What are you two saying about me over there?"

Draco flashed Zabini a wicked smile. "Just prefects' business, Blaise. You wouldn't understand."

The face Zabini made lasted only an instant, but that was long enough for Harry to understand. Of course . . . with Draco having been expelled, Nott in Azkaban, and Crabbe and Goyle obvious non-starters, Zabini had expected to become a prefect, himself.

Even after Snape had assigned him ten thousand lines?

Hope springs eternal, Harry told himself.

"She's not a Weasley, by the way," said Draco out of the blue as he stretched a bit, yawning. "Nella Allenhamper. I had her and David Hanson."

"Dad gave you two?"

Draco's fingers were sure as he unfastened his tie. "I've done it twice before, Harry. Of course he gave me two. How did you get on with the Leighton girl?"

Mindful of Zabini listening in, Harry ignored the question. "Let's go and find Sals and Loki."

Once they were on the far side of the common room -- largely empty at this late hour -- Harry told him in a quiet voice. "She is related to Nott. Sort of a step-cousin, but still. She said she'd missed seeing him this summer."

Draco tensed, but asked, "Well, what can a first-year really do?"

"I don't know that she wants to do anything," added Harry. "She . . . I don't know. She didn't bat her eyes at me like Ginny used to, but she was kind of . . . I don't know."

"You have an ickle fan, you mean?"

"Well, she did talk about how I was in her books when she was little."

"Perils of being Harry Potter. Just don't forget that she might be a Nott at heart. Now, where the deuce is Loki?"

"At least I might know where to look for Sals." Harry hesitated. "Er . . . can boys here go into the girls' rooms?"

"Best if we don't. We'll get a lecture on decorum--" Draco broke off to stride toward a group of girls giggling as they came down the stairs into the common room. "I need one of you to go and fetch Kent."

"Kent?" asked Harry.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Larissa Kent. You're a fine one to lecture me about not knowing my housemates' names."

"You didn't know it last year."

"Let's just say that I'm taking my prefects' duties more seriously this time around."

Harry could understand that. There was a lot of difference between being given responsibility because your Head of House was pretending to toady to your father, and because your real father was trusting you to handle it well.

Larissa came skipping down the stairs, taking them two at a time, though she had one hand clutched to her neck to cradle Sals, who was wrapped there and looked to be asleep.

Draco shuddered. For all he'd got over his phobia about snakes, he was never going to be fond of them. The image of one looped about a little girl's neck was a sight that clearly, he could do without.

"Larissa," said Harry, leaning down to ease Sals off her, "I know you want a snake of your own, but it's really not right for you to take mine off to your room."

She started blinking rapidly, looking like she was about to burst into tears. "But Sals was so lonely, and besides, that big bad ferret looked about to eat her, and--"

Draco tensed and took a step closer to Larissa. "What did you do to Loki?"

"Nothing . . . well, nothing much . . ."

"What, Larissa?" asked Draco in a dangerously quiet tone.

The second-year retreated until her back was against a wall. "I couldn't let Sals get bit in half!"

"Just tell us what you did with Draco's ferret," said Harry.

"I . . . I trapped her in a box--"

"Him," snapped Draco. "And where's this box, eh?"

"In-- in--" Larissa winced. "In the corridor, just a few feet from the common room door. I was going to let her . . . er, him, out in the morning, Drakey, I swear--"

Draco ignored her completely, returning in a few moments with a white ferret cradled in his arms. He looked to be cooing to it as he came back, but stopped the moment he was within range of Larissa. "I should take a hundred points, you snot-nosed little prat. What if Filch had found him? Loki would have been thrown out of the castle to fend for himself in the Dark Forest!"

"Oh, he'd have found Hagrid's hut first, I'm sure--"

Draco glared. "That's even worse, Harry." He returned his attention to Larissa, who was gnawing on her lower lip by then. "Don't you dare lay a finger on my ferret, ever again."

Just like that, Larissa burst into tears.

"What? What?" asked Draco impatiently.

"H-- h-- he was going to eat S-- S-- Sals!"

"No, he wasn't," said Harry.

"He was, he was, he was!" Larissa started gulping as she cried, clearly inconsolable.

Harry didn’t know what to do, but ignoring her misery seemed cruel, so he pulled her over to a nearby chair. It was really too small for two, but he managed to wedge the little girl in beside him. "Loki's pretty used to Sals by now, honest. They've learnt to get along, and you know, if Sals was really scared, she does know how to slither into cracks, or get to her charmed box where she's safe. I'll even ask her, all right?"

One Parseltongue exchange later, and Larissa was fascinated instead of wracked with tears, though her face was still splotchy and damp.

"She says that Loki was just looking at her, Larissa."

"Looking at her funny--"

"Leave my ferret alone," said Draco sternly, though he was using one hand to stroke Loki's back, slowly and gently. "And don't call me Drakey."

Larissa nodded and got up off Harry's lap. How she'd got there to begin with, Harry wasn't quite sure. She'd been awful squirmy while he was hissing at Sals . . . probably trying to get closer to the conversation.

"Apparently you have two ickle fans," said Draco dryly once Larissa had gone bounding up the stairs again, all her upset forgotten. "But you'd be wise not to let her play you like that again. Those were thestral's tears if ever I've seen them."

"Thestral's tears?"

"Well, thestrals don't cry, do they?" Draco sighed. "Why is it that Hogwarts has added that ethics class to the curriculum, but the idea of Wizard Studies got left behind? You ought to know that phrase by now."

The comment was an echo of a lot of things Draco had said before, but this time, it wasn't offered snidely. "I didn't read things like Wee Wizarding Wonders when I was growing up."

Draco chuckled. "Don't read that one now, either. It's full of lies about you. How you were born in a moonlit grove with a herd of unicorns looking on, that sort of thing. Almost like this Muggle mythos I've been studying, the immaculate conception."

"No, my parents definitely had sex," said Harry, grimacing as he remembered how a younger version of Severus had talked about James Potter and Lily Evans sneaking off together to . . . ugh. Rut.

"And there I thought you were pure of soul." Draco made a face. "About parents, though. I know what you mean. Best not to think about it."

"That explains why you keep trying to arrange something for Dad!"

"Oh, that?" Draco shrugged. "That's different."

"How is it different?"

"It just is." Draco lifted his shoulders. "We should be getting to bed. First day of classes, tomorrow."

Harry looked around the deserted common room and suddenly realised how quiet everything was. "But . . . doesn't Slytherin go a bit wild? First night back in the castle?"

"We save it for the weekend. We're ambitious, you see. It's for Gryffindors to throw caution to the winds and go without sleep when they should be resting up so they can impress their instructors."

There might not be much of a party tonight in Gryffindor, though, thought Harry as he followed Draco up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. Not when just a month ago, so many had been killed in the destruction of the Ministry. A lot of students probably had relatives who'd been working late that night.

Like Ron.

Instead of passing out timetables in the Great Hall after breakfast, Snape had the prefects distribute them in the privacy of the common room, so any confusion or complaints could be dealt with out of the public eye. Slytherin, Harry was learning, had a reputation to maintain.

Zabini was predictably boorish about the contents of his card. "Ethics," he read, staring at his timetable like wishing alone could change it. "What's this rot?"

"New required class for all seventh-years," breezed Draco, clearly loving being in the know. "Professor Snape will be teaching it."

"Professor Snape teaching ethics, really!"

Draco's tone went dark. "Are you saying he doesn't have any? Because belittling your Head of House right in front of a prefect is a poor way to begin the term, Zabini."

"I . . . I just meant that his real expertise is Potions."

"Did you, now? He did rather well with Defence last year, I thought," said Draco crisply. Looking over the milling students, Draco raised his voice slightly. "Ready, then? Neat ranks, first-years in front and so forth. And mind, don't run like children when you enter the Great Hall. You're Slytherins!"

"They're Slytherin children," said Harry under his breath as he and Draco took up their positions at the end of the line streaming out the common room door.

"And I'm the head Slytherin prefect--"

"Who said that?"

"I thought I just did. Weren't you listening?" Draco lightly touched Harry on the hand. "Don't get in a froth over it. You don't know the traditions of the house. It really does fall to me."

"Yeah, well--" Harry knew that his brother was right, so he busied himself looking over his timetable. In the rush of passing them out, he'd barely glanced at his own. Hmm. Ethics was Tuesdays and Thursdays directly after Transfiguration, which followed lunch. It seemed like a lot of time for ethics, but at least the sessions were only an hour each.

He wasn't sure what to think about Defence Against the Dark Arts. Three double sessions every week would be all right if they had a professor worth her salt, but with Maura Morrighan, the leather-wearing shepherdess, there was no telling.

Well, he'd find out soon; his first Defence class was directly after breakfast.

He also had three double sessions of Potions each week, which was a lot more than last year. At least he didn't dread spending time with Snape any longer, but six hours a week devoted to Potions? Any normal person would be depressed!

Draco, he thought as they entered the Hall, was far from normal. "Finally. A decent allotment for Potions."

"N.E.W.T. year, I suppose."

"I think it also has to do with combining the sixth and seventh years of the course. It's our N.E.W.T. year in everything else and the schedule isn't so intense. Except for Defence. But I can hardly complain about hours and hours in such luscious company--"

Harry certainly could. If she didn't know anything useful, he was going to complain, loud and long. He was through putting up with Defence teachers who were utterly useless when it came to teaching the real skills that he was going to need to keep him alive.

"Oh, Harry, let me see your timetable," said Hermione, waylaying him on his way to the Slytherin table. "Let's see . . . Potions together, and Defence, and Transfigurations, and of course Ethics . . . shame about Charms, though. And I've got Arithmancy instead of Magical Creatures--"

"I've got Arithmancy instead of Magical Creatures and I'm taking Muggle Studies, of course," drawled Draco. "And good morning to you as well, Hermione."

She pinked a little, but rallied soon enough. "Well, I learned my lesson a while back about trying to do it all. Let me see your timetable, then?" It only took her a moment to scan it. "You've got more classes with Harry than I do!"

"Of course. He's a Slytherin."

"He's also a Gryffindor--"

"You got him for six straight years in all the Gryffindor sections and you begrudge me one?"

"Hey, no need to fight over me," said Harry, though he was secretly flattered that they would.

"Just be grateful there are so many Slytherin-Gryffindor paired classes," said Draco to Hermione.

Harry laughed. It was so good to be back at school. Properly back, with everybody around. "Imagine that, Hermione. Being grateful to be grouped with Slytherin."

"Quite an odd feeling, yes." Hermione was smiling as she said it. A moment later, though, her eyebrows drew together. "There she is, flaunting herself again. What is that woman's problem?"

Harry glanced at the head table and saw Maura Morrighan sliding into the seat next to Severus. "I suppose we'll find out soon," he said, since Draco was looking a little glassy-eyed as he stared at her. "See you in Defence, first thing."

The Defence classroom was stripped of the tapestries and such that Aran had hung on the walls. It was mostly bare of ornamentation now, though Harry did spot a St. Brigid's cross hanging over one window, and what looked like pine boughs resting on the railing of the stairs leading to Morrighan's private office.

The professor herself was nowhere to be seen.

"Perhaps she's changing into her robes," said Hermione in a catty tone. "Otherwise how will Ron and Draco pay attention to a word she says?"

"I don't see how judging by clothing is so acceptable when judging by blood isn't." Draco shot back.

"She has a choice in how she's dressed, that's how--"

Harry kept them from arguing further by sitting down at the nearest desk and patting the chair next to him.

To his amusement, Draco and Hermione both tried to take it.

Draco was a gentleman, though, and conceded before it came to actual shoving. He found a place two rows closer to the front, which probably suited him more in any case. Better viewing angle.

Harry almost snickered.

Ron was nearly late, but then he never had liked to leave breakfast on time. He slid into a seat in the very back, just a few seconds before the door at the top of the stairs opened and Maura Morrighan emerged.

She said nothing for a few seconds, but just looked out at the assembled students.

"I swear she's wearing contact lenses," said Hermione in an almost inaudible whisper. "Or a spell. Nobody's eyes glow that much on their own."

Harry hadn't noticed her eyes until then. They were a warm brown, but why did people care so bloody much? Could she teach her subject? That was the only question in his mind.

Though he was still a bit worried about the "talk" he had to have with his father.

"Welcome to seventh-year Defence Against the Dark Arts," said Morrighan in her lilting Irish accent. "As you all know, I am Professor Morrighan, and--"

"If we all know it, why did she say so?"

"Shh," said Harry, nudging Hermione under the desk.

It felt strange for him to be the one telling her to shut up during a lecture.

" . . . this is a pivotal year in your studies, and not merely because you will be taking N.E.W.T. examinations this spring. With the Ministry so recently destroyed and still in the process of being rebuilt, there can be no doubt that troubled times lie ahead. What you learn here will not simply make the difference in your choice of career. It might quite literally save your life not too many days hence. As such, we have no time to waste."

Harry nodded. So far he was in full agreement with every word she'd said.

Hermione looked like she was, as well. Biting back a sigh, she dug in the bag at her feet and drew out the assigned textbook. Several other students, including Draco, were doing the same. Harry hurriedly followed suit.

He was still fishing for his book when the professor's voice interrupted him. "What is this?" she asked, plucking Hermione's book from the desktop.

Hermione, for once, looked like she didn't know how to answer a teacher's question. But then, it was a very odd question. "It's the Defence text, Professor Morrighan."

"Oh, no, no," she said, shaking her hand. "No, absolutely not."

"But it's the one on the supplies list," protested Hermione, grabbing a slip of parchment and two more books from her bag. "Along with these ones. See? Here are the instructions seventh-years were sent."

She all but thrust them in Morrighan's face.

The professor glanced once at the parchment, her brown eyes scathing. "Three books, is it?" Looking up at the other students, she spoke in a firm, no-arguments tone. "Put them away, all of them. You're quite free to read them as you wish on your own time, but my personal philosophy is that Defence is not something one learns from books. We'll be doing practical work in here, each session, and your homework in every case will be to master the skills I've taught. Nobody ever bested a dark wizard by quoting him a passage from literature, Miss . . ."

"Granger," said Hermione tightly.

More than tightly; she looked like she might burst a blood vessel, any instant.

Professor Morrighan crossed her arms over her chest, the fringe on her sleeves swaying as she moved. "Well, Miss Granger? Put those books away."

Hermione did, though she asked, "Why did you put them on the textbook list if you had no intention of using them?"

"I should think the answer to that is obvious. I didn't."

Hermione looked like she had more to say on that topic, but Morrighan had turned away to call on Dean, whose hand was in the air. "Yes, Mr . . ."

"Thomas. About the homework you mentioned. Did you mean there'll be no essays assigned? No three feet on this, two feet on that?"

"Of course not. No essays whatsoever, and no assigned readings. Defence is something we do, ladies and gentlemen, not something we study. Not if we wish to stay alive."

A whoop went up in the classroom. From half the students, anyway. The male half. The girls were still too upset by the effect Morrighan had on the boys to celebrate anything she said.

Harry sure felt like celebrating, though. "She's the anti-Umbridge," he whispered gleefully to Hermione once Morrighan was out of earshot. "Nothing but practicals!"

Hermione just scowled.

"Wands out, then," announced Morrighan. "That's the first rule in my classroom. Wands out at all times. When you know more, I'll be attacking you without warning. Structured duels are fine learning exercises but you must be ready for the real world out there. A world at war, and my job here is to make sure you don't forget it."

"Brilliant!" said Harry under his breath.

"You can pick up a lot of useful spells from books, Harry--"

"And we've been doing it for years, Hermione--"

"Stand up and assemble along the walls," instructed Morrighan. She gave them only a few seconds to move, and then her strange, leaf-ridden wand flashed through the air.

Instantly, every desk and chair in the room was transformed into a green crablike creature with huge serrated pincers.

Students who hadn't been fast enough to follow her directions scrambled away from the animals, which moved so quickly that the floor almost seemed to be alive with them.

"Well?" asked Morrighan, hopping up onto the railing on the stairs behind her. Pine needles showered down. She crossed her legs, looking perfectly at ease as she perched there. "Are you simply going to stand there goggle-eyed? The Norse Pinching Crab may not look like much, but it can do you a world of harm if you let it."

May not look like much? Harry thought they looked vicious. And hungry.

"Finite Incantatem," called Parvati, but nothing happened.

"Impedimenta!" tried Hermione.

The crabs didn't even slow.

"Either they're magical creatures somehow resistant to our spellwork, or she created them to ignore student spells--"

"Arresto Momentum!" tried Harry, careful to keep the magic wandless. He wasn't about to reveal his powers before the Order was ready.

His spell, like all the others -- dozens of others he could hear students yelling out -- proved useless.

"Gigt," said Draco in a calm, clear voice.

The crabs did slow then, beginning to move in almost a creaking fashion, like they were in pain.

All the other students stopped their frantic casting and looked over at Draco, who murmured something else, waving his wand in little loops as he peered closely at the air in front of him.

Then his pointed his wand at the crabs again. "Fangelsi," he ordered, this time with more force.

A wire mesh cage sprang up, trapping all the crabs inside it except for a stray few. Morrighan went to pick them up and stroked them gently before setting them on top of the cage.

"Well done. Well done indeed," she said to Draco, smiling in a way that made the boys in the class stare. Of course, it made the girls seethe. "Would you care to explain to the class how you solved the problem?"

Draco kept his wand at the ready as he spoke, though Harry doubted that Morrighan was going to attack him on the first day of term. "The professor mentioned that the crabs were Norse in origin. I thought perhaps that was a clue. They didn't respond to Latin, so I wondered if she'd transfigured them to react only to native magic. While the rest of you were banging away at them with spells that bounced off, I was trying to cast in Old Norse."

"And you speak old Norse, of course," said Ron, narrowing his gaze. "Then what took you so long?"

"Did you hear the word trying, Weasley? My translation charm couldn't handle Norse, so then I tried modern Icelandic, and even then, precious few spells produced any translation at all. I finally got something in reply to a Jelly-Legs Jinx, though."

"Basic translation charms are very limited and are notoriously difficult to combine with wandwork. You did well to find one spell that worked, let alone two," said Morrighan. "Gigt is Icelandic for gout, by the way. And your second spell?"

"Incarcerous."

"That one was closer, as fangelsi refers to a prison."

Parvati raised her hand. "Why don't the crabs snap at you, Professor?"

"Because I created them not to, of course. Now, who can tell me what you learned from this exercise?"

"Know a translation charm," called out Zabini.

"Study in advance so you know one," said Hermione pertly.

"Avoid the seashore!"

Harry didn't know who had said that last bit, but it made Morrighan narrow her gaze. "Those are but details particular to this one situation. What did you really learn?"

"Keep track of what your enemy reveals," said Harry quietly. "He . . . or she . . . might use magic you don't know how to counter, but if you pay close attention, there might be a clue you can exploit to your advantage."

"Yes, exactly. Very good, Mr . . ."

Harry had a feeling that she knew his name already, but he liked the way she was treating him exactly as she'd treated the other students. He liked it a lot. "Potter."

"Very good, Mr Potter." She swivelled gracefully on one foot -- huh, she was wearing some sort of beaded leather shoe -- and gave Draco her full attention. "And your name?"

"Snape."

Zabini made a scoffing sound.

Morrighan raised both her eyebrows. "Really. Would you be some relation to Potions Master Snape?"

"I'm his son." When her eyebrows only went up further, Draco went on, "So is Harry. He adopted both of us. Last year. It was in all the papers."

"Apparently she doesn't read those, either," whispered Hermione.

Draco cast a sidelong glance in Ron's direction. "Some people have a hard time calling me Snape, Professor. If you prefer, you can call me Draco."

Her gaze went positively beady. "Did you say Draco?"

"Told you it was a weird name," scoffed Ron in Harry's other ear.

"Shut up, you two," hissed Harry. He didn't know what was wrong, but something definitely was. Morrighan suddenly looked furious.

In the space of one word, Draco had gone from being a particularly promising student to someone she clearly didn't want in her class at all.

Not that she kicked him out as Aran had tried to do to Harry.

She did, however, spend the rest of the session pointing out all his mistakes and ignoring the times he succeeded in the tasks she assigned. When she critiqued him, she was brutal.

And not just brutally honest. She seemed to enjoy cutting him down to size. At one point, she even declared that he shouldn't be a seventh-year yet, as he clearly wasn't intellectually ready to understand a word of the new Ethics curriculum.

The comment, coming as it did during a demonstration of powerful shielding spells, seemed to come completely out of the blue.

Ron thought the whole thing was wonderful, of course.

Hermione had to admit that she was deeply puzzled.

Harry, though, was furious. He knew what it was like to have a teacher out for his blood. But why would she be out for Draco's?

Was this another case of Lucius Malfoy incurring a woman’s wrath at some point in the past? But Draco wasn't his father; even Harry knew that these days.

Maura Morrighan, it seemed, had yet to learn.

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Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

"She does seem to know her subject," said Hermione as they left the Defence classroom. "But the way she treated you, Draco! And the prohibition on books--"

Ron clumsily grabbed Hermione's school bag and hefted it over his own shoulder. "Oh, come on. Harry didn't set us essays in D.A., and look how that worked out."

"That was an after-hours club designed to make up for the lack of practicals in our core instruction. And now we're to have core instruction bereft of book-learning at all? It's outrageous -- you can pick up so many useful spells by reading about them!"

"You can, Hermione," said Harry. "But some of us do a lot better learning by experience, as my dad likes to call it."

"Yes, but a balanced approach, surely--"

"You can do all the reading you like," interrupted Ron. "You can even set yourself essays, all right? But it's fine with the rest of us if we have a Defence class that's centred on practical knowledge."

Draco, Harry suddenly noticed, was being conspicuously silent. He increased his stride a little so he could walk alongside his brother. "Are you all right?"

Draco's features were tense, and the shrug he gave looked suspiciously like a twitch. "Yes, of course."

Harry wasn't fooled. "What do you want to do about Morrighan?"

Draco's shoulders twitched again. "Do, Harry? There's nothing to be done. It's not the first time someone has heard my name or noticed my resemblance to Lucius, and decided to dislike me."

"A teacher, though?"

"Among others."

"'Bye, Harry," called Ron and Hermione as they took a turning to head to another class.

Draco and Harry continued on to Charms, which they would take with Ravenclaw this year.

"But she's being blatantly unfair, Draco."

"True."

"We have to make her stop."

"Good luck with that one."

Harry fell silent until they slid into a pair of seats near the back of Flitwick's classroom. "I think we should tell Dad."

Draco sat back and crossed his arms, a bored look on his face. "Of course you do. How strange to recall that you weren't nearly so eager last year to tell Severus about your troubles with Aran."

Harry ignored the sarcasm. "I had my reasons for that--"

"As I have mine."

"What reasons?"

"Not the same as yours, I'd imagine," said Draco vaguely. "Can you be quiet, now? I can't hear the professor, and this is our N.E.W.T. year, you know."

That was a bit unfair as Flitwick had only that moment begun to speak. Harry clamped his lips together and tried to listen, but he only lasted a few minutes before he was dragging a parchment out of his school bag so he could write a note to Draco.

What reasons, then?

Draco scowled at the messy scrawl and looked set to ignore it, but perhaps he realised that Harry would keep pestering him. Sighing, he pulled the parchment over to his half of the desk, shaking his head as he wrote on it for what seemed like a long time.

I used to run to Lucius to complain about every last thing, Draco had written, twice underlining the word 'every.' I want a different sort of relationship with Severus. A healthier one, as Marsha would say. And she's right; looking back I can see that the way Lucius and I dealt with one another was almost pathological.

Harry mulled that over for a minute while Flitwick droned on about the value of proper spell classification during the written portion of the N.E.W.T. Draco is trying to distance himself from Lucius, he remembered Severus telling him. This sounded like more of the same, which made Harry think he ought to promote it. At the same time, though, he didn't want Draco to suffer under Morrighan the way Harry had under Aran. He should have gone to his father a lot sooner.

But Dad would want to help you, he finally wrote back. He wouldn't think less of you for asking for help. He wouldn't think you were treating him like Lucius. I mean, like you treated Lucius.

I don't think we should encourage Dad to duel with every teacher who annoys us, Draco wrote back. Though that would have its benefits, I must admit.

He wouldn't duel her. He only did that with Aran because the man ran to the newspapers!

Oh, honestly. Don't you know a joke when you see one? I was thinking of Divestio, and how luscious Maura Morrighan would look standing starkers out on the pitch. She probably wouldn't even mind the exposure, seeing as her usual clothing is so very revealing. I don't think anybody could pay attention in Defence after that!

Harry hurriedly destroyed the parchment before anybody else could see it. That was all they needed -- for word to get back to Morrighan that Draco was gossiping about seeing her naked!

"Problem, Mr Potter?" asked Flitwick from the front of the class, his voice squeaky but sincere. "It looks like your desk is smouldering."

"Uh, just practising my fire charms, Professor."

"During lecture? You know better. I think that you and Mr Snape should move closer to the front."

Harry ignored the chortles of the Ravenclaws as he did as the teacher had said.

Harry's last class of the day was double Potions. Since enrolment had fallen so drastically after the Ministry's decision that five years of Snape's instruction equalled seven years of Potions at Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, the sixth and seventh year classes had been combined into one group representing all four houses.

Even then, the number of students in class was small. The only seventh-years were Harry, Draco, Hermione, Neville, Ernie, Padma, and Terry.

The fall-off in sixth-year participation was even more drastic: Ginny and two other girls that Harry didn't recognise. Nobody else at all.

For once, Harry could understand why Snape spoke so harshly as he started the session. Though really, it was rather unfair to be upset with the students who were present rather than the ones who had dropped the subject.

Snape was half-way through discussing the syllabus when the classroom door opened with a loud creaking noise. Luna came dancing down the aisle. Literally. She even twirled like a ballerina as she came to a halt before Snape.

"You are interrupting, Miss Lovegood," said Snape, almost barking. "I told you last year that I wouldn't tolerate this habit of yours of flitting in and out of classes as you see fit. Are you unable to consult your course programme to find out where you should be?"

Ouch. Harry knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of Snape's withering lectures.

Luna didn't seem perturbed. "Oh! Don't move, sir," she called out, standing on tip-toe. "I think there might be a whirlygaggle, just there--"

"Out!"

That time, Snape was definitely barking.

Luna's only reply was a dreamy smile.

Instead of getting angrier, Snape apparently decided to get even. "Detention," he drawled, his voice silky with unmistakable delight. "With Mr Filch, every evening this week. Shall we start with two hours a night? After all, I can always add more if you don't absent yourself from my presence this instant."

"Oh, but I'm assigned to your class," said Luna, blinking. "Didn't I mention?"

"Hand me your course programme." Snape narrowed his eyes as he examined it. "Very well, though in future you are advised to arrive on time, Miss Lovegood. Take your seat and don't disrupt us further!"

Draco gave Harry an incredulous glance that needed no interpretation; Harry was thinking the same thing. Snape wasn't going to take points from Ravenclaw for lateness?

He didn't get a chance to talk to Luna until about an hour later, when they started to brew. He caught up to her on the way to the supply closet, tapping her on the shoulder when she didn't seem to notice him whispering her name. "He means it. Don't show up late again."

Luna beamed. "Oh, but I wasn't late, Harry. I'd only just got my schedule changed back."

"Back?"

"Mmm. Potions isn't really required, you know. But then I saw your father this morning."

Now it was Harry's turn to blink. "You had a conference with Snape?"

"Oh, no." Luna scanned a row of pickled frog's eyes, and selected a jar apparently at random. "But I saw him, Harry. Sitting at the head table." She sighed, her eyes almost drifting closed. "He is a bit dishy, isn't he? I don't know why I never noticed that before. His hair reminds me of the sleek, dark coat of a panther cat, and his nose, why in the right light, it's positively regal--"

Without meaning to, Harry shoved her deeper into the supply closet. "You can't mean that you've signed up for Potions because you're-- you're--" He dropped his voice to a bare whisper. "Attracted to my father!"

Luna twirled again, her radish earrings swinging madly when she stopped. "Oh, I wouldn't put it that way."

"Then how would you put it?"

"He's got a lovely, deep voice." Luna's dreamy smile widened. "Especially when he's assigning detentions."

Harry shook his head, bemused, and quickly left the supply closet. It didn't help his mood that when he got back to his work group -- Draco and Hermione, of course -- Draco waggled his eyebrows up and down. "Took your time, didn't you? And returned without the yeti hair we sent you to fetch. Could it be that a certain blonde has caught his eye?"

"Don't be stupid!" said Harry, more loudly than he'd intended.

He sensed rather than saw Snape's dark gaze on him. "Stupid, Mr Potter? Is there a problem?"

"No, Professor," said Harry, scowling as he got up to get that yeti hair, after all.

"Stay behind, please, Mr Potter," called Snape as the class began to drift out.

Bugger. Not that Harry would really have expected his father to forget about their promised "talk," but he could hope, couldn't he?

Well, things could be worse. At least he'd got high marks on this afternoon's potion, even if he had Draco and Hermione to thank for that. They'd kept him from stirring in the wrong direction half-way through, and when it came to N.E.W.T.-level potions, one wrong stir could wreak disaster.

"I'll see you at dinner," Harry said to Draco and Hermione, waving them off. "Or . . . er, in the Tower if Dad wants us to eat in his office."

Draco gave him a rather fearsome glare. "You can't be serious. You're a Slytherin prefect and you're going to sleep in Gryffindor every other night?"

"I don't have it all planned out," said Harry crossly. "All I know is I'm sleeping in Gryffindor tonight and that I don't need you to remind me which house made me a prefect, all right?"

Draco leaned closer. "Fine. But I don't need to remind you about our talk earlier, do I?"

What talk earlier? Oh . . . he must mean the bit about how he didn't want to whinge to Snape about Morrighan. Obviously he didn't want Harry to do it for him, either. "Fine," Harry said. He could see Draco's point.

Maybe the thing with Morrighan would blow over. She might look at him and think of Lucius right now, but with time, she'd probably come to see Draco for himself. It would probably help that he wanted to be an Auror. That wasn't very Lucius-like, was it?

"How was your day?" asked Snape, waving Harry into his office once the other students had left.

The small talk wasn't much like him, Harry thought. He wondered what it might mean. Had Snape already heard some rumours about how Maura Morrighan had treated Draco? Harry sank down into a chair. "Eh . . . all right, I suppose. It's good to have school back in session."

Snape sat in another chair rather than behind his desk, and tapped his fingertips together. He looked to be deep in thought, like he wasn't sure how to begin. "No urges to strike out at anyone else?"

Harry gave him an incredulous look. "Sir?"

"Not that again."

Oh, right. They weren't in class any longer. It felt like he was going to get lectured, though. Somehow, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that a "sir" at such a time should be all right. But his father hated it, so enough said. "Dad. Of course. But I don't know why you think I'd want to hit anybody here." He ignored the fact that he'd wanted to thump Draco a couple of times recently. "There's nobody at Hogwarts who's like Piers."

"You can't be serious--"

"Of course I'm serious."

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I saw how that young man behaved toward you during the summer, Harry. I've no doubt you had cause to strike him, though considering the circumstances it could have ended badly. The Order would rather not have to intervene with the Muggle government to have you released from gaol. But Harry . . . there are students here who are indeed just like Mr Polkiss."

Harry thought of Blaise Zabini and grimaced. Perhaps he wasn't as bad as Piers; to Harry's knowledge, he'd never helped beat up younger children the way Piers had. In his own way, though, Blaise was just as obnoxious. In fact, it might be that Blaise was even worse, since unlike Piers, he was intelligent enough to find barbs that really hurt.

For all Draco had made a point of laughing off the "Malshite" rubbish, it had bothered him while it was going on. A lot.

"Yeah, all right," he conceded, grimacing again. "There are. I won't hit them. I have better control of myself than that."

Snape's eyes darkened with some emotion that Harry couldn't identify. Harry would almost have thought it was intense sadness, but that wouldn't make much sense in context, so Harry discounted it.

Or perhaps it did make sense.

"Harry," said Snape softly, "as much as I deplored your lack of discretion at King's Cross, I didn't want to talk with you about that matter at all."

"What, then?"

Snape swallowed, obviously finding it difficult to speak. "This isn't the sort of talk I ever had with my own father, Harry. Obviously. I feel rather at a loss."

It was rare for Snape to allude to Hostilian in any way. Now that Harry knew the reasons for Snape's reluctance, he felt awkward that he'd ever pressed him. Guilt reared up inside him. He didn't mean to be flippant when he replied; it was just that he didn't have any idea what to say. "Uh, well, before you I didn't have any talks with my father, you know. I couldn't talk yet."

The moment he'd said it, Harry wished he could crawl in a hole. He hadn't meant that an abusive father was better than a dead one, even if it had come out sounding that way. Harry quickly did his best to cover his gaffe. "What sort of talk is this, Dad? I haven't caught on, yet."

"Some tea, perhaps," Snape said, going to his office Floo to request some.

It looked more like high tea when it arrived, all sorts of sandwiches and pastries laid out on little plates, which made Harry wonder just what Snape had said to the elves. It seemed odd to ask for that instead of dinner, but Harry was hungry enough not to give the matter much thought. He helped himself to some watercress sandwiches and a thin wedge of shortbread and started eating.

Meanwhile, Snape had seemed to recover his composure. He began speaking as he poured tea for them both, adding milk and sugar to Harry's cup but not his own. "This habit you have of holding yourself apart from others," he began. "I have to think it's not healthy--"

Harry held up a hand to stop him. "I don't do that. I can't believe you'd claim I do, Severus. I've always had friends. Well, here, at least. And now I've got you and Draco as well. Not to mention, I even sort of have Sirius back."

"But no special someone." Snape leaned forward.

"Is that what this is about? My love life?"

"You have no love life. You won't let yourself have one."

"That's right, I won't." Harry set his tea down. He'd probably drunk some, but he couldn't recall so much as tasting it. "And nothing you can say will change my mind. I'm sure you mean well, but it's not really your business, is it?"

Snape ignored the question. "You're seventeen years old, Harry, with all the usual urges, I'm certain--"

Hearing his father talk about urges was almost more than Harry could bear. Yeah, he had them. Who didn't? It didn't mean he wanted to talk about them out loud, especially not with his father! "Those aren't your business either," he said faintly, positive that he was red in the face. "Look, I did have a bit of a problem today that I'd like to talk with you about. Uh, Flitwick's class. I think my burn-and-scatter spell needs some work; I got awfully smoky results--"

"Don't think you can change the subject," interrupted Snape. "We need to address this. It's long overdue."

Why was it, that when you really wished the floor would swallow you up, it never did?

"Now, you are a normal young man, and--"

"Nothing's normal for me. You know that!" Harry suddenly felt savage. "Look, a lot of children are orphaned. I'm not so special, but from the first time the Dursleys called me a freak, nothing was normal for me. Except yeah, all right, I do have urges. I'm not going to talk about them, though, and guess what else? I'm not going to do anything about them. I can't."

Still that same, soft tone. "Why not?"

"Because it would be wrong!" exclaimed Harry, jumping to his feet. He'd probably feel bad later about knocking his tea cup to shatter on the floor, but at the moment, he didn't care. "Isn't that obvious? I can't just . . . betray everyone like that, Severus. How can you ask me to? Thanks to that damned prophecy, the whole world is depending on me."

"That doesn't mean--"

Harry hated what he'd just said, even if it was true. "Oh, wonderful. Now you'll go back to thinking I'm arrogant and full of myself!"

Severus raised his voice a fraction. "The world depending on you does not mean that you cannot be yourself, Harry!"

"It means I have to be the kind of person they can depend on," said Harry, snorting. "How else am I going to succeed at the only thing that matters?"

At least Snape didn't say that Harry killing Voldemort wasn't the only thing that mattered. It was, at least for now, and they all knew it. Perhaps that was why Snape spoke so stiffly when he replied. He'd like to say that it didn't matter, but it wasn't very Slytherin to tell a lie that nobody would believe. "You should nevertheless allow yourself the freedom to explore your own . . . your own sexuality, Harry. What you are feeling is natural for a young man your age, and--"

"There's nothing natural about it," said Harry, shaking his head. For somebody else, sure. But not for him. What was natural about going out on dates, going steady, exploring his urges when it could end up with his "someone special" being hit with a green light? Or being tortured to death? He'd taken enough of a risk when he'd allowed himself to love Severus and Draco. They could be used against him. If he'd had more foresight, he'd have kept his distance from both of them.

But Snape and Draco . . . that had just happened. Harry hadn't planned it; it had been like fate had taken pity on him for once and had given him what he wanted. What he needed. And of course he loved Ron and Hermione too, but that had happened before he'd found out how careful he ought to be about things like that.

But nobody else, Harry vowed. Nobody else, not until Voldemort was cold and dead, and all his Death Eaters were the same, or Kissed, or at the very least, securely locked away. Then and only then would it be safe for him to fall in love.

Really, he couldn't even understand why Draco didn't see things the same way. Being crazy about Rhiannon was no excuse, not unless he was also just plain crazy.

Not that Harry was going to die on that hill. He'd already fought that battle and lost.

"Is that all?" asked Harry, making his voice cold so Severus would take him seriously. "I don't want to talk about this again. You aren't going to change my mind, and if you really want the truth, I'm angry that you'd even try. Are you trying to drive me insane? Because that's all that's going to happen, listening to how I ought to have what I want, when I know I can't because it's actually indecent to do that to another person!"

"Don't say that--"

Time to pull out the big guns, Harry thought, a kind of grim desperation coursing through him. No choice. He respected Snape's opinion a lot, which was why this conversation was so dangerous. Too much more of this and Harry might be swayed into letting himself try to have it all. Not just a family, which was bad enough in a way, but a love-life as well. He couldn't let that happen. He absolutely couldn't.

"Why would I listen to you, anyway?" he asked, not caring that he was snarling. "What would you know about it? Nothing, that's what. I live with you, Severus! Did you think I wouldn't notice that you've never-- never--"

Suddenly aware of how cruel he was being, Harry gulped. He didn't want to hurt his father, and comments about how Snape had no love-life to speak of were out of line. They'd be that even if Harry knew nothing about Hostilian, but considering what Harry did know?

"I'm sorry," he said, more quietly. "I love you, Severus. Father. Dad. But I can't talk about this again. Please . . . don't ask me to."

Snape looked shaken, his hand less than steady when he used it to push at the hair that had fallen into his eyes. "We can't leave it at that, Harry. I don't think you understand what you're doing, denying yourself like this."

"We're going to leave it at that." Harry backed toward the door. "I'm an adult and I can choose what I'll discuss and what I won't. This is off limits."

For a long, tense moment, silence reigned in the small room, no sound to break it except their harsh breathing.

Until Snape spoke.

"Would you . . . would you perhaps consider . . ." He actually bit his own lip, like what he was going to ask was painful to contemplate. In the end, he didn't ask it. Harry had no doubt of that, because whatever Snape had been going to say, it wasn't:

"Would you perhaps consider a game of chess?"

"No, I don't think so," said Harry gently. "Not just now. We'll end up arguing. You can see that, I think."

Snape nodded, letting his hair fall over his face again, his expression shuttered when he asked, "This went badly, for which I am sorry, Harry. I don't know how . . . my own father never spoke to me about such things. You'll come to me at once if you start thinking about finding a needle, won't you?"

Harry hugged himself with both arms. "You can't believe I'm as weak as that. A little dispute with you isn't going to send me 'round the bend."

"I think . . ." Snape was obviously choosing his words with great care. "I think that what you are choosing to do to yourself can have repercussions you're scarcely aware of at the moment."

That sounded a lot like You'll understand when you're older. Which was probably true, so Harry decided not to resent it. "I don't have any desire for a needle, Severus. And I can't promise to come to you at once just because I start thinking about finding one. But I do promise to come for help if I actually have one in my hand."

"Before you use it."

"Yes, before," said Harry, tempted to smile even though the subject was so grim. "You know what, though? I know you'll still love me even if I show up bleeding from both arms. And isn't that progress? I don't worry any longer about being unadopted."

"No child should have to worry about a thing like that. No grown child, either," added Snape, even though Harry hadn't been about to protest that he was an adult. "Come. I'll walk you to dinner."

Of course he would. He had to keep up the pretence that Harry's magic was still a little bit wonky and undependable. Harry sighed. It was a bit much that he couldn't even walk to dinner on his own.

No help for it, though.

He sat at the Gryffindor table, but he didn't eat, even though Snape was watching him, clearly concerned.

The next couple of weeks were largely uneventful. At first Harry was wary that his father would want to have another "talk," but Snape appeared to have taken him at his word that he was old enough to decide what he would and would not discuss. He didn't even attempt to broach the subject of Harry's love-life -- or lack of one, rather -- when Harry went home to the dungeons for dinner one Saturday evening.

Snape had him to himself for the better part of an hour while they waited for Draco. They talked about Harry's classes and Snape's frustrations with the newest batch of first-years, who were apparently even greater dunderheads than usual. They spent a little while deciding the menu together, and Harry admitted that being a prefect wasn't quite what he'd expected.

But one subject, to Harry's relief, remained completely off-limits.

When Draco finally arrived, he was full of news about Rhiannon. She'd written that she absolutely loved Uni, that the music programme she'd enrolled in was brilliant, and that she'd even auditioned for a professional group known as the New London Singers, who went about singing in churches and such.

Harry looked up from his steak. "That doesn't sound right. I don't think churches usually pay choirs--"

"I said that wrong," said Draco easily. "They perform evening concerts, sometimes in churches. Ticketed affairs. She mentioned St Martin's in the Fields, which apparently is nowhere near a single field."

"It's in Trafalgar Square," said Harry. He'd never been in the church, but when he was younger he'd been dragged to the National Gallery a couple of times when Aunt Petunia couldn't get Mrs Figg to watch him. Harry hadn't really enjoyed those trips; art was pretty boring to an eight-year-old, no matter how magnificent it was supposed to be. Even at that young age, however, he'd been aware of two things: that Dudley, not him, was the one who was supposed to end up "cultured," and that the effort was an even bigger waste on Dudley than it was on him.

One time, Dudley had even bit a guide who'd told him to stop running his smudgy fingers along the walls. Aunt Petunia had been horrified, but at Harry, not Dudley.

Harry never had been quite able to work out how she'd managed to blame that one on him.

"That's in the heart of the city," he explained, since Draco was looking rather blank. "London."

"Of course London," said Draco scathingly. "I did call them the New London Singers, didn't I? And it might surprise you to know that I've heard of Trafalgar Square. I was just trying to picture it. I don't think the operas I attended were near there. Anyway, Rhiannon wrote that she sang Handel for her audition. He's never been my favourite."

"Or mine," said Harry dryly. The most he could say about Handel was that he'd heard the name before. Probably.

"Your petite amie sounds as though she's doing well for herself," said Snape in a neutral tone. "She's careful about contacting you, I trust?"

"Yes. All letters back and forth go through Hermione's parents. Nobody even knows I have a girlfriend, let alone a Muggle one." Draco speared a sautéed mushroom as he spoke. "I shall have to get the Grangers something very nice for Christmas to thank them. I wonder what they'd like. Perhaps Hermione will have an idea."

"Just avoid diamond pendants," said Harry, trying not to grin.

"When you're a celebrated Auror mixing in pureblood society, I'll avoid dwelling on your mistakes, which I'm certain will be at least as bad as mine in the Muggle world," retorted Draco.

Snape seemed to think they were squabbling, from the way he changed the subject. "What do you think of the new Ethics course?"

"I like the discussion-based format," said Harry. "Talking about the text together is loads better than repeating what it says in essay after essay."

"Assuming one has read the text before class."

"I have," protested Harry. "Every single time, Dad!"

"I wasn't thinking of you. Mr Finnigan, rather."

"Set him an essay, then," suggested Draco.

"Already done."

"Excellent."

"Be nice," said Harry, keeping his tone chiding even though their general dislike for Gryffindors still bothered him on occasion. There were some Slytherins who obviously hadn't done the readings either: Millicent and Vincent came to mind. Harry had no doubt that Snape hadn't set either of them an extra assignment.

Bit disturbing that he thought of those two by first name so readily, he abruptly realised. But then, he was a full Slytherin, so he probably shouldn't be finding that alarming.

"I also like having all the seventh-years together," said Harry. "And the fact that you haven't been telling us what you think is right and wrong, but encouraging us to think about the issues for ourselves."

"The situational ethics approach has its flaws, though," Draco put in. "Your illustration of whether it's right to return a lost vault draft to the rightful owner, for example. The students saying it was right to keep it would feel otherwise if they were the owner."

"Of course. That's the point."

"But you never once mentioned that only a nitwit would carry a bearer draft in the first place. The responsible way to handle one's money is to have the draft made out to a specific recipient."

"It's not a course in banking practices."

"But students should be taught that they can never rely on goblins to look out for their best interests--"

Harry sighed. "Again with the racism, Draco?"

"I suppose you'll be offended if I mention that vampires tend to like blood!"

"Innate characteristics versus group stereotyping could be an interesting topic to explore," said Snape. "Perhaps I'll set an essay. For the entire class."

Harry wasn't sure if he was serious or just objecting to the bickering. "No, no essays. I was looking forward to having a few classes that didn't pile on the homework."

"You may rest assured that Care of Magical Creatures as taught by Hagrid has very little chance of developing an academic strand," drawled Snape.

Draco laughed. "I think he meant Defence."

How he could laugh at anything connected to Morrighan, Harry didn't know. The Defence professor was continuing to be an absolute bitch to Draco. Harry would never say so out loud in front of his father, but it was nothing but the truth.

Snape went still, and then, very slowly, he set his fork down alongside his plate. "Explain."

For a moment, Harry was relieved. About time Morrighan got a piece of Snape's mind!

But no . . . Snape was still talking about homework.

"We don't do essays for that class. Nor readings," explained Harry once he understood. "It's entirely practical."

"Thus far, you mean."

"No, Morrighan told us there wouldn't be any homework except to master the spells we learn during class."

"I knew it," muttered Snape. "I knew it!"

Draco and Harry glanced at each other, but it was Draco who spoke. "You knew what, Severus?"

Unbelievably, Snape actually coloured. "I shouldn't gossip about a colleague."

Draco laughed again. "I've heard you say no end of insulting things about Trelawney, fraud that she is. What is it?"

"You can trust us," added Harry. "We understand the difference, Severus. Here, we're your sons. When we go back out into the castle, we're students again. We won't repeat as students the things we only heard because we're your sons."

"Well said, well said," added Draco, nodding.

Snape appeared to be trying to force his complexion back to its usual sallow state. Either that, or he was developing a tic. "It's nothing, really. But when I heard that she'd been engaged to teach, I told Albus I wasn't entirely certain she was literate."

Draco grinned, a tiny bit of viciousness in the expression. Not that Harry could blame him, considering what he put up with every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. "Wouldn't that be rich, if she avoided assigning written work for the simple reason that she can't read!"

Harry was focussed on something else. He kept his voice as casual as he could make it. "You already knew her, then. I thought as much when you claimed she didn't own any dresses. Why didn't you say anything?"

The tic in Snape's jaw sped up. "We . . . it's a long story, Harry."

Draco's innocent tone didn't fool anyone, Harry felt sure. "Oh, but we're prefects, Harry and I. We can break curfew. Why, I do believe we could even spend the night here if the story takes that long."

"Whelp," muttered Snape. "Very well, then. Maura worked with the Order during the first war, though thinking back, I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call her a member. She was always too much of a loner for that."

"Maura," said Draco. "It sounds as though you were . . . close."

Harry almost hit him, and then wondered if he was developing a bit of a violent streak.

"How close is not your concern," retorted Snape. "The only relevant piece of information is that we parted on bad terms."

Harry didn't agree. He was starting to think that other things were relevant. The way Snape was trying so hard not to blush again, for example. The fact that he had washed his hair before boarding the Hogwarts Express. It would have been the first time he'd seen Maura Morrighan in years, probably.

In retrospect, it seemed obvious that Snape had wanted to look his best.

Actually, he was keeping his hair clean nearly all the time, Harry realised. It wasn't always as sleek as it had been on that first day, but it was a marked improvement over his usual appearance.

How terrible to think that he might be trying to attract Maura Morrighan, and he'd ended up catching Luna instead!

That thought was nothing to the one that followed, though. What chance was there of things working out once Snape found out that Maura Morrighan hated Draco's guts?

Startled by a sudden thought, Harry peered across the table at his brother. Was this the real reason Draco had refused to complain about Morrighan? Had he somehow figured out that Snape was interested in the woman? Was he trying to avoid jinxing it?

Draco stared back, then glanced down at himself as though looking for a dollop of sauce that might have stained his shirt.

But he was impeccable as always, of course.

"I'm sorry," Harry announced, swallowing as he turned his attention to his father. "I'm sorry I said that thing about your love-life. I . . . uh, that was very wrong of me, no matter how annoyed I was at the time. I didn't know you'd . . . uh, loved and lost."

Draco drained his wine glass. "That's a fine development. You pour out your broken-hearted woes to Harry, do you? I feel rather extraneous."

"Don't be absurd. There was no pouring out," said Snape, glaring at Harry. "And no broken heart. The matter is hardly worth mentioning."

His gleaming hair told another story, but Harry nodded as though he believed his father, and watched as his brother did the same.

The term was truly under way; Quidditch try-out schedules were posted outside the Great Hall the following Monday. Harry noticed them as he was going in to breakfast. He couldn't help but sigh a bit. Ever since he'd seen Ginny in Potions, he'd been reminding himself that he had to talk to her about his intention to resume as Seeker. No matter that Ron, as Quidditch captain (not to mention her brother) had already broached the topic. Harry owed it to Ginny to speak to her personally.

She was every bit as gracious as he'd expected. She'd told him the year before that she'd move aside for him whenever he was ready to come back, and Ginny Weasley was as good as her word.

"Thanks," Harry said warmly, leaning over to peck her cheek. "You're the best, Ginny. You really are."

When the catcalls started, he thought he shouldn't have done something like that in the Great Hall. They weren't the real problem, though; Snape was. He was glaring from the head table like Harry had tried to bite Ginny's head off.

Harry shrugged, trying to say that Snape didn't understand.

Then he wondered if maybe Snape understood too well. Had he deduced that Harry was talking to Ginny in response to the Quidditch postings? It was too far for him to have heard their words, surely?

But he'd said, over and over, that he understood about Harry playing for Gryffindor but not Slytherin! Why would he get so annoyed about it now?

Harry turned his back on his father and walked out of the Great Hall.

"We're working on Animagus transformations this year," said Harry as he sat in front of the Mirror of All Souls. He felt busier every day, but he still found time at least once each week to have a long talk with Sirius. It wasn't quite like having him back, since Harry never forgot for an instant that his godfather wasn't really a part of this world any longer, but it was better than nothing. A lot better. "Though I don't really like how McGonagall's going about it. The whole first week was on theory, and a lot of that was basically propaganda to convince us that we really do have to register if we manage to find a form."

"Our fault, most likely," said Sirius, grinning. "James and Peter and I. Before our time, it was rather assumed that the transformation couldn't be mastered much before the age of twenty, so of course they didn't emphasise registration to students. That's obviously changed."

"But the whole thing is so stupid when it comes to me," complained Harry. "Even public lessons are rather brainless, don't you think? If I can become a stag or something, shouldn't that be kept a secret?"

"It would cause more comment to exclude you from the lessons, if that's what everyone else is doing in class. People would assume you had a form already."

"Well, that's true." Harry sighed, wishing he could tell Sirius about all the secrets already whirling around him, like his supposedly weak magic and the way he had to hide his wandless talent. No hope for it, though; Harry couldn't chance that Voldemort might have a way to steal secrets from the dead.

Sirius leaned forward, almost looking like he was going to fall through the mirror. "So, how is it going? Any sign yet?"

"No, but McGonagall says it usually takes much longer. We're doing visualizations. Hour after hour of it. The whole thing's dull," complained Harry. "No matter how I try, I just can't see my feet and hands as hooves."

"Why assume you'll be a stag?"

"Well, you know." Harry made a vague gesture. "My dad."

"That's got very little to do with anything."

"Not true. Severus said that I might very well have inherited the ability to do the Animagus transformation."

If mention of Snape annoyed Sirius, he didn't show it any longer, maybe because Harry mentioned him so often. He wasn't going to hide who he really was, or what he really felt and thought. Sirius acted like Snape was a distant relative, more or less. Not one important to him, but not one he hated, either.

"The ability, possibly. But not necessarily the form." Sirius' hand made a swirling motion which imitated the way Harry was moving as he played with Sals. "You have an amazing affinity for snakes, Harry. You speak their language. You're mates with one. There's no earthly reason why that shouldn't be your form."

"Oh, I'm added to Slytherin and then my Animagus form turns out to be a snake? No thanks. I don't want to be a walking cliché."

"Technically, you'd be a slithering cliché."

Harry chuckled. "You have me there. That wouldn't bother you, Sirius? If I turned out to be a snake?"

"I've nothing against actual snakes." Sirius sat back a bit and sighed. "I won't say I adore the idea that you're in Slytherin, but you know about the history of my family and that house. And Snape . . ." His voice was grudging, yet sincere. "You're certainly happier than I've ever seen you."

"And you don't fancy getting thrashed by your best friend again," teased Harry.

"There is that. But no . . . it's clear that Severus and you truly do get on. It boggles the mind."

"You mean that damnable cur has a mind to boggle?" drawled Harry, in a passable imitation of his father's deep voice.

Sirius chuckled. "You have him dead right."

"He also says that apparently an old dog can learn new tricks."

"As long as he doesn't expect me to play dead."

Harry grinned. "Oh, that's one worthy of Fred and George." His smile abruptly died. "I wish the Ministry attack hadn't hit so close to home for them. Or Ron. He's holding up all right, I guess. I mean, he doesn't talk about it, but that's probably because there's nothing to be said."

Sirius cocked his head. "They lost someone?"

"Yeah. Percy."

"I didn't know." Sirius sighed. "No reason why I would. We weren't particularly close. Well, tell Ron that he has my sympathies, I suppose."

"I think I'd better not. He's already jealous. Of me having the mirror." Harry shifted to wrap his arms around himself, unaware that his voice had dropped to a whisper. "I told him it hadn't worked for anybody else, but he wouldn't really believe me until I brought him down here to try it. And then . . . well, I don't think he blamed me. He's not such a great prat as that. But he's upset that he never got to work things out with Percy before he died, and not being able to reach him the way I can reach you . . . that made it worse."

Harry shivered, hating the fact that he'd been relieved at the time. All he'd been able to think about, that afternoon when Ron had earnestly called for Percy, was that if it worked, he'd lose a precious shard. Or more than one, since how could he refuse if Ron wanted to talk to Percy again and again? Harry didn't miss Percy, but the man had been Ron's brother.

But it hadn't worked -- of course it hadn't. Harry had expected that.

Expecting it didn't make him feel less guilty over his selfish desire to keep the mirror all to himself.

"Harry?"

The concern in Sirius' voice snapped Harry out of his daze. "Yeah. Sorry. Just . . . uh, feeling bad for Ron."

"I'll have a look about for Percy Weasley, if you like. I'll tell him Ron's thinking of him. How's that?"

Harry wasn't too keen on that idea, but he nodded. It was the least he owed Ron, and if some of his time with Sirius had to be used up passing messages back and forth between Percy and Ron, then so be it.

Pity that the same method wouldn’t work with Harry's parents. Sirius had tried and tried for ways around the ban, but nothing had worked. If James told his wife something on purpose so that Sirius could report it to Harry, Sirius went mute trying to deliver the message.

If James said it for real, for no other motive than the desire to tell his wife, then Sirius was allowed to repeat it.

The whole thing was annoying, but at least there was nothing to stop Harry from passing messages to his parents. He did a lot of that. He wanted them to know that as much as he was Snape's son, he was theirs too, and he hadn't forgotten it.

He wanted them to know that he loved them and he was sorry he'd ever believed they'd been the kind of people who would drink and drive and get themselves killed. The kind that would be selfish enough to do that when it meant leaving their baby son without a single person he could really call family.

"You still look upset," said Sirius. "Didn't you believe me before, about your form? Harry, you could turn out to be a rat and it wouldn't bother me."

Harry made an effort to smile. "Thanks, Sirius. But, uh, I hope I don't end up an evil rat."

"It's the intent that is evil, never the animal."

"Just coincidence that the rat was a rat, then?" Harry found that kind of hard to believe, even though he knew that Sirius was right. Real rats weren't terrible creatures. Ron had loved Scabbers a lot before he'd found out that his pet was a wizard in disguise.

For just a moment, Harry gave the snake in his hands a suspicious look, then dismissed the idea as nonsense. Sals couldn't be a repeat of Scabbers. He'd know.

Wouldn't he?

"Enough about Transfiguration. We're supposed to start another topic next month, anyway, right alongside the Animagus studies, so students who clearly aren't going to transform have something to do in class. Can you tell me what you know about Maura Morrighan?"

"She teaches Defence and doesn't like Draco Malfoy."

"I told you that much! And his name these days is Draco Snape."

"Of course it is," said Sirius dryly. "Which reminds me. James and Lily didn't say this, but they're clearly delighted that you have a brother. They'd always planned on more children."

"You're not delighted, though. I can tell." Harry swallowed. "Well, to be honest, I wasn't at first, either. I wanted Snape all to myself."

Sirius made a face, but instead of getting upset, Harry chuckled. "I know. It sounds a bit odd. But I was really enjoying having a grown-up care about me, and I didn't want to share."

"Oh, Harry--"

"It's all right," said Harry quickly. "After a while I figured out that I was gaining a brother instead of losing a father. And since then it's been brilliant. Well, mostly. Um, what about Maura Morrighan, then?"

"The name rings a bell. I think Albus mentioned her, years ago. During the war, most likely. But I don't recall anything more specific. Oh . . . wait. Lily said something once about a Maura, didn't she?" Sirius sounded like he was talking to himself. "Severus had done some work with her, I think. He told Lily that she was interested in . . . totemic magic, that was it. She'd talked about studying it in earnest if the war ever ended."

"What's totemic magic?"

"A good deal of Native American magic is based on it." Sirius shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know much about it, other than it involves animals."

That explained some things, like Morrighan's constant use of animals in class. Not to mention the peculiar way she dressed. Hermione had spotted it right off with her "Pocahontas" comment, though actually, Harry had had to ask her later who Pocahontas was.

Harry was itching to ask if Sirius knew anything about Snape and Morrighan being a couple, but he knew he had to respect his father's privacy, so he said nothing.

A knock at the door made him glad he'd resisted.

"Come in," he called, knowing that only Snape or Draco could make it through the heavy wards Snape had established on the room.

It was Draco, right on time to walk him to the Slytherin dormitories for the night. Harry wished he didn't have to go. Time with Sirius was precious.

But Snape would have a fit if Harry did nothing but stare into a mirror, ignoring his studies and his other responsibilities. Not to mention that he couldn't function well in class if he wasn't properly rested. Last year had proven that beyond a doubt.

"Good night, Sirius," he said, his muscles aching a little as he stood up from the floor. "I'll be back soon."

Sirius nodded as he jumped to his feet. "I'll count the days."

"Really?"

"No, not really. I told you that time here isn't the same. Keep working hard on your transformation. And Draco? You take Transfiguration, don't you? You keep working hard on your own."

Draco paused in mid-stride, obviously surprised. Sirius usually ignored him, even though they were related. "I will, sir."

"Have you had any luck?"

"I haven't, not yet."

"Well, keep at it. It's not an easy thing to accomplish." Sirius paused, his hands moving restlessly. "How is your mother?"

"As well as--" Draco broke off, a little sigh escaping his lips. Harry wasn't sure why he had started to lie to Sirius, but he was happy that Draco couldn't go through with it. "I don't know," he said baldly. "The last I'd heard, she'd gone to stay with relatives on the Continent. France, I think."

Sirius took a step forward. "Narcissa has left her husband?"

"I . . ." Draco clearly didn't know how to answer that, since he wasn't supposed to reveal that the "Lucius" living in Malfoy Manor wasn't Narcissa's husband at all. "I don't know. She hasn't written to explain." Draco's voice was bleak as he finished. "She could be dead for all I know."

"Oh, no, I don't think she's here," said Sirius.

Draco started; he'd evidently forgotten that he was speaking to someone who was dead.

"I was very fond of Narcissa when we were young," added Sirius in a warm tone. "I'd sense her arrival, Draco. No, she's still in your realm. I hope she gets in touch soon."

"Thank you," whispered Draco. Clearly, his mother's neglect was a sore spot. Harry couldn't imagine what it would be like to have a mother like that. But that wasn't surprising, since he had a hard time imagining a mother at all. Petunia had never even tried to be one for him, or to let him believe she was trying.

"Sir, if you don't mind, the headmaster is waiting for us."

"Sirius, please. But yes, I understand. Good night to you both. It is night there, I think Harry said?"

"It is."

Harry splayed a hand out on the mirror by way of saying good-bye, watching as Sirius vanished. Then he did the usual, and searched for the shard he'd used, but it was gone. He hadn't really expected anything else.

"Where's your mirror?" asked Draco. "We'll return it to Dad's safe-keeping before we go up to see Dumbledore."

"Oh, that bit was true?" Harry had thought it was just an excuse to end a painful conversation.

"No, I lie to the people you love all day long. The mirror, Harry?"

"I only took the shard with me this time." That way, Harry didn't have to try so hard not to count the pieces that were left. "If the headmaster is really waiting for us, we could floo up to his office."

"Of course we'll floo. Seventh-year prefects are entitled."

If they were, it was news to Harry. But Draco often said things like that. He liked the privileges of rank so much that he made up new ones all the time.

As long as they didn't get in trouble, Harry didn't let it bother him.

"How was your godfather?" asked Snape when they let themselves in the door.

"Fine." Harry glanced around for the square mirror, but his father must have already put it away. "He's more or less reconciled to the Slytherin thing, by the way. Sirius even told me that if my Animagus form turns out to be a snake, he won't care at all."

"Ah, a rational comment from Sirius Black. Wonders never cease."

"It's not so very rational," said Draco. "Slytherin doesn't mean we're actually snakes."

"You say that because you don't care for snakes."

"Snakes are just an emblem," argued Draco. "At the most they represent a historical connection with Salazar Slytherin's Parseltongue talent."

"It means more than that. After all, snakes can wriggle out of tight places." Harry smiled widely. "That's a Slytherin trait, don't you think?"

"What I think is that your snake won't want to go through the Floo. Set her down. Not on my feet, Harry!"

Harry chuckled and moved back to lower Sals to the floor.

"I don't know why you couldn't have left her in our dormitory--"

"Yes you do. Larissa would have nabbed him again." Harry sighed. "I can't stand much more of this. I'm getting her a snake of her own for Christmas."

"And what are you getting for the rest of the lower forms?" Draco raised both eyebrows as if in challenge. "Nothing? You're not just a student now, Harry. You're a prefect, and you can't play favourites like that."

"You're just annoyed with her because she likes my pet better than yours."

Snape began shaking his head. "Draco is correct; you should give Yuletide gifts to all the younger students, or to none at all."

"Fine," snapped Harry. "Every last one of them can have a snake, for all I care. Larissa will have plenty to keep her busy then."

"And I'll have heart failure living in a snake pit," retorted Draco. "Once was enough. Trust me on that."

"There is, however," continued Snape in a silky voice, "no reason not to find some pretext for singling out Miss Kent."

"Even better." Harry smiled with relief as he glanced at his dad. "I won't have to wait for Christmas in that case. Any idea of what might make a good pretext?"

Snape stroked his chin as he considered it. "I would say . . . catch her being good."

"Get her a snake if she goes a week without harassing Loki," suggested Draco.

"Not much chance of that happening--"

"Then bribe the silly child! Promise her you'll get her a snake as soon as she goes a week without harassing Loki!"

"Oh, that might work." Harry beamed. "So now that that's settled, I don't suppose you know what the headmaster wants to see us about?"

"D.A.," said Draco before their father could answer.

"And he may mention tomorrow's meeting of the Board of Governors," added Snape. "'Lucius' will be coming to the castle, Harry."

"Oh," said Harry lamely. It would be great to see Remus, but he knew how Snape felt about Harry seeing him looking like Lucius. Harry had thought sometimes that it wouldn't bother him so much, but now, just the thought of it gave him the creeps. "Are the Governors meeting in the same room as last time? I'll steer clear of that hall. What time, then?"

"Actually, I'd like you to meet with him once the other Governors have left the castle."

"Really?" Harry gave his father a close look.

"Yes. He has a few things to discuss with you." Snape looked almost set to say more on that topic, but he cleared his throat instead. "Albus will arrange it once the board meeting has ended. I've given him a vial of counter-potion to pass along."

That sounded good to Harry.

"Ready?" asked Draco.

Harry nodded and stepped into the Floo. "Together?"

"You go ahead."

Harry didn't know if that meant that Draco was nervous to show up first at Dumbledore's office or if Draco wanted to talk with Snape alone. He'd had plenty of time to do that while Harry had been with Sirius, hadn't he?

Shrugging off the question, Harry took a pinch of powder from the box his father held out, and threw it down as he announced his destination.

"Harry, my boy!" said Dumbledore in a jovial tone as Harry stepped out of the Floo. For once he hadn't stumbled. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of it. "We haven't had much of a chance to talk in the past few weeks. Is everything going well? Your Occlumency is holding steady?"

Harry tried not to stare. "Why wouldn't it?"

"Merely asking, my boy, merely asking." Dumbledore's eyes lost a little bit of their twinkle. "With Voldemort on the move, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

Harry nodded. "Right, of course. Severus taught me really well, Professor, and after what happened at my birthday party, I Occlude almost all the time. I was doing that last year too, but I got a bit careless over the summer. It won't happen again."

"Thank you, Harry. It would be difficult to overestimate the importance of an adequate defence."

Speaking of Defence . . .

Harry decided he'd better not speak of it. Draco might arrive at any time, and he wouldn't appreciate Harry whinging on his behalf. Besides, there was something else Harry had been meaning to tell the headmaster.

"Thank you," he said, leaning forward in his chair to take a sherbet lemon from the dish Dumbledore was extending. "I don't mean for the sweet. I mean . . . I found some things out recently. About Severus . . . things you know about."

"Ah." Dumbledore sat back, an unreadable expression on his wrinkled features. "You have questions about what he told you?"

"If I did, I'd ask him. I don't want to violate his privacy."

"My sentiments exactly." Dumbledore peered over the top of his spectacles. "So then, you haven't any questions?"

"No. I just wanted to thank you." Harry took a moment to arrange his thoughts. "I know you could have told Wizard Family Services some things about Snape that would concern them. Things that aren't his fault, but that might not matter to them. And . . . well, you didn't, even though you were worried that the adoption might . . . er, I don't know. Reduce your influence with me, I guess. So thank you."

Dumbledore regarded Harry gravely. "I didn't have much influence with you at the time. You're right to think that it concerned me. And too, I didn't know how you and Severus could have reached a true accord. After all that had passed, it seemed . . . unlikely." His fingers stroked the rim of his sweet dish. "But what you're suggesting . . . I don't like to think that I could have done a thing like that to Severus. Told his private matters to strangers . . . he's already been betrayed far too many times by those he should have been able to trust."

The words like his father seemed to hang in the air between them. Neither Harry nor Dumbledore would say them out loud, out of respect for Snape. But they each knew what the other one was thinking.

"Well, you could have stopped the adoption another way, I'm sure," said Harry when the moment had passed. "If you'd really wanted to. And you didn't, even though you were worried I was making a mistake. So thank you. I'm really happy now."

"It warms my heart to hear that."

"And . . . uh, I know I've said this before, but I really am sorry I was so angry with you after Sirius died."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "You speak with him often, do you?"

"Yeah, but don't worry. I'm careful not to get obsessive about it."

"Good, good." The headmaster popped a sweet into his mouth. "Have you learnt anything interesting about the afterlife?"

"Just that time's very strange there. Oh, and . . . it seems like there are a lot of places in the one place, if that makes sense. There are Death Eaters there, but they seem to be a long journey from Sirius and my parents."

Dumbledore's gaze grew distant. "Ah. Of course. My father's house has many mansions."

"Huh?"

The headmaster returned his attention to Harry. "Ancient philosophy can have great merit at times. I don't suppose you would allow me some time to speak with Sirius? I'd like to learn more, if I may."

Harry tried not to think of his steadily decreasing supply of shards. "All right. But you have to remember that he's dead. I mean, I think that's affected the way he sees things. He told he he'd have slipped in the bath and died anyway if he hadn't followed me to the Ministry."

"Fatalism, of course." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I can see why that might be a comforting idea to those already passed on."

A sudden flare of fire announced Draco's arrival. "Headmaster," he said formally as he took a seat. "Good evening. You wanted to see me about Dumbledore's Army, I believe?"

Harry knew he'd put Draco in charge, but he thought that was a bit much. Dumbledore had asked to see both of them, after all. "We also called it the Defence Association--"

"Hermione told me the whole story. This year it's going to be called Dumbledore's Army, full stop," said Draco firmly. "That's a much more psychologically powerful name."

"Yeah, it is," said Harry. "But you should at least consult me about things like that, don't you think?"

"Oh, lovely. You're going to undermine my authority before we've even begun."

"I am not! I just mean--"

"It's going to be difficult enough convincing your followers that I'm heading up the group this year. It will be impossible if the Boy-Who-Lived gives me a script to follow."

"Don't call me that!"

Draco just stared at him. "I'm either the leader of the D.A. or I'm not, Harry. Decide."

Harry balled his fists in frustration. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're the leader. How can I be when I have to pretend all the time that I've never recovered from last year? It doesn't mean you can't consult me on things now and again!"

"You don't understand how authority works, clearly."

"I understand you," snapped Harry. "When it comes to prefect duties you lord it over me like you're the god of all creation, on the miserable excuse that you've been a prefect before. Never mind that you lost the position. Well, you can listen to me when it comes to Dumbledore's Army!"

"So you do agree it should be called that."

"Of course I do!"

Draco lifted a single eyebrow. "Then why are we arguing the point?"

"We're not. We're--"

"Now, now, boys," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling so madly that Harry almost scoffed. This was amusing, was it?

Actually, he supposed it probably was. He and Draco probably looked like a pair of idiots instead of young adults.

"It's good to see that you've been forming some definite plans, Draco," the headmaster continued. "But just as you have prefect experience, Harry has some background in organising and teaching his peers. It wouldn’t be very Slytherin to ignore his expertise, would it? We must all use the tools we have to hand."

Harry wasn't so sure he liked being cast as a tool, but he could see what Dumbledore was doing, so he let it go.

"Yes, sir," said Draco, scowling a little.

"Good. Now, have you thought about a time and place for your first meeting?"

"Not as yet, no. I haven't decided if we'll use some version of those charmed Galleons. The subterfuge shouldn't be needed this year, but it has a certain flair, I have to admit." Draco turned in his chair to face Harry, presenting a bland face to the other boy. "And your view would be?"

Harry didn't know how Draco could manage to be so completely sarcastic while keeping his voice and features devoid of any expression. "Ditch the Galleons, I guess."

"I shall inform Hermione."

God, but Draco could be a pompous arse when he set his mind to it.

Dumbledore smiled, the expression gentle, though Harry knew he noticed more than he let on. "You've thought about the membership, I assume?"

Draco folded his hands together. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

"Will Slytherins be permitted to join?"

Harry made a pointing motion that encompassed both himself and Draco. "We're Slytherins." He managed not to add duh to the end of the comment.

"Yes, you are. But I meant other Slytherins. Now that this will be a sanctioned school activity, it must be open to all the houses. You see that, I think?"

Harry did, but he didn't know what to say.

Draco swallowed. "Headmaster . . . I told Harry that there were Slytherins worth saving, and I meant it, but the simple truth is that not even Severus knows for certain which ones can be trusted. What if one of them passes word along to Death Eater parents about what we're learning? It's best not to hand your enemy a compendium of the spells you know."

"We don't know for certain which Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs can be trusted, either," said Harry, thinking of Marietta Edgecombe.

"Or Gryffindors," said Draco. Then he sighed. "But as much as I might like to think well of my house, it is statistically more likely that a Slytherin will come from a family allied with the Dark Lord . . . er, Voldemort."

"Oh, do keep that up," said Dumbledore. "I heartily approve, and nothing could more clearly reinforce your mindset to your housemates than a refusal to call Voldemort by the title he prefers."

Draco seemed to be trying for a blasé tone. "I tell myself it can't hurt since I've signed my own death warrant several times over by now."

"Oh, not to worry. Right makes might, you know."

"That's not the way I've heard the saying."

"I know," said Dumbledore gently. "You may think that I don't understand what you've had to surmount to turn away from your past allegiances . . . well, perhaps I don't understand it fully. It would be rather arrogant to claim I do. But I appreciate your hard work for us more than you think. You put me in mind of another Slytherin who fought a battle with his own conscience and turned to the Light. A man who has my deepest respect."

At that, Harry felt a complete prat for fussing over who would make the decisions for the D.A.

"Mine, too," whispered Draco.

Dumbledore's gaze cleared. "I won't dispute your opinion of Slytherin, but my earlier concern stands."

"Sir? I don't want to exclude them--"

"Oh, I know," said Harry, trying not to sound like he was taking over. "How about we make everybody sign a charmed paper again? If Zabini joins and then talks about what we're learning, he can go around with 'lying no-good sneak' plastered across his face."

"So what?" Draco looked bleak, like his earlier "death warrant" comment was still on his mind. "You can't unring a bell, Harry."

"No, and for that reason I have an additional suggestion to offer," said Dumbledore. "If you decide to teach anything that you feel must remain a secret from the Death Eaters, Draco, announce a special advanced meeting. Naturally, only students who were in the D.A. last year could be considered for inclusion. The others are beginners."

"Except you, Draco," said Harry, hoping to jolt Draco out of his dark mood. "You were at every meeting last time, weren't you?"

It worked. "You're really quite annoying sometimes, Potter."

"That's settled, then," said Dumbledore gaily, rubbing his hands together. "Thank you for coming to see me, my boys. Oh, and Harry? You can expect a summons from me sometime tomorrow. Probably near the end of classes. It should be safe enough for you to visit with Remus Lupin here in the privacy of my office."

"My dad mentioned it. Thanks."

"My pleasure, my very great pleasure indeed. Good night, then."

"Good night," echoed Draco and Harry before they stepped into the Floo.

When they arrived back home, Snape was sitting in a wing-backed chair in the living room, frowning as he perused a potions journal.

"I don't suppose you've reconsidered," Draco said to him, a little stiffly.

"No."

"She's not going to like it."

Snape set his journal aside. "That's not a primary concern."

"What?" asked Harry.

Draco sighed. "Rhiannon wants me to visit her at Uni. She thinks I should be able to come down for a weekend."

Harry tried, he really did. It wouldn't help things to call Rhiannon an imbecile. But he had to say something. "She doesn't understand about the war?"

"How could she?"

"Draco," said Severus, "I can't believe that a weekend in London is a wise idea."

"But Harry can chat with his werewolf friend, who, I'm sure you'll agree, has much more important things to be doing?"

"Don't speak as though I've done nothing for you," said Snape in a low voice. "You have no idea how difficult it was to arrange your last meeting with the young lady."

"I know, but--"

"You will write and tell her no. That is an end to the matter."

"I wouldn't go as myself," protested Draco. "But with Polyjuice whenever we're out of doors--"

"No."

Draco seemed to slump as he finally nodded. "All right. I understand the logic, truly I do. It's just--" He groaned, ducking his head so that his hair hid his face.

"You miss her. Of course."

Snape's voice wasn't exactly warm, but it somehow thrummed as though he knew what Draco suffered. Had he missed Maura Morrighan when she'd gone off after the war to learn about totemic magic?

Harry thought he'd better not ask.

"To bed with you both," Snape said gruffly. "Good night."

Harry and Draco echoed the sentiment before letting themselves out into the cold, dark corridors of Slytherin.

Harry was in Ethics class when the message came.

An owl flew into the classroom, circling several times before swooping down to land on Harry's desk. Please come to my office at once, the scroll simply read. A.D.

"Sir?" said Harry, raising his hand and waiting until Hermione paused in her explanation of Machiavelli. "I'm wanted in the headmaster's office."

"Very well. I'll walk you up," said Snape. "Miss Granger, please continue until I return."

It was less than a hundred yards, if that, between the light, airy classroom being used for Ethics and the headmaster's office. "I'm sure I'd be safe on my own," Harry whispered furiously the moment they were clear of the classroom.

Snape didn't reply until they were riding the enchanted staircase upward. "I'd like to see for myself that my instructions have been followed."

"Instructions?"

"Potions instructions."

Oh. He meant that he wanted to make sure that Harry wouldn't be stuck talking to "Lucius Malfoy" instead of Remus Lupin. Harry supposed that was good of him.

Actually, it was good of him to let him chat with Remus at all. For all he'd said that Remus was more worthy of respect than he'd thought, Harry didn't kid himself. Snape still could barely stand the man and he didn't like letting Harry have a chat with him. That much was obvious from Snape's terse voice and the stiff set of his shoulders.

Snape knocked on the office door at the top of the stairs, his fist banging into it with a lot more force than was necessary.

The door swung open with a creak and the familiar features of Remus Lupin came into view. "Hallo Harry, Severus. Come in, come in."

Harry glanced about for Dumbledore, but didn't see him anywhere.

Snape stepped over the threshold but came no further inside the room. "I've a class in session," he said, his voice so harsh it grated on Harry's nerves.

Remus nodded. "Of course. Er . . . are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for a few moments? While we get our feet wet, as it were?"

"No, I'm sure I wouldn't like to stay for a few moments," said Snape viciously, his tone mocking the concerned one Remus had used. "My feet are already soaked, little good that it's done me."

Harry was growing more confused by the second. "What are you on about?"

"It's fine, Harry, it's fine," said Remus in a soothing voice. "Perhaps you can join your father later for dinner in his quarters. You'll probably have a bit to discuss with him."

"I don't understand--"

"My students are waiting," Snape bit out. "Six minutes of Hermione Granger pontificating on any subject is probably five too many. Harry . . ." He glanced at Harry, his dark eyes turbulent.

In the end, he didn't say anything more.

He slammed the door on his way out, though.

"I don't know what's got into him," said Harry, genuinely puzzled. "Unless he's addicted to purple loosestrife again-- oh. Um, forget I said that."

He suddenly felt a bit like Hagrid saying I shouldn't 'a said tha--

"Don't worry, Harry." Remus made a motion as though to zip his mouth closed. "Mum's the word."

"It was only because he was working so hard for the Order-- yeah, all right." Harry flopped into a chair and helped himself to a sweet from a dish. "So, how have you been? I don't suppose you can give me much detail, huh?"

"Probably not, no."

Harry sighed. "We can't even speak freely?"

Remus cast a series of shimmering wards. "Oh, we can. I highly doubt those were even necessary. If anyone would know how to protect his own office, it would be Albus."

"Well, in that case, Draco wanted me to ask if you'd had any word from his mother."

"Two letters a month, delivered like clockwork on the first and the fifteenth. They never say anything at all, though. Unless you count the weather in France and stilted inquiries about my health."

Harry sighed. "Maybe it's good that she doesn't write to Draco. Although, when she did . . . the parchment was almost gooey with affection."

"I wonder if she's expecting me to demand her return," admitted Remus. "It may be out of character for me to allow her to stay away. But frankly, things are simpler without her here, and the only person who might know what Lucius would do is Draco."

"Who has a strong motive to keep his mother away from you," said Harry, nodding. "Even if it means she's away from him, too."

"Perhaps I should simply tell him the truth."

"You did, and it didn't make any difference." Harry sighed. "I don't know why it's so hard for him to believe that you won't infect her, but that's prejudice for you, I suppose."

"I was speaking of a different truth," said Remus.

"Oh?"

The man relaxed in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, but it looked strangely like a pose to Harry. Which was odd, as Remus almost never posed. "Do you recall, Harry, when Draco became almost hysterical at the prospect of my sleeping with his mother?"

"Yeah. You tried to tell him that she wasn't attractive, not to you."

Remus narrowed his eyes, just slightly. "You've never wondered why that is?"

Harry shrugged. "I just assumed it's because she's the worst kind of pureblood fanatic, not to mention a terrible person. You couldn't possibly approve of a woman who sides with her husband when he puts out a death warrant on her own son."

"Of course I couldn't." Remus sat up straight and leaned forward in his chair. He no longer looked posed in the least. Urgent, rather. "But Harry, Narcissa Malfoy could be Britain's most compassionate witch as well as the loveliest, and I still wouldn't find myself attracted to her. I'm not drawn to women, you see. I never have been. I'm only attracted to men."

"Really?" Harry would never have guessed that. But then, he'd never spent much time thinking about Remus' love life, except to agree with Snape that he wouldn't find Draco's mother appealing in the least. "Oh. All right."

Harry shrugged again, a little confused as to why Remus was telling him this, when surely it was Draco who needed to hear it. "Um, why didn't you just say that when Draco was throwing his fit, instead of making vague allusions to roses and such?"

Remus sighed. "I should have, of course. I know I should have. But keeping my personal life private is a long-standing habit of mine."

Harry understood at once. "The werewolf thing."

A smile barely touched Remus' mouth. "Exactly. I was quite annoyed when Severus broke his silence."

"But my dad . . . uh, he knows that you prefer blokes? Oh, wait. He must. That's why he kept telling Draco over and over that there was nothing to worry about."

"I'm sorry to hear that's been necessary," murmured Remus. "Poor Draco."

Harry tried not to scoff. It wouldn't be kind to remind Remus that Draco regarded him as a slavering beast who might force himself on Narcissa Malfoy. "Why do you suppose he outed you for being a werewolf but never breathed a word about your liking blokes, though?"

"Because there's nothing particularly remarkable about the latter."

That made sense, Harry supposed, and it went along with Snape's sense of decorum. Warning people that Remus was a werewolf was one thing; Snape could tell himself that he was thinking of the students' safety, even if his real reason had been something much uglier. He wouldn't have any justification for talking about Remus' sex life. "How did he find out, anyway?"

"With the way he followed me about trying to discover where I vanished to each month? Let's just say that he got an eyeful a couple of times." Remus snorted slightly. "Come to think of it, it seemed to set him on edge."

That last bit startled Harry until he thought about it for a moment. Yeah, of course it would upset a younger Snape to see two blokes in the throes of . . . whatever. It probably just reminded him of the things his father had forced on him.

"Is that why he--" Harry cleared his throat and started over. "You think maybe this is why my dad took such a strong dislike to you, Remus? Because, you know, he saw things that . . . er, set him on edge?"

Remus shrugged. "I doubt that mattered in the long run. More important to Severus would be the way I stood by while James and Sirius played their pranks on him."

That still bothered Harry whenever he thought about it.

"And me a prefect," continued Remus softly. "Just as you are, now. I hope you make a better choice than I did, if you face the same sort of situation."

Harry didn't know what to say, since I hope so too would sound like he condemned Remus for his inaction all those years ago. Which he did . . . but he didn't want to say so.

"Can I tell Draco that you're gay?"

Remus sighed. "I suppose you should. But . . . only if Narcissa returns. As long as she's in France, Draco has no cause for worry."

Harry nodded. That seemed a fair compromise.

"You don't seem troubled by my news," said Remus in a probing tone.

"Were you expecting me to be?"

"I don't know what I expected."

"Wait," said Harry, something not sitting right with him. "You mean . . . you mean you came here today intending to tell me this? I thought we had just kind of drifted into it."

"No, this is what I came to tell you."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." Remus paused, sighing even more deeply than before. "It's come to my attention that quite likely, the only person you've known to be an acknowledged gay man is . . . well, a right prat."

Harry thought of Piers and winced. "Worse than a prat. He's a complete arsehole." He stopped to think. "This still doesn't explain why you'd suddenly tell me this, Remus. Or did you think I'd lump you in with Piers if I ever found out?"

"I'm not too concerned over what you might think of me. My concern is much more centred on . . . well, on you, Harry."

"Me? But why would anybody be worried about me?"

"Your father and I are both worried, actually." Remus glanced out the window, then looked back at Harry. "In the circumstances, he thought it best that I be the one to speak with you."

"What circumstances?"

Remus sighed. "I hardly know where to begin, Harry. If you'd been raised by your father -- by James, that is -- this wouldn't even be an issue. But based on some things that you've said to Severus, I have to think that your aunt and uncle have passed on some values that are . . . less than tolerant."

Harry stared. "Yeah, they hated magic. Didn't we talk about that enough last year when I was holed up in Grimmauld Place with you? You tried to tell me that I might have lost my magic because after Petunia died, I hated the magical part of myself just as she'd always wanted."

"A lot of my conclusions last autumn were wrong. But I wasn't talking about hating magic, Harry. Your relatives also hated gay people, I think?"

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with me?" asked Harry, genuinely confused. "I don't care that you're gay, Remus, and I really don't care what Uncle Vernon would have thought. The man was an idiot. Don't you . . . don't you believe me?"

"I can believe that you don't care who I sleep with," said Remus slowly. "But there must be some vestige of their attitudes in you. Otherwise, why would you fight so hard against your own natural inclinations?"

Harry gaped. "What do you mean, my natural inclinations?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," said Remus gently. "You're shocked at the mere idea that you might want to snog another boy."

Harry was shocked, all right. "Yeah, because I don't!"

"You've been taught that such a desire is wrong--"

"No, I haven't!" Harry coloured and backed up. "All right, fine. I suppose I have. But I know that was just Uncle Vernon being his own gitty self. Really, I do know that!"

"Then why did you tell Severus that it would be indecent for you to go on a date with a boy or two?"

Harry gnashed his teeth. It was bad enough to hear that Snape and Remus were gossiping about him, but to find out that they'd got it all wrong like this? And why in the bloody hell hadn't Snape just said he was worried Harry might be gay? Harry would have set him straight!

"What I said," he gritted, "was that it would be indecent for me to get involved with anyone while the war was on. But believe me, when I said it, I was thinking of girls!"

"You're awfully defensive."

"Of course I’m fucking well defensive! I'm not gay!"

"Just as well I cast those extra wards," said Remus, wincing a little.

That made Harry lower his voice, but it didn't make him any less vehement. "What am I supposed to say, Remus? I wouldn't have a problem liking blokes, but the fact is that I only like them as mates."

"So Severus is simply mistaken?"

"Yeah. Hell of a mistake, if you ask me." Harry leaned far forward, trying to pierce Remus with his gaze. Wouldn't it be nice to know a bit of Legilimency just now? "What gave my dad an idea like this? Do you know?"

"Not in detail--"

"Well, he must have said something about it!"

"He mentioned that he'd witnessed an ugly incident between yourself and your cousin's flatmate over the summer, and said he feared from your reaction to him that you might have got the idea that relations between men are dirty, disgusting."

"Relations with Piers certainly would be," said Harry, shuddering. "But come on, Remus, that's just bloody ridiculous. Snape shouldn't assume that I'm gay just because he sees some other bloke come on to me. For God's sake, couldn't he tell I wasn't interested?"

"Well . . ."

"Out with it," said Harry in a warning tone.

He knew he shouldn't speak to Remus that way, but it did work.

"Severus thought you might be interested in your swimming instructor, and unwilling to act on it."

"Roger?" Harry gaped. "I was interested in learning to swim! And he was a nice enough bloke, but what on earth would make Snape think that he might be gay?"

"The two of you apparently smiled at one another quite a bit, and got on well, and . . ." Remus swallowed. "Well, if you must know, Severus overheard the two of you commiserating that you both hated the breast-stroke."

If Harry hadn't been so annoyed with his father, he'd have burst out laughing. "Snape's brilliant analytical mind is going down in my estimation, just so you know."

"I admit, it does sound a bit thin." Remus gave a slight smile. "But he thought it was a sort of . . . code, I suppose."

"You mean he thought I was flirting? He must also think I'm pants at it." Harry shook his head. "I can't believe he got such a stupid idea in his head in the first place."

"To be fair to him, Harry, you are seventeen and you've never had any interest in the opposite sex--"

"Not true! I had a crush on Cho Chang for a solid year! I even snogged her!"

"Oh." Remus tugged at his collar. "I don't think Severus realises that."

"It was all over a long time before I got adopted," said Harry shortly. "But I’m pretty sure he must know about it. I can't believe I never mentioned it to him. Well, I can believe I didn't mention the snogging bit, but I think I've said I used to like her."

Remus winced. "He may have thought that you were younger then, and exploring the idea of girls. In which case, it makes sense for him to conclude that they weren't your preference. After all, there hasn't been anybody since, has there?"

"No, and it's not too hard to figure out why. Voldemort found out that I cared about Sirius and look how that turned out! I knew then that it was just as well Cho had sided with that sneak Marietta . . . long story, but if we weren't already on the outs, I'd have broken up with her anyway." Harry's voice broke. "I can't have anybody. I just can't, Remus."

Remus gave him an understanding smile, no censure in it. "You didn't let that stop you from loving Severus."

"I would have," said Harry stubbornly. "That . . . that just happened. I was scared to death of the bone marrow procedure and he was there, and then I was blind and missing my magic, and then we needed those wards, and it all just got away from me. And Draco got caught up in it, but if either one of them dies because they're my family, it'll be Sirius all over again. And I don't know that I can take that again. So I don't."

"Don't?"

"Date."

"Don’t you miss it?"

Harry shrugged. "I swear, Remus, I'm not gay. But I'm also kind of . . . I'm not smooth like Draco, all right? I get nervous and tongue-tied when I like a girl that way."

Remus, to Harry's disgust, looked like he found that admission rather endearing, though his voice was serious when he replied. "You didn't answer my question, Harry. Don't you miss it?"

This time, Harry gave his answer more thought. "I didn't think about it much last year, to be honest. Too much else on my mind, getting used to a father and brother, and an entirely new way of casting magic, and all the rest."

"And this year?"

Harry blinked, feeling like he was coming out of a rainstorm to see the clear blue sky. Maybe this explained why he'd been so resentful of Rhiannon, so dead-set against Draco's romance: because it had made him start thinking about his own bleak prospects again.

It had made him remember that resolve he'd formed during that lonely summer after Sirius died. That decision that he could never have anyone of his own.

Or not at least until the war was finally over.

Remus didn't know about Rhiannon, so Harry just shrugged again. "There isn't anyone. There can't be."

"You know, Harry, love has a way of making itself felt whether it's convenient or not."

"If it tries, I'll Occlude it away," said Harry stubbornly. "Is that it, then? I have a lack of girlfriends and a couple of friendly conversations with my swimming coach, and Snape assumes I'm gay? And then instead of talking to me about it himself, he foists me off onto you? What sort of father does that?"

"He doesn't have much experience at being a father--"

"Well, that's bloody obvious, isn't it?"

"Be fair, Harry. He tried to talk with you and you refused to discuss it."

Harry thought back and groaned. "I didn't know we were discussing this. I thought he was just bugging me to ask some girls on dates. It never crossed my mind that he had boys in mind." An even worse thought occurred to him. "Oh, no. Does Draco also think I'm gay? Wait, how could he? We used to lie awake at night and trade stories about girls last year!"

"It's possible that your brother might have believed that was a cover," said Remus carefully. "I have no idea what Draco thinks."

"A cover! I'm not the kind of person who would--"

At that precise instant, a recent memory burst forth in Harry's mind. He was kissing Ginny on the cheek after getting her blessing, more or less, to resume as Seeker, and Snape was sitting at the head table, scowling at the pair of them.

Harry suddenly felt sick. Snape had thought he was covering, hadn't he? He'd thought that Harry had kissed Ginny in public in some kind of sick bid to pretend that he liked girls. He believed that Harry was the sort of young man who would toy with her like that? Use her like that, when he wasn't attracted to her at all?

He must, Harry thought with despair. He must, because the only other explanation that made sense at all was even worse. It wasn't lost on Harry that he looked a lot like James, and Ginny looked a lot like Lily Evans, and Snape had been disgusted, while at school, with the fact that James and Lily had been "rutting" with each other--

But if he'd seen Harry peck Ginny on the cheek and been reminded of that in some kind of déjà vu moment, it would mean that he did still look at Harry and see James.

Probably it was better for him to think that Harry was an inconsiderate berk willing to hurt his friends so he could pretend to be something he wasn't.

But how could he think that Harry would do a thing like that? And to Ginny, of all people?

Didn't Snape know him at all?

Maybe he just knew one thing: that Harry was supposedly gay.

And after what Snape had suffered at the hands of his father, he didn't like gay people very much, did he? He probably assumed that being gay was what had made Remus ignore his prefect duties while in school! He probably thought that gay people were all close to toe-rags in how they treated others, and Harry was no exception!

"I have to go," said Harry, his legs feeling stiff as he yanked himself to his feet. "Thanks for talking with me, Remus, even if there was actually nothing to talk about."

"You look upset--"

"Wouldn't you be annoyed if your father sent you to someone else to talk about something like this?"

"But you wouldn't talk to him!"

"I know that," gritted Harry. "But don't worry, Remus. I'm definitely going to talk to him now!"

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Eleven

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Note: "Right makes might" is a quotation from the American president Abraham Lincoln, ca. 1860.

Chapter Text

The minute Harry closed the door to the headmaster's office, he almost groaned out loud. So much for a dramatic exit! He wasn't supposed to walk the hallways alone, and he certainly couldn't ask Remus to accompany him. Everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy was present at Hogwarts today. It wouldn’t be a huge risk for Remus Lupin to be seen at the castle on the same day, but when it came to Remus' life, Harry wasn't about to take any risks at all.

Speaking of risk, though . . . it would almost serve Snape right if Harry ignored his stupid rules about not being alone in the halls. They weren't needed; Harry could take care of himself.

Nodding fiercely, Harry headed toward the revolving staircase.

He was just about to step onto it when another thought stopped him.

To bring the Dark Lord down will require cunning, something you'd have mastered by now if you'd been placed in my house . . .

Harry stopped walking and ground his teeth together. Damn and blast. Snape was right and Harry knew it. The precautions about not walking alone weren't for Harry's protection; they were part of a plan. A good plan, and one to which Harry had agreed.

The fact that it was an irritating plan was beside the point, he supposed. Being narked by his father was no reason to ditch it.

There was nothing for it but to whirl around and head back the way he'd just come. He decided not to knock this time, but thrust the headmaster's door open and strode straight in.

"Harry?" Remus had sunk into a chair and looked to be holding his head in his hands.

"Don't mind me," said Harry through his teeth. "Just passing through."

"Wait." Remus jumped up. "I don't think you understand, Harry--"

"Oh, I understand." Harry's nostrils flared. "Did I ever mention that Snape can be a bit overbearing? I can't even walk home on my own without breaking one of his rules, so I came in here to use the Floo."

"You know why those precautions were put in place--"

"Even so, I'm sick of them." When Harry reached for some Floo powder, he saw that his own arm was shaking. "It's a wonder Snape agreed I could play Quidditch. But then, there haven't been any matches yet. When there are, he'll probably want me to take a Bludger hit just to keep up appearances!"

"Oh, Harry."

"Don't sound so appalled." Harry raised his chin, aware that he was imitating Draco's habitual snootiness. At the moment, though, he didn't care. "I'm sure he'll have only my very best interests at heart!"

Remus grabbed for Harry's wrist. "But he does! Why else would he ask for me to speak with you? I don't think you know what it cost Severus to admit to me that he needed help with his son."

Harry jerked his wrist out of Remus' grasp. "A lot, I'm sure. But not as much as you might think, Remus. Snape was saying even before this whole . . . romance issue came up that he'd misjudged you. Whatever you did the night the Ministry was destroyed . . . well, it raised you several notches in his estimation, even if he was rude as hell today." Harry narrowed his eyes. "What did you do, anyway?"

"Nothing that bears repeating," said Remus, his whole expression taut. "Harry . . . don't be too hard on your father. He does have your best interests at heart."

Harry sighed. "I just . . . I can't believe that Severus could be so . . . so bloody brainless. It's not like him."

"He hasn't been a father for very long. He's bound to make mistakes."

"This was one hell of a mistake!"

"But you contributed to it. Severus wouldn't have got hold of the wrong end of the wand if you'd been willing to talk to him when he asked."

"I was willing to talk about this," said Harry. "I just didn't know it was about this!"

"You would have known if you hadn't refused to continue the discussion."

Harry sighed. "He tells you everything, is that it?"

"Not normally, no. Of course not. But this . . . Harry, your father was truly worried about you."

Yeah, worried I'd turn out to be like you, thought Harry. Part of him knew that he was being unfair; after all, Snape had made it clear enough that he wanted Harry to start dating. And if he'd believed Harry to be gay, that must mean that he'd been encouraging Harry to date another boy.

The fact that he hadn't said so in so many words, though? It could only mean one thing: that deep down, Snape really hated the idea, even if he was willing to tolerate it.

"It was good to see you, Remus," Harry said, trying to end their conversation on a more positive note this time. "Stay safe, all right? When I heard that Draco's mum had gone to the Continent, I thought it was a good thing for you. She can't notice that something about you is off if she's not around. Which reminds me -- Draco will throw a fit if he finds out I saw you and didn't ask after his mum. And trust me, Draco knows how to throw one hell of a fit. So . . . any news?"

"Narcissa has perfected the art of saying nothing at all even though she owls me every other week. I can tell you all about the newest fashions in ladies' robes, but as to how she is truly doing?" Remus shook his head.

"Do you think she suspects you're not yourself?"

Remus shrugged. "I don't know. A better question in that case is why hasn’t she denounced me."

Harry didn't know. But that was just as well. Narcissa Malfoy was a woman who had killed her own rich relative so her son could inherit his money. Harry had no real desire to be able to think like that sort of person.

"One more thing," said Harry, clearing his throat. He wasn't sure how to bring this up, so he'd avoided thinking about it for the most part. Anyway, it hadn't mattered as long as Remus had been unreachable; it wouldn't do for Harry Potter to be seen owling Lucius Malfoy, after all.

But now that Remus was here in the castle, Harry was out of excuses.

"Um . . . maybe you should sit down for this."

Remus sank into a chair and regarded him with a puzzled air. "Harry?"

"I found a mirror," Harry blurted. "It was broken but I got it working again. Um, but it only works for me, but there's no reason why you couldn't tag along, if you'd like. Well, of course you would. I know how well you got on with Sirius."

"Sirius?"

Gah, Harry hadn't even explained the most important part. "Yeah. The mirror lets you talk to the dead. It's called the Mirror of All Souls. I've been talking with Sirius a lot lately."

Remus' face paled. "You're joking." Before Harry could reply he was speaking again. "No, of course you're not joking. You wouldn't, not on a subject like this."

"You can't let on that you're impersonating Malfoy," warned Harry. "There are Death Eaters not too far from where Sirius is, and Snape is worried that I might not be the only person with some kind of access to that place. In fact, I can't talk to my parents because Voldemort managed to curse them so they can't come when I call. So I don’t tell Sirius anything that could be considered Order business."

Remus sucked in a huge breath and blew it out again, very slowly. "I . . . I've no idea what to say."

"To Sirius?"

"About any of this."

"Don't you want to talk with him again?"

"Yes, I do." Remus' face, Harry saw, was still very pale. "But it was difficult arranging this 'free time' to be myself today, Harry. A board meeting gave me perfect cover, but I've already stayed longer than I should have. You-Know-Who considers me his right-hand man these days. I'm always at his beck and call."

"Sneak out of the Manor in the middle of the night and come to Snape's rooms," suggested Harry. "Voldemort will never know."

"He's a frequent visitor to the manor. There's no telling what sort of spells he's cast on it. I wouldn't be surprised to find he tracks my comings and goings."

Harry went still. "What if he's cast a spell on you?"

"Very good thinking, Harry. Albus checked thoroughly for that when we were trading insults after the board meeting. But I can hardly have him come check through the manor."

"You and Dumbledore were trading insults?"

"Lucius and he were, yes."

"Oh. Right."

"I don't know when I'll be able to speak with Sirius, Harry," said Remus, clearly regretful. "But I would like the opportunity. Very much."

"I'll save you a shard."

"Pardon?"

Harry waved a hand and stepped closer to the fire. "I'll explain when it matters. Thanks for coming to talk with me, Remus."

"Don't be too hard on your father--"

"I'll do my best," said Harry dryly, throwing the powder down as he said the rest. "Harry Potter's home!"

Snape wasn't there, but that made sense. When Harry checked his watch, he saw that Ethics was still in session. He was surprised, as it seemed to him that he'd spent a long while talking to Remus.

He wondered for a moment what the ethics of this situation might be.

Then he sighed, long and loud. Snape had been mistaken, true. Foolishly mistaken, but he hadn't intended to hurt Harry. He'd intended the opposite, in fact, and if he had a hard time bringing up the subject of sexuality in a way Harry could actually recognise, that wasn't too hard to understand. All Harry had to do was think about the kind of abuse Snape had suffered at the hands of his own father.

All right, fine. Harry didn't like the way his father had misread him, but he decided then and there to deal with it like an adult.

Kneeling before the Floo, Harry ordered dinner for two and ignored his childish impulse to pick something Snape disliked. Whatever was being served in the Great Hall would do.

Harry wasn't going to be pleased, however, if Snape went to the Great Hall for his dinner. He wouldn't do that, though. He'd know he had to talk with Harry, and he'd definitely know that Harry had no way to get from the headmaster's office to the Great Hall without breaking the don't-walk-alone rule. Well, unless Snape thought that Harry was going to wait around until Dumbledore could walk him there--

Harry gave up on thinking then, and flopped onto the couch, his eyes sort of stinging. He wasn't crying, or at least he didn't think he was. He must have got a flake of ash in them or something, because he didn't have any reason to cry.

It wasn't that big of a deal if Snape thought he was gay, was it?

By the time Harry heard the door latch click, he'd got himself more in hand. Washing his face had helped. Well, some.

He was standing at the table, wand out per Snape's rules, casting a wandless re-heating charm on the roast beef which had been sitting for about ten minutes by then. He didn't turn to greet his father. Honestly, he wasn't sure what to say.

That problem didn't last long.

"Two place settings? Why thank you, Harry," said Draco, his voice dripping disdain.

Harry whirled around to glare at his father, his resolve to be mature vanishing. "What's wrong with you, bringing him along?"

"He's a part of this family," said Snape in a level voice. "How was your talk with Lupin?"

"Informative," snapped Harry. So he was supposed to discuss his supposed gayness in front of Draco, was he?

"This happens to be my home too," snapped Draco. "But don't get your wand in a twist. I'll leave if you need me to. Just tell me first if you asked about my mother?"

"Yes, of course I asked about your mother!" Harry gnashed his teeth, growing more annoyed by the second. "In fact, she's the only thing on my mind. Remus and I talked of nothing but your mother, from start to finish, since she's all that matters to any of us!"

"What the hell's wrong with you?" asked Draco, stepping up to Harry. "Did you have a fight with the werewolf or something?"

"How could I? We were too busy rhapsodising over your mother!"

"Rhapsodising!" Draco's eyes glittered. "Are you trying to tell me that he's fallen for her? That's probably why she fled the country, because he couldn't keep his nasty paws off of her, and he's not her husband, and she knew, she could tell it was some horrid inhuman beast slavering over her--"

"Oh, for God's sake! He's gay, Draco! Remus Lupin is gay!"

"I see you did get somewhere in your conversation," murmured Snape.

"Yeah, no thanks to you," said Harry, almost snorting.

"What does Dad have to do with it?"

"Oh, just that he wants me to come out, too!"

"Come out where?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Come out as gay, Draco."

Draco burst out laughing. "What? Why? You're not gay!"

Finally, somebody with a brain in his head, thought Harry viciously as he rounded on his father. "That's right, I'm not! I'm not at all, and I'd like to know what you thought you were playing at, getting such an idiotic idea in your head and telling Remus it was true!"

Draco abruptly stopped laughing. "You mean you're serious? Severus actually believed you were gay?"

Harry crossed his arms and nodded, a single angry snap of his head.

"I could have told you that he wasn't," said Draco to their father.

"How do you know he isn't?"

"I am actually here in the room, you know!" said Harry loudly.

"Frankly, you sound like you're in denial. A fact that doesn't surprise me after the way you reacted when I so much as mentioned the matter."

"Look, I thought you were talking about something else--"

"Let your brother answer the question."

Draco chuckled, the humour of the situation obviously catching up with him again. Not that Harry saw anything remotely funny.

"I know because Harry likes girls, Severus. He dated that Ravenclaw seeker, for Merlin's sake, and took one of the Patil girls to the Yule Ball. Besides, I can't tell you how many times we've stayed up late discussing girls. You should have seen him preen when I told him how the girls in Slytherin go on about him."

Harry scowled. "Oh, but that means nothing, Draco. Snape there thinks I'm covering!"

"Covering?"

"Faking it! Pretending to like girls because he thinks there's something twisted about liking boys!"

"I do not think there is something twisted about it," interrupted Snape.

Sure.

"And if I suspected you were 'covering,' it was because you told me you were. You said that you had to be the kind of person the wizarding world could respect."

"Ha!" shouted Harry. "You think a gay man's not worthy of respect!"

"I do not think that. It seemed to me that you thought it, and who could blame you when your only known example of one was your cousin's flatmate?"

Draco stepped between them. "I can settle this. There's a very simple way to prove that Harry's not gay, Severus."

"What?" asked Harry and Snape at the same time, both of them turning narrowed eyes on Draco.

"Well . . . the fact that he's been rooming with me for almost an entire year, now." Draco smiled widely, his eyes gleaming. "Think about it. He's seen me in a state of deshabillé more times than I can count. And we all know I'm drop dead gorgeous. If Harry were gay in the least, we'd never have been able to become brothers. There would be too much baggage in the way, you see? In fact, he'd definitely have made a move by now."

Harry's anger didn't exactly evaporate, but all at once there was less of it, and what was left felt . . . squishy, he decided as he tried not to grin. "Has anyone mentioned how conceited you can be?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Well, are you attracted to me?"

"Of course I'm not!"

"Not even a little bit?"

"No!"

"Case closed," announced Draco. "He hasn't got a gay bone in his body."

Harry wasn't sure why he was arguing, since Draco's position supported his own, but his logic was so ridiculous that Harry couldn't help himself. "Hermione's interested in the male gender, and she's not attracted to you."

"Oh, I think I could sweet-talk her into something interesting," murmured Draco. "The way she looks at me, I can tell she's not entirely immune to the possibilities. But that's neither here nor there since I've got Rhiannon."

"You're impossible."

"Shall we eat?" asked Snape, his voice sounding almost faint for once. Well, good. Maybe it was finally dawning on him that he'd stuck his foot in it this time. All the way to the kneecap.

"You two shall, apparently," said Draco. "And it seems you have things to discuss, so perhaps a table for two is just as well."

"Oh, just stay. You know it all now--" Harry gulped. "I mean, you know too much. That bit about Remus . . . I wasn't actually supposed to mention that to anyone. It just slipped out."

"See that it doesn't 'slip out' again," said Snape sternly. "I already asked a great deal of Lupin in this matter."

"You mean he didn't want to tell me?" That hurt a little.

"He considers the matter a very private one and would prefer not to discuss it with anyone. Draco, are you staying?"

"I don't know. Am I?" Draco directed the question to Harry, even though Harry had already answered that. Well, maybe he needed to really feel welcome.

"Yes, you're staying. Do you want what we're having?"

Draco gave their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding a dubious glance. "Whatever suits, I think."

Harry tried not to feel awkward as he sat down across from his father, but it was a near thing. He could still hardly credit that Snape had believed him gay, when Harry had never once thought about a boy that way. "You don't still think I'm in denial, do you?"

Severus salted his beef even though he'd yet to taste it, which showed how off-kilter he must be feeling. "I don't know what to think at this point."

Great.

Well, at least it was honest.

"Why don't you start by telling me how you got such a crazy idea. Just because I smiled at Roger and disliked the breast stroke?"

"No, not just that," murmured Snape, lifting a hand to his temple and rubbing. "Are you quite certain that you understand your preferences?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"How sure?"

Oh, God, they were going to have to talk about urges again. And this time, he couldn't really refuse. Not after what had happened last time.

Harry cleared his throat. "Well, you're the one who said I'm a normal young man. I am, honestly. Including . . . uh . . ." He felt himself blushing crimson, and clenched his eyes shut. "Uh, you know, all the usual things. I think about things and . . . and . . . I er . . . well, there are these urges and I . . . er . . . er . . ."

"You relieve your tension, I think you mean," murmured Snape.

Harry had never in his life been so grateful for decorum. "Yeah. I relieve my tension. That's it. And it's thinking about girls that gets me . . . um, tense."

"You've never once thought about a boy while you . . ." Snape made a vague gesture.

Harry snorted and opened his eyes to look straight at his father. "No, I haven't. And what's more, it's never even occurred to me to think about blokes when I . . . you know."

"You do realise, Harry, that wanking isn't really polite dinnertime conversation," said Draco as he came back over.

"Like you don't do exactly the same thing." Harry almost snorted again, wondering how Draco could manage it while he was loudly singing opera.

"I don't talk about it at the table, though."

"I wouldn't either, if Dad hadn't got such a bloody stupid idea in his head."

Severus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Accio headache potion," said Draco instantly, flicking his wand. "Here you are, Severus."

"And you claim I play the good son," muttered Harry.

"Stop. I can't deal with sibling rivalry, not just now. Not on top of everything else." With that, Snape downed the potion and sighed in relief.

A plate of grilled fish on a bed of fluffy amber-coloured rice winked into existence on the table. Nodding in obvious approval, Draco pulled out his chair and rather ostentatiously fluttered a linen napkin onto his lap. "Shall we?"

Instead of complaining that it was tiresome having a stuck-up prat for a brother, Harry started cutting his meat. He let a few minutes elapse before he went back to the subject still on his mind. Finally, though, he couldn't bear the waiting. "Well? Where did you come up with the insane idea that I could be gay?"

Snape abruptly slapped his fork down to the table. "It grew over time, and it didn't seem daft to me."

"How much time?"

"I suppose I first began to wonder about the matter last year when Lupin vowed his lack of interest in Narcissa. It suddenly struck me that you had, all year long, evinced a similar lack of interest in the opposite sex."

"Because of course last year I had nothing else to do. It's not as though my house was crushed into a tiny ball, or I lost my magic or was kidnapped, tortured, and blinded, or ended up getting a father and brother I'd never expected or ended up in Slytherin for that matter--"

"Granted, last year was certainly one like none other," said Snape quietly. "But still, the situation struck me as odd. And then in the summer when you were clearly resentful of Draco acquiring a girlfriend and so uninterested in going on the double-date he proposed--" Snape shrugged.

"The war takes priority for me and I thought Draco ought to feel the same. And anyway, why would me having doubts about Rhiannon make me gay? That doesn't make sense!"

"It does if one assumes that you were deeply ashamed to find yourself attracted to young men. You wished you could be like Draco, but you couldn't, so you were taking your ill humour out on him. It made more sense the longer I thought on it, especially after I'd met Mr Polkiss. He clearly made you uneasy."

"Not because he's gay--"

"Don't lie to me," said Snape sternly. "I saw the way you reacted when he suggested some sort of liaison. Your flesh crawled."

"Because he's a disgusting bully who used to help Dudley hunt me down and beat me up! Years ago, yeah, but seeing him again brought it all back."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh," said Harry scornfully. "Trust me, Piers would give me the creeps even if I were gay. Which I'm not. Which you could have discovered if you'd only asked."

Snape peered closely at him. "I tried to address the matter with you during the summer. It seemed to me that you had confirmed my hypothesis, and that you were determined to live without any romantic attachments because you were ashamed of your orientation and wished to keep it hidden."

"Romantic attachments." Harry scoffed. "Yeah, I don't want any. You have that right. I have to stay focussed on the war, not get all gooey-eyed over some girl. I told you that, over and over, plain as day."

"You said that you couldn't have what you wanted, that it wouldn't be right."

Huh. Harry supposed that really could be read two ways. It didn't matter, though. Snape was still to blame for this misunderstanding.

"Look, the real problem is that whenever you tried to talk to me, you used words so neutral that your real meaning got lost. Like 'love interest.' Or 'romantic attachment.' Why don't you say 'boy' if you mean 'boy?'"

A muscle in Severus' cheek twitched. "Because you were so obviously uncomfortable with the entire subject. I was trying to respect your sensibilities."

"I don't think so." Harry tried to take another bite but gave it up as a bad job. He wasn't hungry. "It goes back to why you fobbed me off onto Remus--"

"Fobbed!"

"You don't like gay people and you could hardly stand to talk it over with me, which explains why I never had a clue what you were on about."

"I don't dislike gay people, Harry."

"Sure you don't. You've always had a problem with Remus."

Snape ground his teeth together. "My problem with Lupin is in the past. I have no 'problem' with him now."

Yes, he did, and Harry hated it. "That explains why you were so hateful to him not two hours ago--"

Snape's features snapped taut. He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and finally said in a strained voice, "That was something else."

"It was contempt and you know it."

"No." Snape's hair swayed as he shook his head. "No, Harry. It was . . . At any rate, it wasn't deliberate. Instinctive, rather."

"Yeah, because you hate gay blokes!"

"I most certainly do not."

Snape had raised his voice by then, but Harry didn't care. "Yes, you do. Or else why were you so rude to one today?"

"I'd rather not discuss my reasons."

Harry snorted again. It seemed to be becoming a habit. "I'd rather not have discussed my wank fantasies, Dad, but you didn't give me much choice. So out with it!"

Surprisingly, that worked.

"I resented the fact that you would most likely speak with him when you hadn't been willing to speak with me!" A vein in Snape's temple throbbed. "I am your father, not he! And yet from the first moment you lived with me, I have had to listen to you moan for his presence, for him to visit--"

"That's right, visit," interrupted Harry, suddenly seeing things with a startling new clarity. He deliberately softened his voice. "I didn't ask to go and live with him, you know. I was living with you and wanted to keep it that way. But . . . I love him, too. Just . . . not the way I love you."

Snape's eyes glittered. "I should hope not. I've never traded your safety and well-being for ice-cream."

No, you just taunted me every chance you got for five long years, thought Harry. That was behind them, though. Snape had even apologised, so enough said. Besides, he understood why Snape had brought up the ice-cream. He had some kind of sibling-rivalry thing going with Remus. Or more of a fatherly-rivalry thing, Harry supposed.

He needed Harry to acknowledge which one of them was the better father-figure. Which was stupid, since only one of them was his father. Remus didn't even come close.

Harry had learned from Marsha, though, that what people needed emotionally didn't always make sense. They needed what they needed, full stop. And Snape had given him so very, very much that Harry didn’t mind giving him this in return.

"No, you never sacrificed my safety for ice-cream," he said quietly. "Or for anything else. And you've never vanished on me for an entire year, either. You've always been here, protecting me, even back when we didn't get on. I know that, Severus. You're the one who's my dad. I even made Sirius come to terms with it."

Snape looked away. "You wouldn't talk with me."

"I'm sorry about that," said Harry sincerely. "I just didn't want you talking me into going on dates. My liking a particular girl can only put her in danger, and that would be wrong." He deliberately didn't look at Draco as he said that; no point in re-hashing that old argument. "I'd have been willing to talk about my orientation if I'd known that was what had you worried."

"It didn't have me worried, except insofar as I thought you were refusing to accept yourself as you were," said Snape, looking at him again.

"It did have you a little worried, I think," said Harry, sighing. "After all, you disliked Remus for years before he went out for ice-cream. And it's not like he was a Piers-type bully. Remus is very gentle. Really, he's sweet."

"Yet he looked on while Potter and Black did their best to drive me from the school. A coward unwilling to stand up to his friends. Not to mention that he very nearly ate me. You know all this, just as you know that I was unaware last year that he was endangering himself for the war effort. I thought him a coward, still."

"Yeah, well I also know that back in school, you caught him in a clinch with a bloke or two and you had a problem with it." Harry shoved his plate out of the way and leaned closer. "But I understand that, Severus. How could you feel any differently considering . . . uh, you know. The way your father was."

"The way my father was," repeated Snape slowly. "What do you mean?"

Harry looked down at his half-eaten beef, not wanting to hurt his father by reminding him. But there was no help for it. "Well, you know. How he was a little bit gay--"

"No, he wasn't."

"But you said he touched you," exclaimed Harry. "Uh, sexually, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Snape dryly. "Hostilian was a child molester, certainly. But what he did to me didn't start with desire, unless you count his lust for artistic talent. In fact, knowing what I now know of potions, I rather suspect he needed . . . assistance in order to initiate . . ."

"Oh." Harry swallowed. "All right, but I still think it's left you with some . . . um, resentment that spills over into how you see Remus. And into the way you couldn't even talk with me properly. That's not at all like you, and I don't think the only reason for it was my supposed discomfort with the subject."

"Perhaps you should discuss the matter with the good doctor," said Draco lightly.

Harry almost started. Draco had been silent for so long that Harry had almost forgotten he was there.

"Don't jest about your therapy."

Draco shook his head. "I wasn't. She knows what she's doing; that's all I meant."

"She is a very good therapist, Dad--"

"No doubt, but I will not be consulting her."

"But I really think you still have some issues--"

"Harry, when I believed you were gay, I repeatedly tried to convince you that it was all right for you to act on your feelings. I was perfectly prepared to watch you become involved with other boys, with all that implies. Does that sound like I have 'issues?'"

Harry flushed. "Well, I just thought you loved me enough that you were trying hard to overlook how much the whole thing was going to bother you, but it did bother you and you were taking it out on Remus."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Extrapolate, if you would."

"Well . . ." Harry sighed. "I wasn't thinking about unadoption. I think . . . you'd stick by me no matter what. I believe that, really I do. But I guess I thought you'd respect me less if . . ."

"You thought I'd love you less, you mean."

Harry cleared his throat. "Maybe . . . maybe something like that."

"You idiot, idiot child."

It was probably silly to be giddy at the claim that he was doubly an idiot, Harry thought.

"I will love you no matter what," continued Snape in a soft tone. "No matter anything, Harry. You're my child, now. My son. Both of you are my sons.""According to Marsha, the official term is 'unconditional love,'" said Draco in a low voice. "Like how you and Severus forgave me for the whole Venetimorica mess last year."

Harry thought that calling it a "mess" was a vast understatement, but on the other hand, Draco did have his pride. Too much of it, but that was Draco.

"All children should receive unconditional love from the people charged to care for them," agreed Severus calmly.

Harry wondered if he was thinking of himself, as well as his sons, as he said it.

Snape began drumming his fingers on the table. "Is this why you've been so adamant about your preferences, Harry? Because you believed that I would eventually love you less if you were to admit to an attraction for young men?"

"No," said Harry shortly. "It's because I'd like to think you know me by now, Severus. This is like . . . it's like you thinking that Potions is my favourite class in the world. You ought to know differently if you know me."

"Hmm. Speaking of Potions, why did you react so badly when Draco teased you during class this week? He suggested that you might have been kissing Miss Lovegood in the supply closet, and you all but bit his head off."

Harry thought back and almost groaned. What was Harry supposed to say? Well, I was a bit upset because Luna had just swooned at the thought of your sleek dark hair?

"I didn't want you to think I was using brewing time to mess about," said Harry quickly. "And besides, I also didn't want you to think I was a total hypocrite, claiming I was going to steer clear of romance and then leading her on or something. Luna doesn't deserve to be treated that way."

Snape said nothing in reply, but just kept drumming his fingers against the table.

"What did you think I meant?"

"I thought it was a rare flash of your true feelings showing, that you would regard your brother as 'stupid' for assuming you would want to kiss a girl. Then later, I thought you were regretting your outburst and sought to correct it by very publicly kissing Miss Weasley."

"Right, you thought I was covering."

"Confused and trying your best to cope," corrected Snape. "I also found it significant that you appeared to be immune to Miss Morrighan's . . . charms."

"Ha. She's not charming at all," said Harry tightly. "I think she's evil. Though I will admit she's sexy as hell in those form-fitting leathers. I didn't notice at first because my hand was smashed and I couldn't think of much else. And by the way, I didn’t hit Piers because I was trying to reject myself, if that's your next question. I hit him because he grabbed onto me and I wasn't going to take that, not from him."

The slight drumming sound ended as Snape went completely still. "What do you mean by calling her evil?"

Draco gripped his fork so tightly that Harry was afraid it was going to bend.

Harry cast about for a way to give Snape a hint, at least. "I don't like the way she teaches her class."

"With her interest in interspecies communication, she can't possibly object to your being a Parselmouth--"

"No, it's not that. But . . . she's not fair, either."

"If she's treating you unjustly I will have strong words with her--"

"Not me," said Harry, careful not to glance at Draco. He'd had enough conflict for a while. He didn't want to start fighting with Draco.

Draco gave a low laugh. It sounded fake to Harry, but then Harry knew the real story. "She's too fixated on animals," Draco said, reaching for his wine. "I think she regards students as the animals their houses represent. It's quite bizarre. And really, the headmaster should put a stop to her outlandish costumes. I enjoy the view, of course, but it is very distracting. Why do you think he allows it?"

Talk about skilfully redirecting the conversation, thought Harry.

"Because she's always dressed that way. Maura Morrighan regards herself as a free spirit. As I recall, there used to be fewer beads, though. Before she went to the States, her clothing was more traditionally Celtic."

"But just as tight?" prompted Draco.

Snape shot him a glance. "Yes."

"I had no idea that the school would put up with such insubordination from students."

"She didn't attend here."

"Beauxbatons?"

"No," said Snape in a voice that didn't invite further questions.

Draco shot Harry a glance as if to say, Your turn to ask something. Harry just shook his head and went back to the topic that mattered. "I hope you believe by now that I'm not gay."

"It would have helped if you'd occasionally mentioned a girl. Or girls in the abstract."

"I did. I'm sure I did--"

"You said you were bad with them."

Harry supposed that hadn't helped matters, considering. He thought back, hard. "I also said once that I'd be embarrassed to have to come to you for advice about dating and girls. Doesn’t that tell you that I assumed if I started dating, it would involve girls?"

Snape gave a sharp nod. "There's no further need to convince me, Harry. I can see that your mind is made up."

About time, thought Harry. Now, if he could just get Draco to tell their father what was going on in Defence class . . .

But that was Draco's business. Harry wasn't going to muck about in his brother's relationship with Severus.

"Dessert?" asked Snape.

Harry glanced at the remains of their meal. "None of us ate very much. I thought you didn't approve of empty calories replacing nutritious food."

The man shrugged. "An occasional indulgence won't do any harm. What do you fancy?"

Harry thought that maybe this was Snape's way of saying sorry. "Um . . . crème brulée, I think."

"For you, Draco?"

"The same."

Snape even had some, though he didn't eat more than a bite or two. He just sipped his Galliano while he watched Harry, his eyes dark and thoughtful.

The first meeting of Dumbledore's Army didn't go off without a hitch. In fact, it went so badly that Harry wondered why he hadn't seen the problems from miles away. Too much on his mind, he supposed.

"Him," said Michael Corner in a snarl, more or less. "Him! Draco sodding Malfoy! I don't think so."

"Draco Snape," said Draco. To his credit, he kept his voice fairly level.

"Your name's hardly the point," said Terry Boot. "Last time we tried to learn Defence on our own, you did everything you could to break the group up and get us all expelled. Or worse, considering how mental Umbridge turned out to be. If you think you're going to be our leader after all that, you're more barmy than she was!"

Draco crossed his arms as he stood in front of the fireplace the Room of Requirement had conjured. Everyone else was sitting in roomy armchairs or comfortable sofas, as the room had evidently decided that what they needed for their first meeting was a discussion area instead of a duelling ground. Or maybe Draco had decided that; he'd been the one to open the room.

Harry had to admit, he looked like a leader standing there in front of everyone, a fire roaring behind him.

"Whom would you prefer?" he asked mildly, his emotions clearly under some kind of tight control.

"Harry, of course," said Ginny firmly. Draco stiffened and raised his chin as she went on. "He did a wonderful job last time."

Harry didn't think so, but this wasn't the time to bring up what had happened that night at the Ministry. "I'm at a strong disadvantage this time," he said dryly. "My magic's gone weak and wonky; you know that. I'm still working on getting it back to normal."

Ginny knew the cover story for what it was, of course, but a reminder didn't hurt. Or maybe Harry was just reminding himself to stick with it, no matter how much it sometimes bothered him.

"We voted last time; I say we vote this time," declared Zacharias Smith.

"You voted for me and I'm handing the job to Draco."

"The group was disbanded. We need a new election."

Zacharias always had been an annoying sort, thought Harry.

"Excellent idea," said Hermione smoothly.

Harry stared at her, but she sailed right on speaking.

"The first step would be for interested parties to declare candidacy. So far we have Draco Snape. Is anyone else interested in serving as our leader this year?"

"Harry," said Ernie MacMillan.

"I'm not able to do it!"

"You can only nominate yourself," said Hermione briskly. "So, anyone else? Well, that's it then, I suppose. We've only one candidate, so--"

"We can vote for anybody we please," interrupted Ernie. "As Head Boy, I'm recommending that you all vote for Harry no matter what he says. Even if he can't demonstrate spells so well these days, he can still organise things and decide what we need to learn. He's the only one here who's ever duelled You-Know-Who and definitely the one with the most experience dealing with Death Eaters. So vote for Harry like your life depends on it, because it might."

Hermione looked flustered; clearly she hadn't expected things to go quite like this. "All right then," she said, standing up. "I suppose we should get on with it--"

Small slips of parchment, along with quills and bottles of ink appeared on tables scattered throughout the room.

"One moment." Draco held up a hand. "Since the Head Boy is campaigning for Harry, I think it only fair that I be allowed to make a statement of my own."

"That's fair," agreed Ernie with a cool nod.

"Most of you have no reason to trust me," began Draco, swinging his gaze about the room, making eye contact with one person after another. "It ought to be a point in my favour that Harry Potter does, but I suppose you all have to form your own opinions. That's fine. It's not fine, however, to assume that Harry has the most experience of anyone here when it comes to dealing with Death Eaters. I grew up in a dark family, as you know, and I understand them from the inside out."

"Yeah, 'cause you are one," muttered Michael Corner.

Draco's voice tightened. "I'm not, but I can understand why you make the assumption. I changed sides last year. When I stole Harry's wand from my own father, I cut all ties with the Death Eaters. If you don't believe me, you've only got to remember that my father put out a contract on my life. But that's not why you should vote for me. All you have to do is ask yourselves how much you want to live. Who better to teach you to defend yourselves against Death Eaters than me? I know how they think. I know what spells they favour, and how to counter them. I know things Harry couldn't teach you even if his magic was in perfect shape, because I've been schooled from a early age in the kind of dark magic the Death Eaters will use against you."

"Very good points, Draco," said Hermione. "Now, would anyone else like to make a statement?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Don’t vote for me."

With that, Hermione distributed the parchment slips before turning away to fill out her own.

Harry couldn't teach properly this year, and he didn't want to be elected really, but he still felt vindicated when he got every vote except five. Which five people had voted for Draco, though?

Draco, of course, and Harry, and most probably Hermione, but who else?

Harry glanced around the room, studying faces and wondering.

"All hail our great leader," murmured Draco in a tone that was just six inches away from nasty.

Ignoring him, Harry decided to make the best of a bad job. "Thank you for your confidence," he said, leaving his chair and striding to stand before the fire. Draco glared at him, but moved out of the way. "It's good to know that you think so highly of the way I led the group last time. My first act as leader is to appoint Draco Snape to lead in my stead."

With that, he sat back down.

Draco's resentful scowl vanished as he stepped back to centre stage. "Now that that's settled, our first order of business should be to--"

"Just hold up," said Ernie, turning in his seat to confront Harry. "That's not right. We want you, not him."

"To organise things, you said. I just organised them." Harry raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. "Do you trust my judgement or not? Because if not, you shouldn’t have voted for me in the first place."

"The vote's been held and our chosen leader has spoken," said Hermione. "Unless we want to spend the whole year arguing instead of learning, we should let Draco get on with it."

Draco took up right where he'd left off. "Our first order of business should be to open the group to all the houses."

"You mean Slytherin!" shouted Michael Corner. "We're not letting any Slytherins in here, except you, and that's under protest!"

"I'll just be leaving, then," said Harry coldly.

"You're not really a Slytherin--"

Harry turned toward him so that his prefect's badge showed more prominently. "Yes, I really am."

"Just because you were adopted--"

"I. Am. A. Slytherin," said Harry, gritting his teeth. "It's not a formality. I sleep there half the time, I'm in five different Slytherin study groups, and if I hadn't argued with the Sorting Hat, I'd never have been in Gryffindor at all."

A surprised murmur washed through the room. Only Draco and a few of the Gryffindors failed to contribute to it.

Then Luna spoke, her soft voice lilting like a melody. "Well, it's rather brave to do that at the age of eleven, Harry. Perhaps that's why it put you in Gryffindor."

Harry's mouth fell open. Not only was that a good point, it was also the most logical thing he'd ever heard Luna say. But then, for all her quirks she must have a good head on her shoulders, or she'd never have ended up in Ravenclaw.

"As I was saying, we need to open the group to all the houses," announced Draco. "Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with Professor Dumbledore, who insists we can't discriminate now that we're a sanctioned school club."

"So if Slytherins are welcome, where are they?" asked Anthony Goldstein. "Apart from you and Harry, that is."

"That's just the point," said Draco. "I held this first meeting without new members so we could get organised. I want each one of you canvass somebody from another house, fourth year and up. Try your best to include Slytherin. They're more likely to feel welcome and join if they see that it's not just Harry and I who want them here. Just remember one thing. With Voldemort's love of attacking landmarks this year, the war could very well be coming to Hogwarts. We'll need the strongest possible defence against him, and that means involving all the houses."

"He . . . he said You-Know-Who's name!" exclaimed Hannah Abbot, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

"Harry's advice," said Draco grimly. "Get used to it, because I'm going to."

"Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself," said Hermione, nodding.

Draco nodded as well. "Any questions?"

"When are we going to learn some actual magic?" asked Michael, crossing his arms the way Draco had. Coming from Michael, it looked pathetic instead of regal.

"Now," said Draco, brandishing his wand. "We'll start with a review of basic shielding techniques, and then move on to offensive spells you can use to end a duel."

"We're here to learn Defence," said Parvati.

"This isn't the Defence Association. This is Dumbledore's Army and an army that only defends will never win a battle." Draco turned his wand on her. "Get ready."

With that, he began.

"You did well tonight," said Harry later as he and Draco were walking back down to the dungeons. "I think you'll make a great leader."

It was harder to resent Draco taking charge now; that vote had really helped.

"I wonder how many other Slytherins will want to get involved, though."

Draco shrugged. "I can't guess when it comes to the boys, but the girls, Harry? I told you last year how much they go on about you. I predict we'll have quite a few join just to be near you."

Huh . . . come to think of it, his study groups seemed to be dominated by girls, too. Harry self-consciously smoothed down his hair.

Draco cast him a derisive glance. "Don’t bother. The way it sticks up in back makes them want to run their fingers through it. Or so they say. Giggling, mind you."

"Girls are weird."

Draco laughed. "Yes, but don't let Severus hear you say so. There's no telling what he might conclude."

"He said he believed me finally!"

"You're such a nominal Slytherin sometimes." Draco stopped walking and faced him. "All he said was that he could see your mind was made up. That could mean anything."

"Including that I've decided to like girls rather than I truly just . . . like them," said Harry, gnashing his teeth. "Damn it. I thought we'd laid this to rest. What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? I can't do nothing!"

"Of course you can. If blunt argument didn't convince him before, it won't next time either, so don't waste your breath."

"But I can't just let him think--"

"If it's any consolation, I suspect he doesn't think that any longer. He's just not sure what to think at this point. I don't believe that will change until he sees you with a girl."

"Ha. He'll just think I'm covering!"

"Not when you truly fall for someone."

Harry sighed. "That's never going to happen. I can't let it."

"It'll happen when you're ready for it," said Draco calmly as he started walking again. "But also when you least expect it. Trust me on that one."

Yeah . . . Draco hadn't started the summer thinking he'd fall in love. He'd still been mourning Pansy, even though she'd been the worst girlfriend ever. Though Harry did still think that Draco had fallen for Rhiannon on the rebound.

He wished they could talk about it, but there wouldn't be much point in that conversation, either. It would just make Draco angry. The way it made him angry whenever Harry pointed out that she didn't seem to write very often. Certainly, nowhere near as often as Draco wrote to her.

Besides, Rhiannon had to stay just as secret as Harry's true powers. There were few places in Hogwarts where it would be safe to mention her existence.

"How is your Muggle Studies class these days?" he asked instead. "Do you need any help?"

"I have a study group, thank you."

"Well, are there any Muggle-borns in it?"

"No, but Hermione's been kind enough to read through my essays and suggest revisions. Thank Merlin we're taking Arithmancy together. We usually find an empty room after class and then she rips my original ideas to shreds."

Strange how he could sound so cheerful about it.

"If she's too . . . uh, blunt, then I could read your essays. I understand the Muggle world as well as she does."

"Do you? Could you explain then, perhaps, what makes Muggle currencies inherently unstable?"

Shite. "Uh, well it's got something to do with inflation, I think--"

"Bizarre concept, inflation. I could hardly believe it when Miss Burbage explained. But what causes it?"

Harry smiled a little sheepishly. "Uh . . . no idea, sorry."

Draco looked delighted to know something Muggle that Harry didn't. "Because they just make more money all the time, Harry! Like Duplicato, only with machines. It's no wonder their money loses value that way. Paper money, honestly. It's ridiculous. You'll notice that even wizards can't just make more gold."

"I thought alchemists--"

"Mere dabbling. Nobody can make gold in any kind of quantity. Hence, the value of the Galleon has been stable for hundreds of years."

"All right, I guess Hermione's better equipped to help you," admitted Harry.

"I'll consult you more when we start the unit on sport. Hermione's already said she'll be useless there." Draco chuckled. "I almost made a joke about rugby, but decided I'd better not."

"Just so long as you don't think not liking the breast-stroke means anything," muttered Harry.

"And I got my Firebolt back yesterday," said Harry as he sat cross-legged in front of the Mirror of All Souls. "I told you about Draco's present, didn't I? Getting the charms on it upgraded to XL level?"

"How does it fly?"

Harry made a veering motion with one hand. "It's brilliant! Ten percent faster than before, at least, and now even if you don't lean quite right, it automatically banks your turns so you're less likely to fall off."

Sirius splayed his hands out on the floor. "That could be inconvenient if you need to turn without banking."

"Oh, there's an override. You just have to know how to grip it, but it seems like the thing reads your mind. I can still hardly believe Draco did this for me. It would be a lot more like him to enjoy having a broom that can fly circles around mine."

"That kind of victory would be unsatisfying, perhaps?"

"Please," said Harry scornfully. "You remember the Slytherin Quidditch team, Sirius? Winning fair and square isn't high on their list of things to do. They cheat like mad."

"But that's it, don't you see?" Sirius leaned forward a little bit. "He doesn't want to cheat against you. I think this is Draco's way of saying he's your brother, even when the two of you are on opposite sides."

"Thank God we're not going to be on opposite sides in anything except Quidditch."

Sirius gestured at the hazy fog that appeared to surround him. "When you come here, Harry, you start to understand what matters and what doesn't. When I think of all the time I spent fussing over Puddlemere United . . ." A faint smile lifted the corners of Sirius' mouth. "If you lose to Slytherin, don't let it bother you. Even if the other Gryffindors are prats about it. It doesn't mean anything in the long run."

Harry knew that, but still-- "I'm not going to lose to Slytherin!"

"If you don't want to, best to not drink anything Snape gives you for at least forty-eight hours beforehand--"

"Sirius!"

"Just joking."

"No, you weren't."

The man in the mirror gave a little shrug. "I don't imagine that Severus has an afterlife perspective about winning and losing. He's quite partisan when it comes to such matters."

"So were you when you were alive!"

"Mmm," said Sirius as he idly stroked his chin. "I suppose he can't help it. Not that, at any rate. Everything still going well with him?"

"Yeah," said Harry, deciding he'd just as soon not mention the way Snape had thought he was gay. Let alone that Snape still wondered about it, if Draco knew what he was talking about. "The first Quidditch match has been scheduled for early November. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor, as my luck would have it. And my dad even said to fly my best and do Gryffindor proud."

"He's lulling you into a false sense of security so he can slip you that potion."

"Sirius!"

"That time I actually was joking."

"I hope so."

"Enough about Severus," said Sirius brusquely. "Do you remember how I said I'd have a look about for Percy Weasley?"

"You found him?" Harry leaned forward. "Oh, God. I don't know if I should feel relief or dread. Did he have a message for Ron? Did he . . ." Harry gulped. He wanted to ask if Percy had expressed any remorse for the way he'd treated his family, but how could he ask that? You weren't supposed to speak ill of the dead.

That probably went double when you were speaking to the dead.

"He hasn't yet caught on," said Sirius sadly. "I don't know, I suppose it took me a while as well, though with the way time is here, there's no telling how long . . ."

"Caught on to what?"

"Oh, fate. Destiny. He's still obsessed with how he came to be here."

"Well, the Ministry attack was terrible," said Harry. "And Percy's probably kicking himself. He was invited to my birthday party but he insisted on working instead, and look at where that got him."

"But it was his time," said Sirius, his voice like a wave lapping the shore, slow and steady and serene. "There's no point in anger, but young Weasley can't accept that yet. He could barely hear me trying to tell him that his brother Ron misses him. All he could talk about was revenge."

"I can't blame him for hating Voldemort--"

"Revenge against Lucius Malfoy," corrected Sirius.

"Lucius Malfoy?" echoed Harry, confused. Malfoy had died almost two months before the Ministry attack, so what could he have to do with anything?

Uh-oh . . . nobody knew that Lucius had died, except Order members. And that certainly didn't include Percy. Everybody else in the world thought he was still alive, since Remus had taken his place at Voldemort's side.

In that moment, Harry knew what Sirius was going to say.

Sirius didn't know that, though; he went ahead and said it anyway.

"Lucius Malfoy killed him," said Sirius, shaking his head. "It wasn't the explosion at all. It was Avada Kedavra. And all Percy can think about is revenge."

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:

Chapter Twelve: "Dear Draco"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

Harry's mouth went dry. It was a minute, or maybe two, before he could speak. Sirius didn't seem to notice; he was still shaking his head and going on about Percy.

Finally, Harry managed to force some words up through his tight throat. Who cared that he was babbling? Not Harry. Not under these circumstances. "Oh. Um, yeah. Revenge is bad. Really bad. Even Severus says so."

That caught Sirius' attention at once. "Oh, he says that, does he? Of all the hypocritical--"

Harry bristled. "Would you rather he teach me that revenge is good?"

Sirius made a grumbling noise that was just a shade or two removed from a growl. "Fine, fine, fine. I imagine he's doing his best. I'd just rather you could have made a home with someone kind and compassionate, Harry. Like Remus--"

Harry almost choked. Ten minutes ago he'd have agreed with that assessment, but now? Knowing what he knew about Percy's death? Not that he could mention what he knew.

"Snape's kind and compassionate."

Sirius snorted.

"He is," insisted Harry. "You just have to know how to read him. Like . . . well, after I was blinded, he admitted that he didn't hate me at all--"

"Charming."

"It was, Sirius. Because what he meant was that he was really starting to care about me."

"And of course, being Snape, he couldn’t possibly have said that."

"He's said it since." A slight smile lifted the corners of Harry's mouth. "I'm not much better, Sirius. I couldn't even say 'son' at first. I called myself his adoptee."

Sirius leaned towards him, his fingers fully splayed out on the mirror. "Oh, Harry. I wish I'd been there for you. I wish I could have taken you in when your parents died, or at least after I'd escaped from Azkaban . . ."

Oh. Harry saw it then. Something that should have been obvious before. Sirius disliked Snape, of course. But he was also jealous of his role in Harry's life.

Sirius felt . . . displaced, that was it.

He was dead and couldn't possibly step into Snape's shoes, but that just went to prove that being dead didn't make you any less human, Harry thought. And even though he didn't believe in Sirius' ideas about fate and destiny, he decided that it wouldn't hurt to use them at a time like this.

"It just wasn't meant to be," he said, reaching out to touch the cold surface of the mirror. "More than a Christmas together . . . fate worked against us on that one."

A sharp knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Harry glanced down at his watch to see that his father was, as usual, right on time. Because of course Harry couldn't walk a few steps down the corridor on his own. Oh, no. He had to be escorted even between his own home and the little room where they'd set up the Mirror of All Souls.

"Sirius," said Snape in a level tone as he came through.

"Severus."

Snape turned to his son. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yeah," said Harry. Sirius looked a bit disappointed, but Harry couldn’t help that. He couldn't stay and talk longer, not when the image of Remus casting Avada Kedavra was burning behind his eyes. He did his best to force it away as he said good-bye to Sirius. "I'll come back soon."

Sirius nodded, staring almost hungrily as Harry and Snape walked away.

  "Shall I walk you to Gryffindor or Slytherin?"

"Home. I need to talk to you."

Snape inclined his head, but didn't ask any questions until privacy was assured behind the warded door to his quarters. "Problem?"

"Not mine," muttered Harry.

Snape's gaze narrowed. "If someone in Slytherin is harassing you then I will certainly--"

"Nothing like that." At his father's sceptical glance, Harry admitted, "Well, it's not exactly a bed of roses. A lot of them want to hex me for playing for Gryffindor still. But they don't want to hex a prefect. Or get on your bad side, so it hasn't got past some nasty tricks."

"What nasty tricks?"

"I don't need help dealing with them, Dad."

Snape's gaze only grew sharper. "What nasty tricks?"

Harry sighed. He really didn't want to discuss this. Other things were a lot more important. "They put a dozen toads in my bed, all right?"

"And?"

"That's the worst of it so far."

Snape clasped his hands behind his back. “On your behalf I am glad the incident was not more serious, though I must say, the creativity of your peers has lessened in both scope and bearing.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “Are you trying to say that the Slytherins are being kind of pathetic?”

“Twelve toads, Harry. Honestly.”

"It was thirteen toads, if it makes you feel better, but only twelve survived. Sals ate one. I'm just glad it wasn't Trevor." Harry scratched the back of his head for a minute. “Draco isn't here, is he?”

“No. I believe he made arrangements to study with Ms. Granger this evening.”

"Let's sit down, all right? I have to ask you something."

Snape looked a little puzzled, but he swept his robes out of the way and took his usual seat while Harry sat close by on the sofa. Then he waited, but it was a minute before Harry figured out how to begin. Direct was probably best, he decided.

"Why did Remus kill Percy Weasley? Did Voldemort order him to, or did he have to protect his cover, or . . ."

Harry learned something new about his father, then. Gob smacked wasn't a good look for him. Not at all.

It didn't take long at all for the pieces to fall into place inside Snape's mind. "Ah. Black has seen Weasley in the afterlife, has he?"

"And we both know that his report of 'Lucius' killing him on July 31st isn't accurate. But why did Remus kill him? You didn't answer my question."

"I'm constrained by an Unbreakable Vow, as you know--"

"Yeah, not to discuss the incident except with those who know the truth. Well, I'm one of those now. So?"

"I'm sorry you know as much as you do," said Snape flatly. "I've no wish for you to know more."

Harry leaned back against the sofa and thought that through. "I'm not a child, Severus. I understood what you meant when you were ranting that Remus would have to be able to kick house-elves."

"I never rant."

If the topic had been less serious, Harry would have laughed at that. As it was, the vision of Remus killing Percy playing out inside his mind, he couldn't see any humour at all. "You think I can't live with the idea that Remus has to do nasty things just now? Horrible, unthinkable things?" When Snape opened his mouth, Harry went right on speaking. "I'd have to be stupid not to realise it. I mean, after Samhain? I have a very personal grasp of what torture can involve."

Snape closed his mouth.

"So I can't understand why you don't want to tell me what happened that night."

"Because I know you."

"That doesn’t make much sense, Dad."

Snape slanted him a glance as though to say that the 'Dad' card wasn't going to work, this time. Harry flushed. He hadn't meant to play that card. Not consciously, at any rate. It gave him some sympathy for Draco, actually.

"It may not make sense, but it's all the answer I'm willing to give you."

Harry thought about that for a few moments, weighing his options. He didn't have many good ones. Arguing until hell froze over was probably useless, but he wasn't willing to drop it, either. Which left . . .

Harry stood up. "All right. I'll go and ask the headmaster. He might know more than you, anyway. After all, Remus reported to him. You just read his mind, and you might have missed things--"

"I do not miss things," grated Snape. "Sit down."

Harry ignored the command. "Of course you miss things. You read my mind for practically a whole year and never noticed what gits the Dursleys were!"

"In your case I had preconceptions--"

"And you have none about Remus?"

"Sit down!"

Harry obeyed. He didn't really want to go to Dumbledore about this, after all, and not just because he had a sneaking suspicion that the headmaster would try to influence him once he was up there. Subtly influence him, but still.

No, the bigger problem was that he didn't want to damage his relationship with his father.

"Dumbledore won't speak with you any more than I will, Harry. You are the entire reason he bound me in the first place, as if he didn't know that I would no more hurt you than slit my own throat."

Harry blinked. "I can't possibly be such a part of whatever it was that happened, so what do you mean? Hurt me how?"

"You're not expecting me to answer that, are you?"

Damn. Harry didn't want to have to do this. He levelled his gaze at his father. "Then I'm sorry. I'll have to floo up and ask the headmaster."

"As I said, he won't discuss this matter. Not with you."

"But he will, Severus. As soon as Dumbledore knows that I have part of the story, he'll tell me the rest. He'll have to, don't you see? He was frustrated last year that I'd found another mentor. He'd jump at a chance to shift my loyalties back in his direction. And what better way than to help me when I come to him asking?"

"So you'll manipulate me by threatening to manipulate the headmaster! You never belonged in Gryffindor at all."

Harry reached out and covered Severus' hand with his own. The same gesture from Snape had calmed him more times than he could count. "Yeah, I did and you know it. I bet it'll take more than cunning to win the war. But cunning's part of it, and I'm glad I've had a chance to learn from the best."

Snape's hand moved restlessly under his own, but he didn't yank it away. He did sniff, though. "I'm hardly a Hufflepuff to be swayed by flattery--"

"No, but you are a man who keeps trying to change this into a conversation about the houses. I'm not going to let you. Why did Remus Lupin kill Percy Weasley? Either you tell me, or I guarantee you the headmaster will. But Severus? I'd really rather hear it from you."

Harry knew he'd won when Snape gave a long sigh and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Whoever said that fatherhood was a thankless job had it right indeed."

This, from a man who got annoyed whenever he was thanked?

Snape sat up again and gave Harry a long, considering look. "I hope you realise that you've placed me in an impossible situation."

"I know," said Harry. "But I have to know. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Sometimes it is better not to know the truth. Knowledge can be harmful." A light shudder passed through the man's shoulders, but then his features hardened and his voice became scathing. "But you must know everything, of course."

"Maybe not everything, but this . . . yeah."

"Well, you're not to think that you can threaten to run to the headmaster every time I deny you something you want," Snape continued, glaring. "I thought we had an agreement. I am the father here, not you. Attaining your majority doesn't change that fact. You will have to accept that I know best--"

"You're the father," Harry murmured, his voice cracking with stress as he went on. "I know, and I'm glad to have you. I wouldn't turn from you to Dumbledore, except . . . Severus, if you know best and you also know me, then you'll understand that I can't bear knowing Remus killed Percy unless I also know why."

He raised beseeching eyes, only partially aware that they were filling with tears.

Snape gave a long sigh. "Damn that flea-bitten mongrel straight to Hell."

Harry gulped. Snape hadn't said anything like that in a while. "I don't think there is any Hell, really. I mean, unless Sirius is missing something. But you know, he didn't know he was telling me anything important. As far as he knows, Lucius Malfoy, not Remus, is the one who killed Percy."

"Yes, yes, of course. He's blameless as usual--" Snape shook his head and seemed to come to a decision. When he spoke again, his voice held no more bitterness. It kind and compassionate, just like Harry had called him. "Very well, then. I will tell you, with one caveat. You are not to blame yourself, Harry. You bear no responsibility at all for what transpired on your birthday. Only one person is to blame."

"Yeah." Now that he was about to hear the worst, Harry's stomach churned. How bad would it be? "Remus," he said thickly.

"No." Snape's voice was quiet, his eyes intense as he leaned toward his son. "Harry . . . Percy Weasley is to blame for what happened."

"Percy?" Harry's brow furrowed. "How could he be--"

"You know something of his character, I think."

"But he was just working that night; he wasn't--" Harry gasped. "Oh. Oh, God. I thought he was just Fudge's little toady, following him around and lapping up crumbs and trying to climb the Ministry ladder, but . . . oh, my God. Percy was working for Voldemort, you mean? He was a secret Death Eater, and Remus had to . . ."

No, that couldn't be it. If Percy had been a Death Eater, Remus wouldn't have had any reason to kill him. Not if he wanted to keep his cover. Except . . .

"This is why Voldemort punished him!" Harry exclaimed. "Remus executed a Death Eater!"

"Stop these asinine guesses," snapped Snape. "Mr Weasley was not a Death Eater. He was a grubby little man with almost nothing on his mind save his own personal advancement, no matter the cost."

Yeah, that summed up Percy pretty well. He'd known Harry, but had turned on him the moment it had looked good for his career, and tried to get Ron to do the same!

"Then why on earth did Remus kill him? Avada Kedavra, no less! I wouldn't have thought Remus would even be capable of summoning up enough hatred to cast that!"

Snape leaned closer, his fingers brushing against Harry's knee as he spoke in gentle, soothing tones. "Lupin killed him because Weasley was a grubby little man with almost nothing on his mind save his own personal advancement, no matter the cost."

It was code for something else. Harry sensed that, particularly after Snape had repeated himself word-for-word, but unlike his father, he couldn't put the pieces of a puzzle together so easily. "Um . . ."

Snape nodded. "We should back up a bit. On the night of the Ministry attack, Lupin was ordered to go to Fudge's office and kidnap the Minister before the explosions commenced. He had a Portkey linked to one of Voldemort's strongholds. As it turned out, Fudge was not present in his office, but Percy Weasley was."

"Working late that night, yeah." Harry swallowed.

"Lupin . . ." Snape grimaced. "Faced with an unpleasant choice, Lupin tried to do the best he could. The Portkey was timed to activate just before the Ministry was destroyed. Leaving Weasley there would mean certain death for him, so Lupin grabbed him and let the Portkey fling them to their destination. He had some asinine plan to be 'careless' and let Percy Weasley escape. He couldn't help him in any obvious way, of course, lest it reach Voldemort's ears that 'Lucius Malfoy' was not as loyal as he ought to be."

So far, so good. It was even to Remus' credit, what he'd tried to do.

"What went wrong?" asked Harry quietly.

"Weasley went wrong. All he knew was that he'd just been abducted by a leading Death Eater. He thought to save himself at any cost." Snape paused as though waiting for Harry to put it together. "Don't forget, all of this happened on your birthday."

As if Harry could ever forget that . . .

"Percy Weasley had been invited to your party," Snape added. "Harry . . . he knew where you were."

The pieces abruptly clicked into place. They made a clanking sound inside Harry's head. "Oh, no. He didn't. He wouldn't! Except, this is Percy we're talking about. He probably would!"

"He did," said Snape, watching Harry carefully. "He was no doubt mad with fear, but that hardly exonerates him. No sooner had he landed on his arse inside the cell prepared for Fudge, than he was babbling that he had valuable information, that he knew where to find Harry Potter at that very minute, that he was too important to kill."

Harry felt sick. And he felt something else, too. For the first time, he felt a little bit sorry for Percy Weasley. Talk about irony . . . "That was the worst thing he could have said, if he wanted to stay alive."

"Lupin had no choice. Voldemort would be coming any moment. He couldn't possibly let him come into contact with Weasley, who was so willing to trade your life for his."

Harry had already figured that much out. "But he could have let him go--"

"No, he couldn't," argued Snape. "Weasley had already signed his own death warrant. He had demonstrated that he would betray you the first time it seemed opportune. Lupin reasoned, quite correctly, that Weasley knew too much about you to be allowed to live."

"But what chance was there that he'd be captured by Death Eaters again?"

"Quite a good one, if he continued to rise in the Ministry." Snape leaned back and folded his hands together on his lap. "Lupin had only a few seconds in which to make these judgements, Harry. He was no doubt furious at what Percy had just said. And while he was willing to suffer Voldemort's wrath over an 'escape' when it was Arthur and Molly's son escaping, he was less willing when it would mean suffering in order to help someone who, quite frankly, deserved no consideration whatever."

Harry's next thought was so horrible that he almost cringed. "Oh, God. Percy would have endangered his entire family, just to save himself! His own family! He'd have led Voldemort to the Burrow!"

Snape's face twisted. "Yes. Exactly. I can feel no regret at his death. I feel nothing but contempt."

Harry felt contempt, too. Who wouldn't? But he also felt a sensation of guilt beginning to creep along his spine, working its way up to his brain. He tried to push the feeling away. He didn't want Snape to regret telling him. "Um . . . but why did Voldemort Crucio Remus? Because he Portkeyed out with Percy instead of Fudge?"

"No. Lupin was punished because he had killed Weasley. The Minister's personal assistant might have proven useful, and Lupin had only a feeble excuse to offer for his decision to end Weasley's life. He claimed that Weasley had insulted Voldemort."

"Stupid reason to kill him, yeah." Harry swallowed, pushing the guilt away again. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't. He knew that when he thought about it rationally. But emotions, as Marsha often said, weren't always rational. "Um . . . useful, how? Imperius?"

"Possibly. Voldemort might also have wished to torture him for information or sport."

Harry shuddered, memories of Samhain rushing through him again. "Why didn't Remus do something? Vanish the body and claim nobody was in Fudge's office?"

Snape gave a slight shrug. "He has convinced himself that it was because there was no time. Voldemort appeared mere seconds after he had killed Weasley, and Lupin was in some amount of shock over the events that had so rapidly unfolded. He maintains that it was all he could do to compose himself and continue to act the part of Lucius. I, however, suspect that there was an element of self-flagellation involved."

"Self . . ."

"He felt guilty and some part of him wished to suffer, making him slow to hide what he'd done."

Harry frowned. "You saw that in his mind?"

"No, but I saw his horror and guilt, and I know Lupin."

Snape might be right, thought Harry, remembering how Remus had refused the potion that would have helped him recover from the Cruciatus. Remus had had a reason for that . . . but Snape still might be right.

"You aren't to blame yourself," said Snape sternly. "It's not your fault that Weasley tried to buy his life with your own, or that Lupin put an end to it. And to him."

"I know," said Harry, wishing his voice wasn't so thick. He did know. It was just . . . hard to really believe it, deep inside.

"Do you?"

"Yes," said Harry, a little bit more firmly. He hated lying to his father, but this wasn't really lying, was it? He knew perfectly well on an intellectual level that Percy had been a rat who brought this on himself. As for the rest . . . well, he was being too soft-hearted and he knew it. He shouldn't be filled with horror that Percy had basically died because . . . well, because Harry existed, really. Yet one more person dead because of him. His best friend's brother, this time.

Poor Ron. Harry knew how bad it felt to lose someone.

And poor Remus, to have to do something so very awful. To a boy he'd taught. Remus, who was usually so gentle, who hated his werewolf form, who'd never killed during his transformations. And now he'd killed as a human being . . . for Harry.

Maybe that was actually why Harry felt so guilty. He didn't know any longer. It was a tangle inside him, and when he realised that his arms were getting itchy, he only felt even more mixed-up. The only thing he was really sure of was that he didn't want Severus knowing that Harry was, in fact, blaming himself.

Some, at least.

"Don't worry about it," he said quickly. "Uh . . . it's not like Percy was that boy at the Death Eater meeting you told me about. An innocent victim . . . no, he brought this on himself. And . . . well, I'm glad I know the truth. At least it all makes sense now."

"Why Voldemort punished Lupin?"

Harry nodded, relieved that his father was following his lead. "And also why you started to respect Remus a little bit. What he did . . . I mean, what he had to do? That can't have been easy."

Snape steepled his fingers and regarded his son over the top of them. "It's not so much what he did, Harry, as why he did it. When it came to protecting you, he didn't hesitate. Not for an instant. What father could continue to hate such a man?"

Despite his inner turmoil, a smile broke across Harry's face. Strange how much those last few words meant. So much, in fact, that he wanted to hear them again. "You don't hate Remus?"

"I don't hate . . . Remus," said Snape, lacing his fingers together. "And since you seem to need reassurance, perhaps I should clarify one other thing: I respect him more than a 'little bit.' Indeed . . . I respect him a great deal."

"This makes up for the ice-cream thing?"

"Yes, because foolish as that was, it wasn't done deliberately. This . . . this was."

Harry swallowed. "Yeah, it was. Poor Remus. No wonder he looked so rough at the Order meeting. I can't imagine what it was like for him, having to face Mr and Mrs Weasley, knowing . . . but they don't know, do they?"

"Of course not. It's better for them to believe that their son died like all the others did, than to know exactly how craven he turned out to be. Aside from that, the last thing we need is division in the Order. You're not to breathe a word of this to your friends."

"You mean Ron." Harry ducked his head. "All right."

"I mean it--"

"All right, I said." Harry looked up again. "You can put me under an Unbreakable Vow if you like. Just like Dumbledore did to you."

Snape's nostrils flared. "I actually care what happens to you. I certainly wouldn't sentence you to death for attempting to break a confidence."

"I'm sure Dumbledore cares about what happens to you--"

"In the circumstances, that's debatable," said Snape tightly. "But that is no matter. Have you any further questions?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Should I tell Draco? You certainly can't."

"I can't imagine why he would need to know this. If that changes, you may use your own judgement. In the meantime, the fewer people who know the truth, the better."

"All right. That makes sense."

Snape rose to his feet, his robes swirling about his ankles. "Are you sleeping in Gryffindor or Slytherin tonight? I'll escort you."

"I think I'd like to stay here, if that's all right." When Snape stared at him, Harry felt his face grow warm. "Of course it's all right. I don't know why I said it like that. I'll sleep at home tonight, Dad."

Snape gave a sharp nod. "You fear a nightmare?"

"No . . . I just want to stay here."

Harry was grateful his father didn’t ask why, though the ‘why’ was obvious. Decorum again, he thought, and had never been so grateful for it.

"Whom shall I inform? We don't want your brother or your friends in a panic when you don't appear by curfew."

Harry shrugged. "I stopped alternating a while ago. Now I just sleep in whichever house I fancy for the night. Draco and Ron will both assume I've gone to the other house." Huh . . . Harry hadn't realised it before, but that meant that he could stay out all night if he wanted. Well, if he had an escort. On the other hand . . . "Maybe I should plan where to sleep in advance. If I got abducted again, nobody would raise the alarm until breakfast!"

"After what happened last spring, the headmaster placed additional spells on the castle. He and I will know at once if you vanish from the grounds."

Harry thought of the Portkey in the maze and grimaced. "He should have done that a lot sooner."

"Magically speaking, it wasn't possible until you had a parent on staff."

"Even though we're not blood relatives?"

"Blood ties aren't the only kind of family bond."

"Hmm, like how Draco's lineage potion meant his wand could only be used by those named Malfoy, so he had to keep that in his name. Blood didn't matter," mused Harry. "All right, but I still think Dumbledore should have put those spells on the castle as soon as I was adopted."

"He was reluctant to fully acknowledge the fact at first," said Snape dryly. "As I think you are aware. So then . . . have you any homework to do this evening?"

"All caught up," said Harry, cheerfully ignoring the way that stretched the truth. He had a Charms essay he could work on, but it wasn't due tomorrow, so it wasn't really homework for tonight, was it?

"I have some potions to complete, if you'd care to assist me."

Maybe he should have owned up to the Charms essay. But no . . . at least this way he'd get to spend some time with his dad. That was always good, even if it meant a bit of brewing.

"I'll just change into a grottier robe, then," he said, heading off to his room.

  When Harry saw Ron the next morning at breakfast, he felt more than a bit awkward. In fact, he wondered if he should have gone to the Slytherin table instead. He'd thought about that while he'd showered, and then again while he was getting dressed.

In the end he'd decided he didn’t want to be such a coward. He was going to have to face Ron sooner or later. He wasn’t going to give up his best friend or disobey his father.

For all that, though, Harry wanted to tell his friend the truth about Percy. Odd, since he knew that would be a bad idea all around. What good would it do? It wouldn’t make Percy less dead, or help him reconcile with his family. All the truth could do was hurt Ron.

But still, Harry felt like telling him.

It made conversation difficult. Worse, it made his arms start to itch. The feeling became worse the longer Harry held off speaking, until it seemed to spread all the way to his shoulders. He ended up reaching a hand inside his robes so he could scratch.

He stopped when he noticed that Draco was watching him from across the Great Hall, his grey eyes narrowed. Harry shrugged a little and returned his attention to his sausages and eggs.

"I'm moving practise to half six, so make sure you eat early tonight," Ron was saying by then. "Nobody else had the pitch booked, so I thought we might as well use it. It's only three weeks until the big match."

Well, at least talk of Quidditch gave Harry something else to think about.

When the handful of players at their end of the table nodded, Harry began to feel self-conscious. Almost guilty again. And there was no reason; it wasn't as though any of them were looking at him accusingly. Whenever the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was discussed in practise or such, though, he expected them to glance his way. He wondered what they thought of him, if it ever crossed their minds to question whether he could really play his best against his other house.

Particularly when his father and brother both wanted Slytherin to win.

Then he'd tell himself that they probably weren't questioning that. He seemed to be the only one doing it. It had seemed all right at first, the idea of playing against Draco this year. It had even seemed exciting.

Now, the closer the contest loomed, the more nervous Harry felt. It was idiotic; he knew that Snape didn't expect him to throw the match. He wasn't going to dose him to lose, like Sirius had half-jokingly said.

Snape would be proud if Harry caught the Snitch.

But wouldn't he be just a little bit more proud if Draco caught it? Particularly since Draco hadn't ever won when playing against Harry?

"All right there, mate?" asked Ron.

"What? Oh . . . oh, yeah. I think I have a bad sausage or something. Tastes a bit off."

Ron leaned across the table. "The elves don't serve bad sausages. Come on, Harry. Something's really wrong. I can tell. What is it?"

To Harry's absolute horror, Ron dropped his glance to Harry's sleeves. Harry wished then that he'd never told his friends about his needle problem. It was bad enough having Draco quiz him about that at random moments.

"It's the game," he whispered. Well, it was partly that, wasn't it? He couldn’t breathe a word about Percy. "I just . . . I just wish we were playing Ravenclaw first. Or Hufflepuff. Who decided it had to be Slytherin straight away?"

Ron shrugged. "The powers that be, mate." The he starting talking Quidditch again.

Normally Harry would follow every word. Now, he just wanted to put his head down on the table and make the whole world disappear.

  Why was it that when you wanted time to slow down, it did the opposite?

The weeks until the first Quidditch match of the season seemed to be melting away. That probably had something to do with how busy Harry was. Between classes, homework, prefect duties, D.A. meetings, and Quidditch practise, Harry sometimes felt like it was only at night that he could take a deep breath and have some time to think.

It might have been better not to, though. Mostly, he thought about Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, or about what terrible new thing Remus might have had to do to keep his cover, or about how horrified Ron would be if he ever learned the truth about Percy's death.

The Quidditch match was definitely the least important of those three things, but for some reason, it weighed on Harry's mind the most. He supposed that he simply didn't want to disappoint his father, not even in a roundabout way.

He told himself that that was different from worrying that Snape might love him a little less if Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup this year.

"Morning and evening practices starting tomorrow," said Ron one Saturday night as the moon was rising over the pitch. "There's only one more week to go."

How could two entire weeks have vanished like that? It seemed like yesterday that Ron had said there were three weeks before the big match. "Won't Slytherin want the pitch?"

"They have the afternoons booked solid," said Ginny with a frown. "During classes, even! If you ask me, Snape's got a nerve, excusing them from lessons. McGonagall would take points if we so much as asked. Oh! Sorry, Harry."

"That's all right," said Harry, waving a hand and trying to sound as relaxed as he hoped he looked. "No argument here. Snape does have a nerve. But if it leaves the pitch free for us when we want it, so much the better."

Thankfully, nobody followed up with a comment or a question about Harry's loyalties, and if they were divided or not.

He soon found out, though, that Harry's divided loyalties were on their minds, just not in the way he'd thought.

"Won't matter how much they skive off classes to practise," said Dean, who'd made Chaser that year. He was chortling as he said it. "Will it?"

"What?" asked Harry.

"He just means that we're just going to be ready for them," said Ron quickly, glaring at Dean.

Harry smelled a rat. "What?" he asked again, glaring at them both.

"Just something Seamus thought up," said Dean, tucking his broom under his arm as he began to walk back toward the changing rooms. "Don’t worry, Harry. Those Slytherins deserve every bit of it after the way they've cheated year after year."

"We can't cheat just because they do!"

"Now, who said anything about cheating?" asked Ron with a grin. "We just want to throw the Slytherins off their stride."

Harry was appalled. "We'll get caught! We'll have to forfeit the match and be disqualified for the Cup!"

"Not when Seamus' little brainstorm isn't even against the rules," said Dean, giving Harry a wink. "Don't worry, Harry. It's all above board. And they do deserve it."

"Deserve what?"

"Sorry, but we can't tell you," said Ron unapologetically. "You might feel that you have to tell your father. Or your brother. We didn't even want you to know we had it planned."

"And just when did you plan it?" asked Harry hotly. "Having secret practices, are you? Without me?"

"No, no," said Ginny soothingly. "You're just off in Slytherin a lot, Harry. And we understand that. Really, we do. But it's also the reason why we thought you'd be better off not knowing, all right? You are a Slytherin prefect, after all. But you're also a Gryffindor, so you should just pretend that Dean here didn't have such a big mouth."

"Hey!" yelled Dean, turning around.

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, then smiled sweetly at Harry. "Why don’t we make a deal? I won't complain about being demoted to Reserve Seeker, and you won't say another word about our little surprise for the Slytherins."

Harry's mouth fell open. "You told me you didn't mind being the reserve!"

"I don't, because you're better than I am, and I want Gryffindor to win," said Ginny bluntly. "I should still be able to get something for my sunny disposition."

She had a point there, but . . . "I can't believe you'd . . . you'd condone cheating, Ginny!"

"It's not cheating. It's just a prank."

"But--"

"You're forgetting that I’m related to the twins," she said lightly. "Come on, Harry. It's just a bit of fun, I promise. Nobody'll get hurt, and it'll all be over before the match even begins."

Harry believed her. She wouldn’t lie to him. For all that, though, he still felt uneasy. He wondered if that was because Seamus was going to play some sort of prank on the Slytherins . . . or if it was because the Gryffindor team had deliberately excluded him from the whole thing.

He probably deserved it, though. After all, he was keeping secrets from Ron. Much more important secrets, too. Harry was a little miffed to be left out of a prank, but Ron would be horrified to know that his brother, his own brother, had died because all those years ago, Harry had lived.

So what if Percy had been an arsehole the last few years? Ron had grown up with him, played with him, loved him.

And he was dead because of Harry.

  After an insanely early practice the next morning, Harry headed to the Slytherin table to eat. It was a relief not to have to see Ron.

It was also a relief to have something to think about besides Percy. For most of the meal, Harry kept toying with what he might be able to say to Draco about the coming prank. He didn't want to break his promise to Ginny, but Draco was his brother. The trouble was, Harry didn't know anything specific, so how could he warn Draco?

A simple, "The Gryffindors are planning a prank, so watch out for one," would only make the Slytherin team decide to strike first. So that was out . . .

He admitted then that it was probably for the best that the team hadn't told him. He wouldn't have been able to sit back and watch Draco fall headlong into the prank, whatever it was.

All thought of mischief vanished, however, when the post came.

Draco smiled widely, as he always did when he received a letter from Rhiannon.

"My new Quidditch gloves must be on their way," he said, waving about an envelope that prominently displayed the name and logo of Quality Quidditch Supplies. Personally, Harry thought he was laying it on a bit thick. Yes, he wanted to keep Rhiannon's existence a secret, so he was hardly going to admit that the letter inside the envelope was from his Muggle girlfriend. On the other hand, he was calling too much attention to the letter, full stop.

And did he actually have new gloves coming, to back up the lie?

Huh . . . that probably didn't matter. Ever since Draco had got Sirius Black's legacy, he'd been owl-ordering loads of things for himself. He probably had a dozen pairs of Quidditch gloves by now, more than any casual observer could keep track of.

Harry reached for the platter of bacon and served himself another couple of rashers. It wasn't until he was spreading marmalade across his toast that he realised that something was wrong. Beside him, Draco had gone utterly still. When Harry glanced his way, it was to see that his brother's face was far more pale than usual, his fingers white where they gripped the yellowish parchment.

"Something wrong?" asked Harry, pitching his voice low.

Draco abruptly jerked himself out of his daze. "What, wrong?" he asked, his voice pitched unnaturally high as he thrust the letter back inside its envelope. "What could be wrong? Will you excuse me, Harry? I've forgotten something that I need for class."

Harry reached under the table and grabbed one of Draco's wrists, squeezing tightly in an effort to help him calm down. "It's Sunday. No classes."

"Well, I've forgotten something I need, all the same," snapped Draco, yanking his hand from Harry's grasp. "I'll see you later."

He shoved Rhiannon's letter into a pocket as he stood up and stalked away.

Harry was torn between giving him the privacy he obviously needed, and going after him to see how he could help. By the time he'd decided, Draco was out the doors of the Great Hall.

Snape had left the Head Table some time earlier, which only left Ron, Hermione, and Ginny to go with Harry so he wouldn't walk alone.

"Can you walk me down to Slytherin?" he asked the minute he'd reached the Gryffindor table. For once, he didn't even care how that question made him sound.

"Sure, mate," said Ron. "Just as soon as I recover from this morning's practise. You know, if I wasn't captain I'd be complaining up one side and down the other. But as it is . . . I think I'll just have another couple of eggs. Then I'll walk with you, but after that? I need a nap."

"Now," said Harry. "I have to go now."

"I'll walk you down," said Hermione quickly, obviously reading from his tone that he was worried about something.

Harry glanced up and down the table for Ginny, but she'd already finished her breakfast. Well, Hermione alone was escort enough.

"I thought you were spending the day with us," said Hermione as they started off. There wasn't any accusation in her voice, though. "So we can revise for Tuesday's Transfiguration test?"

"Uh, I might not be able to," hedged Harry. How could he know? He had to find out what was wrong with Draco. "It might have to wait until tomorrow."

"Oh, Harry. You shouldn't wait until the day before a test to study. How many times have I told you that short-term memory can be very unreliable?"

"Too many," said Harry, lengthening his stride.

"But you want to be an Auror. You actually have to understand all this material, and not just for the N.E.W.T.s--"

"I know, Hermione."

"I'm sorry," she said then, hurrying to catch up. "What's the matter? I should have asked that first of all."

"I don't know." Harry was careful to keep his tone and words vague enough that passers-by in the corridor wouldn't know what he really meant. "But Draco got a letter. One of those letters, and whatever it said . . . I don't know. He didn't look happy."

"Oh, dear. I hope she's not sick or hurt."

"Narcissa Malfoy's too tough for that to happen," said Harry, giving Hermione a look. She got the point and said nothing else specific. In fact, she started revising Transfiguration with him as they walked along.

When they'd reached the entrance to Slytherin, Harry waved her off. "I was told in no uncertain terms not to let anybody overhear the password."

"As if I'd want to sneak in," she said, tossing her head. "I'm not a second-year any longer, you know."

"I'll see you later," said Harry, waiting until she was a few feet away before he whispered the password. At least it wasn't something nasty like "pureblood" any longer, but since Draco had changed it the week before to "Quidditch Cup," that was small consolation.

  "I wouldn't go in there if I were you," said Greg dourly as Harry walked through the common room and headed for the stairs. "Draco just kicked us out."

"His exact words were 'out, out, out!'" drawled Zabini, idly flicking through a wizarding fashion magazine.

"He kicked you out too?"

"No, but he was yelling," said Zabini with a small smile. "Most unMalfoyesque, wouldn't you agree? But then, he's a Snape these days. Hmm. A Snape who's snapped."

Harry's hand clenched at the way Zabini was obviously enjoying Draco's bad mood.

"Perhaps if you go in he'll yell at you as well," the other boy said, grinning in a way that could only be described as vicious. "Wouldn't that be a sight to see? Or hear, rather. Such loyal, loving brothers finally at odds. Perhaps I'll sell tickets."

Harry ignored him, but once he was outside the seventh years' dormitory, he cast a wandless privacy charm, one strong enough to overcome any eavesdropping spells that Zabini might have strewn about. Then he tried to go in, but the door was warded shut. Harry could have opened it with a wanded spell, but he was concerned he might overdo it and blow the door off its hinges. Not good when the true strength of his powers was supposed to remain a secret.

He settled for knocking loudly, and then swore as he realised that his spell from before was isolating the dormitory from the rest of Slytherin. Draco couldn't hear him.

Sighing, Harry cancelled his spell and knocked again.

"Busy!" shouted Draco. "Come back later!"

"Draco, it's Harry--"

"I don't care if it's Merlin himself. I'm busy, come back later!"

"It's my room too," shouted Harry back. "Let me in!"

"Fuck off!"

Harry heard Zabini start to chortle. Well, at least it gave him an idea. He leaned closer to the door. "Zabini's enjoying your mood and the more you yell the more he enjoys it," said Harry softly against the edge, where wood didn't quite meet stone.

A minute later, the door was yanked open. Draco stared at Harry for half a second, his grey eyes looking almost wild. Then he whirled around and stomped back to the small desk next to his bed.

Harry gently closed the door, warding it thoroughly.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to concentrate," barked Draco the moment Harry finished.

"Concentrate on what?"

"I’m writing a letter. I'm sure you can guess to whom."

"Is she all right?"

"Like you care," spat Draco, turning around in his chair. "You're probably happy to be proven right!"

Proven right? Harry's eyebrows drew together. "I don't understand."

"Well, since she's not your girlfriend I suppose you don't have to," said Draco in a strained voice. "Harry . . . please just sit on your bed and let me think. I have to get this right."

Harry still didn't understand, but he did as Draco had asked.

For a long time after that, there was no sound in the room except the scratching of a quill and the occasional noise of parchment being crumpled into a ball. Harry closed his eyes and waited, trying not to count the number of drafts Draco was going through. After a while he was bored to tears, so he summoned his Transfigurations book and tried to revise for Tuesday's test. Maybe he could surprise Hermione and show up to their study session with the material well in hand, for once.

"There," said Draco at last. "There, there, there."

"Done?"

"It's probably not perfect but . . ." Draco sighed. "I don't know what else to say to her."

Harry laid his book aside and sat up. "About?"

Draco's eyes were ringed with red, even though Harry hadn't heard any sound of crying. "Is Rhiannon sick? Hermione thought that might be what had you so upset--"

"You told Granger?"

"Well, somebody had to walk me down here! I'm not supposed to go places alone!"

"You could have gone to Gryffindor where you belong!"

Harry flinched, his voice low when he answered. "You don't mean that."

"You're right; I don't." Draco sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just . . ."

"What?" Harry gulped, his mind going a full year to when he'd seen Aunt Petunia in hospital, lying there so frail. Lying there looking like death. "Is it bad? Is it leukaemia?"

"She's not sick." Draco's throat contracted. "I almost wish she were, and yes, I know that makes me a horribly selfish person. But I am a horribly selfish person, Harry. I had you fooled, didn't I? I think I had myself fooled."

"You didn't have me fooled," said Harry gently. "I know you aren't perfect. But you are a lot less imperfect than you used to be, Draco."

"No, I'm not, because I do wish . . . At least then I wouldn't have to think of her with . . ." His voice sounded like it wanted to break, but Draco wouldn't let it. "With someone else."

Oh. Oh.

Harry didn't know what to say. "She . . . she found someone else?"

Draco's upper lip curled. "Yes. At Uni. He's older than she is, don't you know. And right there with her. And long-distance relationships don't work, she says! Just like you said!"

His voice had grown shrill by the end.

"I never said that."

"You said I was on the rebound from Pansy!"

"Well, I thought you were," murmured Harry. "But that doesn't mean I expected her to be the one to . . . uh . . . "

"Spit on my love? Stomp on my heart? Dump me?"

"I'm sure she doesn't mean it that way," said Harry, feeling helpless. "She's just . . . well, people can't always help falling in or out of love, Draco. But I really didn't see this coming. I mean, she was so fascinated by magic that I was sure--"

"That she loved me for my magic!"

Harry winced.

"Well, maybe she did," said Draco fiercely. "Because he's a wizard too, she says. And the worst part is, she wouldn't have realised if she hadn't met me first! She said so! She knew the right questions to ask when something struck her as odd!"

Harry nodded and tried to look supportive. It wasn't hard; he was supportive. He just didn't know how to help Draco through this. "So you wrote her a reply?"

"Yes." Draco shifted on his feet as if deciding something, then suddenly flicked his wand to summon a length of parchment. He thrust it into Harry's hands. "Read."

Harry almost recoiled. "I don't want to read it!"

"But I need you to." Draco bit his lip, a gesture so unlike him that Harry's heart ached. And that was before he went on. "I need an outside opinion. I have to know if . . . if I sound too pitiful. Girls don't like that. I mean, witches certainly don't. Wouldn't Muggle girls be the same?"

Harry reluctantly took the parchment and read it through. His first reaction was that "pitiful" didn't even begin to cover it. Draco sounded positively needy. And wretched. If he sent this letter, he'd feel humiliated every time he remembered it.

"Well?"

"It won't do," said Harry, trying to be diplomatic. "This reads like you can't live without her."

"Because I fucking well can't, you imbecile!"

Harry knew it wouldn't do any good to say that yes, he could. Draco wasn't going to believe that, not now. "Maybe so, but it's going to sound pitiful, and you said you wanted to avoid that. I think . . . I think what you have to do is preserve your pride. Tell her that you understand and that you wish her well."

"That won't get her back!"

"If she's enough in love with someone else to write you about it, I don't think you can get her back."

"Has anyone ever mentioned what an unmitigated bastard you can be, Potter?"

"I'd be an arsehole if I let you send that letter out as it stands." When Draco just stared, Harry tried his best to let his Slytherin side come through. "Look, begging's not going to get you anywhere. You're right. Girls don't like that. If you really want her back, your best strategy is to pretend that you don't care."

"Girls are fucking insane," said Draco in a venomous tone. "Every last one of them. Magical or Muggle, it's all the same. They live to see us bleed."

"So don't let her," said Harry. The look in Draco's eyes was starting to scare him a little. It had shifted from hysterical to something closer to raw fury. "Laugh it all off. Tell her that yeah, the summer was fun but you can see now that that's all it was. Just a summer romance."

"That's what she called it," said Draco in a low tone not unlike a hiss. "A summer romance. A fling. A fucking fling!"

And Draco had wanted to marry her, so that word must have hurt him deeply.

"Well, I can tell you one thing," said Draco as he strode back to his desk, and bending over it, started to write on a fresh sheet of parchment. "If pretending I don't care doesn't get her back, then I'm going to look up the nastiest, most disgusting, disfiguring hexes wizards have ever invented, and--"

"No!" cried Harry, jumping off his bed and rushing forward to grab Draco's shoulders. He gave him a hard shake. "No, no, no! Damn it, this is what I was afraid of all along, that you'd lose your temper and hurt her!"

"Hurt her!" Draco violently wrenched his shoulders to shake off Harry's grip and then just as violently, struck him full across the face. "Hurt her!"

Harry staggered back and somehow managed not to give as good as he'd got. "Yeah," he said, one hand raised to his blazing cheek. "Hurt her."

"Fuck you! She could cut my heart from my body and I'd never, ever hurt her! I love her!"

"You just said you were going to start looking up spells--"

"For him."

"Oh." Harry flushed, wishing he hadn't jumped to conclusions. "Oh. Well, how was I to know? You do have that impulse control problem."

Draco glared, his eyes glacial. "Not like I used to."

"Really." Harry moved his hand away from his cheek and let Draco see what he'd done.

"When you're being particularly stupid I regress," said Draco tightly. "Oh, hell. I didn't mean to hit you. Here, let me set it right."

Draco's idea of setting it right was to use some fancy transfigurations to conceal the bruise. It still hurt like hell. When Harry said so, Draco chilled a book to serve as an ice pack.

"At least you didn't punch my eye," murmured Harry. "I guess you are getting better."

"Shut up."

Harry didn't. "What are you going to do about Rhiannon? You can't hex her new boyfriend, Draco. In the first place, Severus will kill you if you sneak down to London to do it, and in the second, crap like that will destroy your chance of being accepted into Auror training. You're an adult now, don't forget."

"Being an adult sucks raw eggs."

"What are you going to do?"

"Finish my letter. Oh, but look. Grabbing me like you did, you've spilt ink all over it. Careless of you--"

"Yeah, well you've more than got even." Harry moved the chilled book around on his cheek a bit to find a more comfortable position. There wasn't one. "Well?"

Draco ignored him and kept writing, but finally turned and held a parchment up in front of Harry's eyes, the ink on it still wet and glistening. "What about this?"

Dearest Rhiannon,

Upon receipt of your letter of 21 October I find we are in one accord regarding our short-lived liaison. It was indeed, nothing but a brief affaire de coeur meant to last no longer than a single summer. The blossom was fragrant whilst it bloomed, but we must not mourn that it has now withered.

I wish you every happiness as I sign myself,

Draco Alain Gervais Malfoy Snape

"Now you sound like you have a stick up your arse," said Harry. He wasn't in the mood any longer to be diplomatic. "It's 1997, not 1897. And don't call her your dearest."

"What would you write, then?"

Harry didn't think that Draco really wanted to know, but when Harry started talking, he touched quill to parchment and transcribed what Harry said.

"Dear Rhiannon, Thanks for writing. I know what you mean about long-distance relationships. Now that you've found someone else, I won't feel guilty about wanting to ask a certain someone to the Halloween Ball. We had a great summer and I'm happy I got to know you. Yours truly, Draco Snape."

Draco kept writing for a few moments after Harry had finished speaking, and then said, "My version. Dear Rhiannon, I appreciate your taking the time to write to me. It's true that long-distance relationships can be fraught with difficulty. I've felt the strain myself as I've pondered whether I should ask a certain young lady to accompany me to our annual celebration of All Hallows Eve. I'll always remember our summer together with fondness. I wish you all the best, Draco Snape."

Harry cocked his head to one side as he listened. "Just say that you wish her well."

"No. This is already a forty-seventh draft."

"All right then. It'll do."

Draco's voice went dark. "It had better do more than that. The point is to get her back."

"Well, maybe it will," said Harry, though personally, he doubted it. "Now what you need is a distraction. How about some one-on-one out on the pitch?"

"The pitch!" exclaimed Draco, checking his watch. "I should be out there already! Why didn't any of my team mates come and get me?"

"They probably did and we couldn’t hear them." Harry studied his brother carefully. "Are you sure you're all right to fly? It's not a good idea to mount a broom when you're really upset about something--"

"You're the one who suggested Quidditch."

"Well, I'd be sure to look out for you. Slytherin's probably running some cut-throat practises these days, getting ready to face us."

"And you call me conceited." Draco took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes. "Yes, I'm all right to fly. It might be the only thing that can get my mind off . . . her. Oh, and for the record, Harry? We're more than ready to face you. You're not going to know what's hit you."

The impulse to warn him about a prank washed over Harry again, but without details, he was still stuck in the same quandary.

"Just don't let a Bludger hit you," he said. "And make up a good story to tell Zabini. He's probably down there right now, slobbering over the idea that you're miserable."

"Blaise isn't the type to slobber. He's more likely to polish his broomstick to thoughts of my misery, the sadistic fucker."

"Polish his . . ."

"Wank, Harry."

"Oh."

"If I walk you to Gryffindor will you very nicely ask Hermione to post this as soon as possible? I don't mean the next time she happens to write to her parents. I mean today."

"I'll ask. But, uh . . . what should I tell her? She knows something is wrong."

"She knows that you thought something was wrong. Tell her that you misunderstood."

"She won't believe me."

"Make her."

"You still don't understand how clever she is, do you?"

"Just make her," said Draco, sealing the envelope and shoving it between the pages of Harry's Transfiguration book. "Take this. You need to study for the test."

"I'm not that bad at Transfiguration--"

"Yes, you are." "Git."

"Wanker. Literally. You even told Dad so!" Draco howled with laughter.

It sounded a little forced to Harry, but that was all right. At least Draco was trying to lift himself out of his gloom. That was better than wallowing in it.

The laughter was for something else, though, Harry soon realised. Draco opened the door in the middle of it, releasing the wards Harry had cast.

Draco was laughing so Zabini wouldn’t know that he was cut up inside.

  "It sounds urgent," said Hermione, her fingers brushing Harry's as she took the letter from him. The common room had been too noisy for serious studying, so Hermione and Harry had headed off to an empty classroom on the third floor. Ron was supposed to join them later, but first he'd wanted to have a go at watching the Slytherins practise. He'd invited Harry along, but Harry didn't have any great urge to spy on his brother, even if it would help Gryffindor in the upcoming match.

He supposed that meant that his loyalties were divided.

"It is a little urgent, I guess," said Harry. He'd already decided not to lie to Hermione, and he'd warded the room so they could speak freely. At times, his strong magic really came in handy.

"What's the matter?"

"Dear John letter, basically."

"Oh, no. That's dreadful."

Harry cleared his throat. "Draco wanted me to tell you that he wasn't upset at all, that I'd misunderstood. He didn't explain how I was supposed to get you to owl that off immediately in that case. But . . . I suppose he's not thinking very clearly right now. Don't let on, all right? I think he feels embarrassed that you might find out Rhiannon dumped him."

Hermione nodded and pulled out a sheet of parchment. She began to compose a cover letter to her parents as she spoke. "Did she give any reasons?"

"It just sounded like . . . average kinds of things. Or like she was never in love in the first place. Not the way he was." Harry paused. "Or she was tired of waiting for him. She wanted him to come down to London on a weekend, and Snape said he couldn't."

"Of course he couldn't. I thought you said she knew about the war!"

"She didn't seem to get it." Harry sighed. "The last I heard, she was bugging him to visit her over the Christmas holiday, and Snape said 'no' to that too."

"Well, think of it from her point of view," said Hermione calmly as she sealed Rhiannon's letter inside her own. "She probably felt like that would be her only chance to see him all year, and if she doesn't really understand about the war, it would seem to her that Draco isn't very keen to visit her."

"That just means she never really loved him," said Harry stubbornly. "If I loved a girl, I'd never give up on her."

"Yes, I remember Cho," said Hermione dryly.

"All right, I guess I did give up on her when she sided with Marietta. But that's just my point. I turned out not to love Cho so much, after all." The conversation reminded Harry of another one. "Er . . . you've never had any suspicion that I was gay, have you?"

Hermione burst out laughing. "You? No. Why do you ask?"

"Because Severus is an idiot."

"You don't mean . . ."

"I do mean."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione covered her mouth, but it didn’t help; she kept on laughing. "What a muddle. You've sorted it out now, I take it?"

"Yeah, but I think he won't be really convinced until I'm married with three kids," said Harry sourly. "I almost wish I could start dating so he'd believe me right now. But I might as well paint a big target on her forehead and label it 'Apply Cruciatus here.'"

Hermione took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "Come to the Owlery with me."

That turned out to be a good idea; Hedwig was there. Harry held out an arm and made a soft cooing sound to summon her, then lightly scratched behind her ears when she used him as a perch.

  Harry didn't think he earned an Outstanding on this Transfigurations test, but he'd probably managed an Acceptable. He tried not to be too annoyed over the way it seemed like only the most useless information had been included on the test. As an Auror, he might actually need to know how to transform shoes into ice-skates; it could come in handy if he had to cross a frozen lake and there were anti-Apparition wards around it. But was that on the test? Oh, no. McGonagall had asked them to explain in detail why hot water could be transfigured into ice with far less magical effort than cold water. Who cared why that was true? As an Auror, all he had to know was that it was. Besides, weren't weather charms really more of a Charms topic?

"I'm glad I memorised the sixteen phases of the Animagus transformation," said Hermione in a jolly tone as she left class arm in arm with Ron.

"Yeah, knowing the names of the phases is really important for people who haven't even made a dent in actually becoming Animagi," complained Harry.

"Sour grapes, Potter?" drawled Zabini, who was approaching from the opposite direction. "Well, what can one expect from someone with such weak magic? I, on the other hand, have made it to the fifth stage."

"I wouldn't brag about being a worm," said Ron. "But keep working on it, Zabini. When you have the transformation mastered, I'll be very happy to squash you flat."

Zabini had his wand out in a flash.

"No magic in the corridors," said Harry. "Put that away, Zabini, or it'll be five points from Slytherin."

Zabini scowled and pocketed his wand again.

Sometimes, Harry thought, it was quite enjoyable to be a prefect.

  Draco was morose and withdrawn all week long. When a teacher asked him a question, he answered in monosyllables. Not even Morrighan's usual goading seemed to affect him. He just stared at her with bleak eyes and took her insults, though whenever Zabini was watching him he would act like nothing was wrong, making jokes and laughing at them.

All told, he reminded Harry of the day Marsha had explained the term "manic depressive."

The only time he truly perked up was when the owls came flying into the Great Hall. Draco would track them with his gaze, clearly hopeful. When day after day passed with no sign of any post for him, he'd sink even deeper into gloom.

Finally, on Friday, an owl dropped a large maroon envelope in front of him, the words Fiery Gems glittering across the seal. Draco reached for it with shaking hands.

"Not here," said Harry under his breath. "Don't you want some privacy?"

"But it will be all right. It has to be all right," said Draco in a strained voice.

Zabini was far down the table, but several sixth-year girls were staring at Draco curiously.

"I'm sure they were able to repair the locket you sent them," said Harry. "Fiery Gems has a very good reputation for that sort of thing. Done with breakfast, are you?" He stood up, relieved when Draco did the same.

They found a quiet room halfway to the Defence classroom. Harry locked and warded the door while Draco collapsed into a chair and stared at the unopened envelope in his hand.

"Maybe you should wait until after classes are over for the day," said Harry carefully.

"I can't. Can't, can't, can't." Draco ripped the envelope nearly in half and yanked out the parchment inside.

Harry had known it wouldn’t say what Draco wanted. Draco, however, had still held out some hope. The letter obviously killed it. His face went pasty, his breathing shallow as he kept reading. Finally, he flung the letter away from him and leaned heavily on the table in front of him. "I feel sick," he moaned.

"Do you want a bucket?"

"I . . . I don't know." Draco raised his head just enough to look at Harry with bleary eyes. "I want my mum. She always knew what to do when my tummy was sore. She'd cast a spell and pat my forehead with a cool, damp washcloth . . ."

"I'm sorry she's not here," said Harry quietly.

Well, at least the claim seemed to perk Draco up a bit. "No, you aren't. If she were here you'd be accusing her of something. I know you would."

"Well, I'm sorry that you miss her, anyway. Er . . . do you want me to find Dad, then?"

"I want to be alone."

Harry shook his head. "It's almost time for class. Come on. At least being in a lesson might take your mind off--"

"Off the fact that he looks like Fox Mulder?" asked Draco, raising his voice. "That's what she wrote this time! He looks like Fox Mulder and he plays the piano, and he can charm it to sound like a harp, which she thinks is just 'enchanting!' And he's a Muggleborn which is probably a better match for her!"

Harry realised he was biting his lip when he tried to speak. "She told you all about him? Oh, God. I'm sorry, Draco."

"You should be. It's your fault! That bloody letter you made me write! She thinks I'm not bothered that she's found someone else! She thinks we're mates now and she can chat to me about her . . ." Draco dropped his head back down to the table. "Go away, Harry. Just go away."

"I can't," said Harry baldly. "Not unless you want me to walk alone to Defence."

"Bugger it." Draco's eyes were bleak when he lifted his head. "Fine. I'll go with you, but I'm not going in. I can't take it today. I'm going back to bed."

"Really, you'll feel better in class--"

"Not her class."

Harry couldn’t argue with that.

  "Where's Draco?" asked Hermione when Harry came in alone.

"Oh . . . uh, not feeling very well." Harry lowered his voice. "I don't suppose you know who Fox Mulder is."

"A character on that American programme I told you about. The X-Files."

A vague memory swam through Harry's mind. Something about little green men invading planet earth, and a crazy police officer or something. Not that it mattered. Rhiannon had been mad about the show; that was the point.

"Why?" Hermione tilted her head to one side.

"Er . . . just wondering."

"No, you weren't."

"Well, I'm not going to explain why. It's somebody else's business."

"Ah."

That was all she needed to figure the whole thing out. Hermione nodded briskly. "Well, tell him I hope he starts to feel better soon."

"I will not," said Harry, crossing his arms. "He'd be horrified that I talked to you about this. Forget I asked about the fox thing."

"Do tell," said Zabini smoothly from behind Harry's left shoulder. Harry started; he hadn't noticed Zabini coming in. "You're trying to become a fox Animagus, Potter? That animal's a bit cagey for the likes of you, surely?"

"Shut it, worm," said Ron as he turned away from Dean.

Harry wondered if they'd been discussing the prank. The one Harry wasn't allowed to know about.

"Your attention, please," said Morrighan as she closed her office door behind her and headed down the short staircase to the classroom. This morning she had a pair of blue budgies perched on one shoulder. One looked to be asleep; the other was grooming itself.

Harry would have enjoyed watching them once. Now, he was so annoyed with the professor that the whole thing struck him as pretentious. So she had a special connection to animals! Did she have to flaunt it in every class session?

Morrighan's gaze swept across the room. She nodded as if pleased, probably because not a single book was in evidence. A moment later, however, her eyes narrowed to slits.

Harry didn't know what she was going to say exactly, but he knew who it would be about.

"Miss Bulstrode. Where is Mr Snape?"

Millicent slowly shifted on her feet. That name called only one person to mind, it seemed. "Uh . . . teaching Potions, I suppose?"

"Draco Snape."

Millicent looked around, her meaty shoulders rotating as she searched the room. "I've no idea, ma'am. He came down to breakfast. Or I think he did . . ."

"He's probably skiving off class," Zabini said, an angelic smile plastered across his face. "Draco does quite a bit of that. Didn't the headmaster mention it?"

Harry promised himself that he'd get Zabini for that. "He does not skive off class, and you know it, Zabini!"

Morrighan pivoted to face Harry. "Then where is he? Surely his brother would know."

Harry sourly wondered why she hadn't asked him first, if she thought that. "He wasn't feeling well. He went up to our room to rest."

"If he's not in the infirmary, I expect him in class. There's no in-between. Mr Potter, you're to go and fetch him. Immediately."

Uh-oh. Harry felt his face flaming. How could she!

"Well?"

Harry gulped. No hope for it, though. "I need Hermione to come with me," he blurted. It was either Hermione or Ron, and of the two, Harry was positive Ron would be the worse choice. If someone besides himself had to see Draco curled up in bed, depressed and defeated . . .

Yeah, definitely not Ron.

"Does she have special healing powers that I should know about?" asked Morrighan in a mocking tone.

Harry almost told the teacher that she should give it up as a bad job. Her sarcasm was nothing compared to the comments Severus could dish out.

"No, but I'm not supposed to walk places alone," he retorted, trying for an aura of calm and dignity. The only thing worse than saying it out loud was letting people know how humiliated he felt. "I was kidnapped last year."

Morrighan blinked, and then her face seemed to go pale, no matter that her skin was lightly tanned. She spoke in a subdued voice. "Very well. You and Miss Granger will go together."

Zabini snorted. "Not to Slytherin, she won't. If Potter needs a child-minder so badly, I'll go with him."

Harry gritted his teeth. "The point is that I be accompanied by somebody my dad actually trusts. Come on, Hermione."

He led the way out of the room, fuming. It was small consolation when he heard Morrighan call out, "Back to your place, Zabini!"

Hermione trailed after him, saying nothing at all until they were at the entrance to Slytherin. "I'll just move off a tad, then--"

"Oh, who the fuck cares? Quidditch Cup," said Harry, almost barking the last two words.

"Draco's language is rubbing off on you," she murmured as they went in. Her eyes wide, she began taking in everything in sight, from the enormous fireplace that looked carved out of one gigantic bone, to the high-backed chairs that would conceal their occupants from behind. "This is twice as large as our common room!"

"Three times, at least." Harry shrugged. "Life isn't fair."

"No." Hermione lowered her voice. "Poor Draco."

Harry nodded. "Wait here for me. I don't think he'd want you to see him . . . yeah."

Hermione nodded and moved off to examine a few books that had been left lying about.

  Harry had been worried that he'd have to break the door down using dark powers and then cover up the damage with a wanded Reparo, but not one strong enough to change the door all the way back into a tree . . .

As it turned out, though, the door wasn't even locked.

That, more than anything else, told Harry how devastated Draco must be feeling. He wouldn't want Zabini or Crabbe or Goyle walking in on him when he was so vulnerable. Hell, it was a sure bet he wouldn't even want to see Harry. Yet he'd forgotten to so much as lock the door.

Harry's second surprise was that Draco hadn't gone to bed as he'd said.

No, things were worse than that. Much worse.

Draco was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rocking back and forth as he clutched a letter to his chest. More letters were scattered around him on the floor. Dozens of them, each one bearing the same handwriting.

Draco’s handwriting -- Harry would recognise that perfect script anywhere. Sighing, he sank to the floor himself.

The other boy didn’t look up. "Is it lunch already? You go ahead . . . I'm not hungry--"

"It's not even half nine," said Harry gently. "Draco . . . I'm sorry about Rhiannon, but sitting here reading copies of every letter you’ve ever sent her isn’t going to help anything--"

"I have to discover where I went wrong," said Draco, his gaze continuing to study the letter in his hands, his eyes scanning left to right, left to right . . . "So that I can fix it. Go away, Harry."

"You didn't go wrong. She just wasn't as serious as you thought." Harry wished now that he hadn't given Draco false hope the last time they'd discussed Rhiannon. He was determined not to make that mistake again. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing to be done."

"You're not sorry." Draco's hands tightened on the parchment he held. "You're happy. You never liked her and you never wanted me to be with her."

"I liked her fine."

Draco looked up then, his eyes rimmed with red like he'd been holding back tears. "Be honest. You could barely stand the thought of me with her!"

Harry shook his head. "Not because I didn't like her. I thought . . . I don't know. A lot of things, like it was too soon after Pansy. And I suppose the truth is that I was jealous that you felt free to have a girlfriend when I didn't dare let myself even think about . . ."

"I know, I know. You thought she was all wrong for me, you thought that --"

"No," interrupted Harry. " I was wrong about you , Draco. That was the main thing."

"You weren't," said Draco in a dull voice as he slumped closer to the floor.

"Yes, I was." Harry braced himself in case Draco hit him again, though it didn't seem likely. Draco was too morose for that. "I thought you'd hate her when she turned out to be a Muggle."

"I could never hate Rhiannon," said Draco, his voice catching again. "Not even now. But you're wrong about me, all the same. I'm a horrible person. All I want is her, and I don’t really care that she wants someone else. I think I'd slip her a love potion if I could get away with it, but Severus would probably smell it on her breath . . ."

"That only means that you're hurt. You're not a bad person." Harry gave a tremulous smile. "In fact, you're a better person than I realised. You've come a long, long way from the boy who used to call Hermione those nasty names."

"No, I haven't--"

"Yes, you have," said Harry firmly. "Just this week you told me that magical or Muggle, girls were all the same."

Draco's forehead furrowed. "I did?"

"You said all they want is to see us bleed."

"Oh, that. A rather misogynistic remark. I wouldn't expect you to approve."

"Well, you were upset, like I said. But the sentiment behind the words . . . it's amazing, Draco. It's like the part of you that's my brother is a lot bigger now. I mean, bigger than the part of you that was raised as Lucius' son."

"You're such an optimistic fool. I only sided with you in the first place to save my own skin! I told you that!"

"I know." Harry smiled again. "But it's more than that now. It's been more than that for a long time. You told me that, too."

Draco turned his face away. "Why are you here, anyway? I want to be alone."

So he could wallow, thought Harry. Maybe it was just as well that Morrighan had insisted he come to class. "Sorry," he said again, even though this time he wasn't. "I was sent to fetch you. The professor noticed you were missing."

"Tell her I'm staying here."

"She's already gunning for you," said Harry bluntly. "Don't make things worse."

Draco sighed. "Morrighan's a troll."

"I'll just help you clear these away--"

"Don't touch them!" exclaimed Draco, gathering up the letters himself. "They're charmed to turn blank forever if anybody but me lays a finger on them."

"Good precaution. But . . . uh, why did you make copies in the first place?"

Draco carefully tucked the letters into a pouch as he answered. "I was taught growing up that one should keep proper records of all correspondence. Also . . ." He quickly warded the pouch and stowed it in his trunk. "I wanted to make sure I didn't relate the same anecdote twice, that sort of thing."

Harry thought that sounded obsessive, but he decided not to say anything.

Draco rose to his feet and extended a hand to help Harry up from the floor. "Well . . . I can't say that I'm looking forward to Defence with Malevolent Morrighan, but I suppose she'll already be wondering what's taking us so long."

"Uh . . . speaking of us, you might want to splash some water on your face. Hermione's in the common room." When Draco stared, Harry started feeling defensive. Well, at least he hadn't admitted that he'd let her hear the stupid password. "I couldn't walk here by myself, could I?"

"You could have left her cooling her heels in the corridor!"

Harry thought he'd be better off ignoring the whole topic. "Just splash some water on your face--"

"Water, honestly." Draco pointed his wand at himself and said a couple of incantations that removed the puffy rings around his eyes. "There."

He was in full-Draco form when he entered the common room. Chin high, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, he looked down his nose at Hermione, who to no-one's surprise had her nose buried in a book. "Thank you for accompanying Harry. It can't have been easy for you, entering a place like this."

Hermione laid the book aside and rose gracefully to her feet. "Well, there aren't exactly slogans on the walls," she said mildly. "It's just a room, Draco. I'm hardly going to blame the floor for the fact that a lot of the people who walk it despise Muggleborns."

Draco curled a lip. "I was referring to the appointments, actually. I imagine that your tower looks rather tawdry in comparison. And no wonder, with a head like McGonagall. She doesn't seem to care how disadvantaged your lot is."

Harry wasn't sure why Draco was trying to get a rise out of Hermione, but he was proud of Hermione for refusing to let him.

"You're upset," she said, nothing but compassion in her tone. "I'm very sorry, Draco. I thought that the two of you made a lovely couple."

Draco whirled to face Harry. "You told her! You told her!"

"She knew who was sending you letters, and she saw the look on your face. I told you I wasn't going to be able to mislead Hermione."

Draco whirled again, this time darting forward to grab both of Hermione's hands in his own. "Tell me how to get her back! Your advice worked wonders last time--"

Oh, God. Hermione didn't want to hurt Draco; it was written all over her face. But she had too much good sense to offer false hope the way Harry had. Thankfully, she was also clever enough not to let slip any of the details Harry had mentioned. "Well . . . the reasons she gave for writing to you . . . what were they?"

Draco dropped her hands and shoved his own back into his pockets. "She talked about Hogwarts being too far from London-- not that it is, with Apparition, but fucking Severus won't let me go anywhere! And she said we didn't have that much in common, since we came from such different worlds, and she'd met this new bloke who 'fit' her better."

"Oh. Muggle, is he?"

"Ha. Muggleborn. She gets the both of best worlds that way!"

"Well, those reasons don’t sound like they have much to do with you personally, Draco. And if you have to change yourself to suit her, you probably aren't a very good fit for her."

"Would you like a reason that has to do with me personally?" Draco made a noise that was very like a snarl. "I don’t look enough like this Fox Mulder, whoever that is--"

Hermione shot Harry a quick, understanding glance. "You don't want to look like him. He's quite a bit older. Which is perhaps the point. She's moved on into the adult world, while you're still finishing your schooling."

"He's soooo handsome, though. She said so!"

"Oh, Draco," said Hermione, very softly. "You can't believe that to be the problem. You're quite remarkably handsome, yourself."

"One of my eyebrows is higher than the other--"

"Just enough to give you a dashing air. Trust me, Draco. No girl who breaks up with you will ever do it because of your looks."

Draco looked a little mollified, even as he took his hands out of his pockets long enough to smooth his hair back. "All right, then. But I thought, you know, if I could manage a trip to London, just a very quick one--"

"You know you can't do that. It won't help anything even if you aren't found out. And if you are, you'll just have to hope that it's your father who finds you first, and not Voldemort."

The part about probable death-and-torture sailed right past Draco. "It won't help anything?" he asked, sounding piteous.

Hermione accompanied her answer with a firm nod. "It absolutely won't. She's moved on, and the very best you can do is accept that gracefully."

"But--"

"Morrighan's going to pitch one hell of a fit if we miss much more of her class," said Harry.

"More of a fit than she usually throws around me?" Draco looked like he wanted to snarl again, but instead he put on what was obviously his "public" face. "We may as well get it over with, I suppose."

"It's just for one year," said Hermione bracingly. "And you've held up very well so far."

"She's going to push me until I can't take it," Draco muttered in a dark tone, his public face slipping.

Unfortunately, those words proved to be prophetic.

  "Mr Snape," said Morrighan as soon as he'd entered. "You're late. Twenty points from Slytherin."

"Yes, Professor," said Draco, sighing as he went to stand in his usual place by the wall. The desks had been shoved to one side, leaving plenty of room for duels and spell practice.

"I expect to hear a coherent explanation for your inexcusable tardiness, Mr Snape!"

Draco firmed his lips. "I had a migraine."

"You should have gone to the hospital wing for a potion if that were true. Not that I'm surprised you would lie, a boy like you. Well? Why were you so late? Tell the truth this time!"

Draco's features went taut as he spoke from between his teeth. "I had a migraine."

Morrighan's smile was razor sharp. "I'm afraid I don't believe you."

"I'm afraid I don't bloody care," shouted Draco.

Harry winced. Normally Draco would have let her goading comments slide off him, but just now, his emotions were too raw, too flayed. He was playing right into Morrighan's hands.

She didn't waste any time in gloating over that fact, either. "Twenty more points from Slytherin," she said with soft enjoyment. "Twenty points and a detention, Mr Snape. Tomorrow, shall we say? Report here at eight o'clock sharp and be prepared to spend the entire day cleaning my classroom floor. Without magic."

Harry clenched his fists, but tried to make his voice sound calm. Morrighan liked him, so maybe he had a chance. Of course, she wouldn’t like him after this; she wouldn’t appreciate anybody standing up for Draco. Not that that mattered.

"Tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season, Professor. Slytherin's playing, and Draco's our Seeker. Couldn't he serve your detention at some other time?"

Morrighan flicked her long, brown hair behind her shoulders. "No. I think not."

"It won't be a real victory for Gryffindor if Slytherin can't field the best players they have--"

"Like you're going to win," said Zabini, rolling his eyes and scoffing.

"There," said Morrighan, nodding. "The Slytherins don't seem to feel they need Mr Snape so urgently."

"I'm a Slytherin and I think they do," retorted Harry.

"I didn't mean that we could do without Draco," said Zabini grudgingly. Evidently he loved the Quidditch Cup more than he hated Draco. "We need him on the pitch tomorrow."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," said Morrighan airily. "And the matter is closed. Miss Bulstrode, if you'd be so kind as to select a partner? I believe it was your turn to demonstrate a fantail block."

Millicent planted herself like a mule refusing to be led. "But Quidditch means a lot here, and we had to go without Draco Seeking for us for most of last year--"

"That's not really my concern."

"But it is ours," said Daphne Greengrass in a soft, lilting voice. "Can't you help us, Professor? Harry's right; Draco could serve your detention at some other time, couldn't he?"

"This discussion is over," said Morrighan in a frosty voice. "Miss Bulstrode, you will either demonstrate the block or you will take a zero for the day, along with another twenty point loss for Slytherin." With no more warning than that, the teacher flung out her wand, casting a nasty-looking greyish hex toward her student.

Millicent got her block up in time, but just barely. It wasn't strong enough; a few tendrils of the hex whipped around her shield. The magic seemed attracted to her hair. Harry understood why when he saw what the hex did.

Five separate locks of Millicent's hair transformed themselves into writhing snakes.

"The Medusa curse," murmured Hermione. "It's illegal in thirteen countries. Not this one, unfortunately."

Draco made a gagging noise under his breath.

Millicent was less bothered, but then, most Slytherins liked snakes all right. She started to raise a hand, looking like she meant to pet one of the heads.

"Don't. They bite," said Morrighan calmly. "Finite Incantatem. Now, who can tell me why the Medusa curse is, at least in part, poorly named."

Hermione's arm jerked a little, like she was trying to resist raising her hand. Ever since the first day of Defence class, she'd been reluctant to volunteer. Harry thought she was probably still annoyed over the rule against books.

"Well," drawled Draco in a bored tone, as if Morrighan's questions were barely worth answering, "you don't see anyone in here who's been turned to stone, do you? Except you, of course."

The last four words were delivered in an undertone, but not enough of one.

Morrighan whipped around to face him. "What was that, Mr Snape?"

"I said that my shoe feels coarse," said Draco with a face so straight that Harry knew he had to be Occluding to hide the lie. He started shaking one of his legs a little like he was trying to dislodge a pebble.

Hermione abruptly began coughing to hide her giggle. Even Ron's lips twisted in a wry smile. Morrighan narrowed her eyes, looking around suspiciously, but all the students who had overheard Draco put on innocent expressions.

Even Zabini didn't rat Draco out. Maybe, Harry thought caustically, he was worried that Morrighan would ground Draco for two Quidditch matches instead of just the one.

The one against Gryffindor!

The rest of the class passed without incident, though Draco kept making whispered remarks throughout. He was smooth as glass about it; whenever Morrighan heard enough to challenge him, a plausible lie tripped off the edge of his tongue.

What could Morrighan do? Unlike Snape, she didn't have phenomenal hearing, and if she cast Sonorus on Draco, he'd deafen everyone in the room.

Besides, what a fucking bitch really did sound remarkably like what a lucky witch.

And at Hogwarts, "witch" was hardly an insult.

"Stop it, Draco," murmured Harry at one point. "I know you're upset about the match, but I'll find some way to fix it. Even if I have to tell Dad--"

"Don't you dare. I already have it solved," said Draco airily.

"How?"

"Never you mind."

Harry stared at him doubtfully. "All right, but stop provoking her. You'll just make things worse."

"No, I won't, because they can't get worse." Draco made a face, but then brightened. "And too, you haven't heard the coup de grace yet."

"The who de what?"

Draco only smiled. "Do you know what I found out the other day, Harry?" he asked in his normal voice, before dropping into the murmur he kept using to insult the professor. "Morrighan's mother was a lying hog."

"Excuse me, Mr Snape?" barked Morrighan from a dozen paces away.

Harry was surprised that Draco didn't turn that one to his advantage. There's no excuse for you . . .

"I said that I can hover an entire log." Draco blinked like he was surprised to be questioned.

Hermione suddenly made a high squealing noise.

"What, Miss Granger, what?"

"I bit my tongue," said Hermione, looking down at the floor. "Ow. It really smarts."

Morrighan looked exhausted. Apparently it was a lot easier to belittle Draco than to catch him actually doing something to deserve her ire. "Oh, class dismissed," she suddenly snapped. "Mr Snape, I'll see you here tomorrow at eight."

"Yes, Professor," he said demurely.

"Not a minute after," she warned, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"Eight on the dot. I promise."

Interesting how Draco could both look and sound like an angel when he wanted, thought Harry.

  Harry was dying to pester Draco more about how he was going to get out of Morrighan's detention, but there wasn't much chance. As soon as class let out, he and Hermione headed off to Arithmancy while Ron and Harry went out to the grounds for Magical Creatures. Hagrid was in fine form, and if Harry had been listening to his rambling tales, he'd probably have learned quite a bit about giants and trolls and ogres.

He wasn't listening, though. All he could think about was Draco.

At lunch both Draco and Hermione were missing. Ron grumbled, but he was used to it. They'd made a habit of going down to the kitchens for food on those days when Hermione was going to help Draco revise Muggle Studies.

Normally, Harry would have seen Draco in his afternoon classes, but not this week. Harry still didn't know how Snape had convinced the other teachers to let the Slytherin Quidditch team skip lessons to practice. It wasn't exactly Snape-like, was it?

Then again, he did want Slytherin to win. Or more specifically, he wanted Draco to win. The strange thing about that thought was that it didn’t hurt Harry to think it. He supposed it went back to what Snape had mentioned once: that treating his sons equally didn't mean treating them the same. Snape knew that Draco had a huge chip on his shoulder when it came to Harry. An inferiority complex, Marsha had called it. And Draco's snobbish attitude . . . a lot of that was overcompensation.

Snape probably thought that anything that helped Draco win against Harry was a good thing. Even if it meant Harry would lose.

Because Harry didn't really need to win, did he? But Draco did.

Not that Draco had much chance, now that he was serving detention during the match. Their father must not know about it yet, if Draco was still skiving off classes to practice. Could it possibly be true that Draco had a way around the punishment Morrighan had announced?

The more the day wore on, the more Harry doubted it.

Draco had more-or-less forbidden him to talk to their father about the problem. Harry knew he really should, especially since he was a Slytherin prefect and the issue was one that directly affected Slytherin . . . but somehow, he couldn't quite bring himself to violate his brother's trust. Maybe because last year, he'd been so adamant that he didn't need his father stepping in to handle Aran for him.

So . . . no Snape. What, then?

Morrighan, thought Harry. Talking to her was almost guaranteed to get him nowhere, but he had to try something, didn't he?

Harry nudged Ron the moment they were in the hallway together. "Dinner can wait."

"But 'm hungry--"

"What else is new?" Harry grabbed Ron's arm and hurried him along. "I need you to walk me back to Defence."

"Oh." Ron scowled. "When even I start feeling sorry for Draco Malfoy -- er, Snape . . . I don't care how tight her trousers get, detention during Quidditch is just unreasonable!"

Harry glanced sideways at his best friend as they turned a corner and headed toward Defence. "I thought you'd almost approve. Anything to disadvantage Slytherin?" "When they lose they'll claim we didn't face their real roster, and you know what? They'll be right!"

Harry cleared his throat. "But wasn't our team going to play some sort of trick on them, anyway?"

"Just to annoy them a little, to get them back for all their cheating! We weren't going to take any of them out of the match!"

By then they were at the Defence classroom. Harry motioned for Ron to stay in the corridor. Then he took a deep breath and knocked. "Professor?"

The door swung open. Inside, Harry could see a pair of pink monkeys scampering across the surface of the desks. Sometimes Harry thought that Morrighan should really be teaching Care of Magical Creatures, she had so many. Or Care of Regular Creatures -- she had plenty of those, too.

"Mr Potter," said Morrighan, turning around from where she was studying a diagram on the blackboard. "What can I do for you?"

Harry cleared his throat again. "I'm here as a prefect. The punishment you gave Draco Snape today will affect all of Slytherin, not just him, so I want to ask you if--"

Morrighan flicked her wand to close the door. "As a prefect, Mr Potter, do you believe that acceptable behaviour includes arriving forty-five minutes late to class and yelling at a teacher?"

"Well, no, but I was banned from Quidditch a couple of years ago, and I know how bad it feels to have to miss a match--"

"Then perhaps your brother will re-think his behaviour," said Morrighan calmly.

"He got some terrible news this morning," blurted Harry. "He shouldn't have talked back to you, but--"

"He's old enough to handle a little bad news--"

"But if you knew what he'd been through these past few months--"

Morrighan rolled her eyes. "To quote the Americans, Mr Potter, your brother is in serious need of an attitude adjustment."

"He's in serious need?" Harry realised he was grinding his teeth, so he made an effort to relax his jaw. "He's tried his best to get along with you, and you've had it in for him since the first day of class, Professor. Be fair. I mean, try to be fair. I mean, if you can--"

Harry knew that he was putting his foot in his mouth in a big way by then, but as things turned out, it didn't matter.

The door opened rather forcefully and Snape strode in, his robes whirling majestically as he stalked inside.

"Professor Morrighan!" he snapped, his boots thudding against the stone floor with every step. "Forty points from Slytherin, is it? Forty points in a single day, and from my son? I do believe we need to conduct a parent-teacher conference!"

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Thirteen: "Gryffindor vs. Slytherin"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

Morrighan's face smoothed itself into a pleasant expression. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd have thought that Snape had just suggested a stroll in the moonlight. "Certainly, Professor. Mr Potter, if you'll excuse us?"

"Harry will stay."

"That's hardly appropriate," said Morrighan. "Unless we need to discuss him instead of his brother."

"Do we need to discuss Harry?" asked Snape in a voice that could only be described as caustic. "The counters failed to inform me that you'd taken forty points from him as well!"

Harry crossed his arms. "She wouldn't take forty points from me, Dad. She doesn't hate me."

"Are you implying that I hate your brother?" asked Morrighan, her nostrils flaring.

"Implying? I'm saying it flat out. You hate his guts and you know it!"

Morrighan widened her stance a little, the doe hide across her hips stretching so tightly that it was a wonder the laces didn't snap. "I don't hate him; I simply know his type."

His type? Harry clenched his fists and opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, but his father beat him to it.

"His type?" Snape took another step forward and glared, the air around them seeming to crackle with barely leashed fury. "You've changed, and not for the better. The Maura I knew from years ago wouldn't judge a man by his father!"

Morrighan gasped. "How dare you suggest such a thing?" Her gaze suddenly shot to Harry. "Please do leave the room--"

"No," said Harry and Snape at the same time. It was Snape who explained first. "Harry's not to be alone in the halls. I believe that was mentioned rather prominently at our first staff meeting of the year. You were present, were you not?"

Oh. Harry felt he had no choice but to come clean. "Well, Ron's out there, waiting for me--"

"Indeed he is not. I told him not to loiter in the hallways. This is a private matter between Professor Morrighan and myself."

For a second, Harry was surprised that Ron would have left, considering the Howler Snape had sent him last year. But then he realised that Ron must have thought that Snape would walk him to dinner.

"Just so," said Morrighan, nodding. "It doesn’t concern other students, and that includes brothers. We'll have to defer this conference until later--"

"Yeah, until it's too late for Draco to play in the Quidditch match!"

Snape's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"She assigned Draco detention. During Quidditch!"

Snape rounded on Morrighan. "Maura!"

She planted her hands on her hips. "And you would never do such a thing, of course."

Snape's lips twisted. "Only in the case of great bodily harm. What did Draco do, slice another student to ribbons?"

"He was unconscionably late to class and when I rebuked him, he spoke to me most disrespectfully!"

"She called Draco a liar to his face, and he said he didn't care what she thought," corrected Harry. "He shouldn't have said it, but she provoked him. She always provokes him, and Draco just takes it and takes it, but sooner or later he was bound to snap."

"Of course I called him a liar. Your brother was lying."

"How do you know?" asked Harry.

"The look on your face," said Morrighan bluntly.

Oh.

"You are not grounding Draco during the match," said Snape, shaking his head. "Out of the question." "I certainly am," retorted Morrighan. "He's been assigned a detention, and as I heard quite clearly during that first staff meeting, Severus, I'm within my rights to insist that students serve detention at my convenience rather than their own."

"Staff are expected to attend Quidditch matches!" said Snape triumphantly.

"Expected but not required."

"You're just being vindictive!" shouted Harry.

"Lower your voice," ordered Snape. "Maura, be reasonable--"

"She's never reasonable when it comes to Draco!"

"Lower your voice!"

Harry thought that was rather unfair, since Snape had shouted himself.

"The headmaster made it quite clear that a parent cannot overrule a teacher's disciplinary authority, Severus."

"Then as Draco's Head of House, I'm afraid I must insist--"

"Heads have no control over their fellow professors, and you know it."

Morrighan might think she had this won, but she'd made a tactical error in mentioning Dumbledore. It had given Harry an idea, and once he thought of it, he didn't hesitate. "Let's take the matter to the headmaster," he said, careful not to yell this time. "He can decide if Draco deserves to miss Quidditch. But he's going to get the whole story, right back to the first day of class. He's going to know how you constantly insult and belittle Draco."

"You," said Morrighan with a sigh, "are exaggerating."

"We'll see if I am or not when I ask to use his Pensieve." Harry reached up to loosen his tie, which felt like it was strangling him. "And do you really think that after that he's going to let you punish Draco even more? You've been punishing him horribly since the minute you first learned his name!"

"Oh, Maura," said Snape, shaking his head. "I never would have believed this of you. A boy is not his father, no matter how much he may resemble him--"

"I care nothing about Mr Snape's parentage, Severus!"

"That explains why you called him a nasty, evil little boy last week. It explains why you hex him at least ten times as much as anyone else. The whole class knows that you hate him." Harry turned to his father. "Listen, Dad, when even Ron starts feeling sorry for Draco, you know things have got to be pretty bad in this class."

Snape's lips were a thin, compressed line. He parted them just enough to speak. "Professor Morrighan, you will explain yourself."

"The boy is exaggerating--"

"Let me use a Pensieve then. That'll prove I'm not."

"Explain what you meant about knowing Draco's type," said Snape. "Now, Maura."

At least she had the grace to flush. Not that it excused her, thought Harry.

"The type of boy that would torment magical creatures," she said quietly, her eyes glistening like she was close to tears just thinking about it.

"Ah," said Snape, his voice suddenly much less harsh. "Yes, of course."

Harry didn't understand. "What are you on about? Draco doesn't--"

It only took one word to silence him. Snape was the one who provided it. "Buckbeak."

Oh. Harry gnawed his lip as he thought that over. Yeah, the Buckbeak thing had been one of Draco's more evil moments. And Morrighan had more reason than most to care about a thing like that. Not only did she have a magical connection to animals, she'd probably got to know Buckbeak pretty well in the year and a half since Sirius had died. What had Dumbledore said? That Buckbeak had joined Morrighan's herd of hippogriffs in Ireland?

"Well . . . Draco didn't actually torment Buckbeak," said Harry finally. "And Draco didn't try to have him killed just out of the blue. I mean, he got attacked. It was his own fault, I admit, and yeah, he did overreact, but . . ."

Harry didn't know what else to say. He didn't want to defend what Draco had done.

"You don't think it's torment for a hippogriff to be chained for months on end?"

Oh, hell. She was actually crying now. Not in any dramatic way, but the little tears welling in her eyes would be hard to miss. Or the expression on her face -- she looked like she was the one who had been chained up.

"All right, that was very bad of him," admitted Harry. "I'll even say that it was evil. But he's not. Really, he's not. That was when he was thirteen years old, Professor. Didn't you ever do anything terrible when you were growing up?"

"I never harmed an animal."

Snape cleared his throat. "Maura . . . I understand that you find Draco's past actions to be entirely reprehensible. But apart from this morning, has he done anything objectionable during a Defence class?"

She looked like she was struggling to think of something. Harry certainly didn't respect her, but he did appreciate the way she was willing to admit the truth -- when it was pointed out to her. "No."

"Then perhaps you can see that forty points and a detention during Quidditch is excessive, to say the least."

"The points stand."

Snape firmed his lips. "Tardiness does not call for huge point losses. No more than a point per minute is my own rule of thumb--"

"You son arrived forty-five minutes late to my class this morning, Severus," said Morrighan in a weary voice. "The points stand."

Snape nodded curtly, his robes swirling as he turned to face Harry. "Forty-five minutes?"

"I wasn't kidding when I said he'd got some terrible news," murmured Harry.

"Explain."

Harry was a little surprised that Snape hadn’t noticed Draco's mood this week. Didn't he already know that there was trouble in paradise? But then, Draco hadn't been in Potions class or Ethics since he'd got that first letter from Rhiannon. The Slytherin team had been outside practising. "You should ask Draco about it--"

"This sounds like it's turning into a family matter," said Morrighan, "If you'll excuse me, therefore--"

Snape whirled back to face her. "We still need to discuss your future conduct toward my son."

She turned her face to the side, but couldn't really hide it since her hair trailed down her back in a thick, elaborate plait. "I can't help how I feel."

"Perhaps not, but you can control how you behave."

"A boy who hates animals--"

"He doesn't hate animals," said Harry. "He's got a pet ferret now, and he plays with him all the time and takes really good care of him. He's not the same person now that he was four years ago. Please, Professor, don't judge Draco by that one day."

She didn't reply, but just kept her face turned away.

"Maura," said Snape quietly, "I know you. You understand how wrong it is to let your personal feelings toward a student cause such . . . unprofessional behaviour."

That got her to turn her face back. In fact, she whipped her neck around so fast it was a wonder she didn't strain something. She still didn't speak, though. She just kept staring from Snape to Harry and back. Then she sighed.

"I suppose that you would know. I remember how you used to ramble as you brewed. You used to dread the day that James Potter's son would arrive at Hogwarts . . . and yet here you are, his adoptive father."

"Just father--"

"Hush, Harry."

"I suppose the two of you must have always got on?"

Snape inclined his head. "As you see."

Somehow, Harry managed not to gape.

Morrighan's eyes glittered. "Don't preach, Severus. It doesn't suit you. Besides, the situations are hardly parallel. You may have managed not to visit the sins of the father upon the son, but in my case, it's the son himself who is . . . depraved."

"Depraved? Maura . . . all Draco truly did was lose his temper because he felt humiliated in front of his peers. He told his father he'd been attacked, which was technically true, if a rather incomplete rendering of events. It was Lucius Malfoy who called for Buckbeak's execution."

Harry decided he'd better not mention that Draco had been ecstatic when the day had arrived for Buckbeak to be killed.

"At his son's instigation--"

"Draco is not innocent of blame, but events quickly spiralled beyond his control. And too, he is not the same young man today. Harry is correct; Draco has turned his back on the values espoused by his family. He is a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Maura. Last year, he saved Harry from being turned over to Voldemort."

Morrighan widened her eyes, but not at the mention of Draco's heroism. "My, my. That's a new turn of phrase for you."

"Harry's influence," said Snape with a slight smile. A very slight smile, but Morrighan caught it, all right.

"I seem to have missed a great deal," she said, very quietly.

"Aren't we getting away from the point?" asked Harry. "Draco's been absolutely miserable during Defence this year. That's hardly going to help him get the kind of N.E.W.T. score that will convince MLE to take him into the Auror Apprentice program."

"That boy wants to be an Auror?"

"Yes. And he deserves every chance--"

"That's enough, Harry," interrupted Snape. "Professor Morrighan understands the situation now. I'm certain she'll make every effort to leave her personal feelings at the classroom door in future."

Snape had a lot of nerve advocating that, with his history, but what mattered more to Harry was the fact that he was speaking for Morrighan. She hadn't promised to behave herself. She hadn’t even nodded.

They were through here, though, as far as Snape was concerned. He took Harry by the elbow and steered him out into the hallway. Morrighan closed the door behind them. She didn't quite slam it, but it was a near thing.

"Dinner at home tonight, I think," murmured Snape, taking a turn away from the Great Hall. "Your brother has some explaining to do."

"Er . . . shouldn't we go and get him, in that case?"

"He's waiting for us in the dungeons. With the match tomorrow, I thought a family dinner tonight a sound idea. He was supposed to tell you."

Sirius started talking inside Harry's head, warning that Snape planned to slip him a potion . . . Harry told the voice to shut up. He wondered if he should go a bit further and tell Sirius to grow up. Sirius might have been joking, but some jokes just weren't amusing.

"Draco's had a lot on his mind." Harry shrugged. "I guess he forgot to mention your dinner idea."

"He also forgot to mention that he'd been forbidden to participate in the match. Neither did he tell me about the points. He left it to the counters to inform me."

"Well, he was probably hoping you wouldn’t notice. It wouldn't be very Slytherin to call attention to the points."

"Was he also hoping I wouldn't notice him missing from the pitch tomorrow?"

"He probably should have come clean about that bit," admitted Harry. "But . . . he's not thinking straight. Hasn't been all week. He'll have to tell you about it, though."

Snape slanted Harry a glance as they walked along, but said nothing further on that subject.

"Good news," said Harry as he came into the living room. "No detention tomorrow, after all."

"How did you--" Draco stopped speaking and scowled when Snape followed Harry into the room. "You ran to tell Dad all about it when I specifically said not to!"

"He just happened to come along while I was talking to Morrighan."

"And who asked you to do that?"

"Draco," said Snape, holding up a hand. "Your teacher and I have just held a rather illuminating discussion. Idiot child. Why didn't you come to me?"

"I had it under control," said Draco tightly.

"So much so that you were going to let the team resort to our Reserve Seeker?"

"I had that under control, too."

Snape arched a single eyebrow. "Do tell."

Draco shrugged. "Well, Morrighan said to report to her at eight. She never once said that it had to be eight in the morning."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "She said she was going to make you work all day--"

"I was going to claim that I thought she meant that in a figurative sense--"

Snape looked like he was torn between chuckling and reprimanding Draco. He settled for the latter. "Idiot child doesn't begin to cover it. Do you have any idea how I would respond if a student had the sheer effrontery to act that way toward me?"

Draco's chin went up a couple of notches. "It wouldn't matter what she did. By the time I did come to her detention, the match would have been over, and--"

"You truly believe that Maura Morrighan is not capable of walking down to the pitch to have you pulled from the match?"

"She probably wouldn't walk," said Draco scathingly. "She'd show up on a hippogriff!"

"The root of her inability to treat you fairly," murmured Snape. "Professor Morrighan is quite extraordinarily fond of animals, as you've no doubt noticed. Including hippogriffs. In particular one named Buckbeak?"

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

"But that was years ago, and it's not the kind of thing I'd do today--"

Snape began shaking his head. "I also had to learn this lesson the hard way, Draco. What is past for you is not necessarily in the past for other people. Living down one's more regrettable decisions is a task far more easily contemplated than done."

"Well, I still think she's grossly unfair to hold it against me." Draco made a face.

"We have discussed the matter and I have every hope that she will do better in future. If she doesn't, you're to let me know at once. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm at a loss to understand why you let it go on for so long." Snape's eyes burned as he bit out the next few words. "Didn't you learn anything from last year? When you need assistance to deal with an unreasonable staff member, I will assist you."

"I didn't need assistance," said Draco sullenly.

"Yes, you did. No teacher has the right to treat you as her own personal Quaffle."

"Fine, then. I didn't want assistance from you."

Snape drew back as if struck.

"Fuck," said Draco under his breath. And then more loudly. "That's not what I meant, Severus."

Snape remained silent and kept his face averted from both of them.

Draco sighed. "I just meant . . . well, you're the one who accused me of calling you 'Dad' whenever I wanted something! And this would be even worse. I used to run to Lucius over every last thing. I expected him to solve all my problems here. Just like with Buckbeak. I didn't want to be like that anymore. Or at least, not with you. I . . . I guess I wanted to be the good son for once, that's all, and handle something on my own."

Snape was shaking his head as he turned to face them. "Draco, you are a good son."

"No. I’m not." A tiny thread of hysteria wove its way through Draco's voice. "I'm not a good anything. Rhiannon . . . she broke things off with me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you really?" Draco shoved his hands in his pockets. "She might not have done it if you'd let me go and visit her, or at least promise her some time together at Christmas!"

"Be fair. She met somebody else," said Harry.

"She might not have noticed anybody else if Severus had let me give her some hope--"

"Draco," said Snape in a stern tone, "I understand that you are upset, but do try to view the matter rationally. If Miss Miller could not wait until another meeting could be arranged, then she is not worthy of your attentions."

"Don't say that," said Draco, baring his teeth. "Don't you dare. Rhiannon's perfect!"

If she was perfect then she'd show up on time for her job, thought Harry. He knew better than to say that out loud, though.

"She is a fine young lady and she has been very good for you. But for her to break things off because you will not endanger yourself and the war effort for her convenience?" Snape shook his head.

"She . . ." Draco's voice broke, maybe because he couldn't find a way to argue with Snape's logic. If he said that it hadn't been "convenience," that Rhiannon truly was in love with someone else, then Snape would reply that Rhiannon wasn't the one for him.

He would be right, too.

"It doesn't make this any easier," added Snape after a moment. "I do know that, Draco."

"What, you've been dumped, too?"

"Draco!" hissed Harry.

"I think that Draco and I need to speak alone," said Snape calmly. "Harry, perhaps you could be so good as to arrange dinner for the three of us. Draco?" He gestured towards his office.

"Order wine," said Draco.

"What kind?"

"It doesn't matter."

Harry tried to order wine but the elves wouldn’t supply any to a student. It didn't seem to matter that he was of age.

"Sorry," he said when Draco emerged from the office after about twenty minutes talking with their father. "The elves said--"

"You don't know how to deal with them, that's all." Draco sat down and picked up his water goblet, staring at it morosely. "It doesn't matter."

"Maybe Dad can ask--"

"For wine?" Severus' robes billowed as he settled himself in his usual chair at the table. "I think not. You both have Quidditch tomorrow."

Draco set his water goblet down hard enough that the contents sloshed. "That doesn't matter, either. Everyone at this school knows who the better Seeker is. Youngest Seeker in a century, best Seeker in two centuries, I'll bet. Ha, three centuries. Four--"

"That's enough, Draco," said Snape calmly. "You'll do your best, as will Harry."

"When has my best ever been good enough to beat Harry Potter? Have you thought of that, Severus? Well, have you?"

"What I think is that this maudlin self-pity won't help matters any."

Draco looked away from them both and began picking at his pot roast. Harry tried to make small talk, but it was no use. Draco gave one-word answers when he bothered to reply at all, and in less than ten minutes, he had left the table, saying he needed a shower.

Harry winced once he was out of sight, hoping that Draco wouldn't try to sing any opera. For now, and probably for a long time, that would only be a reminder he didn't need.

"He didn't eat much." Harry glanced at his father. "What can we do?"

Severus shook his head. "Recovering from a broken heart is something one can only learn by experience, Harry. Nobody can do it for you."

Harry thought about not asking, but decided that he knew his father well enough to chance it. "You sound like you're speaking from experience. Do you . . . well, I was surprised at the way you spoke to Morrighan. You knew her pretty well, huh?"

"You don't do subtle, do you?" asked Snape with a very slight laugh.

"Well, you kind of opened the door when you told me you'd been involved with Madam Pince."

Snape said nothing, but calmly continued to eat the salmon fillet Harry had chosen for him.

"So?" Harry finally asked.

"I have some history with Maura, as I'm sure you've divined, despite your abysmal marks in the subject."

"And that's all you're going to say."

"Perceptive of you."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, at least until another thought occurred to him. "You're not going to overlook the way she's treated Draco, are you?"

Snape raised both eyebrows. "Did I appear to be doing so?"

"No, but . . . there at the end, you could have been a little more emphatic."

"Ah. Well, I know her, as you said. I left her to contemplate her own behaviour. I expect that she'll be more reasonable in future."

Harry wasn't so sure, but he supposed that time would tell.

"Enough of Maura," said Snape, setting aside his fork. "There's something else I've been meaning to discuss with you."

"I know. The match tomorrow--"

"Certainly not that."

"But I know you want--" Slytherin to win.

He couldn't say it out loud, even though it was true.

"I want both you and Draco to do your best, as I said." Snape folded his hands together at the edge of the table. "Harry . . . how could you think that I would wish for you to lose?"

"But you don't want Draco to lose, either."

"No." Snape's lips thinned. "Having two sons can be very vexing. At times I wonder how Molly and Arthur remain sane."

"The Burrow's like a happy madhouse. Very happy. What did you want to talk about, then?"

"How you are doing."

"How I'm doing? Um, fine. Well, it's a little harder than I thought to let Draco run the D.A. meetings. I mean, letting Slytherins join was obviously the right thing to do, but add a few of them to the mix and Draco feels like he has a reputation to maintain, and it makes him less approachable--"

"Do you recall once telling me that all our conversations revolved around your brother?"

Harry chuckled. "Yes. But that hasn't been true for a long time."

"I should hope not." Snape flexed his fingers, like he was trying to figure out how to approach his topic, whatever it was.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Harry, getting it finally. "Is this about me and girls again? I do like them. I just don't want to get one killed--"

"No, no, nothing like that." Well, at least Harry's outburst had loosened his tongue. "I thought perhaps that the date might be preying on your mind."

"The date?" Harry did get it then. "Oh. You mean Samhain."

"Just a few days hence. Did you not realise?"

Harry shrugged. "I told you once that the Muggle-raised don't pay much attention to things like cross-quarter days."

"I don't ask because I thought you needed to harvest potions components at the correct time," drawled Snape.

Harry shrugged again. "I don't know. I suppose it crossed my mind at the Halloween feast that Samhain wasn't far off, but I didn't spend any time thinking about it."

"Remarkable."

Something in his father's tone told Harry things that Snape hadn't said. "Oh . . . you've been dreading the date?"

"Anniversaries can be . . . difficult."

Harry could tell that his father was thinking about not just Samhain, but his birthday as well. January ninth each year had to be terrible for him. A reminder of so many regrets . . . Harry wasn't going to bring that up, though. It would just be one more reminder. He'd stick to talking about the date Severus had actually mentioned.

"Sometimes I think that Samhain was more difficult for you than for me," he said, scooting his chair a little so the table wasn't between them.

"Because children are more resilient than adults?" Snape's mocking tone said how little he believed the old adage.

"More because all I had to do was . . . well, put up with it, right? You had it worse. You had to participate."

Snape shielded his eyes, though the light in the dungeons was hardly bright.

"When are you going to believe that I understand that?" asked Harry, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned closer to his father. "You saved me that night, and I meant it when I said that there was nothing to forgive. I never had to forgive you for anything, because I knew at the time that you were doing the best thing. The right thing."

Snape nodded, the motion a little shaky. A moment later he lowered his hand and spoke in a low tone. "It was necessary to let them . . . hurt you. Yes. Of course I know that. But whenever I think on it too long . . ."

"Don't think on it, then." Harry smiled. "I don't. Not any longer."

"I don’t have enough discipline to stop myself from thinking about it, sometimes."

"You, undisciplined? I don't believe it."

Snape gave him a small, wry smile. "Wait until you're a father. Thoughts will circle in your mind like ravenous vultures, even when you know there's no point to them."

"Well . . . think of it like you were a doctor, then."

Before Harry could explain, Snape's brow creased with puzzlement. "Unlike you, I've very little experience of doctors."

Learn by experience, right. "Well, then think of it like something you have a lot of experience with. A potions issue. Don't you sometimes brew things that cure in the end, but cause painful side effects along the way?"

Snape gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

"There you are then," said Harry warmly. "You were my own personal potion that night, Dad. I hope you can think of it like that, and feel a lot better."

"The intention was for me to console you, instead of the reverse." Snape looked at him for a moment, his dark eyes shining. "You're growing up to be a fine man, Harry. I'm very proud of you."

Harry sat up straight and grinned. "But I'll always be your idiot child."

"That you will," murmured Snape. "That you will. Well. You're quite welcome to stay the night, of course--"

Harry shook his head. "Thanks, but I have to get back to Gryffindor. There's a team meeting first thing in the morning. When Draco finishes his shower I'll ask him to walk me there."

Snape slanted him a glance as he stood up. "Very well, but I should warn you that Draco's mood is uncertain, to say the least. He didn't appreciate your going to Morrighan on his behalf. And while we're on the subject, I didn't appreciate your not coming to me, if he wouldn't."

Harry flushed. "He wanted to handle things himself."

"If you begin to harm yourself again and want to 'handle it yourself,' wouldn't you believe that Draco should mention the matter to me?"

"That's different--"

"Not entirely. I expect you to do better in future. Now, shall we have a game of chess while we wait for your brother to emerge?"

Harry nodded and soon found himself struggling to keep up with Snape's brilliant sense of strategy.

"You should learn to stay out of things that aren't your business," said Draco when they were halfway to Gryffindor Tower.

"My brother is my business."

"I never ran to Severus about your troubles with Aran, did I?"

"You threatened to--"

"Threats aren't action."

"Look," said Harry, grabbing at Draco's sleeve to stop him from stomping ahead. "I handled Aran on my own and that turned out to be a huge mistake. I should have trusted Dad to help me. But I didn't go running to him about Morrighan, you know. All I did was go and talk to her as a prefect for Slytherin. I'm entitled to do that--"

"Not when it concerns another prefect. Then, you let the prefect in question deal with matters for himself!"

"Well, you never told me not to go to Morrighan, did you?"

"I sure as shite told you not to blab my private business to Hermione, and what did you do? Told her every last thing!"

"I didn't! I just asked her a couple of questions and she figured the rest out on her own. She's like that! You should know that by now--"

"What I know," said Draco in a fair imitation of Severus, "is that you need to grow up."

All right, so only the first part was like something their father would say.

Draco whirled on his heel and strode forward. Harry had to hurry to catch up.

He probably should have left well enough alone, but he didn't appreciate Draco's accusations, let alone his last comment. "I think you're just upset over that bad news you got, and you're taking it out on me."

Draco's eyes glowed fiercely as he shot Harry a glance. "Stop pretending to be Marsha. This isn't a case of transference. You see? I actually know the correct terminology. I'm angry at you because of what you've done."

What a prat. "Yeah, that was evil of me, wanting to make sure that you got to play in the match tomorrow. Thinking of my brother. Yeah, that was terrible."

"Don't think of me too much. I wouldn't want you to throw the match!"

"I'm not going to throw the fucking match. Are you insane?"

"Are you, is the question." Draco kept stomping ahead even as he raked Harry up and down with his gaze. "I've seen the way you look during meals when you're sitting with your team mates. You're thinking about it, sure as my name is . . ."

"Snape," supplied Harry.

"Shut up. I know what my name is. You're too conflicted to play your best tomorrow. That's the point."

"Then why were you going on about how you always lose to me?" Harry knew that was a rather nasty thing to say, but Draco had been nasty for a while by then.

"A momentary lapse. I forgot you were planning to throw the match."

"Stop saying that!"

"Stop acting like you'll be ashamed to play your best, then!"

Harry blinked, a sudden suspicion washing over him. "Wait. Is this some weird kind of reverse-psychology strategy? You're trying to throw me off stride?"

Draco's gait got a little stiffer. "I don't know. Maybe. I'm just . . . I'm not happy with you, Harry."

"Maybe that's good, for now," said Harry slowly. "It might help you play your very best. I don't want you to throw the match, either."

"I've never once contemplated doing any such thing."

Harry nodded. That wasn't hard to believe.

Draco came to an abrupt halt in front of the Fat Lady.

"Well . . . good night . . ."

"Is it?" Draco rolled his eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be the one with the Snitch in his hand."

With that, he turned and walked away, but Harry noticed that he stayed in sight until Harry had given the password and entered the safety of the Gryffindor common room.

"So that's it, then," said Ron the next morning to the Quidditch players assembled around him on the pitch. "Any questions?"

Of course there weren't any questions. They'd had a team meeting before breakfast, and then one during the meal, and now a third one out on the grass.

Anyway, the glances the Gryffindor players were exchanging were clear enough. Everybody was thinking of the prank that was probably underway in the Slytherin changing room. They were practically rubbing their hands together with glee!

Harry couldn't stand it. He was used to being left out of things, but not things like this. "I'm going to circle the pitch for a while," he said, wanting to get away from his team mates. "Warm up a bit."

"Match starts in about ten minutes," said Ron, nodding.

Harry took off at once and sailed high over the stands, already filled to bursting with students waving banners to support either Gryffindor or Slytherin. He saw Hermione down on the grass, frantically waving, too, but she didn't have a banner. He wondered why she wasn't climbing to the top of one of the Gryffindor stands.

Huh . . . she seemed to be waving at him in particular, rather than cheering on the team. When Harry veered her way and moved a little closer, he could see that she looked almost panicked.

He pulled up alongside her and put a foot on the grass to hold his broom steady. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, Harry!" She actually wrung her hands. "I just overheard Parvati and Lavender gossiping! Seamus has arranged for a boggart to get loose inside the Slytherin changing rooms!"

That was the prank that had everybody so excited. A boggart? Harry rolled his eyes. "Any competent third-year can get rid of a boggart, Hermione--"

"Not always. Not if it takes you by surprise--"

"Or if it shows you something you're not prepared for," added Harry, a memory jolting him. Last year he'd almost been incapacitated by a boggart, and that was when he'd known to expect one! But the vision of Snape dying before his eyes, of losing somebody important again, had been more than he could bear. "Rhiannon!" he suddenly gasped.

"Exactly," said Hermione, grabbing his arm and squeezing hard. "Go, Harry. Go. We can't have it spreading through Slytherin that Draco's greatest fear is seeing his girlfriend with somebody else! Depending on what the boggart draws from his mind, they might learn her name and where she is--"

Harry kicked off before she'd finished speaking and zoomed low to the ground, heading at full speed toward the little thatch-roofed cottages that served as changing rooms. God, what if he was too late? What if the Slytherins already knew exactly what Rhiannon looked like? They weren't all evil, or Death Eaters in training -- Harry understood that now -- but some of them belonged to dark families and wouldn't hesitate to share this information with fathers who would report it to Voldemort--

He jumped off his broom a few feet from the door and rushed straight in, grateful like never before that the adoption had made him a full Slytherin. Otherwise, he wouldn't even be able to get through the door.

What he heard and saw when he got in, though . . .

Snape was there, and he was alone; the Quidditch team was nowhere to be found. Snape's back was to Harry, but Snape didn't know that. As far as he was concerned, he was talking to Harry.

That's the form the boggart had assumed: that of Harry himself. Harry's mouth dropped open, a chill sweeping through him as he stood there. He was Snape's greatest fear?

"And I know," said the boggart in Harry's voice. But it wasn't Harry's voice. It was filled with loathing, filled with hate. "I know everything, Snape. Sirius told me. He ran into another Death Eater in the afterlife, and this time, he got an earful. You should have told me the truth!"

A wheezing noise came from Snape. "I . . . I . . . I thought you wouldn’t understand--"

"I don't understand!" shouted the boggart, yanking the Slytherin prefect badge from Harry's robes. The badge made a clattering noise against the stone floor as the boggart flung it violently down. "I'll never understand! You told him, you told him, you told him! You were already working for the Order, and you still told him!"

Another wheezing noise, this one sounding like Snape was breaking apart inside. "Harry . . . the situation was complicated, Harry--"

"Don't call me Harry! You don't have the right!"

"You're my son," cried Snape. "Whatever happened in the past, today you are my son!"

"I shouldn't be," said the boggart in a low, contemptuous voice. "Not when you were the one who killed my real parents."

"I didn't kill them--"

The boggart went into a frenzy, its face contorting with rage. "You told Voldemort the prophecy! You were the spy who overheard Trelawney telling it to Dumbledore. Don't say you didn't kill them when you know you did!"

Snape crumpled to his knees.

"I hate you," added the boggart, leaning forward as if to soak in Snape's misery. "I'd never have agreed to become your son if I'd known what you did!"

The chill Harry had felt before was growing colder, soaking through muscle and bone until he felt cold clear through. Numb, that was it. He understood what he was seeing and what it meant, but it was too much to take in all at once.

Harry's teeth started chattering as the boggart continued to taunt the crumpled man.

Snape had been the spy. Snape had betrayed his parents. Snape had caused their deaths. And he'd never told Harry . . . just like usual, nobody had told Harry anything. Dumbledore probably knew all this. He could have told Harry and stopped the adoption, but even though he hadn't approved of the adoption, keeping Harry in the dark was more important than telling him the full truth for once--

Snape Snape Snape had been the spy--

Harry lifted his wand. Strange that his arm wasn't shaking at all. He supposed it proved that he really was numb inside. Pain would come later, he thought. And anger. All he could feel right now was a sort of shock at the way his whole life could splinter into pieces, just like that.

"Riddikulus."

The spell didn't work. Not much reason why it would. Even if Harry could cast normally, he wasn't doing a very good job at imagining boggart-Harry as something comical. There was nothing amusing about this situation. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

His spell did do one thing, though: it alerted Snape to his presence.

The Potions Master whirled around on his knees, his black eyes wide with shock as he took in the sight of Harry standing there in Quidditch robes. He slowly swung his face back toward the boggart, which was still spewing angry phrases about betrayal and unadoption and mutual repudiation. Then, just as slowly, he rose to his feet and held out his wand toward the dark creature.

His arm, Harry noticed with something like bleak disinterest, shook like a leaf buffeted by strong wind.

"Riddikulus."

A bare wisp of a spell left the end of Snape's wand.

"Riddikulus."

That time it worked, though Harry never saw what the boggart had become. Snape banished it too quickly for that. He stood with his back to Harry for a long moment, and then turned a final time, his face haggard and so sallow that he looked ill. Or maybe that was due to his expression.

"Harry . . ."

Harry didn't know what to say or do. He tried to acknowledge his name with a nod, but wasn't too surprised when it came out closer to a full-body twitch. Being numb would do that to you.

"You heard."

Which meant, of course, that Snape didn't know what to say or do, either. Otherwise he wouldn't state the obvious. Then again, what did you say to a boy who had just found out that you had practically murdered his parents?

"Yeah," Harry couldn’t think about this now, couldn't deal with it. He'd rather talk about anything else in the entire world. He was glad the match was starting in less than five minutes. He needed the distraction.

After it was over . . . well, after it was over he could start to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

"Where's the team?"

Snape stared at him. "Performing their annual good-luck ritual. Harry--"

"Why are you in here alone?"

"Tradition. Harry--"

So Snape wasn't going to take a hint. Fine. "I don't want to talk about it."

Snape's hand was still shaking as he tucked his wand away. "I think we'd better."

Harry felt like ice, inside and out. Frozen. Unable to feel. He couldn't let himself feel, because if he did, the pain would tear him apart. Betrayal . . . deception . . . "The match will be starting in a couple of minutes," he said in a voice that sounded dead even to him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t talk to you now. And I don't want to. I don't know if I'll ever want to talk to you again."

Snape grimaced. "I know. But there's much I should tell you--"

"It's too late. You should have told me when you asked to adopt me," said Harry calmly, backing toward the door as he spoke. "I have to go."

Snape took three long strides toward him and took hold of his arm. It was the same one Hermione had grabbed, but the touch was entirely different. Unwanted. From someone that he thought now he'd never really known at all. "You shouldn't be flying, not in this state. Harry--"

"Don't call me that. The boggart knew what it was talking about; you don't have the right," said Harry dully. "And I'm fine to fly. I need it."

"Harry--"

"I need it, Severus. I mean, Snape. I mean . . . I don't know what I mean. I have to go."

"Promise me that we'll discuss this after the match," said Snape urgently. "What you saw was undoubtedly my greatest fear, but fears by their very nature are often irrational. There is more to the story than you know."

"Fine. We'll talk after the match." That was easy enough to promise. Five years after was still after, and so was a hundred. All Harry really knew was that he needed to be away from this, away from Snape, now. Before he lost control and he really wasn't in any shape to take to the pitch.

Father . . . Dad . . . it seemed like such a farce now. Such a complete farce. Harry had been an idiot. An idiot child, so much in need of love and care that he'd take it from any direction, no matter how ludicrous. He should have listened to the people around him, the ones who had been telling him he'd have to be mental to want Snape for a father. They'd been right, after all. Harry had been mental.

"After the match," echoed Snape, sounding torn up inside. Harry didn't care about that, though. He couldn't. "Harry . . . good luck."

Yeah, right.

Harry walked out without another word and mounted his hovering broom. Leaning down close against the handle, he accelerated as fast as he could. He told himself he just wanted to get back to the pitch in time for the match, but the truth was something very different.

He wanted to get away from his . . . get away from Snape.

"Where have you been?" asked Ron, glaring as Harry took up his position on the pitch.

"I'm here now--"

"Barely in time--"

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and the shrill noise cut Ron off. With a last annoyed look at Harry, he flew off to where she was getting ready to release the Snitch.

Harry barely heard her instructions. It was always the same long list, anyway. I want a clean match, blah blah blah. Pointless, the whole speech. Literally pointless, since nobody ever called the Slytherins on their rampant cheating.

He'd been avoiding looking at the Slytherins up until then, but that thought had him searching the ranks of green for Draco.

The Slytherin Seeker was gripping his broom tightly, his own gaze more like a glare as he stared at Harry.

Oh, Draco was still angry, was he? Harry ignored the fact that he'd decided last night that a little anger would probably be good fuel for their competition. Now, all he could think about was how unfair Draco was being. It wasn't as though Harry had decided to go to Snape about Morrighan's biased behaviour. And what was he supposed to have done during the conference, let her lie to Snape about her real reasons for giving detention during Quidditch? Harry had done Draco a favour, and then this morning he'd tried to do another, rushing down to the Slytherin changing room before the boggart could get out and pretend to be Rhiannon being killed before Draco's eyes!

What real reason did Draco have to be upset, eh? That was what Harry would like to know! Draco wasn't the one who'd been lied to for an entire year. Hell, for his entire life! Draco wasn't the one who'd been adopted by a man he couldn't trust! No, Draco and Snape got on fine, didn't they? Slytherins, the both of them. Always brewing together. Always keeping secrets from Harry, like the one about who exactly had been present on Samhain. Like the one about Draco's full name.

Like this one too, probably!

As the Snitch was released and began to dart madly around the players, the fury banked inside of Harry seemed to burst free, searing him from the inside out. That's right -- Draco had probably known this all along! How could he not know it, with his eavesdropping tendencies? All the Death Eaters probably knew the truth!

Harry could just see it now. Draco and Snape had agreed from the outset that Snape had better not tell Harry what had really happened to James and Lily Potter. A couple of ex-Death Eaters, huddled together, keeping their slimy secrets. Harry could just see it. They'd tell themselves it was for Harry's own good, that he wouldn't understand.

Well, they were right on that score. Harry didn't understand.

A rush of air whizzed past him, green robes flapping against his own broom, the rider came so close. Then Draco circled again, this time shouting over the wind. "I thought you said you weren't going to throw the match!"

That was when Harry realised that the match was underway. Strange . . . he'd seen the Snitch released, but somehow he hadn't registered what it meant. When everyone else had started flying Harry had headed upwards too, but that was pure instinct. He hadn't been looking for the Snitch at all.

Baring his teeth, Harry pulled hard on his broom to make it rise higher over the pitch. He began flying in a wide circle over the other players, dipping up and down at random intervals, his eyes continuously moving in a sweeping motion as he searched for the glint of light that would give away the location of the Snitch.

"That's more like it!" yelled Draco as he pulled in alongside Harry, their brooms moving in tandem. "I don't want to win just because you feel too sorry for me to play properly!" "I’m surprised you care how you win!" shouted Harry back, the wind whistling so loudly through his ears that he could hardly hear himself. "As long as you win! That's all that matters, isn't it? To Slytherins!"

"You're a Slytherin!"

Not really, thought Harry, sick at the mere idea. He'd been fooling himself; he could see that clearly now. The rage that had broken free in him before seemed to turn to lava now. Hot, bubbling lava boiling over into every thought, every movement.

It was like his Occlumency shields had slipped from his control and taken over his whole mind. Harry was nothing but his fire now.

"Get away!" he screamed, angling his broom into Draco's to jolt him onto another trajectory. It wasn't the safest manoeuvre while flying at high speed mere inches from another player, but who cared about that? The lousy Slytherins did it all the time, trying to knock opposing players off their brooms. "Go find the Snitch on your own!"

Draco spun sideways over the side of his broom but quickly righted himself and pulled in by Harry once more. "Why, you--!"

So Harry jolted him again, this time harder.

A Bludger flew past him, missing his head by no more than a quarter-inch.

"Fucking Slytherins!" screamed Harry, veering closer to Draco, but not to jolt him again. He just wanted to scream into his face. "Is that what you did at your good-luck ritual? Decided to knock me off my broom?"

"They wouldn't bat Bludgers right at you like that if you'd stop trying to knock me off mine," yelled Draco back. "What's wrong with you? I'm the one who should be narked!"

Like Draco had any reason!

Harry gave him a disgusted look and abruptly yanked his broom toward the middle of the pitch, away from Draco.

It wasn't that easy to shake him, however. Draco smoothly followed, staying in tandem with Harry through every twist and dive that followed, screaming all the while. "You told Hermione my private business when I specifically said not to! And then you had to go and blab to Dad about Malevolent Morrighan! Just couldn't resist it, could you? You had to play the good son!"

The good son . . . Yeah, he'd wanted to be that, hadn't he? He'd wanted Snape to like and respect him. He'd yearned for that, craved it. The memories of how hard he'd tried . . . Harry hated them now. He felt sick at heart. Humiliated, that Snape's approval had mattered so much.

In the next moment, fire burned through the humiliation, sweeping it out of the way so violently that Harry felt like steam must be pouring out his ears. He stopped trying to get away from Draco. "Well you can stop worrying about that one!"

"Sure I can!"

"You can," screamed Harry, clenching the broom so tightly that he thought the wooden handle might crack. "I'm done, it's over, over! I'll never be a good son again!"

Draco rolled his eyes and looked about to retort, but suddenly sped off at a sharp angle. Harry had seen the glint, too, but he was a fraction of a second slower at reacting to it.

Pressing his lips tightly together, he leaned down low on his broom and headed full-speed towards the Snitch.

This time there were no words as he flew right alongside Draco. They were both focussed entirely on the Snitch, which darted left, right, up, down, changing speed and direction to lead the Seekers on a dizzying chase high above the other players.

Harry's fingers brushed against it once or twice, as did Draco's, but the Snitch leapt away from their fingers, every time.

Maybe it was faster and more responsive when two Seekers were almost within reach, thought Harry. Well, fine then. He suddenly yanked hard on his broom and shot skywards, doing his best to imitate the look of a Seeker in hot pursuit.

"It seems that Harry Potter has spotted the Snitch!" announced Padma.

She might have thought so, but Draco didn't. He continued on his original trajectory, his hand stretched out in front of his broom, his whole body straining forwards as he chased the Snitch.

Damn.

Gritting his teeth, Harry angled his broom down, adjusting his course as he shot toward the ground. He was going to intersect Draco's path and snatch the Snitch from right under his nose, and after that, he'd like to see Draco claiming that Harry had thrown the match!

"Now it looks like the Gryffindor Seeker was chasing a ghost, and he's heading back down to where the Seeker for Slytherin is hot of the trail of the real Snitch--"

Thanks, Padma, thought Harry sourly. Draco had obviously heard her, he glanced upwards as Harry soared towards him, his grey eyes furious. When Harry was only a few feet away, Draco suddenly changed angles to collide with him, physically blocking him from getting to the Snitch.

The collision caused them to start tumbling together, head over heels, the ground and sky changing places so fast that the world became a dizzying dance of blue and green. Grunting, Harry clenched his broom hard with his knees and tried to even out the spin until he could soar free of it. It seemed to take forever, and all the while the ground was rushing up at them. When they finally broke apart, Harry was panting and exhausted and so dizzy he could barely think straight. His vision seemed to be swimming.

The Snitch was dancing before his eyes like a metal butterfly.

Blinking in surprise, Harry reached his hand out to grab it, but he encountered only empty air. When he blinked again his vision cleared. Just the dizziness, then. He almost wanted it back, because while he'd been whirling toward the ground, he hadn't been thinking about what he'd heard before the match.

Now, he couldn't think about anything else.

Why did Snape have to do that? How could he have adopted Harry and not told him the truth about something like that? The entire year that had just passed had been nothing but one long fraud!

Harry wished that none of it had ever happened, that he'd never got that letter from Surrey, that he'd never started down this path. He wished he'd never been adopted, or ended up wearing a Slytherin prefect's badge. He didn't want to be a Slytherin, not any longer.

He wanted to be just Harry again, instead of Snape's son.

Another glint caught his eye, this one high above him in the east. Harry shot upwards after it, annoyed when Draco fell in beside him. They climbed together, neck and neck, each boy pushing his broom to the limit of its acceleration. A Bludger shot by beneath them, whistling as it soared past.

Draco's fingers, longer than Harry's, grazed the Snitch's wing.

"Oh, no you don't," screamed Harry, knocking his broom into Draco's to get his hand away from the Snitch.

"Oh, you want to play rough!" Draco banged his broom into Harry's, much harder than Harry had done to him.

Gritting his teeth, Harry gave as good as he got, watching with satisfaction as Draco was knocked several feet off course.

He should have expected what came next. Draco did have that impulse control problem, after all, and his emotions had been raw ever since he'd opened that letter from Rhiannon.

Draco steered his broom in an arc, turning it so he could ram it full tilt into Harry rather than just nudging him as they flew side by side. Harry was knocked considerably more than a few feet off course. In fact, he was knocked straight into the path of a Bludger that seemed to appear from nowhere.

"Harry!" Draco screamed. "DIVE!"

Harry did, but the Bludger was too close to avoid completely. It clipped him along the side of his head as it rushed past.

Pain exploded in his left temple, pain so intense and sudden that his hands lost all purchase on his broom. Harry felt himself slip off, falling sideways before plunging towards the ground. The last thing he remembered was Padma's frantic voice reporting, "Harry Potter's been hit! Harry Potter's been hit!" and a softer, higher-pitched voice crying out, "Oh, no! Harry . . ."

He was still plummeting towards the pitch when the whole world went black and silent.

The first thing Harry was aware of was the smell of cinnamon, close alongside him. The scent was faint, muted, and overlaid with other things, but it still managed to evoke vague images of home-baked cookies and warm summer nights. Sometimes the scent grew stronger and sometimes it seemed to fade, but it never went away completely.

Footsteps came and went, most often accompanied by murmured voices. Harry strained to separate individual words from the buzz, but it was hopeless. That was when he first became aware that his head hurt. It was a dull, low ache that seemed to radiate out from the left side of his skull to throb through his whole body. The longer it went on the worse it hurt, until finally, he whimpered.

The cinnamon smell came closer. His lips were parted by the feel of smooth metal. "Swallow, Harry," a deep voice urged, and Harry did. Magic seemed to pour through him, the feel of it sweet and startling. His headache receded like a tide pulled out to sea until it was nothing but a tiny point of pain, somewhere too far away to see.

Harry sank back down into sleep.

The next time he woke up, he felt marginally stronger. Last time he'd been nothing but one big headache, but now he could feel the rest of his body. It ached too, like he'd strained muscles rarely used. Even his hands hurt.

His hands . . . someone was holding them, he dimly realised. Or two someones, since it didn't seem likely that the same person was sitting both to the left and right of where Harry lay on his back.

Ron, he thought. Hermione.

He struggled to open his eyes, but the simple action was remarkably hard to accomplish. At last he managed, however, peering out through slitted eyes at a world that looked far, far too bright.

For a couple of seconds he couldn't distinguish anything through the glare, and then images began to come into better focus. To his right sat a great black splotch, though he was sure he didn't know why something black should smell so much like cinnamon. To his left the colours that dominated were green, silver, and palest, palest gold.

Then the green splotch spoke. "He's awake, Madam Pomfrey."

Madam Pomfrey?

Harry felt so muzzy-headed that it took him a second to catch on. If someone was calling for Madam Pomfrey, then he must be in . . . in . . . in the hospital wing, that was it. But why?

On the other hand, he certainly didn't feel very well. Was that his head aching again? It was hard to tell through the haze that seemed to surround his thoughts. He couldn't seem to think very clearly . . .

That probably explained why it took a few seconds for him to recognise the voice that had spoken. He should have known those snooty tones at once. What the hell was Draco sodding Malfoy doing sitting at his bedside?

Holding his hand!

Harry was about to yank his hand away when another voice spoke, one that startled him so much that his whole body -- arm included -- seemed to seize up.

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

This voice was smooth, deep, and very, very familiar. Harry had heard it year after year, mocking and belittling him, telling him he was just like his father: spoiled and vain and arrogant.

Harry opened his mouth to yell for help, but he couldn’t catch enough breath to do more than pant, his shocked gaze darting from Malfoy to Snape, back and forth. What was a pair of Slytherins doing in here with him?

The answer was as obvious as it was unthinkable -- they were sitting with him, one on either side, holding his hands.

Harry's whole world cracked in half.

Horrified, he finally yanked his hands from their grasp and scurried up on the bed, getting as far away from them as he could, until his back was pressed against the wall behind him, the metal railings of the hospital bed jammed against his shoulder blades.

Then he just stared.

His head still felt stuffed full of cotton wool, but his vision had cleared a bit by then. He could see the way Malfoy jerked slightly in his chair; he could tell that Snape's black eyebrows had drawn together into a single dark line.

"Harry?"

Harry tried to jerk further away, but there was nowhere to go except through the wall. He'd have done that if it were possible.

"Harry?" asked Snape again, leaning closer.

"Why are you here?" gasped Harry. "Why are you calling me Harry? Ow-- ow-- ow--"

He couldn't seem to think through the feeling of the headache rushing back in full force. It was so strong that in that first instant of blazing pain, he thought he'd sick up all over himself. And all over Snape too, if the man didn't back off--

"More potion," murmured Snape, pulling a vial from the inside of his robes. He poured out a spoonful and held it out to Harry, who shook his head in panic, his lips pressed together in one thin line.

Snape sighed. "It will help the pain. Don't be foolish, Harry--"

"What's this, Mr Potter?" asked Madam Pomfrey as she came bustling over. "Awake, but fussy? Well, it's only to be expected after a Bludger to the head. Open up now, though. You know your father wouldn't hurt you--"

"F- f- father?" Harry thought for a second that he must have heard that wrong. But no, she really had said . . . "What are you-- what are you on about? My father's dead--"

He couldn't say more than that, since a spoon was unceremoniously thrust into his mouth.

Reflex had him swallowing the smooth gel coating the spoon. How it managed to be both tangy and tasteless was beyond him, but that was the impression he got. His headache rolled away again, leaving behind only an annoying niggle centred over his left ear.

Then his thoughts seemed to come into better focus. "What was a Bludger doing in the corridor?"

"The corridor?" asked Malfoy, sounding as muddled as Harry felt.

"It's perfectly normal to be a bit confused after a blow to the head," said Pomfrey in a calm voice. "Lie back down, Mr Potter."

"Well, it's not normal for a couple of Slytherins to be sitting with me in the hospital wing," said Harry, struggling to figure things out as he slid back down in the bed. Snape was still too close for his liking, but at least he wasn't hovering any longer. "And somebody answer me. What was a Bludger doing inside the castle?"

Madam Pomfrey passed her wand over his forehead and frowned, though she spoke briskly enough. "You were playing Quidditch earlier today. But not to worry. I've seen many a Bludger hit in my day, and--"

"I wasn't playing Quidditch--"

He saw, but didn't understand the glance that passed between Snape and Malfoy.

"But you were, Harry," said Malfoy after a moment. "Here, look."

Malfoy reached behind him and picked something up from the next bed over. When he held it up, Harry recognized a set of Gryffindor Quidditch robes. They looked a bit on the large side, but that wasn't what most caught his attention.

"Those aren't mine," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't feel confused any longer. It seemed like everyone else was, though. "And don't call me Harry. I don't call you Draco, do I? What's wrong with the two of you?"

Another long glance passed between Snape and Malfoy.

"You don't recognise your robes?" asked Snape. It was the Potion Master's voice, no doubt about it, but it threw Harry all the same. He'd never heard Snape speak so . . . so . . . Harry didn't know how to describe it. He just knew that Snape was acting barmy. Hell, everybody was acting funny.

Except for Madam Pomfrey. She seemed more or less like her normal self.

"Of course I don't recognise them," said Harry, feeling odd to have to say it. "That's not my crest. It's not anybody's crest. It looks like it's for two houses."

Harry was getting really sick of those telling glances Malfoy and Snape kept sharing.

"I . . . I'll go and fetch Hermione," said Malfoy in a voice that sounded choked, somehow.

"Since when do you call her Hermione?" shouted Harry after him. He soon wished he hadn't. It made his head give a longish twinge. Well, what did he expect? There was no way Snape would give Harry Potter a headache draught that worked well, was there?

"Harry," said Snape slowly. "What is the last thing that you remember?"

Harry bristled. He wanted to shout again, but thought better of it, and not just because his skull felt like it could crack if he wasn't careful. It was also that unlike Malfoy, Snape wasn't a student. He was a mean, ugly git of a teacher who insisted on sir all the time, and it wouldn't matter to him that Harry was in the hospital wing. If he got annoyed, he'd assign detention and take points, and if he got annoyed enough, he might just throw Harry into a wall.

Well, probably not in front of Madam Pomfrey. But it had certainly happened before. Yeah, yeah, Harry shouldn't have looked into that Pensieve, but he still hadn't deserved to be manhandled--

"What is the last thing that you remember?" asked Snape again.

Harry was surprised that the man hadn't screamed the question that time. Or sneered it, at the very least. After all, Snape didn't like to repeat himself.

Harry debated not answering at all, but gave that up as just plain stupid. What did it matter if Snape knew what he remembered? "Breakfast. Sir."

Pomfrey was still waving her wand over his head, her frown more pronounced by now. Harry got the feeling that she was having trouble figuring things out. He could definitely sympathise. "The last thing you remember," prompted Pomfrey softly. "The very last thing."

Harry decided that he'd pretend that Snape wasn't there. "I was eating breakfast in the Great Hall. I . . . I think I knocked my pumpkin juice over. Ron was laughing--"

"That's good, Mr Potter. Very good. Can you remember the date?"

Harry raised a hand to his temple and rubbed it as he spoke. "September . . . uh, 26th? Er . . . 23rd, maybe. I'm not sure. September, though."

Snape made a low noise somewhere deep in his throat. If Harry hadn't known the kind of man he was, he'd have thought the Potions Master was in some sort of pain. But that was ridiculous.

Pomfrey lowered her wand hand to her side, her fingers tapping restlessly against the wood. "And the year, Mr Potter? Can you remember the year?"

Harry wrinkled his forehead. "Of course I can remember the year. It's 1996."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape go completely still and stiff.

Meanwhile, Pomfrey tucked her wand away in the front pocket of her medi-witch robes. "You sound quite definite."

"I think I'd know the year--"

"Harry--"

There he went again, saying Harry in that strained tone of voice. Maybe Snape was the one who needed to spend some time in the hospital wing.

Harry quashed that thought fast. If he'd been hit by a Bludger he might be here overnight, and he really didn't want to spend that much time near Snape.

"Allow me to handle this, Severus," Madam Pomfrey interrupted the Potions Master.

Snape sat back again, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry went back to ignoring him. Or trying, anyway. It wasn't that easy. He was too used to Snape picking apart every word he said, looking for real or imagined faults he could berate and ridicule.

"How are your classes going this term, then?" asked Pomfrey. She had a quill in her hand now, a parchment on a clipboard hovering in the air before her. Harry couldn't imagine what she was going to write down. What he thought of his classes couldn't possibly be relevant to the Bludger hit that had landed him in here.

"Pretty well."

"Could you be more specific?"

Harry sighed. First she wanted details about his breakfast, and now this. Maybe he'd been wrong before, and she was acting just as strange as everyone else.

"Professor Aran doesn't teach us much that's useful. He makes us spend a lot of time with the book. In-class time, I mean." Too bad if Pomfrey didn't want to hear complaints about other staff members. She'd asked for it. And Snape was sitting there listening to every word, which annoyed Harry enough that he heard himself go even further. "Sixth-year Potions is an even bigger bore than usual--"

"Oh, my." Pomfrey turned to Snape and spoke in a low voice. "Best to consult a specialist, I think. I'll make some firecalls and see how soon I can get someone here."

Madam Pomfrey was bustling off before Harry thought to ask, "A specialist for what?"

Instead of answering directly, Snape rose to his feet and stared down at him. For a long moment, Harry had the completely irrelevant thought that he'd never seen eyes that black in any other face. Then, very slowly, Snape asked a question. A stupid question. The stupidest one Harry had ever heard, from him or anybody else. "You truly don't remember me?"

"Of course I remember you. You're my Potions teacher." And a greasy git, he thought, but didn't say. Gryffindor had lost enough points last year on account of Umbridge. Harry was counting on this year to be better. And Aran was all right, as far as that went. Though it would have been nice if he knew his subject better.

"I'm more than your Potions teacher--"

Harry frowned. He knew he was a little shaky on the date, but he was sure he'd remember something important like Snape finally being appointed to teach Defence.

"Wait for the specialist before you tell him anything personal, Severus," said Pomfrey as she came back in.

Why would Snape have anything personal to tell him at all?

"You don't know what damage you could do, otherwise," continued Pomfrey. "This is a delicate situation, and one not well-understood by the magical healing community."

"Wizards are hardly strangers to the vagaries of memory loss," said Snape.

"We have some experience with magically induced memory loss. This is the result of a physical injury. We will wait for the specialist."

Snape looked frustrated by that, but he nodded.

"What are you talking about, memory loss? You mean it's not September?"

It was Pomfrey who answered. "No, Mr Potter. It is no longer September."

The way she said it made a chill course up his spine. Like . . . like something was very, very wrong. Harry's teeth started chattering. "Is it October?"

"It is November, Harry," said Snape, reaching out to take his hand again. Harry wanted to jerk away, but the sheer horror of the situation seemed to hold him transfixed. He'd lost memories? He'd lost time? When the hell was it then?

He was sure he hadn't asked, but Snape answered the question anyway. "It is November, 1997."

Harry felt like he'd been squashed flat by a falling lorry. "I . . . you . . . did you just say . . . 1997? This is-- this is some kind of joke. Isn't it? You're testing a new potion. A gullibility potion--"

"Nobody has been testing any potions, Mr Potter," said Pomfrey sternly. "You were playing Quidditch this morning and you sustained a Bludger hit to the temple. It appears to have given you a spot of amnesia, which I'm sure is merely temporary."

Quidditch . . . "You mean those actually are my robes?" Harry shuddered. A snake on his crest, and more than that, Snape and Malfoy sitting with him in the hospital wing . . . "What the hell's been going this past year?"

Snape opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible click of his teeth. Pomfrey shot him a sympathetic glance, but her tone was brisk and businesslike when she returned her gaze to Harry.

"We will wait for the specialist, and that's all there is to the matter, Mr Potter."

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Fourteen: "Forget Me Not"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

"Harry?"

Harry turned his head at the sound of Hermione's voice and saw her rushing through the doors of the hospital wing, Ron close at her heels. Malfoy came in after them and went straight to Snape, asking something in a hushed whisper. Snape shook his head as he replied in a voice too low to hear.

Harry tried his best to relax. Bit difficult, considering he'd just been told there was an entire year he couldn't remember, but now that his friends were here he could at least make an effort to calm down.

"We've been so worried, Harry," Hermione was saying as she dragged a chair close to his bedside. "That Bludger hit looked terrible, and then you fell so far! Even with the cushioning charms Dumbledore cast the impact must have been severe, and then you were unconscious for so long and--"

"Let a bloke get his breath. Hermione," said Ron, standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder. He threw Harry a lopsided grin. "Good to see you awake, mate."

Finally, some people acting normally around him. Harry sighed with relief. He didn't know what the hell was wrong with Snape and Malfoy, but he didn't really care. "So I really was playing Quidditch today?"

Hermione slowly nodded. "Oh, dear. Draco told us that you were having some trouble remembering--"

All right, so maybe she wasn't acting like her normal self. "Malfoy, you mean?"

Her face fell even further. In the next moment, she glanced over toward Snape, clearly seeking some kind of guidance.

The Potions Master glided silently forward; Malfoy continued to lean against the opposite wall, his eyes fixed on Harry in a way that was frankly creepy. Maybe because Harry couldn't find any hostility on his face. That was practically a first, and Harry didn't like the feeling that he didn't know what to expect from the other boy. It was a ridiculous feeling, anyway. Harry always knew what to expect from Malfoy.

"We're waiting for a specialist, Miss Granger."

Miss Granger. Well, that answered one question, anyway. Snape hadn't had some kind of personality transplant that made him call all the students by their first names. So why the hell had he been calling Harry by his?

"You can wait all you like. I want to know what's going on." Harry turned back to Hermione. "Is it really not the start of sixth year?"

The moment he'd said it, he knew it was a stupid question. Hermione and Ron, and hell, even Malfoy . . . they looked a little different than he'd expect. Older, all of them. And Ron was broader in the shoulders than he should be, while Malfoy was quite a bit taller -- he was almost as tall as Snape. And Hermione . . . Harry hurriedly lifted his eyes from her chest. He didn't want to stare, but he was sure she hadn't been quite so curvy the last time he'd seen her . . .

Hermione didn't reply until Snape gave a slight nod.

"It's near the start of our seventh year, Harry," she said, pulling up a chair to his bedside. She laid a hand on his forearm and smiled in a sympathetic way.

Harry lowered his voice, but not because he was worried about being rude. It was more that he couldn't figure out how Snape might react to his question. Better safe than sorry. "What are Snape and Malfoy doing in here?"

She looked at Snape again.

By then, Harry was tired of it. What was wrong with everybody? "What are you two doing in here?" he asked for himself in a much louder voice.

Snape tapped a finger against the side of his face, like he was mentally debating what to say. That thought brought Harry up short, because he was sure, or almost sure anyway, that he shouldn't be able to read Snape's mannerisms as well as that.

"Draco and I are in here because we are . . . concerned about you," Snape finally said in a low tone. "But more than that I dare not say until the specialist is here to advise us as to particulars."

Harry hardly even heard the last bit. "Concerned about me?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief. Why should he? "Look, I suppose I can believe I've lost a year. It would be hard to doubt it, considering Ron's grown half a foot and Hermione's finally got some . . . er, but what the hell's been going on? Because everybody's acting practically mental, and I'm getting pretty tired of this 'wait for the specialist' crap, and--" Harry suddenly whipped his head around to glare at Malfoy. "Don't you have something to do besides stare at me, Ferret? What's the matter, no Inquisitorial Squad meetings to attend this year?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes as if he didn't like that, didn't like it at all. "No, but I do need to spend some time planning the next D.A. meeting, Harry."

"Draco!"

That was Hermione and Snape at the same time, and Harry didn't know what was stranger, that Hermione kept calling Malfoy by his first name or that Snape would actually sound angry with a Slytherin. He hardly ever had before. No, when Malfoy started something it was always Potter who got the blame for it, always Potter who lost points--

Then it dawned on him what Malfoy had said. "D.A.? Malfoy's in the D.A.? And planning the meetings?"

"You've missed a lot, mate," said Ron.

"Yeah, like why the robes that are supposedly mine have the weirdest crest ever," said Harry sourly. By then, he wasn't even bothered that Snape and Malfoy were still hanging about. He just wanted answers. So he raised his voice. A lot. "Anybody care to explain?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but we can't," said Hermione, stroking his arm a little. "Your . . . I mean, Professor Snape is right. We'd better wait for the specialist."

A sudden pain began stabbing Harry behind the eyelids. He scrunched up his face and clenched his eyes, trying to force the feeling back, but that only made it worse.

"You shouldn't have shouted, you idiot child," said Snape's voice from close beside him.

Harry flinched back as he peered at the man through slitted eyes. "Don't call me an idiot--"

Snape sighed and waved his wand to dim the lights in the room. It helped; until then, Harry hadn't realised that the bright lights had been irritating him. After that, the Potions Master held out a spoon coated in some kind of glop that looked a lot thicker than the potion he'd taken before. "You need more headache draught. And for Merlin's sake, this time don't stress yourself. Just relax and wait for the specialist."

Harry didn't want any favours from Snape, but he also didn't want another argument with Madam Pomfrey, so he yanked the spoon from Snape's grip and opened his mouth. The stuff tasted foul, but that came as no surprise. When had Snape ever brewed anything that tasted good?

"Now," said Harry in a more quiet voice, "is there anything that anyone can tell me?"

Ron bit his lip. "Uh . . . not really . . ."

Harry lay back against his pillow and crossed his arms. There had to be something his friends could tell him. "Not even who won the Quidditch game?"

"Nobody won," said Malfoy, even though Harry hadn't been talking to him. "You fell from your broom after the Bludger hit you, and that was that."

Harry snorted. "Well, that answers another question then. Was Gryffindor playing Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw? Because there's no way that Slytherin would stop playing on account of me falling to my death."

"It was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, Harry," said Hermione in a chiding tone.

Harry didn't think she would lie to him, but he still scoffed. "And what, Slytherin has the worst Seeker ever, passing up a chance to grab the Snitch while I was out of commission?"

"I wasn't even tempted," said Malfoy, stepping forward.

"You're the Slytherin Seeker this year?" Harry barked a laugh. "All right, in that case I understand. You probably forgot all about the Snitch, the minute you saw me falling. Glee can do that. And just think, you didn't even have to dress up like a Dementor this time--"

"You don't know what you're talking about," said Malfoy fiercely. "You're going to feel like an imbecile when it all comes back to you!"

"I feel like an imbecile right now, for wasting more than three words on you--"

"Draco," said Snape quietly. "Stop agitating Harry. He can't remember."

"You know, I did notice that, Severus!"

Severus?

Harry turned back to his friends. "Quidditch games don't stop on account of accidents. Why didn't Gryffindor send in our reserve Seeker when I fell?"

Ron blinked. "Uh . . . well, because Draco's Quidditch captain for Slytherin, and he almost crashed himself, he landed so quickly to see if you were all right, and when his team kept playing he grounded them, and it wouldn't have been right for us to keep playing when they wouldn't--"

"You're calling him 'Draco,'" said Harry dully. "Just like Hermione."

"Well, you really did miss a lot--"

It was a good thing that the doors opened then to admit Dumbledore, because Harry was just about to start shouting again, even though he could tell that it would summon his headache back. Beside the headmaster was a tall, thin wizard with thinning hair and a goatee. The specialist, Harry thought. He hoped so, anyway.

"Severus, Draco, Harry," said Dumbledore, his robes rustling as he moved forward. "This is Healer Yatesborough."

Harry thought it more than a bit weird that Dumbledore would ignore Ron and Hermione but introduce the healer to Malfoy, of all people. Snape he could understand, maybe. Well, if the specialist was going to need some potions, anyway.

Harry held out his hand. He might be laid up in the hospital wing with a bandage the size of a turban wrapped around the left half of his head, but he wanted to get out of here and back to Gryffindor Tower, where hopefully, people wouldn't be acting like . . . like they knew things he didn't. Getting on the healer's good side sounded like the best way to get out of here fast. "Hallo. I'm Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you."

"And you," echoed Healer Yatesborough as he swiftly glanced at Harry's forehead.

Ha. The bandage felt like it was low enough to cover his scar.

"Perhaps we could clear the room," said the healer in a mild voice. "I'd prefer to consult with the patient in private."

Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a glance, and though Harry couldn't really read much into it, he did get the feeling that they were thinking about the Order. Which made some kind of sense, Harry supposed. This Yatesborough character could be a Death Eater in disguise, for all they knew. He might be here to kill Harry Potter.

Well, probably not. But if Yatesborough was going to treat Harry's memory loss, then he might have to muck about in Harry's mind, and who knew what he might find there? For all Snape was a lousy teacher and an even worse human being, Harry knew that he was a loyal member of the Order carrying out the dangerous assignment of spying on Voldemort for Dumbledore.

Harry didn't want to get Snape killed, even if Snape hadn't felt the same way about Sirius.

A wave of something painful washed across his heart then. Sirius. If Harry had been alone, he'd have curled up in his blankets and closed his eyes the way he'd done day after day during the summer. Thank God the Dursleys had more or less left him alone with his grief -- not that they'd known he was grieving. For some reason Harry didn't understand now and hadn't understood then, they'd just left him alone.

But he wasn't alone now, so he had to soldier on. He wasn't going to break down in front of Snape, was he? Or Malfoy, who was staring at him again. "Get out, Malfoy," said Harry harshly. "I don't want you in here."

"Déjà vu," murmured Malfoy in a tone of voice that was just . . . odd. Well, for Malfoy.

"Draco," prompted Snape.

Malfoy glanced at Harry one last time, but then he walked toward the doors and vanished through them. Finally. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Ron and Hermione can stay," he told the healer. He didn't want to say the next bit but considering what he'd realised the moment before, about the Order, he pretty much had to. "And the headmaster. He should be here while you cast spells on me, or whatever. And Madame Pomfrey. But I want Snape, I mean Professor Snape to leave."

"Now, Harry," began Dumbledore.

"He's got no right to be in here if I don't want him."

"Actually, I do," said Snape.

"Not technically," said Pomfrey, who had come out of her office soon after the healer had arrived. "The boy is of age."

Snape actually gnashed his teeth at that, though why he should want to much to hang about while Harry was examined was a mystery. What was it to him?

"Would you all leave me alone with Harry for a moment?" asked Dumbledore in a tone Harry recognised. It was like the calm before the storm. Nobody dared refuse him the request, although Snape did step close to say, "Albus, we need the specialist's advice about the best way to proceed--"

"Yes, yes, Severus. Trust me."

Snape looked like he pretty much didn't, but he left as the headmaster had requested. So did everyone else, including the healer and Madam Pomfrey. Harry hid his sigh as he watched Ron and Hermione walking away. He knew he shouldn't feel abandoned; his friends would be waiting just outside the door. It was still hard, though, being left alone with Dumbledore. The last time he'd spent much time with the headmaster, he'd been destroying the man's office. For good reason, too. If Dumbledore had just bothered to tell Harry what was going on that year, then Harry would have had more reason to suspect a trick when he'd got that vision.

Damn it, Sirius would be alive today if people would just stop keeping secrets from Harry--

"Now, Harry," said Dumbledore again, taking the seat Hermione had vacated. The next words out of his mouth made Harry feel like the man had been reading his mind. For all Harry knew, he had. It wouldn't surprise him a bit if Dumbledore used wandless Legilimency all the time. It was probably why he was so good at manipulating everybody. "If you were a member of the Order, and I asked you to do something very difficult because I told you that it was important, would you do as I'd asked? Even if I couldn't explain my reasoning?"

"But I'm not a member of the Order," said Harry. The more he thought about it, the more resentful he felt. "Nobody tells me anything."

"But if you were?"

"But I'm not."

They could probably have gone 'round in circles for an hour, but something in Dumbledore's gaze startled Harry, then. He didn't know what it was. Not a twinkle, certainly. Maybe . . . a glint. Like Harry was wrong, but Dumbledore couldn't quite say so until the specialist let people tell him what had happened during his missing year.

"Wait. Am I? A member of the Order?" Suddenly Harry felt much less fussed.

"You are in fact of age," said Dumbledore, which was no answer at all. But then, Dumbledore often meandered like that when he was trying to tell you something . . . "Harry, there are many things that you do not know at present, and until the specialist examines you, we cannot know how best to proceed. But I am asking you as a personal favour not to insist that Severus leave the room while the healer works with you."

All right, maybe Harry was still pretty fussed. "I don't owe you any favours. You told me that Sirius got himself killed! As if it was his fault he had to put up with the most evil house-elf ever!" An ugly feeling bloomed inside Harry's chest. He felt like he'd have no trouble casting Crucio and meaning it. "Is Kreacher still at headquarters?"

"No," said Dumbledore in a sharp voice. "He's not. And you may not owe me any favours but I am asking you to grant this one regardless."

"Why?" asked Harry suspiciously. "I'm sure the healer can tell Snape later if any potions are needed--"

"This isn't about potions."

Harry wanted to ask what it was about, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer. Well, at least all the secret-keeping made sense for once. They might make his memory problem worse if they didn't get professional advice before they started telling him why it seemed like left was right and up was down.

"Oh, fine," he said, but not graciously. "Snape can stay. Professor Snape, I mean. You don't have to remind me. Make him keep back, though. I don't want him looming over me. And you stay too, in case this healer bloke is bad news for the Order. And Ron and Hermione can come back in--"

"I think that just Severus and myself should be present. And Madam Pomfrey, of course."

Harry resisted an urge to make a face. "Fine. Whatever."

Yatesborough didn't look like he appreciated the arrangement, but he obviously wasn't willing to argue with the headmaster. Harry didn't know what Dumbledore had said to Snape when he'd stepped into the corridor, but Snape took up a position about fifteen feet away. Harry could hardly call that looming, even if the man still looked forbidding in his voluminous black robes, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes a steady black as he stared at Harry.

The healer began with a series of questions. They seemed sort of stupid, considering that Harry told him straight off that he could remember everything just fine, right up until sometime in September of his sixth year.

Yatesborough wasn't satisfied with that, though. He insisted on going over Harry's life before Hogwarts in detail.

Where did you go to primary school? What was the name of your first teacher there? Which stories did you like when you were a child? And on and on.

Harry didn't have any trouble answering all that, or telling the healer that one of his very earliest memories was of Aunt Petunia trying to make him eat cooked carrots, which were pretty disgusting, after all.

"Ah," said the healer in a slow, meditative way. "And your Aunt . . . Petunia was her name? What was she like?"

Harry's skin prickled all over. "What was she like?" he echoed. Something about the way Yatesborough had said that was just . . . off. Harry didn't think he meant, what was she like back then. It had sounded more final than that, somehow.

Not that he understood what the healer could possibly have meant.

"I imagine she's the same as always," he said, shrugging. "Though she was awful quiet this past summer. Or, I mean, the last summer I remember. Huh . . . she let the house get in a state, and Uncle Vernon was cooking most nights, and--"

He'd been about to say that his aunt hadn't even yelled at him much, or dragged him from his room to clean things up, but he stopped himself in time. It wasn't the healer's business to know that Harry's family treated him like an elf. And he certainly didn't want Snape listening to things like that. It was bad enough that the man had seen personal things during those pointless Occlumency lessons.

"Can you think of a reason why she might have been so quiet?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really. It's not like her. But . . . uh, I don't even remember seeing very much of her over the summer. And that's really odd. Do you think my memory problems go back that far?"

"I can't say at this point, not unless someone can illuminate the matter for us--"

"I can," announced Snape. He stepped forward but stopped moving when Dumbledore made a hand gesture. "Harry accurately remembers the summer before his sixth year. He had very little contact with his aunt."

Harry supposed that meant that Snape had been one of his guards. Though that didn't explain how he would know what went on inside the house!

The healer nodded, one hand slowly stroking his goatee. "I see, I see. Well, I think it's time for a little spell-work."

Harry shrank back a little. "Not Legilimency. I hate that."

"No, no. Merely a few gentle diagnostic spells." Yatesborough brandished his wand and began chanting soft, sing-song incantations as he moved it in loops near Harry's left ear. Harry felt a buzzing sensation and then a lighter vibration that made him think his brain had taken up humming. Both those fell away when the healer stopped casting, and that was when Harry first noticed that his mind felt kind of watery. It was like his thoughts were submerged beneath the surface of a large, calm lake . . . but the strange part was that it didn't seem to make them sluggish. It wasn't at all like swimming . . . well, what Harry imagined swimming must be like. Except for his time with Gillyweed, he'd never been.

"Hmm," murmured the healer, his eyes closed as he . . . well, did something. Harry had no idea what, but he supposed it had to do with the watery feeling that now seemed to completely fill his head. "Yes. Hmm. Well, well. Isn't that interesting . . ."

"Healer?" asked the headmaster.

He shook his head sharply as though coming out of a trance. Harry almost felt like he was coming out of one too; as the healer's diagnostic spells faded away, so did the watery sensation that had been wrapped around his thoughts. "This is an unusual case. Mr Potter's memory loss apparently came about as a result of a blow to the skull, but I must tell you, there is more to it than that."

Dumbledore leaned forward like he was interested in knowing everything. Snape, Harry noticed, went stiff.

"I sense strong magic at play. I can't say what sort, but it seems clear enough that the Bludger hit I witnessed in your Pensieve," at this he nodded slightly toward Dumbledore, "cued something magical in nature to occur."

"Then magic can reverse it," said Dumbledore quietly.

If anything, Snape went even stiffer when he heard that.

"Yes, I would think so. One thing I can tell for certain is that Obliviate was not involved. Therefore, it should be safe to try a few Class R memory spells--"

It wasn't, though. As soon as the healer cast the first spell, Harry clutched his head and yelped. "Ow, ow! Are you sure you're not throwing invisible Bludgers at me, because it feels-- Ouch!"

"Oh dear," said Yatesborough. "I'm encountering a fair bit of resistance--"

"You think?" shouted Harry, and then wished he hadn't because it made the lights in the room seem like blades slicing his eyeballs into ribbons. Even though he could tell they were still dimmed from Snape's spell.

"Stop," said Snape, though the healer already had. "I can't keep dosing him with headache draught every ten minutes."

Yeah, Snape probably had loads of more important things to do--

"It will lose effectiveness and then we'll truly have a problem," Snape added.

Oh.

"Perhaps you can try again tomorrow," suggested Dumbledore.

"No, a reaction like that means that magical healing is not an option," said the healer in a firm voice. "Mr Potter will have to recover his memories in his own time. I recommend that you retain the services of someone skilled in non-magical treatment of the mind. Of course, there are very few witches or wizards who specialise in that field, and to my knowledge none in Britain, but I am aware of a squib psychiatrist who takes on the occasional magical case. Her name is Grate, I believe. Or Goode . . . at any rate, I shall find out and procure her address for you."

"Thank you," said Snape gravely, though he had a strange look on his face. Harry couldn't read it at all. "Do you think we can tell Harry a few things before she comes? About his aunt, for example?"

What about his aunt?

"Oh, yes," said Yatesborough as he tucked his wand away. "That shouldn't pose any problem. Since the memory loss is magical in nature, the Bludger hit merely providing an opportunity for magic to latch onto, you can proceed mainly as though Obliviate were involved. Explain his missing year so he has some context in which to understand his current circumstances, absolutely. But considering the reaction he just had, I wouldn't advise you to try to restore his memories by Pensieving your own. That would likely cause more harm than good. For techniques that may assist Mr Potter to recover from the amnesia, consult . . . I'll owl you her name straight away."

"Thank you for coming so quickly," said Dumbledore. "Poppy, would you be so good as to show Healer Yatesborough out? Severus and I will need a few moments to explain things to Harry."

As the door opened Harry heard a chatter of quick voices asking the healer questions. Hermione, and Ron, and damn it, even Malfoy's distinctive aristocratic tones. Why on earth would he hang about in the corridor?

Then the door closed, sealing Harry in with Dumbledore and Snape. For some reason, Harry was put in mind of a tomb. He felt like he'd been condemned; he just didn't know to what. His palms suddenly went clammy. "What about my aunt, then?"

It was Snape who answered, and he stepped close to do it. His hand fluttered along the edge of the bed as he spoke. It was like he didn't know where to put it, and that only made Harry feel even more uneasy. Snape never fidgeted. Never.

"Your aunt has died," said Snape, locking his gaze with Harry's. "Your uncle, as well."

Harry felt all the air leave his lungs. Dead, really? They were gone? Both of them?

He knew he should probably feel a lot more sad than he did, but he couldn't, not when he compared the Dursleys to Sirius. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had never really been that to him, for all they were his only family. Or almost--

"Dudley, too?"

"Your cousin is fine. In fact, you get on with him quite well these days."

"You're joking." Except, Snape never joked, so that was that. Harry cleared his throat. "Um . . . Dudley wasn't in the car?"

"It wasn't a car accident, Harry," said Dumbledore from the foot of the bed.

Of course not. There were plenty of ways to die, after all. Harry knew that. He just couldn't seem to shake himself of the habit of always thinking "car accident" when he heard about someone in the Muggle world dying.

"Your aunt died of leukaemia, and your uncle, a few weeks later in a Death Eater attack."

"Oh, God," said Harry dully. "They killed him to get to me. That's horrible, especially considering--" he gulped. He didn't want to say the rest, true as it was. Killing Vernon Dursley wasn't a very good way to get to Harry, since there wasn't much love lost there. Which meant that Uncle Vernon had died for nothing.

"It's not your fault," said Snape in a soothing voice. Soothing! Harry didn't know what to make of it.

That problem vanished when the man's fluttering fingers came to rest on the top of Harry's hand. Harry yanked it away, a bolt of revulsion spearing through him from head to toe. He didn't want Snape anywhere near him. It was wrong, it was terrible . . . it made Harry angry. Really angry.

Huh . . . it made him a lot angrier than was probably reasonable. Harry was aware of that, but it didn't matter, not when he felt filled from head to toe with blazing, boiling fury. As he should, considering! Sirius' death might be over a year ago for everyone else in the room, but the memory felt fresh and raw to Harry. And what had Snape done to save Sirius, that awful night? Nothing. Not one damned thing. Snape hadn't lifted a finger to help.

So of course Harry was still angry. "Don't touch me," he muttered, shuddering. "Just . . . don't."

Snape stepped back a full foot and tucked his hands into the folds of his robes. "It's not your fault," he said again. "Your uncle was targeted because he had promised to hand you over to Voldemort and he didn't; the Order had you too well secured."

"Oh, God," said Harry, just as dully as the time before. He hadn't expected to hear that he'd never see his aunt and uncle again. The shock he'd felt before rushed through him like a whirlwind. And not just shock at the fact that in the end, Vernon had wanted Harry dead. He'd noticed something else by then, one more thing that didn't fit the world he'd lived in yesterday. Harry raised his eyes to Snape's, his terrible anger muted for the moment. "You said his name."

"Yes."

"But . . . you never say his name . . ."

Snape's dark eyes glimmered. "You persuaded me that it was for the best."

Harry didn't like the sound of that, and he liked the way Snape was looking at him even less. Those black eyes weren't supposed to hold anything but hatred when it came to all things Potter, but there was nothing like that in them now. And that . . . it was just wrong. Harry couldn't think about it. "I guess with Aunt Petunia gone the blood wards on Privet Drive vanished? That's why the Death Eaters could attack?" He tried not to think about why they'd attacked. It was too terrible to contemplate . . . but he ended up thinking about it, all the same. His own uncle selling him out. Uncle Vernon must have hated him a lot more than Harry had known. But he should have known. In the past few years it had been increasingly obvious that Vernon only tolerated him because Aunt Petunia had insisted.

Aunt Petunia, who was dead too . . .

His hands were shaking, he noticed. Harry drew in a deep breath and tried to keep them still. It was difficult, though. Finding out he'd lost a year wasn't much compared to what had happened during that year. And from the look on both Dumbledore and Snape's faces, there was more. A lot more.

He sucked in another huge breath. "All right, I'm ready. Tell me the rest."

"Just the most essential facts, I think, Severus," murmured the headmaster, his hands clasped in front of him.

Snape looked like he had very little idea where to start, which was another bizarre look for him. "Ah. Well. You had no family to speak of, and you also lost your magic for a long while--"

"I lost my magic?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "Where's my wand?"

"I have it."

Harry goggled. "Why?"

Snape gave him an impatient look. "With you unconscious it seemed best to safeguard it."

"No, I meant, why you? And give it over."

"Not until we've spoken," said Snape, a slight tremor in his voice. "As for why me . . . well, we come to the substance of what I need to tell you. Harry . . ."

"It will be all right, Severus," murmured the headmaster from the end of the bed.

Snape shot him a cross glance, like he didn't appreciate the interruption when he was clearly gathering his thoughts, or maybe his courage.

"Look," said Harry, his hands itching for his wand. He could hardly stand the thought that Snape had it. "I want my wand back. So if we have to talk about something first, then talk, for God's sake. Why don't you start by explaining why you keep using my first name, all right? I really . . . don't understand that."

Snape gave a shallow nod. Barely more than a twitch, actually. "I took your wand after the accident for the same reason I have called you Harry for over a year now. You . . ." A rasping noise filled the room as he cleared his throat. "You are my son."

You are my son . . . you are my son . . . you are my son . . .

The words clanged in his head over and over like a bell gone mad. Words that didn't make any sense unless--

Harry suddenly wanted his wand ten times as much as before. He flung an arm out, almost like he had his wand in hand, and to his shock, Snape practically leapt out of the way.

"Put your arm down," said Dumbledore sternly.

"But he said--"

"Put your arm down at once!"

Harry did, though he had no idea what the big deal was. Pointing wasn't that rude. "You take it back," he said, glaring at Snape since he wasn't allowed to point. "You take that back right now!"

Snape looked paler than usual, like he wasn't sure his heart could stand another fright, though it wasn't clear to Harry what could have frightened him. "I won't take it back. Whether you can remember or not, whether you care for it or not, you are in fact my son--"

Harry couldn't help it; he growled. "The only way I could be your son is if my mum cheated on my dad, and I know you love to go on about how my father was a right tosser, but my mum loved him, all right, and she wouldn't do a nasty thing like that--"

"Ah," said Dumbledore.

Snape's jaw dropped open.

"No, no Severus didn't intend for you to think that," said the headmaster in tones so calming they almost seemed to have a draught lurking in them somewhere. "Your mother was a fine woman and very much in love with James. Yes, of course. Severus, do tell Harry that you didn't mean to malign her memory."

"I didn't mean to malign her at all," croaked Snape.

"Not even when you called her a Mudblood?" jeered Harry.

He instantly felt ashamed. He knew it was wrong to spread information he'd only got because he'd looked at memories that were none of his business, but damn it, for Snape to claim he'd slept with Harry's mum was just too much to take--

"You are my adopted son," said Snape in a hard voice, then. He sounded like he'd like to smack Harry. But the look on his face didn't match that impression, so Harry ended up just feeling confused. About everything.

"Adopted son," he slowly repeated. "Come again?"

"I adopted you. Is that clear enough?"

"No. Why would you, and why would I agree?" Harry narrowed his eyes. "I bet I didn't. Hell, I bet you didn't either. Dumbledore insisted, huh? Like with Occlumency lessons!"

"I was pleased to adopt you as by then I had come to care for you," said Snape stiffly. "And yes, you agreed. On your part it was more a practical decision at first, as the nominal reason for the adoption was to establish wards similar to the ones that formerly protected you on Privet Drive. However, it wasn't long before you adjusted to having a father and a family to call your own."

"Call my own?" echoed Harry. "You don't mean that I call you Father, do you?"

"Not often. You usually say 'Dad' or Severus, though you revert to 'sir' when you are annoyed with me."

Harry snorted. "Which would be all the time. And what do you call me?"

Snape had started rubbing the bridge of his nose, but that question had him looking at Harry incredulously. "Harry, of course. Hasn't that been amply demonstrated since you woke up?"

"You'd better not mean Harry Snape--"

"You didn't take my name."

"Yeah, well I hope not!" Harry didn't care that that was rude. The whole idea of being Snape's adopted son was just . . . well, gross. He wasn't even sure he believed it; it was that bizarre. On the other hand, he really didn't think that Albus Dumbledore would stand by and say nothing while Snape spun out a web of lies like this one. So then, it must be true. Unlikely as that seemed.

Snape looked like he was debating with himself again. Evidently the answer he had reached was yes, since he went on to say, "Draco, however, did."

"Did what?"

A hint of a razor like smile crossed Snape's features the moment before he spoke. "Draco took my name when I adopted him. He's your brother."

Now Harry was the one left gaping. "He is not!"

"Oh yes, he most certainly is."

"Professor Dumbledore," said Harry, pushing himself to sit up even though it hurt.

"I assure you, Harry, everything Severus is telling you is quite true," said the headmaster mildly.

"But Malfoy's already got parents!"

Snape and the headmaster exchanged another one of those "Order-business" looks that Harry was coming to recognise.

"They're dead?" guessed Harry. "Somebody in the . . . uh, the old crowd killed them?"

"We're well-warded here; you may speak openly," said Dumbledore, though he sounded pleased. Maybe because Harry had remembered to be careful, even though he'd forgotten earlier. Or maybe because Malfoy's horrible parents were dead--

"The situation with your brother is complicated," said Dumbledore. "Draco's parents disowned him in a way that severed their parental rights, which meant it was possible for Severus to adopt him. Afterwards, Lucius Malfoy did indeed die. However, and I must stress that I am trusting you with information of the most sensitive nature; you must be careful to keep it strictly to yourself--"

"So I am in the Order!"

"You and Draco are both in the Order," said Snape.

Well, that certainly popped Harry's bubble. He scowled, even though he knew it was probably making him look stupid and immature.

"As I was saying, Harry, it is not generally known that Lucius Malfoy died last spring. Our own Remus Lupin has been impersonating him so that we may continue to have access to Voldemort's inner circle."

Harry blinked and looked toward Snape again. "'Why would we need more access than you . . . ?"

"Sure you don't think that Severus could continue to spy after it became common knowledge that he had adopted you," said Dumbledore gently.

"People know about this?"

The second he'd asked that, Harry knew he shouldn't have. The answer was obvious. His friends had known, and Madam Pomfrey, and thinking back, it seemed like even the healer had had some idea. No wonder he hadn't baulked when Snape had demanded to stay through Harry's healing session. Though there hadn't been much healing, had there?

Just as well. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember a mess like this. Brothers with Malfoy . . . what a farce.

"Yes, people know," said Snape in a sharp tone. "An adoption is a matter of public record, Harry."

"And with you in particular being of some interest to the wizarding world . . ." Dumbledore made a vague gesture.

"But couldn't you have done something?" asked Harry desperately. "To keep it quiet? I mean, if it was just so we could get some warding done, but wait, how come Snape could ward the Tower? Wouldn't he have to be a Gryffindor at least? And--"

"Weren't you listening to me before? I did not adopt you merely in order to establish the wards."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?" Harry shot back. "I don't know what made me get so . . . so mental last year, but whatever it was, I'm over it now. I wouldn't let you adopt me no matter what warding needed to be done!"

"You'd prefer to die?"

"So it was just for the warding!"

"No, it was not." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "Harry, I know you don't remember, but we were happy together, you and Draco and I."

Harry ignored that. He had to. It was bloody ridiculous. "You didn't answer me about the Tower."

"My quarters have been warded for your protection. You didn't live in the Tower during most of last year. Not, in fact, until your magic had come back."

"It is back though, right?" Harry held out his hand again. "Right, then. I want my wand."

"It's back, but it can be . . . problematic," said Snape, reaching deep into a pocket of his innermost robe.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think perhaps it would be best to let you learn by experience," murmured Snape. "Harry . . . do try not to become alarmed if your wand is a little . . . resistant when you first attempt a spell."

Resistant? Whatever. Harry snatched his wand with more force than was necessary, but he couldn't help it. He'd lived too long in the wizarding world to feel comfortable without it at hand. His summers locked away from it had been pure torture, especially after Voldemort had returned during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Harry hadn't known, not then, about the wards protecting him.

His wand felt good in his hand. Solid and dependable, like a friend that could always be trusted. In fact, like a long-lost friend who had finally come home. But that wasn't very sensible. Everyone kept saying that the Bludger had hit him "today," so he couldn't have been out of things for more than eight or twelve hours . . . Maybe he was just relieved that Snape had decided to hand his wand over. He was behaving so strangely that Harry had worried, a bit at least, that Snape would try to keep it for some reason.

"Lumos," he said, raising an eyebrow when the tip of his wand lit up just like it should, with a bright, strong light somewhere between yellow and orange. "Nox. Doesn't seem very resistant to me."

When he glanced away from the tip of his wand, it was to see that both Snape and Dumbledore looked dumbfounded. Or perhaps staggered would be a better word.

Harry wasn't sure what that was about, but he had a bad feeling about the way Dumbledore's eyes had lost every trace of twinkle. A really bad feeling. Snape, he saw, was actually white about the mouth.

Holding back a sigh, Harry lifted his chin, ready to face whatever had them so upset. "Well? What is it now?"

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Coming soon in A Family Like None Other:
Chapter Fifteen: "Bad Planning"

~

Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight

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Chapter Text

Twenty minutes later, Harry felt like his head was spinning. It was too much to take in at once. Far too much. Hell, he'd need at least a month just to get used to the idea that Snape had apparently spent Harry's sixth year adopting students left, right, and centre. That was unbelievable enough. But the news about his magic was actually beyond belief.

As Snape explained things, his magic had come back wonky. Not that Snape had used that word, but that was definitely what he'd meant, since according to him, Harry had just spent months able to cast spells only in Parseltongue. Even stranger, if Harry used his wand when he did it, his spells were phenomenally strong. As in, your-Serpensortia-produced-a-Basilisk strong. So usually Harry used wandless magic. Wandless!

But nobody except a small circle of people was supposed to know he was able to do that, so he'd got used to pretending to use his wand when he wasn't really using it at all. His "dark powers" were also a secret, so much so that Harry had actually been pretending to be a weak wizard whose magic had never come back properly.

But none of that mattered any longer, really, because when Harry tried to cast a spell in Parseltongue--while looking at that horrible crest, since he had to see a snake--he couldn't get anything magical to happen. It didn't matter if he used his wand or not.

His regular magic was the same as before, just as if the year Harry had forgotten had never happened at all.

"It may simply be a matter of the correct incantations," Snape had murmured to Dumbledore after Harry's tenth Parseltongue spell did absolutely nothing.

"Yes, yes, his spell lexicon--"

When Harry had questioned that, they'd explained a bit about how personalised his spells had to be, since his Parseltongue magic had been responding to the way Harry thought about spells when he had first learned them, and not necessarily the way those spells were expressed in Latin.

"I'll try this lexicon, then," he had said, feeling exhausted. "But honestly, I think that Bludger just knocked me back into my normal life." The one where I'm not Snape's adopted son . . . "I'm not supposed to have powers like that--"

"The prophecy would suggest otherwise. A power the Dark Lord knows not, Harry," said Dumbledore as he peered over the top of his half-moon glasses.

Harry bristled. Yeah, he wanted to win the war, but he wasn't a weapon, and it wasn't his fault if he didn't have these dark powers any longer--

"There are other matters we should discuss," said Snape in a smooth voice. Harry cast him a sidelong glance, wondering what was going on. He didn't really think that Snape had noticed his annoyance, so he must have some Slytherin reason of his own to change the subject like that.

Those "other matters" turned out to be a jumble of isolated facts that seemed to whirl around inside his head, some of them almost doing hand-stands as they clamoured for attention. Harry couldn't really stop to think about any of them in much detail, not when so many of them were jumping up and down and shouting at him.

His crest looked like it did because he was a member of Slytherin and Gryffindor both. All the teachers were calling Malfoy "Draco Snape." Professor Snape had a house out in the country somewhere, and when they went there on holidays, Malfoy and Harry had to share a room. They'd also shared a room in Snape's quarters for months, yet somehow, Harry hadn't been murdered in his sleep. Not even when he'd been without his magic, which had gone on for most of the previous year.

About the only thing he'd heard that made sense was that Malfoy had been expelled. About damned time. It was just a shame that the Governors had decided to let him back in.

"I think that's enough," said Harry faintly when Snape started explaining that Nott was in Azkaban for pushing Pansy Parkinson out of the Owlery. "I can't . . . I don't want to hear any more just now."

It seemed like Madam Pomfrey had been waiting for an announcement like that. "Off with you, then," she said, making a shooing motion with her skirts as she hurried over. Harry wished she'd returned sooner. That way, he wouldn't have had to hear about dark powers or wandless magic. Snape had specifically mentioned that Madam Pomfrey didn't know about any of that; all she knew was that Harry had had some bouts of violent wild magic while he was still healing from a Death Eater attack a year earlier.

Well, Harry wished that he didn't know about these dark powers, either. Even the phrase made him want to shiver. He wasn't a dark wizard, and he didn't care what his crest looked like, he didn't belong in Slytherin.

Not even half-way.

"Off with you, I said," admonished the medi-witch again in her shrill voice. "Mr Potter needs his rest!"

"Yeah, I do," said Harry, sliding down in the bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. "I feel like a troll's been stomping on me."

That was an exaggeration. It was more like a heavy weight was pressing down on him. And his head felt wuzzy enough that if he closed his eyes for ten seconds in a row, he'd probably pass out. The dim lights in the room were going in and out of focus as he stared at them.

As Harry's eyes drifted closed, a hand settled onto his shoulder. He shuddered and told himself it was Dumbledore's. That was better than the alternative, which didn't bear thinking about. So Harry didn't think about it. Or reply when Snape's voice--ugh, too close by--told him that they'd speak more the next day.

He heard footsteps walking away, and then a babble of voices in the corridor. Ron and Hermione, wanting to see him. Oh, God. Malfoy too.

But nobody came in, and before Harry could find a way to say that he wanted his friends to sit with him, the closing door sealed the voices away. It didn't matter, though. He was sound asleep less than five seconds later.

He woke up twice during the night, flashes of pain wrapped around his head, and gulped down the little vials of potions that Madam Pomfrey pressed into his hands.

When the pale light of dawn began to filter through the curtains over the windows, Harry's eyes fluttered open again. For a long moment he stared at the stone ceiling, his mind completely blank. He didn't even realise that he was in the hospital wing. Then he shifted his head a little and recognised that the lumpy thing he was feeling wasn't a pillow.

He reached one hand up to touch the bandages wrapped around the left side of his head, and that was when the previous night came back to him.

Snape. Dumbledore. Ron and Hermione. That healer . . . Yatessomething . . . what if he'd been able to restore Harry's memories?

Harry shook off that thought in a hurry. At first he'd wanted to remember his lost year, but now that he had more of an idea about what he'd missed, he thought it was just as well to skip it. Only a nutter would want to be adopted by someone like Snape, after all. And brothers with Malfoy? Please.

And as for "dark powers" . . . well, those could be handy when it came to defeating Voldemort. But the way Snape and Dumbledore had described them? Harry didn't like it. They were one more thing that made him different from everyone else. Parseltongue was bad enough. And to think he'd been casting in it!

That part hadn't even been kept secret. Everybody knew he'd been doing spells in snake-language! He wondered how many students had backed away from him in class, and how many had taken things a step further and run screaming down the corridor.

Why couldn't he ever be normal? Why couldn't he be just Harry for once in his life?

Well, now he was again. Or was he?

Suddenly worried, Harry snatched his wand from the night table and tried out a few more elementary spells. When they worked just the way they should, he felt a lot better. His charms were evidently fine. Hmm, transfiguration too.

Defence was a little more worrisome since his Patronus charm didn't work, but Harry chalked that up to the fact that he was having trouble concentrating on a completely happy memory at the moment. And of course there was no way to check that he was still all right in Potions, not here in the hospital wing.

Thinking of Potions made Harry jerk slightly as he remembered even more about the night before. Snape had been . . . well, just weird. Not like Snape at all, in fact. Where was the dark sarcasm? Where were the insults, the constant references to Harry being just like his father?

A half-hysterical laugh escaped through his teeth because as far as Snape was concerned, he was Harry's father now. Harry probably had to scrub cauldrons if he so much as mentioned James.

And the words Snape had used . . . care, concern . . . they just didn't make any sense. In fact, they made Harry feel sick inside. He'd always been jealous of Ron for having a real family, and sure, he'd fantasised a time or two about what it might be like to have a parent who was actually alive, but he didn't know he'd been as needy as all that. Letting Snape adopt him? It was bad enough putting up with him a few hours a week during class. But Harry had actually lived with the man? For months? And considered himself Snape's son?

Harry clenched his hands under the sheets and shook his head no, no, no. That part couldn't be true. He'd been adopted because the blood wards had fallen with Aunt Petunia's death. Because without magic he'd been vulnerable and in need of new wards. Adoption had taken the place of blood, and Harry had gone along because Dumbledore had insisted.

Just like he'd insisted on those horrible Occlumency lessons.

Yeah, that made sense. Dumbledore had probably told Harry to pretend like he didn't mind the adoption so much. Harry could just hear it now. You have to live with him until your magic returns. For your own safety, Harry. That's paramount. Why not make your time in the dungeons as pleasant as possible? I will prevail upon Professor Snape to treat you reasonably . . .

And the plan had worked too well, that was all. Snape had come to believe that Harry was willing to be his adopted son. As for him seeming happy to be Harry's adoptive father . . . well, that part wasn't hard to understand. It had given him more rights over Harry. Snape would love that. And what better way to get revenge on James, than to see if he could get James' son to think of Severus Snape as his father?

Fuck that, thought Harry. Then he wondered where a word like that had come from. He didn't usually throw around the really bad swear words, not even inside his own head. And he couldn't really imagine that Snape had heard him talk that way and not made him wash out his mouth with some foul-tasting potion.

No matter, though. He was a year older; maybe that explained it.

What mattered right now was the fact that Snape had said he'd be back in the morning so they could talk some more. Well, fuck that too, Harry thought, enjoying the word this time. What was there to talk about? Scary dark powers that he didn't have any longer? The adoption? Snape could talk about it all he liked, but Harry wasn't going to be there to listen. He didn't care what he'd said or done while he'd been a nutter with wild magic pouring out his fingertips, he couldn't have meant it. He wasn't Snape's adopted son, let alone Malfoy's brother. None of that was real, because it wasn't real to Harry.

"Awake already?" asked Madam Pomfrey in her brisk way as she strode towards him. "It's only half-five."

Only half-five . . . and just how early would Snape decide to come lurking around?

Well, at least Harry had a plan now.

"Can I get rid of these bandages?" he asked, speaking as clearly as he could. It wouldn't do for Madam Pomfrey to decide he sounded as woozy as he felt. "I don't think I need them."

She made a clucking noise as she flicked her wand. Apparently the noise was some sort of spell since the bandages began to unwind themselves from his head. Harry stared, amazed at how long the strip turned out to be.

"Huh. No blood," he said when the last of the bandages floated away from him. "The hit wasn't too bad then--"

She banished the bandages and looked at him rather critically. "Oh, head wounds bleed terribly, Mr Potter. But of course I healed it before applying the linens. Cushioning, you know."

Harry didn't see why his pillow wasn't enough, but he thought that if he asked too many questions he'd seem confused. He didn't want to give her any excuse to keep him here.

"Well, I feel much better this morning. Thanks for those potions during the night. I think they really did the trick."

She peered closely at him. "But you don't remember anything more than you did yesterday."

"No, but the way I understand it, there's nothing you can do for that. And I think my physical injuries are pretty well healed--"

"Allow me to be the judge of that," she said sternly, magic washing over him as she cast a series of spells. "You need a good deal more rest."

"That's it, then," he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and trying to look like it wasn't any effort. "I'm going back to the Tower. I'll sleep better in my own bed."

"If you don't fall over getting there," she said caustically. "Moreover, I think that your father will expect you to be here when he arrives."

"Don't call him that," snapped Harry. She'd done it yesterday too, he realised now. Ugh.

He looked about for his clothes but of course there was nothing but his Quidditch uniform, neatly folded on the next bed over, that horrible crest facing the ceiling. Oh, well. It was just a drawing, after all. It didn't mean anything. Not to Harry.

He could wear it until he made it to the Tower.

"Do you mind?" he asked the medi-witch as he stood up. "I need to change out of these pyjamas."

She stood there for a moment longer, looking him over, and then sighed. "If you wish to release yourself . . . well, I suppose you are of age."

That's right, he was, wasn't he? She'd said something about that before too, and it hadn't really registered. Now it did. He was an adult at last. He felt like one, too. Maybe he shouldn't, considering that he couldn't remember turning seventeen, but then, he felt like he'd been carrying adult responsibilities for years now. No choice. The Dursleys were the only parents he'd ever really known, but that didn't mean they'd ever acted like parents toward him.

And now the Dursleys were dead.

Like Sirius was dead.

Harry gulped a little, trying not to think about any of that.

"Second thoughts?"

"No, no, just wool-gathering." Now that it seemed like she wouldn't try to keep him here, he felt a lot less cross with her. "Remind me again, what was the spell to conjure one of those privacy curtains?"

"I'll just step into my office while you change, Mr Potter."

Mr Potter. The funny thing was, she could have called him 'Harry' all she liked; he wouldn't mind it, not from her. Instead it was Snape calling him that.

And Harry did mind it from him. A lot.

Harry's first new shock that day was what happened when he put on his glasses.