Archivist Note: This fic was not written in eight parts like I posted it. I archived it this way for people who wouldn't be able to finish it in one sitting. Broken up in parts makes it so much easier to come back to.

Title: A Choriambic Progression

Author: Mairead Triste & Aristide
E-Mail: the_cimmerians@earthlink.net
Rating: NC-17 Warning: underage m/m slash.

Pairings: Snape/Harry
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the inestimable creation of J.K. Rowling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dumbledore nodded, smiling gently. "Quite so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Imagine that," Harry mumbled under his breath.

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

"Nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leaky Cauldron!"

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Potter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then everything happened very fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

"You're alive," he croaked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She cursed you too?"

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

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

"Yes," Snape hissed peevishly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugged him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I saw him first!" The man cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he disappeared.

Continue to part 2

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