***

"Go away!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dark Mark. Harry paused. The dark mark was a tattoo, right? And tattoos... were put on with needles. Snape hated needles. Maybe Snape hated needles now because--

"What are you waiting for? Snape demanded harshly.

"Sorry," Harry said, and picked up the first bulb. "I just, I don't want to make a mistake."

"Why break the habit of a lifetime?" Snape said dryly, but his voice lacked its usual edge.

Harry ignored him anyway. He pulled the cap off the first bulb, and couldn't help gasping--the needle that shot out was thick, wickedly sharp, and about three inches long. He glanced up. Snape's gaze seemed to be riveted on the ceiling, but Harry saw a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Harry transferred the bulb to his left hand, wiped his damp right palm on his robes, and then transferred it again. His stomach had curled in on itself entirely. "These are self-guiding, you said?"

"Just aim it towards a vein--near the elbow would be best--and try to hold it steady when you break the seal." It was barely more than a soft rumble.

"All right," Harry said, and bent over Snape's arm. As soon as he moved the bulb close, he felt it twitch in his hand, and had to stop himself from jumping at that. He held on, let it move, and the next thing he knew there was a quiet noise from Snape, and fully half the needle was buried in his arm. Harry swallowed. "Are you--"

"Just. Get. On with it."

Harry did, trying to keep his hands steady as he held the collar still and turned the bulb, unable to take his eyes from the spot where the needle disappeared into pale flesh. There was a soft pop followed by a hiss, and blood so dark red it almost seemed black spurted against the glass. Harry felt dizzy for a moment, and looked away.

When the hissing stopped, he looked back. The bulb was full. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, and he lifted his head.

"You remember what to do?" Snape asked him, and Harry didn't know whether it was the tension in Snape's voice and arm, the silvery traces of perspiration at his temples, or the near-panic in his eyes, but all of a sudden Harry had a terrible, appalling urge to say something... comforting. He looked down.

"Yes. Now hold still."

A tremor ran through Snape's body. "I am holding still, you blundering, ham-fisted--"

"More still than that," Harry said, and Snape was silent. "I don't want to drop this." He clamped his tongue between his teeth and worked as quickly and steadily as he could. He took a deep breath when he got the first bulb removed and the second attached, a process which actually went more smoothly than he thought it would once he cupped his hand around the back of Snape's arm to anchor it.

Soon the second one was filled, and he moved on to the third. Snape remained tense throughout the process, but there no further problems until Harry removed the third bulb, at which point Snape drew in a sharp breath through his nose and shivered, once.

"Um," Harry said hesitantly, and looked from the line of filled bulbs on the table down to the needle, still embedded. "How should I..."

"Just get that blasted thing out of my arm," Snape roared, "just pull it out! Now!"

Harry tightened his grip on Snape's arm, and slid the needle free. Snape immediately pulled away from him and pressed a piece of his sleeve to the wound, folding his arm up. Harry didn't quite know what to do with the needle, but to his surprise it simply turned to smoke and disappeared as he looked at it. "Hey--"

"Single use," Snape said tersely. "It's supposed to do that."

"Oh." Harry noticed that the man had gone beyond pale, and now seemed faintly greenish. He paused a moment, then, already half-regretting the words before he spoke them, said, "Look, I'm... I'm sorry about this. About all of this."

Snape stared resolutely out the window. "Spare me your pity, Potter," he snapped.

"It's not pity," Harry insisted fiercely. Hadn't he decided that earlier, that he wouldn't pity Snape? "It's just..."

"Just what? Just..." Snape turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised haughtily, and Harry braced himself for whatever sarcastic barb was coming his way next--but there was none.

No sarcasm. No pity. Nothing. Their eyes met silently, and Harry watched the words die on Snape's lips, and felt his own heart slam against his ribcage while the floor seemed to sway under his feet--for nothing. Just a look. Just nothing.

Snape looked away first, gazing down at his arm and unrolling his sleeve with brisk, efficient tugs. "You'd better get these back to the Headmaster," he said coolly, nodding at the bulbs. "He's probably thought up a thousand creative uses for them by now--although I'm not entirely sure that juggling them is out of the question."

"Right," Harry said, and tried desperately to still the sudden tremors in his hands as he gathered the bulbs and made his way carefully out of the room, never even noticing the way he held his breath until he was out in the hallway with the door shut tight behind him.

***

With the samples safely delivered to Dumbledore, and a pot of tea carefully and meticulously brewed by hands that had an unfortunate propensity to shake (not a pleasant prospect when sloshing boiling water about), Harry finally set his cup down on the low sill that ran along the window seat in the kitchen, and allowed his legs to collapse.

Snape. That had been no symbol of anything at all, up there; it had been Snape. And maybe Harry had taken a stand against pitying him, but if he cut out pity, what on earth was he supposed to call it when he took in the man's pallor and panic and couldn't help feeling something? What was he supposed to call it when he looked at Snape and... and...

He didn't know what to call it, but he knew perfectly well that it scared the hell out of him. He thought about it for a while, looking for anything that might offer him any measure of calm, unaware of the fact that he was chewing absently on the knuckle of his left forefinger until he felt a vague sting. He pulled his finger away from his mouth with a soft hiss, and saw a tiny smear of blood oozing up.

By the time he remembered to sip his tea, it had gone stone-cold.

***

Much to Harry's surprise, Snape was actually present at supper that evening, although the atmosphere was certainly no more congenial than it was when he dined alone. The food was slightly better, however, because as it turned out, Snape knew how to make something besides potions. Harry thanked him for the omelet with as much cool politeness as he could summon up, and Snape responded with a noncommittal murmur. Other than that, supper was an entirely silent affair.

All things considered, Harry was deeply glad to push away from the table and turn his attention towards washing up. He didn't see Snape after that, and indeed had assumed that the man would have escaped back to the refuge of his own room, but once he finished putting away the last plate and emerged into the hallway he found that it wasn't so. A large and precarious pile of equipment floated out from the parlour with Snape walking slowly behind it, guiding it with his wand towards the large, unused room (formerly a bedroom, Sirius had told him once) on the first floor.

Harry watched for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Want some help?"

Snape glanced his way for the briefest of moments, and his scowl of concentration deepened. "If you think it might keep you out of trouble for tonight, yes."

Harry said nothing, but drew his wand and walked towards the parlour. Only as he was staring around at the jumbled piles of equipment did it occur to him that somehow, he'd finally managed to grasp the concept that Dumbledore had been trying to communicate to him the other day, about not allowing himself to be provoked. Really, he should be provoked right now, but he wasn't.

Why wasn't he?

"If you're simply going to stand there gawking," Snape said irritably as he entered the room, "you might as well go to bed."

"What, and rob you of a chance to order me about and yell at me for my mistakes?" Harry said, using his wand to stack several boxes of glassware, "I wouldn't dream of it."

He levitated the pile and guided it out of the room, waiting for the inevitable retort, but there was none until he was almost all the way down the hall and into the empty room, when a curt, "Mind you, don't break any of that!" floated to him. That was it? That was all Snape had to say, after his cheek?

Harry smiled a little as he lowered the boxes safely onto the floor. It seemed he wasn't the only one who was not quite his usual self tonight.

***

Of course that was terribly premature, as assumptions went. He and Snape worked for the rest of the evening in semi-companionable accord, with Snape finding fault with about every fifth thing he did, and Harry answering back as his mood of the moment suggested, but really it seemed that nothing he said, cheeky or otherwise, seemed to incite much in the way of a response.

It lulled him, and by the time all the equipment had been set up (which Snape did, refusing to let Harry touch any of it), and several long tables and sets of shelves had been Transfigured from kitchen firewood (which Snape did also, after demanding to know Harry's marks on his last Transfiguration exam), and all the glassware, bottles, beakers, and jar after jar of ingredients had been safely stowed away on the makeshift shelves (Harry did that, with several Snapish reminders not to drop, break or spill anything), Harry felt comfortable enough to broach the subject that had been circling in his brain for the past two hours.

He'd just finished shelving the last bottle of hellebore, and he turned to where Snape was checking over his equipment, a slow process that seemed to involve many murmurs of displeasure along with occasional disdainful sniffs. "You've been here before, haven't you?" he asked.

Snape's eyes lifted from the depths of a cauldron to meet his own, eyebrows arched. "Mr. Potter, did you inadvertently eat those toadstools you were shelving? Of course I've been here before. You know that."

"No, I mean, before-before." Harry paused, thinking over how best to put it, then plunged ahead. "It's just that the parlour is a bigger room, really, and has better light and all, and I wondered earlier why you didn't like it and I thought that maybe it was because of something that happened here when you were... back when this house was... I wondered if you were here when you were, you know. A Death Eat--"

Harry's breath stopped in his throat. He hadn't even seen Snape move, and all of a sudden the man was looming over him, right up against him, actually touching him with fists bunched into his robes, and black eyes burning into his own with all the intensity of hell.

"Not one more bloody word," Snape hissed, and Harry thought for a brief moment that the fury in Snape's eyes might actually be enough to curse him without any help from a wand. "My past is *none of your business*, Potter. *I* am none of your business." He reinforced his words with a brief but fierce shake that made Harry's teeth click together. "I am not some mystery, some puzzle to be figured out and talked over with your little friends, so that you can feel comfortable that you have assigned me the appropriate level of blame for all that I've done--do you understand?" With that, Snape pushed him away, and stood in the middle of the room with his head lowered, his fists clenched, and a look on his face that was nothing short of murderous. "Now, get out!" he bellowed.

Harry fled.

***

Snape's outburst wasn't even the worst part. The worst part happened when Harry reached the safety of his room and closed the door and leaned against it, panting a little and waiting for the trembling to stop. The worst part was when he realized that, as much as he would have liked to hex Snape into next week for yelling at him like that, for scaring him, and for being such a monumental arse, his own sense of outrage was somehow tempered, diminished by the fact that some small, horrible part of him had... had...

Had *enjoyed* that.

Part of him had enjoyed being that close to Snape.

Intensity, and the unknown. Fear. Part of him had liked it. Harry wondered for a moment if he was going to be sick.

He moved away from the door as soon as his stomach had settled a bit, and went to sit on his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

It wasn't like he *wanted* to be yelled at, or as if he was some kind of pervert who got off on being terrorized--otherwise he probably would have followed Bellatrix Lestrange to the ends of the earth. And besides, he didn't know a whole lot about perversions, but he doubted that they just sprang up on you like that. You probably had to cultivate them for a while.

It wasn't the fear, it was the intensity behind it. Lupin had been right about that much, at least. When Harry shut his eyes he could see Snape close to him, looming over him again and clutching his robes and staring into his eyes--only this time in his rushing, guilty imagination the way it happened was all different, totally different, and Harry opened his eyes again and made himself stop thinking about it because that was really, really disturbing.

So he stopped thinking about it, stopped thinking about all of it and just sat, curled into as small a space as possible while he tried to be calm, tried to find some calm, tried to take some measure of control over himself and find the calm that had to be waiting for him somewhere.

It took much longer than he liked, but eventually he found it, and was able to rest his head on his arms and close his eyes without any disturbing images intervening; just resting in the calm and quiet and dark. There were a lot of things, a lot of thoughts waiting to spring out at him, but for now, at least, he was able to push them all away. He did that for a long time, so long that he was actually starting to feel a bit sleepy--

A soft rap at his door nearly made him jump out of his skin. For a moment he just sat there, feeling his heartbeat accelerate, because really, it wasn't like he didn't know who it was, although why on earth the man would come to his door after what had happened was... was absolutely bloody terrifying, is what it was.

"Come in," Harry said, then realized that he'd only whispered. He tried again. "What?"

The door opened, and Harry nearly sprang up off the bed and ran from the room--Snape didn't look any less furious than the last time Harry had seen him. But before he could decide whether or not to make a run for it, Snape marched right up to him, blocking the easiest route of escape.

"I will say this once," Snape began, his voice rigidly controlled and his gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance, "and only once, and I shan't repeat it, so please do me the courtesy of actually listening, and do not interrupt."

Harry sat, mute and tense and very much awake now, hugging his knees.

"Perhaps you expect me to apologize," Snape said contemptuously, in the same tone he might have used to suggest that Harry expected him to go caroling with the first-year students. "But I will not--for reasons of my own. However..." Snape swallowed visibly and left off, his eyes fixed steadily on the wall above Harry's head.

"As you may or may not have noticed, Potter," Snape continued at last, his voice so low that even in the quiet room Harry had to listen carefully to hear it, "I place great value on my sense of personal dignity. I always have. At school, your father and his friends robbed me of my dignity, as often and as cruelly as they could. Please remember that I have asked you not to interrupt."

Harry hadn't opened his mouth. He didn't really think that he could, at this point. His arms were so tight about his knees that his feet had gone numb.

"It was the hope of regaining and reinforcing my dignity," Snape continued slowly, "coupled with the folly and ignorance of youth, that led me to make certain choices; choices I shall repent as long as I continue to breathe. I refuse to elaborate further upon this point, but I assume that the implication is clear enough for even you to follow."

It was.

"In my foolishness and haste, I mistook pomposity, elitism, and monstrous hubris for true dignity, and I have been paying the price ever since. I will not make such a mistake again!" His voice rose on the last words, and they were said with such fierce conviction that Harry felt the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

There was a pause, and when Snape spoke again he seemed fully collected once more. "I hardly need to point out to you that the situation I currently find myself in is inherently undignified. I speak not only of the utterly ridiculous travesty that would ensue were I to step outside these walls, but also of the ignominy of finding myself trapped in a setting where my only company, aide, and liaison to the outside world is a boy who not only freely admits that he despises me, but has also tried to obliterate my dignity on several occasions, each equally memorable and appalling. All of which, along with your utter lack of respect for my privacy, and your mindless, lemminglike urge to plunge yourself and those around you into the greatest danger you can find, have combined to reduce me to the most profound state of despair I have known in years."

Snape paused for a moment, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he looked at Harry for the first time, his eyes wide and turbulent and so, so dark. "Consequently, I am, as Albus would say, 'In A Snit', and would therefore advise you to bear that in mind for the future. That is all."

Without another word, Snape whirled and marched out, slamming the door behind him.

Some few minutes elapsed before Harry could bring himself to stir, but when he finally did it was really no surprise to him that the sense of calm he'd found earlier had retreated entirely, as if it had taken off for parts of the world where there was less yelling. In the absence of calm his mind wandered through the maze of Snape's words, his thoughts as tangled and complex as the words themselves, although with a good deal more in the way of emotional variety--now furious, now intent, now puzzled, offended, or frightened--and even a part of him that was just plain sorry.

Not pitying. Just sorry.

Snape had said, right up front, that he wouldn't apologize. And no, it wasn't an apology--Harry didn't think he would have believed it if it had been.

But he had a suspicion (a persistent one, one which kept coming back no matter how often he dismissed or discouraged it), that in the world of Snape, it was as close as the man could come to an act of kindness.

***

Dumbledore refilled his teacup, and then floated the pot across his desk to where Harry sat. "More tea?" Harry nodded, unable to speak through his mouthful of toast. Dumbledore didn't seem to notice.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore said, "there's Bill Weasley, and some other Curse Breakers he recommended--his whole team Apparated in last night. I've also called in some of the most experienced Wizards in the business for consultation. So far there have been no major discoveries, but then again we've only just started. Still, I am sorry that I don't have more promising news to report."

Harry finished chewing, and swallowed. "It's all right, Sir. I know you're all trying."

Dumbledore smiled. "We are, and everyone is very hopeful, not to mention eager--this could be a vital professional breakthrough for some of them. It would be rash to make any promises, but if we don't have this little problem wrapped up within the week, I'll be surprised." He winked. "Never underestimate the motivational power of career advancement."

"That's... that's wonderful," Harry said, and it was, but it all seemed so far away from the reality of Snape and what he was going through, as if it were the curse that mattered and not the person who bore it. But maybe that was understandable, since none of them had an actual person to work on--just three bulbs of blood in a suspension compound.

Dumbledore nodded at him, and, as if reading his mind, said, "You know, I hope, that no course of research would even be possible if you hadn't gotten those samples for us. Were you... did that go all right?"

Harry blinked, and behind his closed eyes saw Snape, grim and tense and pale, with a needle in his arm. "Yes. It went fine."

Dumbledore peered at him from over his glasses. "Harry, is everything quite all right? Are you having any... problems with Professor Snape?"

Harry was immediately, exquisitely uncomfortable, and lowered his head to hide his blush, sipping some tea to cover. "No, I'm... we're doing all right, I guess. He's--you know. I mean, he gets snippy, and he makes speeches at me a lot, but he's... we're all right."

Dumbledore looked relieved. "It sounds as if you are beginning to see Professor Snape in a slightly different light."

Harry almost choked. "You could say that, I guess."

A warm smile. "Excellent. I had hoped that would be the case."

Probably not quite like this, Harry thought, but kept his mouth shut.

Dumbledore rubbed his hands together. "Well then; I've got one more bit of business to talk to you about, and then I'll let you get back to your studies." He folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward. "I have one very important question for you--what would you like for your birthday?"

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. His birthday. The day after tomorrow he'd be sixteen, and with everything going on he'd forgotten all about it. "Oh. I--I hadn't thought about it."

Dumbledore frowned slightly. "Not thought about it? Your sixteenth birthday, and you've not thought about it? Well--here's your chance, then. So, what will it be? Anything you need? Want? Any secret, unspoken desires buried in your heart?"

Oh good Lord. "Um... I need socks," Harry said weakly.

"Socks?"

"Yes. Socks." It wasn't true, actually--he really needed new gloves, but as it was Dumbledore asking he thought it might be wisest to choose an article of clothing not quite so... public.

"Socks." Dumbledore nodded and appeared to be mulling that over. "Well, I hadn't thought that you'd yet reached the age where you could truly appreciate a gift of socks, but... all right then--socks it is."

Harry got to his feet and moved towards the fireplace. "Thanks for the tea and toast. And good luck to all of you with the... with the curse."

Dumbledore nodded. "My pleasure, Harry. Good luck to you, as well."

He nodded. As usual, it seemed like he'd need it.

***

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry resolutely ignored all the sounds coming from the first floor where Snape was... doing whatever Snape did when he was set loose around a bunch of potions equipment, and headed for his own room. He settled down at his desk and wrote a long letter to Ron and Hermione, (one letter doing for both as their families were on holiday together at the seashore), but it was harder than he'd expected--there was too much he shouldn't say in an owl-post letter, and even more that he wouldn't say, so he ended up filling the scroll with casual natterings about his Dursley-free summer, and various updates about the Order of the Phoenix members (all save one, of course). Hedwig seemed glad of the errand, and Harry spent some time petting her affectionately before he tied the scroll to her leg and opened the window for her.

He then turned his attention to one of the books Dumbledore had sent with the supplies yesterday, one that was undoubtedly for him: a thick tome on the history of Magical Sports. But he knew all the information on Quidditch already after reading 'Quidditch Through The Ages', and none of the other chapters held much interest for him, except for the one on Flunderboom (an odd game that seemed to combine caber-tossing with tightrope walking and the ability to play a set of exploding bagpipes), but the rules were so complex that he soon got entirely confused, and tossed the book aside with a frustrated sigh.

After that, he cast about for something to do. Surely he had loads to do--he could study for next term, he could write to... other friends, he could script lesson plans for future DA meetings, he could sketch out new schemes to annoy Malfoy, he could clean and tune up his broom, he could...

It occurred to him at that moment that although he'd gone to Dumbledore for news that morning, he'd never shared what he learned with Snape. And somehow, in the moment after that, Harry found himself headed down the stairs.

Oh well. He could always tune up his Firebolt later.

The door to the makeshift potions lab was open, but Harry knocked anyway. Snape glanced up briefly from the cauldron he was stirring, and sniffed. "Mr. Potter."

Harry cleared his throat. "I, um... I spoke with the Headmaster this morning."

Snape, stripping the leaves from a dried sprig of sage, made no reply.

Harry swallowed, and went on. "He said... well, there's no real news as yet, but he has loads of people working on it, lots of good people, he said, and, and he's hopeful that they'll be able to fix it soon. He thinks maybe within the week."

Snape began sorting through the sage leaves, keeping some and discarding others.

When Harry couldn't stand it anymore, he asked, "Don't you care?"

Snape spared him another quick glance. "Pragmatists--or pessimists, for that matter--rarely care about the opinions and judgments of optimists. Castles on sand, and all that."

Harry thought about it. "Which one are you?"

Snape glared, dusting sage from his fingers. "I'm certainly not an optimist," he said curtly.

"No," Harry agreed. He stood there a while longer, then braced himself against the doorjamb. "So... d'you want some help?"

***

"The Mortecardia Principle: that which harms is the key to that which heals," Snape said coolly. "It's quite simple--you had it in third-year."

"Oh, um... right," Harry replied, ducking his head over the shredded asphodel he was measuring. "Actually, I'd forgotten about that."

A snort. "Please bear witness to my complete lack of shock."

Harry shrugged. "We both know potions isn't my strong suit."

"Given your entire lack of application to the subject, that seems rather inevitable."

Harry paused a moment, measuring spoon in one hand and a knife in the other. "Does that mean you think I'd do better if I, um, if I tried to?"

Snape looked up from his scales and frowned. "First of all, barring a descent into Longbottomhood, you could hardly do any worse. And secondly, if in fact your comment is actually a thinly veiled appeal for an accolade to your intellect, I will simply ask you to please refrain from wasting my time."

It was Harry's turn to snort. "Right." He measured twice, poured once. Then: "Dumbledore said my mind is entirely normal, I'll have you know."

"Was this immediately after one of your spectacular tumbles on the Quidditch field?"

Harry couldn't help but grin at that. "No. It was the other day, actually. When he was doing that magic-scanning-assessment thingy."

Harry heard the sound of Snape's knife stop. "Mr. Potter, please restrict yourself to pronouncements containing words you actually comprehend. 'Magic-scanning-assessment thingy'?"

"I don't know what it's called," Harry said defensively. "He just wanted to scan me, test me, to look for... for... anomalies, he said. After I told him that I'd deflected that curse."

Snape's knife had started up again. "Didn't he know you could deflect curses?"

Harry made a short, rude noise. "How could he? *I* didn't know I could do that."

The knife stopped. "What?"

Harry looked up from the wormswort he'd scooped up after he'd finished with the asphodel. Snape's eyes were on him, narrow with suspicion. "Um, I didn't know. I didn't know I could deflect curses."

Snape placed his knife down carefully onto the chopping block; blade in, as he'd always told them to do it. "Do you mean to tell me that nobody taught you?"

Harry shrugged. "No--I mean yes, nobody taught me. Dumbledore said it was pretty advanced--something they teach in Auror training. I don't think they teach it at Hogwarts."

"Of course they don't teach it at Hogwarts," Snape said crossly. "I had simply assumed that you learned that particular skill from one of the many ridiculous fools--and I include myself in that number, mind you--who go out of their way to teach you things that make you even more dangerous to the world in general than you already are."

Harry turned away for a moment, searching the nearby shelves until he found an empty beaker. "No," he said softly. "Apparently that's one dangerous skill I found all on my own."

When he glanced up, Snape had gone back to work, chopping rhythmically. "I'm not surprised that Albus wanted to do an analysis. I'd have been tempted to do so myself, if I'd known that at the time."

Harry's face went hot. "You... um. You can, if... if you want."

Snape didn't say anything at all to that, and so Harry spent the next fifteen minutes in a silent agony of embarrassment. He had seriously begun to consider using his homework as an excuse to escape back to his room, when a question occurred to him that drove everything else from his mind. "Wait. Did you think that I deflected... that I turned that curse on you on purpose? Because I didn't, you know."

Snape looked up, scowling at the shredded bits of wormswort in front of Harry. "You're supposed to mince that, Mr. Potter, not mangle it down to its component molecules."

"Right," Harry said, picking up his knife and going back to work. His heart wasn't exactly in it, but he'd learned a thing or two yesterday about what happened when he asked Snape a question he might not want to answer.

Some ten minutes or so later, when all the chopping and measuring was done, Snape broke the silence when he launched into a lecture about the difference between saturation and permeation as they applied to brewing wormswort--something which Harry apparently was supposed to have learned in second-year Potions.

He hadn't listened then. But he heard it now.

***

They worked through the day, although they did stop for lunch (Snape cooked, and Harry did the washing up), and for supper (Harry cooked, and Snape ridiculed, then did the washing up).

After supper, back in the lab, Snape set him to work scrubbing and cleaning things--neither an easy nor a pleasant task, as the chopping block was now thoroughly slimed with the remains of pickled chitinous slugs, the last ingredient they'd worked with. Harry did it all without complaint, however, and was just re-shelving the last jars and bottles when Snape asked, "What did Albus find, when he did the assessment?"

Snape was carefully arranging his assortment of ladles, not looking up from the rack that he stored them on. Harry sighed. "I don't know--he wouldn't tell me. He didn't get all the way through it."

"No?"

"No. He got down to my, er, around my stomach, and then... I don't know. Something flashed, and then it was over. He said he had to do more research on it before he could tell me anything."

A quiet snort. "I see. Yes, Merlin forbid you actually be burdened with knowledge."

"You don't believe he was right to wait?"

"I don't believe in coddling." Snape said curtly.

That was no surprise. What was a bit of a surprise, however, was how much that appealed to him. At least, it did right now.

He didn't know what else to say, so he just went back to work. When he'd finished everything, he looked up to see Snape standing in the small clear area in the middle of the room, boxed in by the makeshift tables, his wand in hand. "Come here."

Harry went, his heart in his throat, and stopped a few feet away. "Are you going to, um. What should I--"

"You should be silent," Snape said, and the next thing Harry knew he felt a warm, familiar tingle from the top of his head to his chin, and there was blue light and white light but most of all there was Snape, looking back and forth from him to the wash of white light that hung suspended in midair.

"Did Albus explain this process to you?"

"No. He made some noises, but all he told me was that it was normal. So what is--"

"Quiet," Snape said. There was nothing more for a while, until, "Magic-using humans don't store their magical abilities in one specific corporeal location--the magic itself is distributed throughout the body, like bones or skin. But there are some central areas which have been found to be vital to certain features of magical origination. Furthermore, it was discovered that by and large, magic-using humans have common features in these areas--much like most of us have two eyes and one mouth, and so on. This scan was developed to assess those areas, to see if there's anything, present or absent, outside the norm."

That made sense. "Mediwizards use it?"

"Yes. Hold still."

Harry waited until he felt the tingle slide downwards. "So how come you know it, then?"

Pink light, then white light again. Harry saw it reflected, a pinprick in Snape's black eyes. "Potions are commonly considered to be a branch of the medical sciences," Snape said dismissively, as if he didn't think much of the people who thought that. "I have a fairly solid background in medical training--hm."

From the corner of his eye, Harry had seen the serpent. He swallowed. "Parseltongue."

"I know that, idiot boy--now be still."

Harry was still. For a little while. Until the tingle slid downward again, to his heart. "Didn't you want to be a mediwizard?"

He'd asked the question softly, trying not to move, and he thought maybe Snape hadn't heard him, because for the longest time there was no answer at all, just Snape staring at the wash of light, intent. Then: "There's something here--something like roots, branching downwards. I haven't seen it before." He looked for a long while, then moved his wand. The tingle now centred around Harry's solar plexus. "And here--it's a little thicker now."

"Do you... do you think it's dangerous?" Harry asked.

Snape glanced at him, frowning. "It will be, if you don't stop talking."

Another long pause, and then another movement. As before, Harry's stomach started to tickle as soon as the light got close to it. "Um... you might want to... that's about where Dumbledore was when everything went--"

*BOOM!*

That was brighter, much, much brighter--and louder, much, much louder--than last time. Harry reeled, blind and deaf for a few moments, but he put his hands over his eyes and blinked rapidly until his vision returned. When he lowered his hands he was amazed to see the room full of drifting smoke. Snape was nowhere in sight.

"Oh bloody, buggering hell," he said, and could only faintly hear himself over the ringing in his ears. He stumbled forward through the haze, intensely relieved when he spotted a black shoe with a black sock inside off to one side, and intensely horrified when he steered himself in that direction and found Snape stretched out on the floor with his limbs flung wide, apparently unconscious.

Harry sank to his knees. For one horrible moment he thought that Snape had been blinded--but no. His eyes were open, but rolled up to show only the whites. Harry reached out tentatively, a half-formed idea of patting Snape's cheek floating through his mind--that was what you were supposed to do with unconscious people, right? Pat them 'till they woke up? But then Snape's eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolled, and then he was blinking up at Harry, looking Very Much Not Pleased.

"Mr. Potter," he said, his voice little more than a croak, "would you please get me some water, and then explain to me precisely why you thought it would be amusing to try to knock me through a wall?"

Harry floundered for a moment. "Yes, I... I mean no. I mean--that didn't happen last time. Not like that."

Snape glared at him. "Water."

"Right." Harry jumped up and headed for the kitchen, and only when he tried to fill a glass did he realize that his hands were shaking terribly. Whatever it was that had just happened, it had been enough to scare the hell out of him. And probably enough to keep Snape hopping mad for the next month--not that it took much to do that.

When he returned to the lab Snape had risen to his feet, although he still clutched the edge of one of the tables as if for support. Harry put the water down in front of him, not trusting himself to hand it over without accident. His mind was a chattering wreck, full of questions that branched off in every direction, but he thought it really might be better to wait until Snape had recovered a bit more. Still, he was still buzzing with adrenaline, restless and twitchy and how on earth was he supposed to keep himself from acting like the kind of idiot Snape was so certain he was, when he couldn't stop? He swallowed, and realised that his own throat was dry. "I can go make some tea, if you'd like. Would that help?"

Snape coughed weakly, and reached for the water. "Given that you would be out of my immediate vicinity, yes; I think that would help immensely."

"All right," Harry said, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice. "I'll be in the kitchen then."

Harry went on unsteady legs to the kitchen, where he did, indeed, eventually produce tea, but only after several minor incidents and one good scald. He'd finished, however, and was busy turning his burned hand back and forth under the cold tap when Snape entered the room.

"There's tea," he said hurriedly, then turned off the tap, dried his burned hand gingerly and moved towards the teacups. "I'll have some for you in a moment--"

"Don't bother," Snape said curtly. Harry watched him hunt down a short tumbler, filling it half full from a bottle he held in his hand--apparently Snape had visited the pantry before he came in. "The tea is for you."

"Oh." Well, yes; he could use some about now. He poured a mugful and sat down at the table opposite Snape, who was frowning into his glass.

Harry waited, but the silence seemed very long and very tense. Finally, he couldn't wait any more. "You do believe me, about that not happening last time, don't you?"

Snape downed the contents of his glass in one, and refilled it from the bottle. "In this particular situation, what I believe is largely irrelevant." He swirled the glass slowly, gazing down into it. "My suspicions, however, may prove to be of great consequence."

Harry clutched his mug tightly. "Are you quite all right? Usually you make more sense than that."

Snape didn't appear to be needled. "I'll need to compare notes with Albus, but I would be greatly surprised if his conjectures varied widely from my own." He paused for a sip, making a rather terrible face as he set the glass down. "He's correct about the need for further research, but from all appearances so far, my best guess is that you most likely possess what is known as Merlin's Gift."

Harry drew a blank at that, and hoped fervently it wasn't something he was supposed to have learned in first year Potions. "Um, Merlin's Gift? What does that... what does it do?"

Snape met his gaze. "That depends on whom you ask."

Harry shifted in his chair. "Well, what do the other people who have it say it does?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "To the best of my knowledge, there's only ever been one other person who had it, and he's a bit out of reach at this point."

Harry felt a chill. "One person? You don't mean... it's not Volde--"

Snape's glass slammed down on the table. "Potter, you imbecile--one person--Merlin! Merlin's gift!"

"Oh. Right," Harry said in a small voice, and sipped his tea. His stomach really felt quite unsettled.

"Undoubtedly, Albus has already gotten a start on the research. This would be... well, Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one, for him." Snape sounded like he personally didn't think much of Christmas and birthdays--which, come to think of it, he probably didn't.

"Yeah," Harry said gloomily. "He seemed pretty excited. But he wouldn't tell me anything."

"At this point, there's certainly not a lot to tell." Snape paused to sip. "There has been a tremendous amount of speculation and theoretical conjecture about Merlin over the years, but not much in the way of actual documentation has survived, and of that which has, much of it is suspect. The only real authority on it was Merlin himself, and he was remarkably closemouthed about all of it."

"I don't blame him," Harry mumbled. He thought about it, pushing aside the dread he felt at the discovery of yet another thing that made him different from everyone else, and tried to think about it rationally. "But, why now? I mean, if I have this... gift thing, why didn't anyone notice it before?"

Snape drained his glass, and looked at Harry speculatively. "I presume it's the onset of puberty. Merlin's powers are said to have manifested around that time in his life."

Harry ducked his head, covering his sudden blush. He lifted his mug, but it was empty, so he fumbled for the teapot and poured himself more. Through his lowered lashes, he could see Snape doing the same.

"You don't seem precisely thrilled by this prospect, Mr. Potter."

"Well, the puberty part is pretty exciting," Harry said, and then bit his tongue, unable to believe he'd actually said that. "But really--Merlin's gift? I mean, if I've really got it, it's just another thing that will... you know. Make me different. Make people think I'm, er. Not a real person. Not normal."

Snape's dark eyes glinted, challenging him. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that you are that uncomfortable with your legendary status?" He asked dryly.

"I don't care what you believe," Harry snapped. He set his mug down and buried his face in his hands. "I'm not bloody Lockheart, you know."

Harry heard a snort, and the sound of liquid being poured. "No. But Lockheart... was weak. You are not."

"Well, I don't feel especially strong," Harry said. Which was true.

"May I remind you that you just knocked me unconscious without lifting a finger?" It really did sound like Snape might be a while getting over that.

"But I didn't mean to!" Harry cried, dropping his hands, a choked feeling of panic rising in his throat. "What good does it do me to have power, if I don't know how to use it? If I'm just going to... to deflect curses and knock people unconscious without ever meaning to?"

"Mr. Potter, please control yourself," Snape said harshly. To Harry's surprise, his panic receded a bit, and he was able to breathe. "You yourself have just described not only the problem, but the solution: you have power, but you don't know how to use it. Therefore, you need to learn how to use it, how to control it." He sighed, and paused to sip his drink. "I'm sure you would be delighted to be able to knock me unconscious deliberately."

Harry was surprised to feel his mouth twisting up a bit in a faint grin. "Maybe. Sometimes."

Snape looked at him again, and Harry's grin abruptly faded away. Suddenly, inexplicably, things were somehow *different*--it was like what had happened upstairs after he'd taken Snape's blood--just the two of them, staring, face-to-face, silent. Profoundly odd, and not a little disturbing--Harry felt almost as if he'd be able to read Snape's mind if he tried hard enough--or that Snape might just be able to read his. He shifted in his chair, feeling suddenly, shockingly naked for a moment, and the first stirrings of a whole new kind of panic gripped him--

But then Snape blinked and looked away, and it was over, the strangeness gone as if it had never been there. Harry shivered, and took a deep but silent breath.

Snape sipped from his glass again, and then swirled it in slow circles, gazing into it as if he'd find answers there. "I'm sure that Albus will be more than happy to arrange for your instruction in this area. And may I say that whoever gets the dubious honour of superintending your training has my deepest and most heartfelt sympathies."

Harry pondered that. "Won't he teach me himself?"

Snape shook his head. "Albus is quite often ridiculous, but never stupid. He knows himself well, including his tendencies towards softheartedness. He knows enough of human nature to realize that compassion and the temperament required for effective instruction are not well-matched. He'd drill you for five minutes, and then as soon as you got frustrated and began whining he'd leave off in favour of force-feeding you peppermint jumbles and telling you daft stories with no point to them."

It was just one of those things--it caught him in the right way, at the right moment. Harry dissolved into laughter, and couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard, or when it had been such a profound relief. He laughed until he ached, and every time he started getting himself under control all he had to do was peek at Snape (who was glaring at him with intense disapproval) and off he'd go again.

He finally finished, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and still suffering from the occasional, uncontrollable snicker. "Thank you," he said, without knowing that he meant to. "I feel... much better."

Snape glowered. "I'm overjoyed to hear it. I myself fully expect to limp for a week." He drained his glass. "Go to bed, Potter."

Harry nodded, and got to his feet. He put his mug in the sink, and headed for the stairs. But before he left the kitchen he stopped, his stomach folding in on itself. He had something to say, although he really didn't want to. "Professor Snape?"

Snape didn't look at him. "What?" he snapped.

"You're... you're a really good teacher," he mumbled, and got out as fast as he could.

***

Going to bed wasn't a problem--he'd had a rather long day, after all. Going to sleep, however, seemed to be another matter entirely. He lay for a long time staring up into the darkness, feeling restless and edgy, and with his mind going way too fast, way too full of everything. When he found himself going in circles, running over and over the same ground with the same gaps and unknowns, he told himself quite severely to leave off, that it was no good wondering about things he couldn't know the answers to, and that he was going to do exactly what he had intended to do in the first place--settle down and go to sleep.

Harry snuggled deeper into the mattress and pulled the duvet up to his chin. He plumped his pillow defiantly, nestled his head into its cool, supportive curve, took a deep, slow breath and let it out again, and resolutely closed his eyes.

*I presume it's the onset of puberty* Snape said, staring at him.

Harry's eyes flew open.

For the next few minutes, he very deliberately thought of nothing. Nothing at all. He thought of nothing until it occurred to him that he wasn't really thinking of nothing, but rather thinking of things he couldn't really stand thinking about with the part of his mind that wasn't being distracted by nothing. And once he noticed that, all the nothing dissolved as if it had never been, and he was too hot and too cold by turns, with something low in his stomach feeling twitchy and restless in a whole different way, and he was... he was... he wanted...

It occurred to him then that there was something he could do about this particular restlessness, if he wanted to. And yes, he did want to, but he wasn't at all sure that he wouldn't go to hell for doing it. Oh, not for touching himself, no, but for, for doing that because of... while thinking about...

The thought that there might be a special circle of hell reserved for people who beat off to thoughts of Snape would have been riotously funny, if he hadn't been so personally involved.

"Okay, so I'm going to hell," Harry said to the darkness, and hid his face in the covers while he untied his pyjama bottoms.

***

The next morning he slept late, and by the time he'd gotten himself up and washed and dressed and downstairs for breakfast, Snape was already locked away in the potions lab with the door closed. It was actually quite a relief--if he had considered his thoughts about the man before last night to be disconcerting and uncomfortable, that was nothing to how he felt now, now that he knew the kinds of things his mind could come up with when given free rein. It had been quite a shock. Of course, sooner or later he'd have to face Snape, yes; but not... not quite yet.

He was munching his way through a stack of toast in the kitchen when he heard a soft 'pop', and suddenly there was an envelope on the table in front of him, propped up on the marmalade jar, with his name flowing across the front in Dumbledore's hand. Harry wiped the butter off his fingers as well as he could, and opened it.

_Albus Dumbledore, Wizard-in-Ordinary

To Harry Potter, Wizard-In-Training

Requesting the Honour of his Company at a Celebration to Commemorate his Sixteenth Natal Anniversary

To be Held in the Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

On the Twenty-Second of July, 2___

Commencement Tea at 4:00 p.m. Supper to follow

Formal Dress

Please Reply to Missive_

"Reply to missive?" he murmured, wondering. Then he shrugged and, feeling rather foolish, leaned close to the letter and said in a clear voice, "I'd love to, thanks."

Sure enough, his words appeared on the blank space below Dumbledore's writing, then sank in and disappeared. Harry smiled. Really, it wasn't like he didn't have rather a lot on his mind right now, but... a birthday party, tomorrow, for him. He'd never had one before. He hoped it would be fun.

He was re-reading the invitation when he heard footsteps in the hallway, and immediately something in his stomach dipped and fluttered. He sat up straight, tucked the invitation into his pocket, and promised himself he wouldn't blush. After all, despite everything that had changed in him, it had changed only inside his own head. Snape would never, ever know about it. Not if he could help it. As long as he could keep himself from acting like a prat.

"Mr. Potter," Snape drawled from the doorway, looking as if he'd spent the last hour in the potions lab sucking lemons. Not what one would normally find appealing, but there was just something about him... Harry cut that line of thought off, quick.

"What?"

"I have written a letter to Albus, outlining my conclusions regarding your... situation, and requesting his instructions. Since direct communication between Albus and myself is now impossible, I need you to deliver it for me. And with some dispatch, if you please--not the indolent, loitering pace at which you normally work." He entered the room and offered a sealed envelope.

Harry reached out for it, relieved to see that his hand was steady. "All right."

Snape turned to leave, and Harry relaxed just a bit. That proved to be premature, however; when he was almost at the door Snape whirled around and fixed him with a glare, and Harry's breath stopped in his throat.

"One other thing," Snape said crossly. "Tomorrow morning we will recommence your Occlumency lessons--an engagement which, I assure you, I look forward to with as much eagerness as my next visit to the dental wizard. But I've given my word, and so have you, and I believe enough time has been lost already through the various catastrophic occurrences which seem to be an inevitable part of your environment. Therefore, I shall expect you in my room tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp, with as many of your wits about you as you can pretend to muster."

"All right," Harry repeated quietly. He was going to leave it at that (it seemed the fewer words said the better--at least for now), but then something occurred to him, and he touched the invitation tucked into his pocket. "I'm supposed to be at Hogwarts at four o'clock tomorrow," he said, and to his relief he heard no signs of nervousness in his voice. "For my... it's my birthday. I'm sixteen tomorrow."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Indeed? Well, please accept my congratulations on exceeding my estimates of your life expectancy. Then again, I don't doubt your ability to do at least a dozen irresponsibly dangerous things before then, so perhaps I shall delay my felicitations until they are actually called for."

Harry shrugged. "Oh, I think I'll make it. If only to annoy you."

Snape frowned. "Ten o'clock on the dot, Potter. Tomorrow." He swept out of the room.

Harry heard footsteps trailing away, and then the door to the potions lab slammed closed. He let out his breath in a swooping rush, clutching the edge of the table. He was going to have to do something about this... this vulnerability; it had never been easy for him to keep his feelings secret. Which was why, he supposed, he had to study Occlumency in the first place--

A thought occurred to him then, so dreadful and powerful that his knees felt as if they'd been turned to jelly, and if he'd been standing he might very well have taken a tumble. Occlumency lessons. With Snape. Where Snape got to poke around inside his head, got to see what he'd done, what he'd thought, what he felt...

Harry buried his head in his hands and made fists in his hair, tugging until it hurt. If he'd thought about this, if he'd even taken one second to remember that this was going to happen sooner or later, he never would have given in last night, never would have let himself do... anything. He never would have done it. Period. But he hadn't, and then he had, and now he was going to have to do something about it. Fix it. Somehow.

Harry let go of his hair and lifted his head, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was half-past ten now.

And he had a little less than twenty-four hours to get a whole lot better at Occlumency.

***

He was so focused on avoiding Snape that it didn't occur to him until much later that Snape appeared to be avoiding him as well--the man spent the whole day locked in the lab, and if he snuck out for meals Harry never saw him do it. He wondered about that for a moment, and finally put it down to what had happened last night during the scan--Snape was probably wary of being accidentally smashed into a wall again. Harry really couldn't blame him.

He himself had spent the day shuttling between reading in his room and plundering the piles of books downstairs that Dumbledore had sent--many of which, he was immensely relieved to find, were about Occlumency. Harry examined the book he currently held, its thin pages now more than a bit smeary from contact with his damp palms.

It was really much more straightforward than he'd thought it would be. It all came down to two things: focus, and will. The will part didn't worry him--his will to keep Snape out of certain parts of his mind would have probably skinned Voldemort alive, if it had been bent in that direction.

Which left him with focus, and a whole host of problems. Defined in the book as 'concentration and clarity of mind', it was about as far away as it was possible to be from a definition of his normal state when face-to-face with Snape--not in the past, and certainly, absolutely not now.

After a half-hour or so of flipping through various books, pummeling his brain for answers and absently chewing on his knuckle until it started bleeding again, a glimmer of an idea came to him. He sat suddenly upright in his chair, barely noticing when the heavy book in his lap slid off onto the floor with a loud thump. He contemplated one plan after another, trying to see each from all angles... but there was too much that was uncertain, too much he didn't know.

Half-worried and half-hopeful, Harry got to his feet and headed downstairs for more books.

Continue to part 4

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