***

Harry studied late into the night, but where usually that would have made him rather sleepy and stupid, he was surprised to find himself more jittery, more on edge as time passed. He didn't mind--it made him read faster.

Finally, long after he'd heard Snape's measured footsteps passing by on the way to his own room, Harry closed the last book and crept quietly out into the hallway, down the stairs, and then to the makeshift potions lab. His pulse pounded in his throat as he tried the door, and when it opened for him he breathed a sigh of relief--he hadn't been at all sure that Snape wouldn't lock it. He entered, closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, and had a look around. The room was cool and quiet, and whatever Snape had been up to in here all day, he'd left no visible traces behind.

The first hurdle over, Harry thought he might relax a bit, but instead a fine thrill of tension played along his nerves--although it was impossible to tell whether it was due to the challenges still ahead, or perhaps the subtly illicit thrill of being in a room which Snape undoubtedly wouldn't want him poking around in. It suddenly occurred to him that Snape probably wasn't far wrong when he accused Harry of having no respect for his privacy, and he winced. But even so... he had to do this.

He'd been unable to discover one single potion that would do what he needed it to--at least, no single potion that he could reasonably hope to brew by himself. But he'd found two of the simpler potions (Alcedonia, for tranquility, and Incumbus, for concentration), which, taken together, might create the sort of effect he was looking for. And he thought he'd been fairly careful, extending his research to determine whether they might interact badly with each other, or cancel each other out, or any other sort of problem that might ruin everything. Harry pulled his crumpled, hastily scrawled notes from his pocket and went over them carefully one last time, glad that he'd helped to arrange the potions room originally--at least he'd have some idea of where to find everything.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as he could, Harry went to work. He started on the Alcedonia serum first, since it required the longest brewing time. There was one bad moment where he almost added the ingredients in the wrong order (something the potions text warned against, unless one was in desperate need of a particularly powerful laxative), but he caught himself at the last minute and set it right.

When the lavender-coloured liquid started to simmer, Harry poked his wand at the fire beneath the cauldron to lower it, turned over the medium-sized timer, and began stealthily ransacking the shelves for all the ingredients needed for an Incumbus elixir. He had a difficult time locating some vivarium root (which was frustrating, since he *knew* he'd seen some when he was unpacking), but he finally found it tucked behind a jar of henbane, and was ready to proceed.

He worked carefully, with scrupulous attention to detail, and really it was too bad that Snape would never know about any of this (at least, he'd better not;) would never know that Harry could actually make a decent potion when he had a mind to. Or, rather, when he was properly motivated. For a brief moment he pictured himself explaining to Snape precisely what it took to motivate him to do good work in potions, and an amused and more than slightly appalled smile appeared on his face. Not bloody likely.

When both potions sat over low flames, simmering gently, Harry re-checked the timers, cleaned all the equipment he wouldn't be using again, and returned all the ingredients to where he'd found them. That was soon done, and then there was nothing to do but wait (and *not* fall asleep), so he settled down into the one comfortable chair in the room, sitting up straight and watching the timers, tapping his wand anxiously against his leg until he realized what he was doing and forced himself to stop.

He was... restless again, that was the problem. Throughout the day as he'd read and planned and schemed, he'd suffered occasionally from these odd moments of tension, times when the words blurred before his eyes and his mind lost its focus, and he'd wondered then if he wouldn't work better if he just took a few minutes and... relaxed. One part of him in particular certainly seemed to think so, and it was really quite amazing and a little annoying, the speed with which he'd shifted from never giving much thought to that part of him, to having it start demanding his attention all the time. He hoped it was properly ashamed of itself, although he doubted it.

Despite his moments of distraction today, he hadn't given in. He'd stuck to his books with stoic determination, and the stakes involved had been enough to keep him at it. But now that part was done and he was right in the middle of the part that involved waiting and being patient, and he knew quite well that he was terrible at both of those things, especially when he was twitchy and restless and sitting in Snape's chair, surrounded by Snape's things, imagining him here in this room, studious and intent, stirring, measuring, chopping, sniffing, tasting...

"All right, you single-minded prat," he whispered to his lap. "If I give you what you want, will you please leave me alone for five minutes?"

There were no promises forthcoming, which didn't really surprise him. That part of his anatomy was proving to be a stubborn, moody bastard--a bit like Snape himself, actually, although he doubted that Snape would appreciate the comparison. "You're going to ruin my life," he chided it, and he meant it, really he did, but then he went right ahead and set a bad behavioral example by getting comfortable in the chair and proceeding to spoil it rotten.

***

"The prism serves primarily as a means of focus," Snape said. "It can, in effect, 'boost' magic--weak to strong, and strong to... most formidable. What in Merlin's name Albus was thinking in giving *you* such a dangerous item, I cannot imagine."

"How does it work?" Harry asked as he turned the prism back and forth in his palm, admiring the way it caught the light. He looked up at Snape--which was easy, now; he'd had a terrible attack of nerves this morning until he took his pair of potions, but now he was fine. Just fine. Amazingly calm.

"You attune the prism to your particular pattern of magic by performing any spell while touching it, and the prism itself will do the rest. After that, you simply hold it in your hand. Physical contact is necessary." Snape turned and walked to the other side of his room, standing near the wall with his arms crossed. "I myself shall remain over here while you make the initial experiment. I like my limbs exactly as they are."

It occurred to Harry that he and Snape both liked Snape's limbs, but the thought didn't bother him now; it seemed faintly amusing, but nothing more than that. He shrugged it off and drew his wand. "Lumos," he said.

As his wand lit, the prism in his other hand started to glow, a pulsing, red-pinkish glow that seemed to match his heartbeat. Harry felt something indefinable settle over him like a mantle, quiet and close and somehow intensely private, enveloping him and holding him and making him keenly, acutely aware of the space he occupied, the strength he held in his body and mind, and the solidity of the floor beneath his feet. He felt... unassailable.

"Interesting," Harry said calmly. "I think I like it."

"Of course you do," Snape replied dryly as he moved away from the wall, coming closer until they were standing about a metre apart. "It gives you additional strength without you having to bother with such tedious notions as striving for it or learning to be responsible with it."

Harry looked at him. "You don't approve, I take it?"

"Laziness is an appalling quality," Snape drawled.

Harry shook his head. "I'm not lazy."

A spark glinted in Snape's eyes. "No? Then I can only assume that you're afraid."

Harry thought about it. "Often I am, yes. But not right now."

Snape scowled. "Mr. Potter, if you're quite ready to begin--goodness knows we wouldn't want this charming exercise to interfere with your vital rendezvous with all those who are anxious to assure you that you are, in fact, a jolly good fellow."

Harry heard himself laugh, but it was distant, as if he was hearing someone in another room. "I'm ready. Go ahead."

"Very well." Snape drew his wand, studied Harry carefully for a moment, and then cried, "Legilimens!"

Nothing happened. Well, nothing except that Harry noticed that Snape really did use a nice flourish in his wand-work.

Snape came one small step closer, cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders. "*Legilimens*!"

Nothing.

Snape drew away for a moment, frowning at his wand. He inspected it closely, muttered a few random spells while his wand produced smoke, silk, and finally a large coral snake which slithered halfway across the floor before Snape made it vanish with a pop. He whirled towards Harry suddenly, and Harry never even saw it coming--"LEGILIMENS!"

Harry didn't even blink.

"Indeed," Snape said coldly, lowering his wand. "Mr. Potter, put the prism down."

Harry shrugged. "But why? It seems to be working--"

"Oh yes, it's working quite well," Snape interrupted, almost seething. "The prism was intended to provide initial support in your efforts to resist legilimency, and I think you've proven without doubt that you have no need of that. Now, it simply serves you as a very effective crutch. And unless you want to make yourself an unspeakably gaudy piece of jewelry out of the thing, or perhaps assume that Voldemort would wait patiently for you to find it before attempting to ravage your mind, I think it would be best to do without it."

Something fluttered nervously in Harry's stomach. "But--"

"Potter, I have agreed--and this is absolutely no compliment to my judgment, I assure you--to teach you to defend yourself effectively, and that is what I intend to do. Now put. That. Thing. Down!"

Harry put the prism down. He felt the loss of it immediately--the room seemed too cold, sounds too loud--but he was still essentially calm, still focused. He hoped.

"Now then," Snape said, "prepare yourself. Legilimens!"

It was a bit like standing in the ocean when a wave went by--it rocked him, but his feet stayed firmly planted. At least, they had so far--Snape had put his wand down, and was eyeing Harry suspiciously while he rolled up his sleeves. Harry cleared his throat. "I've been reading up on this," he explained. "To be... to be prepared, you know."

A quiet snort. "My shock is superseded only by my utter lack of interest." He picked up his wand again and addressed Harry, his dark eyes grim and determined. "*Legilimens*!"

Harry very clearly felt Snape pushing at his mind, but he held on. And held on. And held on. He expected Snape to stop and regroup, but he didn't--the force battering against his mind just pushed harder, picking at his defenses. It was some part finesse and some part raw power, and under his feet he could feel things starting to shift, to slide away from him, tilting away until he was frantically dancing to keep himself steady, so difficult to do when sneaky, insistent little tendrils kept trying to get past him. He battled one back only to find two others coming from different directions, and all the while the blunt, hammering force of Snape's will pressed him harder, pinned him down, made him feel shaky and weak, and like he was going to slip irrevocably any moment now--

In a clear moment of choice, Harry called on his strength. *All* of his strength. He drew a deep breath in and in and in, energy swirling and whizzing around him, and *pushed*...

And just like that, he felt Snape give, felt that iron will burst apart in an array of sparkling shards, Snape pulling back and back and back and that was good--only Harry was now caught in the slipstream and got yanked forwards, sucked in and under and down and inside, and then what had happened before was happening again, and he was locked into Snape's mind...

His mother's suffering. His father's monstrosity. His own love for the gentle woman that was his mother, bright and brilliantly painful in his breaking, blighted heart, watching her choose death by inches. The agony of never ever being enough for her, with his pure love and haunted eyes--she loved him, yes, but she always chose the monster in the end.

Then school, and a long-hoped-for escape turned sour in what seemed to be a matter of weeks, and it wasn't long after that when he discovered a whole new universe of pain there--helpless, hated; betrayed over and over again while he was slowly crushed by the weight of secrets he cursed himself for having--and such ugliness. Unspeakable human ugliness.

Through Snape's eyes Harry experienced his own father's cruelty, his casual, vapid malice; something born of boredom and a sense of privilege that seemed to be the worst sort of evil. Faced with that, something in Snape surrendered finally, accepting not what they told him he was, but what his own heart told him: that he was not, and would never ever be, Of Their Kind. And for that particular transgression the punishments were... endless. Deprived even of the quiet hell of being left alone to hate himself in peace, he felt Snape's thirst for justice. For sanctuary. For freedom. For revenge.

Then a sudden, desperate chance; one slender, terrifying offer--an offer of power, of retribution, yes, but even more than those, an offer of something which seemed almost like kinship, the promise of no longer being the only foul thing polluting the world. Snape was pierced, his loathsomeness embraced, exalted in his wretchedness, defiled and thereby redeemed. Snape looked up into red, slitted eyes, his arm offered forth and such passion in him, his heart beating with furious, killing joy, with surrender and devotion, a sanctified terror and so much love love love *love* *love* LOVE LOVE--

Harry writhed, recoiling from Snape's mind. From somewhere far away he heard someone screaming, and as everything went black he wondered vaguely whether it might be him.

***

His first awareness was a memory of pain, terrible pain, something that grew and bloomed and lived in him, inwardly and outwardly. Harry opened his eyes and felt sick; sick to his stomach and sick at heart, alone in Snape's empty room. For the first few moments he only struggled to breathe, his new, unwanted knowledge lying heavy on his chest, as if it would crush the life out of him.

When he managed to sit up, he felt a cold trickle run down each cheek, and his unsteady hand rose automatically to wipe the bitter wetness from his eyes. Monstrous. The things he'd seen were monstrous; the cumulative effect of all of it curdled in his stomach and ached in his bones, and for a moment Harry wished he'd never heard of magic at all, if this was the kind of thing it led to. But that was a vain, useless wish and he knew it--this world was his world, and he would either have to find a way to live with it, or turn away from it forever, and even now he didn't want to do that.

Harry already knew that Snape had, in his youth, joined Voldemort, had sworn allegiance to him. The only part that was new was the knowledge that Snape had done it out of a sick, distorted kind of love, and that was the part that frightened Harry the most, although at first he didn't know why. But then, as he got shakily to his feet, dread heavy in his gut and his muscles thrumming with remembered pain, all the thoughts and questions buzzing in his brain sorted themselves out and became suddenly clear, although he wasn't sure that his new comprehension was really any help to him.

It took so little, really, to destroy a person. All it took was a bad home life, and the kind of cruelty that was easily passed off as 'schoolboy pranks', to reduce someone like Snape to a state where he would devote himself to a monster. Harry had wondered from time to time why people would choose to follow Voldemort, and the simplest conclusion had been the bigoted nonsense about Mudbloods--but he'd seen none of that in Snape. Only a desire for belonging, and an assumption that, since the Light didn't want him, the Dark must be all he was fit for.

It was almost... understandable. Under similar circumstances, Harry might well have made the same choice himself--and that was the worst horror of all.

Harry blinked, and in that one moment of blackness a whole scene played out--he saw himself sorted into Slytherin, saw himself afraid and alone. With hellish clarity he saw Ron and Hermione staring at him with loathing and suspicion, saw his own aching loneliness and desperation for an outstretched hand--any hand--even, maybe, one that belonged to Malfoy. It could have happened.

The low throb in his belly wasn't pity, but an understanding so huge and terrifying that he really didn't know how to accept it. Or what to do about it. Or how to face Snape, now that he had it.

As if his thought had summoned the man, Harry looked up to find Snape standing in the doorway, his face so taut and white it might have been made of marble. Harry's stomach gave a sudden, unexpected lurch.

Snape's eyes met his own, and Harry saw a flat hatred there that chilled him. "Mr. Potter, I see that you have attained a vertical state. If you can stand, you can walk. I suggest you do so at once. Get out."

Harry swallowed. "That wasn't... I didn't want that to happen, you know."

Snape's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "What you wanted or didn't want is of no interest to me whatsoever. Now get out."

Harry stood his ground. "I can't make you believe me if you don't want to, but I swear--I swear I didn't want that." A new thought occurred to him, and he lowered his eyes to the floor, feeling his face grow hot. "I didn't want it... but you're right. It was my fault."

Nothing. Harry heard nothing. Snape was probably too angry to talk. Something low in Harry's stomach fluttered madly for a moment as he saw a choice in front of him as clearly as two paths in a wood, with unknown dangers lurking down either one. He closed his eyes, and chose. "I used potions. That's why you had to push so hard to... to try to get at me."

When he opened his eyes, he saw for the first time that Snape looked a bit less like an angry statue. Now he looked like a slightly suspicious and angry statue. "You did what?"

"I used potions," Harry repeated softly. "Alcedonia and... and Incumbus." He forced himself not to look away. "I snuck into the potions lab last night, and made them. To help me. I cheated."

Snape blinked. A faint spot of red bloomed on each of his pale cheeks. "You... cheated?"

"Yes."

Snape stared at him as if he'd just admitted to having three heads. Then, abruptly, his rigid posture vanished, and he leaned against the doorway while he rubbed his brow with one hand, as if he'd developed a sudden headache. "I see. You cheated. Well, perhaps you can tell me exactly--and past experience suggests that I may very well regret asking this, but I think I must--exactly why would you waste my time in such a spectacular fashion?"

Harry looked at the floor, his stomach in knots that seemed to grow tighter with each breath he took. "I wanted... that is, I didn't want you to know... certain things. About me." He hoped that might be enough, but when he glanced up he saw that Snape still looked suspicious. He took a deep breath, and plunged. "I didn't want you to know how I... what I think. About you."

Snape scowled. "Potter," he snapped, "that is, without doubt, the most ridiculous, daft, utterly *pathetic* excuse I have ever heard--as if I would be somehow *surprised* to learn what you think of me? I already know perfectly well what you think of me, you arrogant whelp--you think of me precisely the same way I think of--" he stopped, as suddenly as if someone had cut his vocal cords.

Harry looked up to meet Snape's wide, horrified eyes, and it seemed as if the floor suddenly fell out from under him. It was another moment of strange, spontaneous connection like the ones they'd had before, only this time it was so strong that all the hair on his arms and legs stood on end, and he felt more naked than naked to see a mirrored fear--a mirrored secret--reflecting back at him. Snape knew about him, now. Snape *knew*. And in Snape's first split-second, helpless response to that knowledge, Harry had gained new knowledge of his own, almost as certain of it as if Snape had said it aloud. Blood rushed dizzyingly through him, through his head, and he wondered for a moment if he might simply faint away entirely...

But he didn't. He looked at Snape and knew new things, and saw himself known, and for such a silent moment it had set up an unbearable roar in his head because... because...

"Mr. Potter," Snape said quietly over the roar that only Harry could hear, "leave this room. At once."

Harry fled.

***

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to sit next to Hagrid at supper. In the dense, impenetrable fog of shock that had overtaken him since he left Snape's room, the only thought that had really managed to get through was that he would have to be careful, if he didn't want all sorts of people asking questions that he *really* didn't want to answer. It was his birthday, after all--people would be watching him, and it wouldn't do to be wandering about in a stunned daze. Everyone would expect him to be... normal. Happy. Cheerful--and Hagrid was the most cheerful person he knew. Also, Hagrid had seemed *so* glad to see him, and had been *so* excited about Harry's sixteenth birthday...

But it seemed that Hagrid had a lot of ideas about what it meant to turn sixteen, and almost all of them involved toasting Harry's health. With wine. Wine which he also expected Harry to drink. And since Harry had never had wine before, and since nobody told him not to, he went along. Hagrid's frequent toasts were funny at first, a welcome distraction from his interior haze. After a while, though, they became a little annoying, but Harry kept up for the sake of appearances. Then the toasts became downright befuddling, and he wondered what language Hagrid was speaking in, but shortly after that they somehow seemed riotously funny again, whether he understood them or not. Then everything got a little... vague.

He remembered Hagrid trying to teach him a song, and subsequently singing along with Hagrid and Dumbledore (something about a bowlegged witch and her favourite broom), until Professor McGonagall threatened to turn them all into pigs and ordered them rather sharply to leave off. But, he remembered, McGonagall herself had later told several limericks, most of which he didn't understand, but they made Tonks laugh so hard she slid under the table and didn't come up for some time.

He remembered having a surprising amount of trouble finding the loo, until Lupin took him by the shoulder and steered him right. He remembered getting presents, and finding out shortly afterwards that Chocolate Frogs and wine really didn't go well together, until you got used to it. He remembered... lots of things, although not exactly how one thing connected to any other thing. There were lots of bits and pieces of conversations, some of which he thought he'd actually had, although he hoped that he hadn't really had the one where he told Dobby that he loved him.

So overall, at the end of the night, after he thanked everybody and told them quite truthfully that he had indeed had a *very* good time, he was glad (after what had to be the absolute worst Floo trip of his life), to make his meandering, tottering way up the stairs and flop onto his bed. He really would have loved to get under the covers, only that would involve moving--and certainly the room was doing enough of that already. He then got very stern with himself, telling himself that he really should at least take his shoes off before he passed out--

He didn't make it.

***

When Harry opened his eyes, his first thought was that somehow Voldemort must have managed to kidnap him--there was no way, if he was among friends, that they'd ever let him suffer this kind of pain. They would have been merciful, and put him out of his misery at once.

"I hate wine," he croaked, wincing at the sound of his own voice, which was perfectly audible and therefore terribly painful.

A low growl to his left. "Pity, given the way the two of you seem to get on."

Harry turned his head one slow, painful bit at a time. Snape sat in a chair next his bedside, looking as dour and irritable as ever. At the sight of him something in Harry's stomach trembled--and this was really not a good time for that. He looked away at once. "What are you doing here?"

"One of my many acts of compassion for which I will doubtless go unthanked," Snape said dryly, and held out a glass of something fizzy and lime-green. "It's a bit nasty, so it's best just to get it down straight."

"What is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Don't worry, it's not an antidote for idiocy. You won't disappear if you drink it."

"Ha very ha," Harry said weakly.

"It's a standard remedy for hangover, you twit. Do you want it or not?" Snape's voice had risen a bit, and Harry winced--if Snape started yelling at him now, he thought his whole head might simply tumble off, or possibly explode.

Harry took the glass with a hand which was not entirely steady. He took a deep breath, held his nose with his free hand, and--eurgh. Awful, cold, slimy, thick, and bitter as a really really vile Bertie Bott's bean--Harry made it about halfway through the dose before his throat locked up and his gorge rose, threatening to--

"Do *not* do that," Snape warned. "I'm not brewing you another one."

Harry and his stomach engaged in pitched battle for a few moments, but then with great determination he forced the rest of the stuff down his throat. As soon as the glass was empty Harry felt it plucked away from his nerveless fingers, and sank back onto his bed, clutching his temples and groaning. "It didn't work, it didn't help at all--I think I'm going to... Oh."

His entire body shuddered, which was unbearable, intolerable, excruciating--and then not. It was as if someone had stuck a straw in him and sucked all the sickness right out, then plumped up all the cells in his body and brain with some kind of life-sustaining substance, enhanced all his senses for good measure, and then buggered off. Just like that he felt *fantastic*--no, actually, he felt normal. But compared to how he'd felt sixty seconds ago, normal felt pretty much fantastic.

"Bloody hell," he said, and when he opened his eyes wide it didn't hurt at all. He sat up and looked at Snape. "I take back at least half of all the horrible things I've ever said about you."

Snape frowned. "No need to get sentimental, Potter."

Harry bit his lip, thinking. "Um... how did you know, anyway? That I'd need... one of those?"

"Your return last night was not exactly stealthy," Snape replied. "From the sound of it, it took you fully fifteen minutes to climb the stairs, during which you bellowed snatches of some inane song--something about bowlegged Bertha, witch of the wilds, I believe--it was quite horrible. The rest was sheer inference on my part."

"Oh." Yes. He remembered that now. His cheeks grew warm. "Well, you know, sixteenth birthday and all that."

Snape's eyes turned narrow and flinty. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, I am entirely sensible of your age."

Before Harry could reply, Snape rose from his chair, glass in hand. "Now that you've been rescued from the just rewards of your own folly, I have work to do." And with that, he swept in a billow of robes out the door, closing it behind him.

Harry sighed, and sank back into his pillows. Apparently Snape had decided to pretend that neither of them knew... anything; that yesterday's confrontation had been nothing out of the ordinary. And since nothing had actually been said, nothing spoken out loud, Harry could see how that was possible.

He just didn't know whether or not he wanted to let Snape get away with it.

***

He hadn't really made up his mind about that point either way when, washed and dressed and with some toast inside him (amazing to think that only half an hour ago he'd thought he'd never want to eat again), he knocked on the open door of the potions lab. "What are you doing?"

Snape glanced up briefly from what appeared to be a delicate operation involving tweezers and some long, slender fronds Harry didn't recognize. "Working."

"Oh." Harry waited a bit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "On a potion?"

Snape didn't look up again. "No, on a groundbreaking new recipe for spotted dick. Of course on a potion, idiot."

Harry watched him for a moment, then said, "I haven't seen those fronds before."

Snape's head snapped up, and he tossed the tweezers on the table. "For Merlin's sake, Potter, either go away, or come in and do something useful. This isn't social hour."

No, Harry thought as he walked in and over to where Snape stood, it wasn't. But it was about as close as the two of them ever got to having one. "What potion is it?"

"Veritaserum," Snape said curtly, peeling a long, nearly invisible filament from the frond he held.

"Fantastic!" Harry enthused.

Snape dropped the filament into a nearby dish, then turned to glare at Harry. "Don't get your hopes up--I don't plan to teach you all the nuances involved in its creation. Veritaserum is a highly dangerous, rigidly controlled substance."

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he had to force himself to not back up a step. "You don't... it isn't for me, is it?"

Snape's mouth twisted. "If it was, I'd hardly tell you about it, would I? But no. It's not for you. I have simply decided that I am tired of waiting, and that the time has come for me to take matters into my own hands regarding this blasted curse."

Harry blinked. "Oh, yes--the Headmaster said something to me about that last night, about what they were... the things they were trying. They're doing, er, lots. He sounded hopeful about it, and he said... he said... um. I'm sorry. He told me all about it, but I don't remember exactly."

A quiet snort from Snape. "An unexpectedly beneficent side-effect of last night's acute intoxication."

"I guess." Harry cleared his throat, anxious to change the subject. "So, how will Veritaserum help with the curse?"

Snape made no answer at first, but simply handed Harry a mortar and pestle, and some dragonfly wings to grind up (*very* fine, Potter--dust, not flakes. And mind you don't spill any). Harry set to work.

Finally, after scowling at Harry's progress for a few minutes, Snape returned to his frond-filament process. "It's possible that you are not, indeed, the only person immune to this curse."

Harry looked up, but looked back down quickly when Snape glared at him and nodded to the mortar. "Really? Who else is?"

"I believe... and I'm not certain of this, because there was a great deal I missed when I was otherwise occupied, but I think Bellatrix herself may be. She certainly showed no partiality for me after the casting."

"Imagine that's a relief," Harry mumbled under his breath.

"Quite," Snape said acidly, "and quite beside the point. According to Albus' last letter, so far they have not been able to determine the specific nature, or even the general classification of the curse--matters which are crucial to any attempt to lift it. But I imagine that Bellatrix would know."

Harry stopped grinding, not caring if Snape glared at him. "You're going to... you're *going after her*?"

"Yes." Snape laid another filament in the bowl. Harry heard the soft 'clink' made by tweezers on porcelain very clearly.

"But you can't, I mean, if you go out they'll... you can't--"

"Complete sentences please, Potter--we haven't evolved simply to babble. And I assure you, I have no plans for any public appearances. The latest intelligence suggests that Voldemort's followers have already found a new lair, and if my information is correct, I can go there without excessive risk." He frowned. "It's not a place many would willingly go to."

"But, what if you get caught? By... by them, I mean? By *her*?"

"Then you will have the immense satisfaction of knowing that I made a mistake," Snape replied brusquely.

Harry's tongue felt like it had been glued to the roof of his mouth, and after a few moments of not knowing what to say, he went back to work. When the dragonfly wings were powdered Snape had him don a pair of dragonhide gloves to finely mince something which Harry couldn't even begin to pronounce, but Snape told him they were necessary 'for psychotropic effect'. To Harry they just looked like weird, twisted-up little peppers.

He was halfway through his second twisted-up pepper when he couldn't take anymore. He put the knife down. "What if the Veritaserum doesn't work?" he asked abruptly. "How would you get her to take it, anyway? And what if--"

He stopped at Snape's look, which was just short of fierce. "Mr. Potter. To have you, of all people, questioning my methods, casting doubt on my strategies, and implying that I might be acting with undue rashness, is far, far more than I intend to tolerate. I assure you that I have considered all these points, as well as hundreds more which would never occur to you."

Harry picked up his knife and went back to work, chopping with a vengeance. Git. Stupid git. Probably he'd end up getting himself killed, and then... and then...

"There is an additional possibility," Snape said quietly, and Harry forced himself to keep his eyes on his work. "Some of the more complex curses are by nature inextricably linked to the magical life-force of the caster. If for any reason I am unable to wrest the information I need from Bellatrix, I am fully prepared to determine if this curse is of that type."

Harry stopped chopping. "You mean... you mean you'd kill her?"

"Yes. If it proves to be necessary." Snape put down his tweezers, picked up a small spoon, and began sifting dragonfly dust over the filaments he'd collected.

"If it proves--you mean you can just plan to kill her, just like that, even though you're not sure it would lift the curse?"

Snape's eyes met his own and they were dark, so very dark; calm and dark and deadly. "I meant exactly what I said."

Harry had a sudden, frightening moment of feeling like he didn't know Snape at all, or that he'd somehow horribly misjudged him. A cold spike of ice slipped into his heart. "That's... how can you do that?"

Snape didn't look away. "I've done worse," he said calmly. His eyebrow rose. "I was not aware that you felt so protective towards the lady in question."

"I don't!" He didn't. But. "I just, I can't imagine simply planning to, to do that so... so deliberately, so coldly--" he had more to say, but a thought had occurred to him which momentarily occupied his full attention.

"Yes, I can certainly understand your astonishment, given how you've always viewed me as a paragon of human warmth and compassion. This must be a terrible blow."

"That's not, that has nothing to do with it." A cold dread had gathered in him, as if icy hands had squeezed his heart. "Listen, you remember--you remember the prophecy? That thing last year that Voldemort was after?"

Snape blinked. "Yes?"

Harry clenched his hands into fists inside the gloves he wore. "The Headmaster told me about it, and I've known about it for a while now, but I've never... it's about Voldemort, and me, and what it comes down to is that one of us is going to have to kill the other one before this is over. One of us has to die."

Snape appeared to be mulling that over. "I see."

Harry drew a deep breath. "So if I don't want to die, that means I have to kill him."

Snape frowned. "That would seem to be a reasonable conclusion."

Harry shook his head. "No, you don't understand--I've only just realized, just now, that I don't think I can do it."

Snape's eyes got suddenly very narrow. "What?"

Harry shivered a little as a chill gripped him. "It's not about who's stronger, or faster, or more powerful or any of that--I'm supposed to be prepared to take his life, to kill him. Deliberately. That's what I'm supposed to be working towards." He paused a moment, then went on. "I've been thinking about... about winning, about defeating Voldemort. I haven't been thinking about setting out to kill him on purpose."

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, and said nothing.

Harry's throat seemed to close up, and he struggled to speak. "I'm not... I don't want to kill anybody. Not like that. Not even him."

Snape looked disgusted. "Mr. Potter, stop being ridiculous." he snapped. "Voldemort's return and the resurgence of the Death Eaters has put us all in extreme jeopardy--we are at war. In war, people die."

Harry shook his head. "Not because of me. I can't, I won't do that."

Snape's face grew thunderous. "Are you trying to set a new record for foolishness? Because this is simply--"

"I have to go," Harry interrupted, yanking off his gloves. He felt frozen to the bone, so cold he felt he might never be warm again, and his stomach was in an uproar. "I have to... I can't think, and I, I should go."

"Yes, go," Snape said coldly. "And if you can, you might spare a moment to consider what this little notion of yours might mean for the rest of us."

Harry almost hated him for that.

***

In the end, Harry decided not to tell Dumbledore. Not about what Snape was planning, not about what he himself had just discovered about his own reactions to the prophecy, and certainly not about why it was suddenly much more painful for him than it would have been before to think of Snape as a cold-blooded murderer--not about any of it. He wasn't ready, yet. He needed more time to get used to all of it himself, and if Dumbledore knew, he'd... well, he'd do something, for sure.

Of course, the decision to keep some things to himself didn't stop him from doing a little fishing of his own. During his talk that night with Dumbledore via Floo, he did happen to mention that Snape had said something about a new headquarters for the Death Eaters--

"Oh," Dumbledore said, "you mean the rumour that they've taken up residence in the Shrieking Shack? Now, I know what you're thinking, Harry--it's a little too close for comfort to your friends here. But I assure you, I'm doing everything I can to look into it, and if it proves to be true I think that I can persuade them to look elsewhere for their lodgings without too much trouble. Have no fear."

The rest of the conversation passed in what seemed like trivialities: yes, he was fine; yes, Snape seemed to be holding up all right; yes, he thought he might be a bit better at Occlumency (he could barely say it without dropping his eyes); yes, he was learning all sorts of new things (that much, at least, was true). Dumbledore also provided him with a general update: everyone at Hogwarts was fine; no overt Dark activity to be concerned about; and no, sorry, nothing in the way of a breakthrough on Snape's curse, but to be sure they'd get the better of it very soon.

After he'd said good-night and pulled his head out of the fireplace, Harry made some tea and sat down at the window seat in the kitchen, trying to decide whether or not he'd done the right thing--especially the part where he hadn't informed Dumbledore about what Snape had decided to do. It didn't seem to be his place to tell, and yet there was no doubt that Snape's plan was very risky, that there were all kinds of things that could go wrong, and that most likely Snape would wind up either dead or in Azkaban... that is, if they imprisoned people for killing Death Eaters. He didn't know.

But before he did anything about it, he'd have to talk to Snape. And Snape would undoubtedly be furious at Harry for wanting to tell Dumbledore, but... well, maybe it would make him reconsider. Not that Harry held out much hope of that.

Just before his conference with Dumbledore he'd heard Snape's even tread climbing the stairs, so after he'd rinsed out his teacup he headed to the third floor, not surprised to find the door to Snape's room closed. He knocked. "Professor? I need to talk with you."

No answer, not even the standard demand to go away. Undeterred, he knocked again. "I know you're angry about this morning, but I need--there's something I need to talk to you about."

No answer. Harry's muscles tensed a little. "Professor Snape?"

After forcing himself to wait for the count of ten, Harry tried the knob (unsuccessfully), then drew his wand and tried Alohomora on the lock. To his surprise, it opened.

He wasn't exactly surprised, however, when he pushed the door wide and saw that the room was perfectly empty, all lights extinguished but enough blue-cast moonlight washing in through the windows to show him that Snape wasn't there. He wasn't surprised, but nevertheless something heavy and leaden settled in his stomach, and abruptly his heartbeat sped up.

Without thought he turned and left the room, racing down the steps and through the hallway to the first-floor room that served as Snape's lab. That door was open, but Snape was nowhere to be found. He was gone.

Harry stood in the doorway for a solid minute, his heart pounding and his mind abuzz with too much all at once--he had to do something; he should have said something before but he hadn't; he'd thought he'd have more time, but obviously he didn't and now it was too late; he needed help, and how could Dumbledore help when he couldn't go near Snape at all; and this was all his own fault--

In the next moment, Harry made up his mind. He ran back up the stairs to his own room, digging frantically through his trunk in search of his Invisibility cloak. When he didn't find it, he made himself slow down, carefully removing one item after another until he got down to the bottom. Not there. Which could only mean...

Snape. Harry didn't know whether to be angry or relieved. But right now, he didn't have the time for either. He was about to leave the room when his conscience nagged at him, and because he was in too much of a hurry to argue with himself about it he sat down and scrawled a hasty, ink-splotched note to Dumbledore, and attached it to Hedwig's leg with trembling fingers.

She seemed unusually affectionate with him, rubbing her head against his hands and hooting softly before she left the window ledge and soared off into the night.

He hoped it wasn't because she knew something that he didn't.

***

When Harry opened his eyes, he wasn't sure at first whether or not he actually had--it was just as dark either way. His head ached terribly, his muscles felt oddly strained and sore, and he was lying on his side on something very hard, half-suffocated from a cloth pressed against his face.

He blinked rapidly, trying to remember how he'd gotten... wherever he was. He remembered finding out that Snape had disappeared, remembered the decision he'd made, the cloak, Hedwig... and then nothing. Nothing until this, darkness and a headache and sore muscles and whatever his face was pressed into. He tried to shift away, but when he twisted it went with him, and at the same moment he realized that he couldn't really move--had he been immobilized? Or petrified? He tried to lift his hands and felt a tug, and then realized that he'd been tied up.

He tensed as panic began to creep in on him, and it was all he could do not to give in to it as he struggled, tugging his bound wrists and writhing and feeling his breath come faster and faster, sweat springing out on his forehead as he pulled harder and harder--

"Potter, if you don't mind--some of these ropes are attached to items I'd rather not lose."

Harry gasped, and went absolutely still. The cloth his face was pressed into--was Snape, Snape's robes. He was tied to Snape. At once he felt some of the panic leave him, but behind that there was a good deal of plain old fear--obviously, something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"What... what happened?" he whispered, "What did I--where are we? Did we get... are we all right?"

He felt Snape pull away from him a bit, as far as the ropes would allow. There was a long silence, then: "You don't remember?"

Harry thought hard, a bit easier now that his initial panic had receded, but not any more fruitful. "I remember, I remember finding out that you were gone. I remember deciding to come after you. I remember figuring out that you'd taken my cloak, and I... I sent Hedwig with a note to Dumbledore. But that's all."

He thought that Snape would have something to say about that, but there was nothing for a very long time. Just the quiet sound of breathing above him. He twisted in the ropes, impatient. "So what happened to you? To me? How did we get here? Where *is* here, anyway?"

"You don't remember."

"I just said that, didn't I?" Harry twitched at the ropes.

He heard Snape take a deep breath. "We are currently in the lower cellar of the Shrieking Shack. When I arrived here, Bellatrix wasn't alone. She was... keeping company with a Death Eater named Walden MacNair--"

"I know him," Harry said, and felt a chill. "The executioner."

A pause. "Not anymore."

Harry's headache intensified for a moment, and then backed off. "You killed him?"

"I... Yes."

"Oh." Strange, as many misgivings as he'd had about Snape murdering people, now that it had happened Harry felt different about it than he thought he would. Almost... relieved.

"It was necessary," Snape said quietly.

"I believe you," Harry said, "I've seen him do... I've seen him." He thought a moment. "Did I, was my coming here what got you--us--captured?"

It seemed a very long time before there was any answer. Then: "No. There was... we had some bad luck, that's all. If you don't mind, I think I'd rather concentrate on the rather urgent problem of seeing if we can get free of these ropes--"

"Did something really... did I do something so stupid that even you can't bring it up?" Harry blurted, twisting in his bonds. "What did I *do*?"

"Shh!" Snape whispered fiercely, and Harry went still. "You did... you did well. Then you were knocked out."

Harry wanted to ask more, but he was too stunned for the moment to speak. Snape thought... he did well? Even the fear still gnawing at him couldn't dull his brief pleasure in that. Then the hopelessness of his situation recurred to him, and he ducked his head, pressing it against Snape's chest. "Can't have done that well," he mumbled, "or we wouldn't be here."

"We're not dead yet, Mr. Potter."

The utter calm formality of that statement touched him for some reason he couldn't understand, and while he was grateful for that, somehow it made the stakes higher, made him more aware of the danger they were in. "Um... why aren't we?"

Snape shifted against him for a moment, and then was still. "Bellatrix is the one who tied us like this, and then she left--as furious as she was, and as high as she has risen in the Dark hierarchy, she is still only a servant, and this is a great opportunity indeed. She has gone to fetch... one whom neither of us have any real wish to see."

The deepening expansion of the fear in him was so vast and sudden that Harry almost stopped breathing. A phantom trace of pain lanced across his scar, and then vanished. Tied up, with Voldemort on the way--he already had some idea of how bad that could get. "When? When did she go?"

"Not long before you woke up. I don't know how much time we have, but we should use it wisely."

Harry pulled on the ropes, twisting his wrists back and forth, searching for any slack, any opportunity to slip free. He pressed closer to Snape to get more rope to work with, and in the dark he heard a soft growl. "Sorry," he panted, "I'm just trying to--"

He broke off as a new thought burst upon him, so bright with promise that even in the blackness he nearly felt blinded. "You... you can Apparate! You can get out of here--"

"The ropes are warded against it," Snape said. "That's the first thing I tried."

The hope that had kindled in Harry's chest died abruptly, and in the silence that followed he felt the panic start to creep back in. He closed his eyes and wished it away, but it refused to go--it was so dark, and the knots were so tight... "Oh god," he said, not knowing that he'd spoken it aloud until he heard himself. He shivered, and then it seemed like he couldn't stop shivering because no matter how he worked his wrists he couldn't get loose, and they were trapped and Voldemort was coming for them and he couldn't remember anything but he knew somehow that this had to be his fault--

"Is this my fault?" he asked, choking on the words.

He heard Snape sigh. "For Merlin's sake, Potter--if it were, do you think I, of all people, would fail to inform you of that fact?"

Another calm truth, another unadorned statement that somehow simultaneously comforted and frightened him. Harry stopped pulling, stopped tugging for just a moment, stopped everything and leaned his head on Snape's chest. He wondered if Voldemort would somehow know about this, would know what it would do to him if he killed Snape right in front of him--he choked, and closed his eyes tight shut. His voice, when it came, was so soft it could barely be heard. "Would you kiss me?"

He heard Snape's breath catch, and then there was a sudden, tremendous strain on the ropes as Snape pulled as far away as possible. "Mr. Potter," he said acidly, "we are struggling for our very lives, in case you hadn't noticed. This is hardly the time to--"

"This is the time," Harry whispered, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his breath. "Since there may not be another time, and since I know you want to, and since I need you to, then this is the time. Please--"

He felt Snape shudder against him. "Potter, don't," Snape said, and Harry had never heard his voice so low, so tense. "Not now. Just... don't."

Harry brought his head up, seeking in the dark, feeling the shock of sudden, unexpected tears springing to his eyes. "For me," he said, not knowing what he meant but only that these were the words for what he felt right now. "Please, for me--I'm so frightened and I'm so sorry and I only wanted to help you and now you... I... oh God--"

There was a silent, internal roar in his ears as Snape's lips touched his own for the briefest of moments. They were sticky, salty with a copper sweetness Harry knew. He gasped. "You're hurt," he said, "you didn't tell me that you were--"

"Shh," Snape said, his breath cool over Harry's moist lips. "It's all right." Another kiss, so soft he almost didn't feel it but oh, he did, he did--it sang in him and soared in him and was wet salt with tears and blood, a mixture of humours that he responded to immediately; a magnet that seemed to draw his heart up to his mouth. Everything stopped; the bone-deep terror and ache of dread low in his belly simply disappeared as if it had never been, and for a brief moment there was only Snape's mouth on his, slow and patient and generous. He felt Snape's hair brush over his cheeks, his forehead, and that soft, electric caress made him abruptly dizzy, nearly as dizzy as he'd been when he was drunk but this was... *oh*... so much better.

"Oh my God," Harry breathed when he could, feeling a great, soundless shift happen inside him, a pattern broken and reformed and a perfect fit for him, a fit like wand to wizard that moment of connection, of accord, a terribly powerful kind of bliss. "I... I think--"

Off to the left, in the dark, something creaked. Both of them went absolutely rigid. "Oh no," Harry whispered. "No, not now, not yet--"

In a surge of panic he twisted his wrists again, and was amazed to find that he could move--he'd done it, he'd gotten his hands free. He didn't know when, or how, but at the moment he didn't much care, as long as he could make some attempt at a defense. He fumbled quickly, awkwardly, tugging at the ropes and writhing. "I've got it, I'm free, we can get out--"

Another subtle creak, and Harry's sore muscles cramped as he struggled, one whole arm free now.

He heard a sound of sniffing, then: "Harry Potter?"

The shock and relief that went through him made him dizzy all over again. "Dobby?"

He heard a squeak followed by a thump. "Dobby is so glad to be finding you, Harry Potter! Dobby was afraid that--"

"Dobby, be careful!" He cried, "They're coming back, Voldemort is--"

"The others is down at the end of the tunnel, so no-one gets in to hurt Harry Potter" Dobby said. "Dumbledore sends Dobby, tells him since he is not being human he might not mind the other cursed wizard so much, but tells him we has to go quickly--" A sudden flare of light, and Harry squinted his eyes closed with a soft hiss of pain. He heard the patter of bare feet across a stone floor, and then another squeak.

He opened his eyes to slits and saw Dobby standing over them wide-eyed, one hand over his mouth. Harry's heart lurched in his chest and he brought his head down, opening his eyes all the way when he saw Snape, barely recognizable under a curtain of hair and blood, a massive gash carved through the left side of his face from temple to chin. Harry gasped. A combination of rage and tenderness burned through him, almost overpowering when he saw the white, unblemished skin around Snape's mouth--clean of blood because of what they'd... what he'd... "Your face," he murmured.

"It's nothing," Snape said quietly, his eyes focused somewhere over Harry's shoulder, shuttered and unimaginably distant. Harry felt his throat close up.

As Dobby helped get them free of the ropes, Harry found that he was shaking all over again. What they'd done... and now Snape wouldn't even look at him, and he had no idea why. "Are you... is everything all right? What's wrong?" he asked finally, when he couldn't stand not to anymore.

Snape finally looked at him, but his eyes were cold--dark and cold and impenetrable. "You should wipe your face," Snape said curtly. "You've got blood all over you."

It was all he got in the way of a farewell--just then the last knot was untied, and the moment they were free, Snape vanished with a quiet 'pop' that almost seemed to echo.

Harry sighed, and closed his eyes.

***

Bellatrix had left them in the cellar, and when Harry finally got his shaking legs to support him and managed to follow Dobby up to the ground floor, he was stunned into silence at the sight of Walden MacNair--whatever had happened, it looked very much like the man's chest had exploded. The entire floor and most of the walls were streaked with gore, and Harry had to struggle not to be sick until he forced himself to look away. By the time he followed Dobby into the tunnel he felt shocked numb, a curtain of gauze between him and the world that made everything seem dreamlike, slightly unreal.

When he emerged from under the Whomping Willow he was embraced by countless arms, exclaimed over and soothed, but none of it really got through to him, and he simply shook his head at all of their questions until Dumbledore waved everyone away and turned him over to Madam Pomfrey. Harry followed her silently, over the grounds and into the castle and down to the medical wing, and kept quiet while she clucked and fussed over him. He felt it when she healed a lump she'd found on the back of his head, but it didn't really change much of anything.

It seemed to take hours, but finally she dosed him with an amber-coloured potion that smelled like iron and tasted like treacle, told him that at this rate she'd have to start a new apothecary just to keep him alive, and walked him back to the Headmaster's office.

Still wrapped firmly in an odd, fuzzy sense of unreality, Harry sat down in the armchair in front of Dumbledore's desk. The Headmaster had a scroll of parchment in his hand, and when he looked up from it his eyes were more worried than Harry ever remembered seeing them. "Harry," he said softly once the door had closed behind Madam Pomfrey, "I have a letter here from Professor Snape, outlining this afternoon's... events."

That got through to him--it cut through the haze like a knife. Harry suddenly found that he could feel again, and what he felt was a sad sense of betrayal, of loss, and, worst of all, shame, and anger at feeling ashamed when he hadn't before. He took a deep breath, and gathered what hope he had. Maybe, maybe Snape hadn't... "What about it?" he asked.

Dumbledore frowned, and held up the parchment. "Is this true?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't know. I don't know what he said, do I?"

Dumbledore peered at him intently. "Professor Snape says that you... that you allowed him to... kiss you."

So much for that hope. Harry forced his head up anyway. "No. That's not true."

Dumbledore's eyes got very wide. "What? But why would--"

"I didn't *allow* him to do anything," Harry said. "I asked him. I asked him to kiss me. In fact, I think I might have almost begged."

Silence. A long, long silence that only ended when Dumbledore looked down at his desk, sighing. "I see."

Harry shifted in his chair, resentment and shame battling for the better share of his feelings. "I take it you don't approve?"

Dumbledore looked at him with what seemed like a tremendous amount of pity, which only served to remind Harry how much he hated that. "Harry--how could I possibly approve? You are barely sixteen years old, and you're his student--"

"And when I was fifteen," Harry said quietly, "you told me that at some point I'm going to have to either kill Voldemort, or be killed by him, and I'm supposed to be prepared for that, I'm supposed to be ready--so I'm old enough to die, I'm old enough to kill a man, but not old enough to touch one? Is that it?"

Dumbledore regarded him solemnly. "You're not old enough for any of it," he said softly. "But there are forces at work already which we can't control, and since I want you to survive what we both know is coming, I had to tell you--"

"But what if I want more than just to survive?" Harry asked. "What if I want something... for me, outside of this whole stupid destiny thing? Doesn't that matter?"

Dumbledore rubbed his forehead briefly. "As I told you before, Professor Snape plays a key role in your... as you put it, 'stupid destiny thing'. I've known that for some time. But... not like this. Not this way."

Suddenly both anger and shame were lost in a wave of sadness that seemed endless, and Harry dropped his head. He studied his palm, looking at the flakes and traces of blood creased into its lines--Snape's blood, undoubtedly. For one horrible moment he thought he might cry, but he swallowed hard and controlled it.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry watched his palm tremble minutely at the galling sympathy in that sad, reasonable voice. "You can... certainly you would be much happier with someone... perhaps a lad your own age--"

"I know what I want," Harry said quietly as his hand curled into a fist. He did. After today, despite everything, he still did. And suddenly he wanted to see Snape so badly that it was nearly physically painful, an urge to retreat to the one place where he'd somehow managed to find a strange kind of comfort. "I should go..."

"Professor Snape is not expecting you to return," Dumbledore said.

Harry's head jerked up. "What?"

Dumbledore's expression was grave as he lifted Snape's letter and gestured with it. "The Professor feels, and I must say that I agree with him, that under the circumstances it would be... unwise for the two of you to continue to share lodgings."

Harry felt as if his skin had grown a light coating of ice. "But--the Shrieking Shack, and... MacNair--they'll be... they'll be out in force, looking for both of us--"

"You will both be fine," Dumbledore said. "You'll be well-protected here, and I will personally increase the wards and guards on Grimmauld Place. They'll never find him."

Harry felt his anger seething, and knew he should keep his mouth shut for at least a few moments, but he didn't seem to be able to make himself do it. "And I'm sure you're just as hopeful about finding a way to lift Snape's curse in a few days or so," he said hotly. "Or maybe you just don't care whether or not he gets killed."

That was too much, and he knew it, but he'd said it anyway. Dumbledore looked angry with him for the first time that he could remember. He was surprised to find that it didn't bother him much.

"Of course I care about Severus," Dumbledore snapped. "I am extremely worried about him." He gestured with the parchment again. "This... this is not something that I was prepared for, not in the least. In all the years I've known him, Severus has never displayed so much as an inkling of a tendency towards this sort of... aberration--"

"It's *not* an aberration," Harry said between clenched teeth.

Dumbledore's eyes leveled at his own. "If my choice of words offends you, please remember that Professor Snape is your teacher, Harry. Besides, it's clear from his letter that he himself thinks of it as such."

Harry swallowed hard. "What?"

The Headmaster's silver beard swung as he leaned forward. "He tried, Harry. He knew that what he... felt for you was wrong, and he tried to fight it. He failed. He failed--and he hates himself for failing."

The outrage Harry felt upon hearing that made his teeth clamp together so fiercely that his jaw ached. "I'm not a child."

"No." Dumbledore's agreement was so unexpected that for a moment the room seemed to spin. "You are an extraordinarily powerful, sixteen-year-old wizard. Professor Snape is a talented potions expert, who happens to be twenty years older than you. He is your teacher. You are not, and can never be, equals."

"That doesn't matter. Not to me," Harry said softly.

"Perhaps not. But it seems to matter very much to him. And it certainly does to me." Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his forehead again. "Harry, you must see that I simply cannot allow--"

"I didn't want to tell you this," Harry interrupted, squeezing his hands into fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms, "but I think I'd better." He drew a deep breath. "You and Snape both think I have this Merlin's Gift, that I have all this power--"

"Oh, we're quite certain of that," Dumbledore said carefully, nodding to Snape's letter. "The kind of magic you performed today really leaves no doubt. And that is exactly why you--"

"I won't kill Voldemort," Harry said.

Dumbledore blinked at him, then peered over the tops of his glasses. "What was that?"

Harry shook his head. "It's something I didn't figure out until this morning, but now I know: I won't set out to kill anyone. I can't. I'm not a murderer. I won't kill him."

Dumbledore stared at him for what seemed to be a very, very long time. "Harry, you know what he is--"

"Doesn't matter what he is. What matters is what I am, and I'm not a killer." He heard his breath catch, and swallowed. "I'll use this whatever-it-is powers of mine for anything you want, but not for that." He sat up in his chair, lifting his head. "Besides, I can't use them for anything at all until I learn how to use them in the first place--how to control them. And who d'you think has the best chance of teaching me to do that?"

"Harry," Dumbledore looked extremely solemn. "Are you attempting to... blackmail me?"

Amazingly, Harry felt himself smile sadly at that. "No. I'm not a Slytherin. I'm a Gryffindor, and I'm brave enough, as it turns out, to tell you the truth about me." Even as he said it, sorrow and fatigue piled in on him and he felt terribly raw, terribly close to fragility. He pushed himself to his feet, unsurprised to find himself shaking. "I know you only want to protect me," he said, his voice thickening with every word. "I understand that. And you're always asking me to trust you, and I do." He moved towards the fireplace, and didn't look back until he had some Floo powder in hand and was ready to step into the flames. Then he turned around.

He met Dumbledore's eyes, and saw a kind of grave disappointment there that, while it saddened him, didn't change his resolve. Which was probably as much a part of being a defiant teenager as growing a scraggly little beard as soon as one could, he supposed. "I do trust you," Harry said, keeping his voice low. "And I will put whatever power I have to good use, once I learn how. But this, this other thing, this thing with me and Snape--it isn't about you. It's about me, and about him. It's not... it's not your business."

He tossed powder on the flames, and went before Dumbledore could start telling him how wrong he was about that.

Continue to part 5

Return To Fic Index