***

He woke up retching in the dark, his heart pounding, and somehow he'd gotten to his feet, which was bad because the floor seemed to be very unsteady, jigging under him with a low, rumbling roar. Off to his right there was a sudden, enormous gout of flame from the fireplace, and in the red flash of light he saw Snape leaping towards him, his barely audible voice yelling something at him about backing off--

Harry squeezed his hands to fists and wrapped his arms around himself, pulling back, reining in his power before he cracked the fireplace, the house, the earth itself wide open, gasping and swaying as he felt everything collapse in on him, pulling back and back until he was no more than a shaking, huddled mess, very human and very afraid.

Then it was dark again, and shockingly silent, and Snape's hands were on his shoulders, Snape's voice soft in his ear, asking if he were all right. Harry couldn't answer, could only shake his head and wrap his arms around Snape's sleep-warm body, burying his face in Snape's chest and shaking his head no, no, over and over again.

Snape didn't bother to try to soothe him, but after he nudged Harry back to bed he climbed into it himself, and much sooner than he would have imagined possible Harry was drifting back to sleep with his head pillowed on Snape's chest, warm arms around him and gentle breath stirring his hair.

And there were no more dreams that night.

***

Snape's eyes met his, narrow and suspicious. "You... what? You think... what?"

"I think... I think I'm a monster," Harry said, tearing his untouched toast to bits. It seemed strange to say it out loud, to speak his darkest fear in the bright morning with the sun pouring through the windows, but somehow the juxtaposition only made him feel colder. He shivered. "This power... this thing I have... it's evil. I think it's evil."

Snape looked away for a moment, and seemed to be thinking that over. When he turned back, he no longer looked suspicious, just annoyed. "Rubbish," he said bluntly.

Harry blinked. Then sniffed. "What?"

Snape leaned back a bit, regarding him coolly. "I said 'rubbish', Potter. You heard me. The problem is not that your Gift is evil--the problem is, specifically, that you have a tremendous amount of power, and precious little control over it. That's all."

Harry curled forward in his chair. "You don't understand. The things I've seen... the things I dreamed... what I did to MacNair--"

Snape cut him off derisively. "Mr. Potter. In my more fanciful moments, of all the things I have imagined calling you, 'coward' is not one of them. I'm sad to say I'll have to reconsider that."

Harry shook his head. "I can't help it--I'm just... I'm frightened--"

Snape's eyes glittered. "That's not cowardice," he said coldly. "Only fools lack fear. Cowards, however, exaggerate their fear to excuse their own weakness."

"I'm not exaggerating anything," Harry said softly, staring at his trembling hands. "I don't--"

"Get up," Snape said, rising to his feet.

Harry goggled at him. "What? Why? I--"

"I said Get. Up." Snape's eyes were like brilliant chips of black ice.

Harry struggled to his feet, and yelped a little when Snape took him by the arm and dragged him bodily out of the cabin, through the twists and turns of the pathway, and finally right into the center of the clearing before swinging him about, both hands on his shoulders, scowling down at him with tense, irascible fury.

"Power is *nothing*," he said angrily, giving Harry a sharp little shake to punctuate his words. "It is, in and of itself, nothing. It is what we do with it that makes it what it is--our *choice*. That's our power--our ability to choose. It's all the power we need, and it's enough to save--or destroy--the very best of us."

He whirled Harry around then, facing him outwards but not letting go of his shoulders. "You are," Snape murmured into his ear, making all the hair at the back of his neck stand on end, "capable of choice." His hands squeezed Harry's arms tightly, making him gasp. Snape's voice was cool and dispassionate, and yet Harry felt the weight of every word. "If you choose to be a monster, you will be the most powerful monster the world has seen in twenty generations. If you choose to be evil, you can probably blot out the sun, with a little practise and some luck." Then he tugged Harry backwards, and the strong warm presence against his back drove away any words Harry might have said. "What you may *not* do," Snape continued with icy insistence, "is allow your guilt to make that choice for you--you may not shirk that responsibility." Snape shoved him forwards again, his voice risen to a loud command. "Now--make your choice."

Harry nearly choked. "You want me to... what? Now?"

Snape's hands squeezed his arms. "You have power. Use it. Choose."

Harry felt his knees go weak. "But what if I... what happens if I... last time I almost... you almost..."

A quiet snarl in his ear. "You try to hurt me, Potter, and I'll kill you. Now stop your infernal whining and make your choice. NOW!"

The roar of Snape's last word merged with the subaural hum that rose up around him, as some part of him obeyed before the rest of him was ready. Harry cringed and cried out, waiting for the blackness to descend upon him, and his knees wobbled and weakened and he crashed to the ground, digging his fingers up to the knuckle in the dry, dusty soil--

And a connection was made, between his palms and the ground, and Harry locked to it as if it were magnetic, and his fingers closed, squeezed tight on earth that had turned to a rich, brown loam. His head twitched up, his eyes scanning the clearing for patterns old and new, shocked when he could *see* lines of power running through the earth, runic traces that spiraled out from the center, out from where he was... and when his hands shifted then *everything* moved, everything twisting and swirling at once, spinning round him, a vortex with him at the center of it, and he dug deeper into the earth now as it shook, not trying to shake him off but as if it were rising to meet him, waves of green rising in a violent, rumbling din that deafened him to his own voice as ancient words rolled off his tongue. His heart beat fast and light, and his eyes felt like they might be boiling in his head, scorching in the sunshine, stuffed full to the brim and overflowing, bursting with so much raw, succulent, ferocious life--

Harry gasped, and pulled his hands out of the ground. The handprints he left filled with clear water, welling and then spilling over, trickling away and impossible to follow because the earth was now crowded, packed with grasses and flowers and wild, blooming bushes trailing with vines. He got slowly, shakily, to his feet, and looked out over a sea of growing things, moving gently in the breeze, vital and thriving.

For a long time he couldn't speak at all, could only marvel at the expanse, the extent of green. "Um, wow," he said finally, passing one muddy hand across his brow. "I think... I think I might have gotten the hang of it."

"Oh, delightful. What a positive boon for all of us," Snape said irritably from behind him.

Harry turned around, and clapped a hand to his mouth when he saw that Snape had been neatly trussed to the ground by dozens--no, hundreds--of vines, crossing him every which-way and leaving only a very grim, rather livid face scowling out of the mess. Harry didn't want to laugh, he really didn't, but only the thought of what Snape would do to him (or possibly refuse to do to him) if he did let him hold back. "Er... shall I get you out of that, then?"

A furious glare. "Oh no, please--take your time, Potter. I'm perfectly happy down here, strangling on weeds while my robes soak up compost--"

Harry stopped listening at that point, and got started untangling vines. For his own good.

***

He really did feel a great deal better; he was nearly giddy on the walk back to the cabin, and had to pay close attention to his feet, which kept feeling like they wanted to float off the ground. It was a blessing, in a way--it gave him something to focus on besides Snape's bitter griping, which, if he listened to it, would probably have sent him into fits.

Still, it was something of a relief when they reached the cabin and Snape went to have his second (and final, he vowed, barring Harry's need to exorcise any more demons via a mud-fight) shower of the day. Harry made tea, and then curled up in the armchair with his cup, trying to settle himself down--with Snape in such a mood, it wouldn't do for him to be bouncing gleefully about.

He sat for some time with no sign of any settling; he kept grinning at odd moments, and had to repeatedly fight off the urge to go join Snape in the shower, even though he knew it was probably more than his life was worth to do that just now. In the end he was obliged to fetch the book Snape had given him, (_Ancient Forces and Their Impact on the Modern Magical World_, by Arthur Figgis), and immerse himself in the text in order to calm himself. It was a tribute to Figgis' style that by the time Harry heard the shower shut off, he was so calm that he was nearly asleep.

He was finishing a paragraph, gleaning the last few words while he slowly closed the book, when something about it snagged his attention. He pulled the book open again, chased down the page with a finger to find his place, then re-read. He stopped, gazing off into nothing for a moment, then turned to the book again, flipping pages, skimming facts, and chewing on his knuckle while he tried to see what all of it added up to.

When he heard the loo door open, he closed the book slowly, rubbing his hand absently back and forth over the cover for a few moments. Then he got to his feet, ignoring the cross, exasperated look Snape gave him, and moved towards the table. "D'you want some tea?" was all he said.

***

The problem with the cabin, Harry had decided, was that there really was no place for them to go in order to get away from each other. In some ways that was a good thing, he supposed--like if Snape were to come over all stroppy and unapproachable (more so than usual, anyway), and if Harry were determined to track him down for... for something--all right, for sex--it was much easier without a bunch of locked doors to get through. But the thing was, stroppy and unapproachable were actually two of Snape's *nicer* moods, and unless Harry needed him for... for something, it was a bit like being locked in a room with a viper you'd just accidentally trodden upon.

After about fifteen minutes of making overtures that were met with some of the most creative insults he'd ever heard, Harry picked up his book and headed for the clearing. Snape advised him not to stay out too long (and to keep his wits about him, and to not do anything so stupid that it would require his--Snape's--help to get him out of whatever scrape he'd gotten himself into, because he--Snape--was going to bloody well get some work done before the next inevitable cataclysm). All in all, Harry was relieved to escape into the late afternoon sunshine.

He walked to the clearing, and saw that the changes wrought there had continued--the whole place was now crossed with little streamlets, and the soft music of trickling water added to the sound of the wind sighing through the grasses and brambles. It was a lovely, peaceful, welcoming place, if a little lonely, and for a few moments he was glad just to be there, to feel the sunshine hot on the top of his head, to feel the breeze cool his flushed cheeks, to breathe in the clear air that carried heady notes of earth, pine, and green things growing.

He made his careful way over several streams to a large boulder, overgrown with vines, and worked slowly to clear himself a spot. Then he climbed up and settled down, surprisingly comfortable in a shallow, sun-warmed depression on the eastern side. From there it was tempting to just sit and look out over the clearing, but he had, after all, brought his book along for a reason, so after a few minutes he sighed, laid the book across his knees, and started hunting for where he'd left off.

Some hours later the page he was looking at flipped over in a sudden gust of cold wind, and Harry shivered. He looked up, surprised at how dark it was--and noticed for the first time that the sun and blue sky had disappeared behind a dense cover of clouds, heavy and purple and promising rain; probably, from the smell of the air, very soon. Harry closed the book. He'd stopped really seeing the words some time ago, actually, and had just been lost in his own thoughts, trying to separate the possible from the improbable from the flatly impossible--too lost in thought to pay attention to anything else. The moment he closed the book's cover, a fat droplet splashed on it, and a moment later there was a soughing sound in the wind and then it was raining, raining hard.

Harry tucked the book into his robes and scrambled down from the boulder, wincing at the cold drops that found their way down the back of his neck, as well as the stiffness tingling in his shoulders and legs--he supposed he had to expect that, sitting outside on a rock in the cold. He turned towards the pathway, hoping that Snape would have a fire going back at the cabin, and snickered a little when he thought about what Snape would say to him if he asked for help with stiffness in his joints. Not that Snape had any kind of a sense of humour, even at the best of times.

The pathway proved to be a bit drier, the branches above not quite saturated enough to drip steadily, and yet by the time he emerged from it and stepped out into the full barrage of rain, he was quite drenched. He made his way towards the door quickly, and then stopped, caught by a sudden and unexpected thought. He glanced about him, hesitated one moment, and then lowered his head, unmindful of the stream of water that poured down his neck.

It didn't pour for long. When it stopped, Harry looked up. All around him there was rain pounding down, but he himself was enclosed in a warm, dry pocket, with heavy, fat raindrops seeming to somehow *bend* away from him, leaving him untouched. He grinned, and moved towards the door again at a much slower pace. No rain fell on him as he moved.

The door opened before he reached it, and Harry walked sedately past Snape, paying no mind to the man's sour, impatient expression. When the door closed behind him he turned around, drew the slightly dampened book from beneath his robes, and tossed his dripping hair out of his eyes.

"I have an idea," he said.

***

Snape laced his fingers together above his bowl, elbows on the table, and glared at Harry. "Why is it that every time I leave you to your own devices, you seem to go completely mad?"

Harry blushed and looked down, mopping up the last of his soup with a bit of roll. "I'm not mad. I just... what it said in that book, about Merlin--he could do all kinds of things, and there's really no knowing whether--"

"Mr. Potter," Snape's voice was a low drawl. "I gave you that book because Figgis happens to be an excellent researcher--he uncovered texts that many others had missed. However, he was also an idiot--his analysis is faulty, his conclusions grotesque, his speculations enjoyable only for those with a taste for fairy tales." He eyed Harry, then shook his head. "Ah. That does clarify things."

Harry swallowed, and wiped his lips with his napkin. "That's it, though--don't you see? There's no way to know for sure what he could or couldn't do, the book just said that Merlin's powers were never fully explored. So what if I... what if it turns out that I could..."

"More speculation," Snape said sternly, "and moreover, it is speculation on a theory which would involve using *me* as a test subject, and I don't think I need to list all the historical precedents which make that a very, very bad idea."

Harry put his spoon down, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. "Well, do you have any other brilliant plans for lifting your curse? Because if... if what we heard was true, then it seems that you're rather stuck with it, unless you feel like dying." Really, the man was utterly maddening.

Snape looked down, pushing his spoon around in his bowl. His expression didn't change, but Harry felt the tension in him anyway--he'd become very, very sensitive to Snape's subtle shifts in mood. Suddenly the rain outside seemed too loud. "I am not a cursebreaker," Snape said quietly. "And, unlike yourself, I know when I'm out of my depth. Either a solution will be found, or it won't. I simply intend to be prepared for either eventuality."

Harry's hands curled to fists. "But if... but what if I could... I might be able to... to fix it."

Snape's head lifted, his eyes hot. "Yes, or you might accidentally liquefy my spine." A tremendous crash of thunder punctuated his words, and he dropped his spoon with a clatter. "I'm sure you would be excessively sorry about it, of course, and very solicitous about whether or not you could fetch me tea for the remainder of my crippled life, but I think I'll wait for further developments, thank you."

"Fine," Harry said curtly, too angry to think up a suitable retort, then got to his feet and proceeded to clear the table and do the washing up, not taking any special care to refrain from banging the crockery around or making a general racket. If Snape wanted quiet, he'd have to bloody well ask for it. Stupid git.

Of course, a few hours later, that was the very least of the names that he was busy calling himself. By antagonizing Snape he had quite effectively bollixed up any chance of spending the day in a more... enjoyable fashion--and he'd had such delightful thoughts earlier of seeing what it might be like to be warm and happy in bed while it stormed like fury outside.

Well, he was warm, although he wasn't particularly happy. Harry spent the afternoon reading in front of the fire, and Snape sat at the table with his quill and his parchment, and neither one of them said a single word. It was uncomfortable, and upsetting, and (for Harry, at least), a dreadful waste of a perfectly good rainy day.

Some time later, however, when a shadow fell across the page and he looked up to see Snape, terribly pale and holding himself with a certain stiff dignity, Harry was very careful not to betray any sign of the sudden, hopeful eagerness that leapt up in him. "Yes?"

A muscle in Snape's damaged cheek twitched. "After the lecture I gave you earlier on cowardice," he said in a low voice, "I suppose it seems fit that I am thus hoisted upon my own petard."

Harry closed his book slowly. He didn't know what that meant, but something in the tone of Snape's voice suggested that it wasn't anything to do with sex, which had been his first, rather enthusiastic thought. "Oh."

Snape sighed, and glared, and looked very much as if he'd followed Harry's line of thought, and was, predictably, annoyed by it. "It means... you may try to lift the curse."

Oh. "All right," he said softly, and got up from his chair, laying the book aside. "Let's see what I can do."

***

As it turned out, he could do nothing. He gave it his best, but in the end Snape only shook his head at Harry's inquiring look, and turned away.

Snape went back to his parchment, and Harry sat down in front of the fire again with his book, reminding himself to turn a page or two every few minutes, in case Snape was paying attention.

He closed his eyes for a while, listening to the mellow drum of the rain on the roof, and then he got to his feet and moved quietly towards the table. Snape's quill paused in mid-scratch, but other than that there was no acknowledgement of his presence. Harry reached out slowly, tentatively, and squeezed Snape's shoulder with one hand. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I really thought... I really hoped that would work. I wanted it to.'

Snape's face in profile was careful and set. "I know."

For the first time Harry noticed a few silver strands in Snape's black hair. Of its own accord his hand moved from Snape's shoulder to his head, stroking gently. "I..." He trailed off, with no idea of what he'd intended to say.

Snape turned to him, and before Harry could stammer out anything else there was a warm touch on the back of his neck, a gentle touch guiding him one last step forward, and then came the wholly new sensation of leaning down into a kiss, of standing above Snape while their mouths melted slowly together, a silent, stunningly erotic jolt that he felt all the way down to the soles of his feet. His head swam, his knees grew weak, and before he knew it he had Snape's face cupped in his hands, one thumb stroking the rough, grooved scar that ran down his cheek. "I want... I want to touch you," he breathed, rolling his forehead against Snape's, "I want to suck you--" He finished on a gasp, drawn from him by a combination of desperate hope, desire, and amazement that he'd actually been able to say those words out loud.

He was quite ready to sink to his knees right then and there, and when Snape's fingers slid up the back of his neck and into his hair he very nearly did, whether he was ready to or not; but then Snape took his mouth again before rising to his feet. Harry's neck arched back and back, and his head felt somehow both oddly light and dangerously heavy, making him glad of the support of Snape's warm, broad hand. The stroke of Snape's tongue against his own rocked him on his feet, and then they were drifting by slow degrees towards the bed, and suddenly it was hard to hear the rain outside over the bright hammering of his heart.

Harry closed his eyes, caught between excitement and the soft, persistent melancholy that had driven him to Snape in the first place. He felt as if he were brimming with these things, full of little splintered pieces of contradiction, all of it wordless and all of it being dragged under, sucked down, submerged by want and deep drugged need when there was the bed and Snape and clothes sliding off and bodies stretching out and skin--such skin --against his. There was no hesitation, no pause, no getting away from the tender shock of Snape's naked body under his own, from the raw, blunt frankness of Snape's hands on his hips, starvation kisses, cock to cock with a new mutuality that stunned him to the core.

They rocked together for what seemed like forever, until Harry was slick with sweat and every muscle in his body strained and fluttered. He slid on sweat--his, Snape's, both--and it seemed that only Snape's hands kept him anchored, kept him from being overcome with heat and hardness and the stinging salt passionate taste of Snape's mouth.

Harry couldn't stop, didn't want to ever stop, and when he couldn't kiss anymore for moaning he buried his wet face in the curve of Snape's neck as arousal burned through him like a fever, wringing cries from him that sounded nearly tormented. The hands cradling his churning hips slipped around to cup his arse, pulling him down and making him wild, wilder, squeezing until he panted like a crazed animal and nearly cracked his spine trying to somehow balance all his weight on that spot under him where their cocks were crushed together, thrusting desperately, needing *more*. Harry strained up, strength struggling against strength until he was exhausted, until he couldn't fight anymore, until he collapsed and was almost sobbing with gladness because he knew Snape would take care of him, would finish it, would never leave him like this.

Snape did what Harry had known he would, only now everything was slow and dreamy, misty and wet, and Snape swallowed his gasps and kissed him slowly, deeply, gliding them together while one hand ruthlessly shoved down the covers, returning to stroke slowly down Harry's spine, right over where he felt so shockingly exposed, right down into the humid, hot crevice of his arse, a circling, slippery touch that sent sparks flying everywhere and then pushed inside him before he could even lift up for it, thrusting into him and opening him and Harry stretched his limbs out and grunted into Snape's mouth and spurted all over Snape's stomach, coming immediately, helplessly, digging into Snape's shoulders with trembling fingers and moaning until he had no breath left at all.

Snape held him through the last of it, and Harry slid lower and laid his head on Snape's chest, turned to the side to accommodate his heaving gasps for air, with Snape's heartbeat thundering in his ear and Snape's erection a glowing brand of heat against his stomach. He rubbed against it lazily for a long while, rocking back and forth until he felt a tremor run through Snape's muscles, until the hands stroking his moist back seemed not quite steady. He closed his eyes, images spooling out in his mind that made his quiescent cock twitch and his mouth flood with sudden wetness. He swallowed. "I'm--" his voice was husky, barely audible. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I want... you know what I want."

He felt a faint shiver under him. "Yes."

Harry's cock twitched again. "Is that all right?"

A deep breath, slow and controlled. "I... yes."

"Mm." Harry gathered himself and slid down, pushing the rumpled duvet off the end of the bed, and realized only then that he was shaking a bit himself. The need he felt was physical, but it went beyond that, somehow, and the warm glow deep in his chest was as much a part of it as his awakening erection. This was... it was the only thing he had to offer that Snape would accept, and while that thought renewed the sadness in him that had started all of this, it also brought him a strange kind of resolve--if this was all he would be allowed to give, well, he would just have to give everything he had to it.

His first glimpse of Snape's cock heightened everything--rosy and flushed, erect and yet somehow vulnerable, it made his mouth water as much as it made the tenderness in him well up and overflow, and before he knew he meant to he dipped his head to press a soft kiss to the blunt, blushing tip, paying no mind to the soft gasp from above. The scent of sweat, spunk and musk blended headily, and Harry had to fight off the urge to just bury his head in Snape's groin and snuffle greedily. He drew in one last deep breath, savouring, and then closed his eyes, gathering up his power from below, random memories of gillyweed floating hazily through his mind as he told himself that he didn't need to breathe anymore.

"Harry?" Snape's voice was low and tight, but nevertheless Harry could hear the concern in it. He ignored it, gently wrapped his hand around Snape's erection, and then opened his mouth and swallowed as much as he could. There was a problem when it hit the back of his throat, but a subtle shift of energy settled all that and then it was fine, no choking and no need for air, and the first deep stroke into his throat made his own cock ache fiercely--

"*Harry*!" Snape's hands fisted suddenly into his hair, tugging until his eyes watered. Harry pulled back and let himself breathe again, sighing.

"I know what I'm doing," he said softly. "Sort of."

Snape frowned down at him, and Harry found it difficult to meet his eyes when there were expanses of naked skin to stare at. Snape's nipples were dusky, tight and peaked, and he wondered if they were as sensitive as--

"This is..." Snape said quietly, "this is unconscionable."

"Think of it as cheating, then," Harry offered, squeezing Snape's thighs. "Or as practise. For control. I'm very motivated--"

Snape looked thunderous. "You can't--"

"Please," Harry said softly, "please, I want to, I think about... I think about this all the time. This, and... and other things." He reached out and wrapped his hand around Snape's erection, stroking gently.

Snape's eyes fluttered, then closed. "Please refrain from telling me about it."

Which, he hoped, meant that he could go ahead and do it, as long as he didn't talk about it. That would work. He slid downwards before Snape could change his mind, then stretched out, trying not to grind himself into the mattress too much-- his attention would be needed elsewhere.

He went slowly, touched gently, trying to give Snape no cause for alarm. Despite the controls he set on his breathing and throat it was still a terrific stretch, but somehow the ache in his jaw only seemed to amplify the ache in him everywhere else, and that only got harder--and so did he--as he went on. He found that he could use his hand as an anchor, both to hold Snape steady and to keep his foreskin pulled back, and that left him free to simply close his eyes and experience, using his lips, his tongue, his throat, and to marvel over the connection between those parts of him and his own cock, which was now exquisitely hard, and throbbed in time with every move he made.

He got very lost, losing track of everything except the physical, and with no air he couldn't groan and yet he was groaning inside, his chest locked tight around a hot bubble of passion that drove him on, that made him burn, that made him writhe into the sheets. When he felt a soft touch on his head it drew him out of himself for a moment, and when he felt Snape's fingers weave into his hair he slowed down, waiting, wanting to know how it would be. Snape's hands in his hair felt so good, and when the first gentle, slow push came, with a slight thrust from below, his whole body lit up with gratitude and desire, and when he started to shake he couldn't seem to stop.

Snape thrust into his mouth for a long time, slowly and with infinite tenderness, and not even Harry's own urgency could make him wish for an end to it. He realized all at once that he could hear Snape breathing, soft gasps and guttural exhales that were almost moans, and his bare toes curled with lust, digging into the duvet he'd tossed on the floor. When Snape did finally moan, it was a low, shattered sound, and at the same time his hands tightened in Harry's hair, but tugging the wrong way, now trying to pull him up, pull him off. Harry shook his head carefully, squeezed Snape's hip with his free hand, and stayed where he was.

Snape pulled harder, growling wordlessly, and Harry slid down fast on Snape's cock, working his tongue, stroking the head of it into his throat and trying to swallow--and almost got more than he'd bargained for when Snape groaned like a man in agony and thrust up into him so hard that it almost knocked him backwards. Bitter, alkaline heat flooded his mouth, and he swallowed convulsively, greedily, and then he couldn't wait anymore but finally let go, shockingly cold air searing his lungs as he rose up gasping, shoving Snape's legs flat as he straddled them, and barely managed to get his trembling right hand onto his cock before he came all over Snape's groin and stomach, his hips twitching, losing all control of himself with a desperate cry that broke open in his throat.

Then he collapsed.

***

It was a question he'd promised himself he wouldn't ask, but in the mindless drowsiness that followed, bundled under covers with Snape's arms warm around him while the rain continued to pour down outside, he couldn't remember anything about why he'd made that promise in the first place. "Are you really all right?"

Snape's hand, which had been stroking his hair gently back from his forehead, paused. "What? In what sense?"

Harry shifted closer, fully awake now, and perhaps a bit too aware of the possible consequences of the question. "I just, um, I worry."

A sniff. "A shocking revelation, given your behaviour. What precisely is it that worries you?"

Harry closed his eyes, and hoped fervently that he wasn't making a mistake. "When I saw you sleeping," he began tentatively, "at Grimmauld Place, you just looked so unhappy. You looked miserable. And I supposed, that is, I thought it must be because... because of me." His voice dropped to no more than a hushed whisper at the last.

There was a silence, quite a long one, finally broken when Snape sighed. "First of all, for reasons which are none of your business, and which I refuse to elaborate upon, I was never happy sleeping in that house. Secondly, if your question is a veiled attempt to solicit particulars from me with regard to how I feel about you, I consider it a complete waste of my time, and resent the oblique nature of the inquiry. Finally, if you're asking me if I am sufficiently lacking in moral principles to countenance an imprudent and reckless sexual liaison with a boy who is not only twenty years younger than myself, but also my student, I can only say that your powers of observation seem to have plummeted to a new low."

Harry had a rather difficult time following all that, but he thought he got the gist of it. He turned towards Snape, pressing their very sticky bodies together while he burrowed his face into the curve of Snape's neck. "Mmm. All right then."

It was a quiet realization, dawning upon him with no fanfare and no forewarning, and really, it was much calmer, much less flamboyant than he ever thought such a realization could be. It was simply, lying in bed with Snape's arms around him, a silent understanding that right now, in this hushed moment, he was happier than he'd ever been in his entire life.

***

It was different, this time--this time he *knew* he was dreaming, and from the start he was wary, on his guard; a little concerned that he couldn't seem to remember what Snape had told him, but nevertheless he knew that he knew *something*, that somewhere in him was a memory of something that had somehow made everything all right.

He was walking through a long, silent hallway, its black floor polished to a high gloss, reflecting back a hazy, fuzzed image of himself, and of somebody beside him. He turned at once, but what was next to him was not a monster but a man; a youngish man, Harry saw, although his face was lined, his brow permanently furrowed, and his hair had gone white at the temples. It was a distinct and painful shock to see the zigzag scar bisecting his forehead. Harry's own scar glowed for a moment with terrible pain, and he covered it with his hand, hissing.

"You don't know quite how it happens," his older self told him, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation, walking down the hall with his hands neatly folded behind his back and his bearing erect, proud and nearly militaristic, taking purposeful strides that seemed entirely at odds with Harry's scurrying steps. "It starts, and you don't know it--you're too busy to know it. And then it slips up on you a bit at a time, and by the time you see it, it's too late. It can't be stopped."

"What?" Harry said, almost running to keep up. "What can't be stopped?"

"It's the choices that do it, I think," his older self said with a half-wistful air. "All the choices, all the decisions--and nobody can make them but you, and not all of them are easy. Then you get eaten."

"You get *what*?" Harry said, and almost went too far as the elder Harry stopped abruptly at a door, turning the knob and pushing it open, a mouth yawning open on blackness.

"You'll always do it, though," older Harry said sadly, "you'll always go through that door. It's your nature."

Harry pulled himself up straight. "My nature--my choices, you can't... you can't fool me with this. I know things. I know..."

"You know things," his elder self mused, rubbing his stubbled chin, gazing into the doorway as if lost in thought. "Do you know... do you know..."

"Do I know what?" Harry said, and then gasped as his older self knelt before him, iron hands gripping his arms, absolutely *huge* with power, rolling eyes gone suddenly, hellishly red, teeth bared and grown to vicious, tearing fangs, razoring out from a mouth wide enough to tear off his whole head in one snap.

"Do you know how to *run*?" it asked him, drooling.

***

Harry woke when Snape slapped him, and for a moment he thought it was too late--that he was already tearing the house apart, that what was in him was already loose and would start raining death down on everything and he wouldn't be able to stop it--but it was only thunder, booming overhead and making him cry out in shock, steeped in an unpleasant brew of his own panic, fear and shame.

Snape stayed with him until the tremors passed. When Harry found that he couldn't talk about it without his teeth chattering, Snape pulled him out of bed and into the shower, washing both of them with a brisk sort of efficiency that calmed Harry even more than the physical contact did.

And when the inevitable happened, when Harry felt himself rooted enough in the world of real things to respond to the luxury of Snape's hands in his hair, on his body, Snape stopped Harry's half-embarrassed mumbling with a kiss, took his half-guilty erection in one strong hand and stroked him until his knees gave out; then held him up, held him close under the hot, rushing water and stroked him some more until Harry came apart all over again, moaning softly, endlessly.

Afterwards, before they got into bed again, he made Harry change the sheets.

***

The next morning dawned so lovely and clear that it was hard to believe there had ever been such a thing as rain, except of course for the fact that the ground outside was not much more than churned-up mud. At the clearing, Harry had despaired of finding a dry spot to sit on, but fortunately he found that the early sun had already dried the spot on the boulder where he'd sat yesterday, so he climbed up without too much trouble, his legs straight out to give his muddy boots a place to drip.

He looked out over the sun-sparkling wet greenery, trying to draw some comfort, some hope from the beauty around him. He needed to think, and it was nearly impossible to think at the cabin. Harry sighed. Actually, a more accurate description of the problem was that it was nearly impossible to think around Snape. Around Snape, Harry was well aware that all of his thought processes tended to be constrained to rather narrow parameters. And there was no doubt that they were... enjoyable parameters, but enjoyable or not, it wasn't the sort of thing that would help him address his problems.

Too many problems, it felt like--the summer was almost over, and in a few weeks he'd be starting a new school term, and if anyone had ever told him before now that he'd someday find returning to Hogwarts a depressing prospect, he would have laughed. But there it was--in a few weeks he'd be fully expected to go back to school and pick up where he'd left off before, go back to his friends and his classes and Quidditch and preparation for NEWTs and that bastard Malfoy and all sorts of people asking him how his summer had been, which was the one question he dreaded most. After all, what could he possibly say? I grew up? I got really powerful and killed somebody? I did some gardening? I found out that sucking Snape's cock is the biggest turn-on of my life?

But as daunting as that prospect was, the thought of going through it while he was entirely separated from Snape--who wouldn't be able to go near the school at all, unless he wanted the entire student body to claw him to bits--was simply unbearable. Even the thought of it made Harry feel more lonely than he'd ever been, more lonely than he ever cared to be.

So he needed to think. He needed a good, solid plan, but at this point he'd settle for even one fairly bright idea. He'd settle for--

"You're a hard man to find, Harry Potter," an unfamiliar voice said from behind him.

Harry started violently and leapt off the boulder as fast as he could. What he saw when he turned around didn't seem exactly calculated to calm his nerves: a broad, wide oaken desk, piled high with stacks of papers, looking completely out of place and quite surreal sitting on a green hillock, and behind the desk a man in wizard's robes of somber black; a small, tidy sort of man with neatly brushed hair and round spectacles that glinted with reflected light, giving no idea of the eyes behind them.

Harry's jaw fell open. "What," he managed, "who are you? What are you doing here? How do you know my name?"

The man nodded primly, as if that were no more than he'd expected, and folded his neat little hands on the desk blotter. "It is my business to know things, Mr. Potter," he said pleasantly. "Surely you've heard the saying 'information is power'? If you ask me, that's one of the only sayings to come out of the past hundred years or so that's worth the breath it takes to say it." He shook his head mildly, as if lamenting the regrettable state of the world, but then he addressed himself to Harry again, brightening a little. "As for your other inquiries, they can be answered as one, I think. I am the Bargainer, and I've sought you out because I wish to make you an offer; one I hope you can't refuse."

Harry studied the man's spectacles for a moment, but they yielded nothing. "I don't know what a bargainer is," he said. "And--what kind of offer?"

The man frowned a bit. "Not a bargainer--*the* Bargainer. There is only one of me. And please forgive me for saying that your education leaves something to be desired--what on earth do we have schools for, nowadays?" A precise wave of his hand, and suddenly there was a heavy, leather-bound book floating in front of Harry. It opened itself, leaves flipping randomly until it reached near the middle, where a paragraph glowed from the page:

_The Bargainer: This mythological construct of the Wizarding world is often considered to be a conflated adaptation of both Trickster and Magical Benefactor mythologies, an ancient creature with the power to grant the impossible in exchange for any valued possession belonging to the petitioner, once a bargain is struck. Often appearing in allegorical tales, The Bargainer is used to illustrate the changing values of the Medieval world, used alternatively to either serve as a caution against greed, or to highlight the nobility of sacrifice._

As soon as Harry had finished reading, the book slammed shut in his face and disappeared with a soft, popping sound. Harry blinked, then scrutinized the man behind the desk. "You don't look like a mythological construct."

The spectacles flashed. "And you don't look much like the most powerful Wizard for the last thousand years--your hair is impossibly awry."

Harry's hands snapped shut into fists--he didn't mean to do it, it just happened. "What do you mean?"

Another tidy nod. "I told you--information is power, and it's my business to collect as much of it as I can. It's extraordinarily helpful." His head tilted to the side. "I'm talking about your Gift, of course. I'd like to have it."

Harry took a step backwards, trying as hard as he could to keep his face expressionless.

"Now, there's no need for that," the Bargainer told him, putting both hands flat on his desk blotter. "I know perfectly well that you are possessed of Merlin's Gift, and I assure you, I intend to offer you fair value for it--that's what I do. And please stop backing away--I can't take your Gift from you without your consent, and wouldn't anyway; didn't you read the book? I'm the Bargainer, not a thief. I'm an old-fashioned businessman, not the sort of creature that passes for merchants these days, peddling dreams and preying on fears." His expression darkened for a moment, radiating disapproval.

"I'm not interested," Harry said softly, and backed up another step.

Now the disapproval seemed to be aimed at him. Harry wished the man's spectacles would stop reflecting everything. "Don't be so hasty, Mr. Potter--you haven't even heard my offer yet."

"I don't care, I'm not interested." Harry realized that all the hair at the back of his neck was standing on end, and that he was about two seconds from turning tail and running. He didn't much care for the thought of anyone else knowing about his Gift, let alone this strange man... creature... Bargainer--whatever he was. And as far as the man's assertion that he wouldn't do anything without Harry's consent, well, Harry had read too many books on Merlin, and he really didn't want to think about what might happen if he suddenly had to defend himself.

The Bargainer folded his hands together again, leaning forward a little. "Please, Mr. Potter--at least listen to my offer first. I have spent quite a bit of time researching you--after all, in order to make you a suitably attractive proposal, I need to know who you are, what you might want, what your heart most desires." That last was soft, almost sly.

Harry took another step back. "I'm going now--"

"I can lift an Obsessius curse," the Bargainer said quietly.

Harry stopped in his tracks. His first thought was to wonder just how much this man knew about his life. His second thought was lost to him, as all he seemed to be able to do was to look at the ground and blush fiercely. "Oh."

When he looked up, the Bargainer nodded at him sagely. "I can, you know--it's not easy, mind you, not an easy task at all--but you see, I was already in business when the Obsessius curse was first cast, and I remained in business while it went through its period of popularity, and subsequently sank into obscurity. And, as you can see," he spread his hands wide, gesturing towards his desk. "I'm still in business now, and yes, I can lift it." A gentle smile, and he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "At least, I could if we were in business together, of course."

Harry swallowed, and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt terribly lost, at sea, unprepared and uncertain of anything, except that he never wanted to have to make these kinds of choices.

"I hope you don't mind me saying so," the Bargainer continued, and Harry opened his eyes. The man seemed to be studying him, but it was hard to see anything at all behind the spectacles. "But I am just a bit surprised by your reticence to even discuss this. After all, I was under the impression that your feelings about your Gift were somewhat... ambivalent."

Harry stiffened, and felt a flash of momentary rage so intense it almost made him sway on his feet. "Is it you?" He asked sharply. "Have you been sending me those visions? Causing the dreams? To make me... to make me not want it anymore?"

The Bargainer looked affronted, and sat stiffly upright in his chair. "Absolutely not! I told you before, I'm not a cheat, or a thief--I'm interested in a fair bargain. Something you want, for something I want. That is all."

But Harry's uneasiness and suspicion had already taken root--he felt almost as if tiny snakes were sliding up his spine, and suddenly more than anything he wanted--*needed*--to see Snape, needed it the way he needed his heart to keep pumping his blood through his veins. His hands curled to tight fists again, and he took a deep breath. "No. I... my answer is no."

The Bargainer regarded him solemnly for a moment, then shook his head. "Mr. Potter, please reconsider. You've made the wrong choice."

Harry stood still and said nothing, fists clenched at his sides.

The man smiled a little, but this was not a very nice smile, not nice at all. "Many years ago," he said, tidying one of the stacks of paper on his desk, "I struck a bargain with an Oracle who couldn't conceive. She got a child, and I got her powers--one of my more humanitarian efforts, you might say." He shrugged diffidently, then continued. "I haven't traded away her abilities yet--there's not quite the market for them that I thought there would be. But I don't really mind--I've found it expedient to make use of them myself, from time to time." He stood, and leaned forward with his palms on the desk. "I'd like to do that now, and give you a bit of insight into your own future, Mr. Potter. On the house, of course. It's something I think you need to know."

Harry said nothing. He was cold, ice-cold and rooted to the spot where he stood, because the Bargainer's spectacles had slid down a bit when he leaned forward, and the eyes behind them were a flat, hideous black--no pupils or irises at all, just black holes that looked like they had been punched into his skull. Those eyes held him, transfixed him, gripped him with the kind of horror he thought could only come to him in dreams.

"You're going to lose him," the Bargainer said calmly, and disappeared.

***

His first thought had been that he must get back to the cabin as fast as he could, must get to Snape as soon as possible, and indeed when he burst through the doorway and saw Snape's long form slumped in the armchair his first feeling was a tremendous wave of relief, and he leaned against the door he'd shut behind him and panted for a few moments, his eyes closed, letting the relief have its way with him.

But there were none of the sarcastic comments he might have solicited by his abrupt arrival, and no demands as to whether or not there was an immediate danger to be addressed, which he'd fully expected. Harry opened his eyes to see that Snape hadn't even looked at him, but was only staring at the wall, looking more sour and grim than Harry had seen him in weeks.

All his thoughts about what he'd just been through vanished abruptly, and there was something in the aspect of Snape's profile that made him feel suddenly cold all over again, despite the flush generated by his mad dash back to the cabin. "What happened?" he asked.

Snape said nothing, didn't even glance at him, but only held out a roll of parchment that had been crumpled in his fist. Harry stepped forward and took it, uncreasing and unrolling it gently. It was from Dumbledore.

_My Dear Severus,

I have held off as long as I could, but this very morning matters reached a crisis point which I can no longer ignore. Today's Daily Prophet, quoting 'an unnamed source', featured an exclusive first-page article regarding Harry's newfound abilities. Since then, I have been besieged by owls, express falcons and Howlers, from the Ministry as well as the general populace.

Given the intense interest and the broad range of speculation generated by this article, it seems to me that at this point the very worst thing we can do is remain silent; and the precariousness and urgency of all that currently hangs in the balance suggest that any statements on Harry's part will need to be released with all dispatch. There is also of course the matter of his safety; I have done my best to keep your current location undiscovered and Unplottable, but with this latest unfortunate disclosure, I fear that even my best efforts might not stand proof against the resourcefulness and determination of those who will now seek him out.

Furthermore, as I have reiterated in my past letters, I freely admit that Harry's decision to take up residence with you has been a source of great concern and disappointment to me, although in my opinion I have displayed profound restraint in honouring the boy's request that I not interfere. While my essential motivations for this letter are outlined above, I feel that I must also frankly acknowledge that I would be greatly relieved to provide the two of you with an opportunity for reflection upon the prudence (or lack thereof) of your current association.

In light of all this, I'm sure you agree with me that the best course of action is for Harry to return to Hogwarts at once. I am counting on your concurrence, as well as your apparently considerable influence, to make it clear to Harry that this step is necessary, urgent, and fully in his best interests. He *must* come back, Severus--for all our sakes. Surely you can see that.

In regard to your own concerns as stated in your letters to me, please rest assured that despite the precipitous disclosure of Harry's Gift, I am quite prepared to serve as a bulwark against any and all that might wish to influence him, and that I intend to safeguard his health, as well as his general well-being, with utmost vigilance. I will also honour your previous request that he be encouraged to continue to study and refine his abilities under the instruction of a qualified teacher. Rather than expecting him to establish trust with someone new to him, I have apprised everyone here (both Faculty and Order members) as to the situation and what I expect of them, and all are quite prepared to see to it that Harry has every opportunity for advancement that can possibly be afforded him.

Finally, I must broach one other, unrelated matter, albeit with great reluctance and regret. I had intended already to write to you today, to inform you that, as painful a decision as it is, I feel I have no choice at this point but to appoint an interim Potions Master to serve in your place, until such time as you are able to resume your duties. I know that you had every confidence in me to prevent this occurrence if at all possible, and I wish to assure that I have done (and will continue to do) everything in my power to restore you, but seeing as the new term will begin in a few short weeks, I feel I cannot wait any longer to effect this change, and I hope you can understand that.

Please do feel free to write and let me know if there is anything I can do, anything I can provide which might make your temporary exile easier to bear. I continue to have faith that it will not last much longer. Until then, I encourage you to use this time to your advantage, Severus--do try to think of the paths which will be open to you as soon as you are restored, rather than dwelling on the past.

Sincerely,

Albus_

Harry twisted the parchment into a scroll slowly, his hands moving automatically while the rest of him was in a silent uproar over everything he'd read. He glanced at Snape, but Snape was still staring at the wall. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm... he can't make me go."

A mild snort. "Don't be stupid--of course you're going."

Harry looked down at the floor for a moment, then back up. He swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. "Do you want me to go?"

Snape looked at him then, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. "That's utterly irrelevant."

Harry blinked, his fist squeezing the scroll. "Not to me."

Snape said nothing, offered nothing, only stared at him.

Harry couldn't meet his eyes for long. He looked back at the floor, and only then did he realize that the panicked, hunted-fox part of his mind had been furiously active since he'd started reading the letter, and he found his thoughts turning to what had happened to him in the clearing; the temptation he'd resisted. It was much more of a temptation now.

He stared at the scroll clutched in his fist, seeing something else--not a scroll at all but a heart, torn twitching and hot from a living human body, spurting blood over his hand. He could remember that now. Not as clearly as he remembered the blood that had been creased into the lines of his palm afterwards, but, yes. He remembered. But the horror it evoked seemed clinical and distant; a pale and inconsequential thing when compared to the grief that rose up within him as he realized that he couldn't do it again, couldn't take the chance that he'd have to.

He looked up, holding in his secrets as he held in his tears, and met Snape's eyes. "I'm sorry."

That was true enough.

***

At night, icy winds swept the Astronomy tower ceaselessly, moaning over cold stone and whipping his hair over his glasses and into his eyes so that all the stars blurred and prismed. It was an illusion of radiance that was easier to bear than the pinpoint brilliance of lonely and distant planets forming patterns in a black void (but never touching, never touching). For the first time in his life he'd found refuge in stillness, and would stand motionless for hours, until he might have been made of stone himself, numb and silent, salty tracks stiff on his cheeks from his watering eyes.

He came here every night, and remained until the deep, frozen numbness was enough for him, enough to hold him through the hot, weltering terrors that he knew would follow the moment he lay down and closed his eyes. He bore the dreams as stoically as he could, as if they were a kind of disease that he'd tried to adapt his life to accommodate, but that struggle had become a grim one. He never knew from night to night what he would see, or do, or run from in his dreams, but he knew without doubt that he would wake up screaming and alone, his voice ringing back at him from the empty stone walls of Gryffindor Tower. That seemed to be all he needed to know.

His days he spent largely out-of-doors, on the grounds or in the gardens, following a set schedule of study and practical exercises that would have exhausted him even three months ago, but now seemed no more than something to keep him busy so that he wouldn't thrust his hands into the earth and create a wilderness, a jungle, a forest to feel at home in. He wondered, sometimes, whether Hagrid would be delighted or horrified if he did.

He'd been surprised, at first, to find that he now seemed to learn best from Professors MacGonagall and Moody, but when it dawned on him that, of all of his new 'teachers', those two seemed to be the most demanding and the least concerned with his emotional state, it made perfect sense.

Snape's name was not mentioned. By any of his teachers. Ever. At least, not when Harry himself was present.

Except for Dumbledore, who called Harry to his office at least once a day to play chess, to tell him tales that always seemed to include the words 'glory' and 'renown', and who spoke of Snape easily, almost fondly, usually referring to him as Harry's 'former teacher'. It wasn't subtle, but Harry was sure by now that Dumbledore was more than perceptive enough to sense his distrust of subtlety.

Even on the rare occasions when their conversations took a more serious turn, Harry would sit and listen to Dumbledore tell him all the latest intelligence regarding Voldemort, half in wonder and half ashamed that only a few short weeks ago all of this inside information--the intrigue, the strategies, the plots and counter-plots--would have been so incredibly exciting to him. Now it only made him either angry, sleepy or afraid, depending on the groove in which his own thoughts happened to be running in at the time.

Collectively, they kept him very busy. The Astronomy tower and his own room were the only places where he was ever left to himself, and he wondered about that, why they felt the need to keep such a close eye on him--perhaps they were afraid that if left unattended outside on the grounds he might get abducted, or maybe run away, or even go find an older man and start up an illicit relationship with him.

Harry shivered, blinked one last time at the glowing, blooming field of blurry stars overhead (they touched--when they were blurred like this they could touch each other, overlapping starry circles of light), and started the long walk to his room, numb to the bone and ready for whatever might await him there.

Even if it was only himself.

***

The next day there was an unexpected lull, a pause, and Harry looked up from his book and glanced around the garden to find that he was, surprisingly, alone. Neither Lupin (who had supervised his last lesson), nor Kingsley (who was due to supervise the next one), were anywhere to be seen.

Harry carefully closed his book and looked out over the tidy, well-tended paths and orderly flowerbeds, and found himself caught for a moment by the brilliant yellow-orange edges of the leaves on a nearby young oak. He wondered if he were to swing himself up into the short branches and put his ear to the trunk if he would be able to hear it changing--if it would sound like it was going to sleep, or if it would sound like it was dying. An irrelevant question, but nevertheless it seemed to overwhelm him for a moment, and he closed his eyes.

Something indefinable thrilled along his nerves, and his skin tingled. With his next breath the air seemed to sparkle in his lungs, full of a strange electricity that made all the hair on his body stand on end, as if it had somehow been heavily charged. Harry's breath caught and he froze, waiting, suspended. What he felt was magic, he knew that--he'd been trapped in a bubble of magic that wasn't his own--but any panic he might have felt was completely eclipsed by the realization that it felt... familiar. Heartbreakingly familiar.

Harry's heart pounded so hard he could hear it from the inside, the rhythm of his rapid, rushing, interior world, and he knew at once (without the faintest idea of *how* he knew) that he mustn't open his eyes--if he did, it would all fade, it would all vanish, it would all Not Be. He pressed his eyes closed as fiercely as he could and curled his hands into trembling fists, struggling to hold on, struggling to be still and not reach out for what he knew was there.

All sound ceased. In the crashing silence Harry lowered his head and crossed his arms over his chest because he could *feel* himself weakening, his hard-won resolve slipping from his grasp by slow degrees until nothing else mattered; not the promises he'd made to himself or to others, not reason, not facts, not realities. Within moments, he knew, all that would matter to him was one simple choice--yes or no--and there was no question in his mind as to what he would choose.

A soft, nearly imperceptible touch grazed the hair that hung down over his forehead, and that could have been the breeze, it really could have, but he felt it *everywhere*, he felt it all the way down to his toes. He gasped--

And it was gone. Utterly gone. Sound returned and Harry's eyes opened wide, his hands flying to his mouth to stifle the noise that tried to fight free of his throat. He shook, the pain in him so bright and keen and terrible that for a moment all he could do was rock slowly back and forth, hiding his face in his hands and labouring for some kind of control.

He had calmed just enough to pull his hands from his face when he saw two things that sent his heart zooming again: the first was Kingsley, still far distant but now heading towards him at a rapid pace down one of the paths that led from the castle. The second was the folded piece of parchment resting in his lap, with 'Harry' written across it in what was unmistakably Snape's handwriting.

Moving slowly, dreamily, Harry picked up the parchment and tucked it deep into the pages of his book, then clutched the book to his chest and lifted his head, watching with what he hoped was every appearance of calm as Kingsley rounded the last turn and approached him.

"Terribly sorry about that," Kingsley said gravely in his customary, deep-voiced rumble. "Remus thought I was with you, and I thought he was, and I don't know quite how it all happened, but--well, no harm done, I suppose."

"No," Harry said quietly, lowering the book slowly to his lap. "No harm done."

***

He lasted almost fifteen minutes before he complained of a headache, and said he thought he might go lie down for a while.

Kingsley, after making very sure that it was a headache and not a scar-ache, let him go.

***

_Potter--_

(Harry's mouth twitched at that--the address on the outside must have been written in a moment of either forgetfulness or weakness. Probably forgetfulness.)

_I have not been idle. I'd like to think that you haven't been either, but I won't wager a Knut of my pension on it. The point is this: you are an extremely foolish and ignorant boy. You have all the power you could ever want, and yet it seems that you still persist in failing to master the subtleties of Occlumency. You might be interested to know that the dreams and visions which you have been subjected to of late come from Voldemort himself.

I suggest that you tackle Moody at once, and have him teach you. He's an excellent Occlumens, and moreover is quite accustomed to unexpected catastrophes and the dire threat of physical harm. Surely he won't mind sacrificing another body part or two for such a worthy cause.

As for this letter, forgive the oblique stratagem I employed to get it into your hands, but I am not at present disposed to respond to the myriad inquiries that would have been forthcoming from your current host had I availed myself of a more conventional method. By the way, you may wish to tell Albus that the 'security measures' he has surrounding you are laughably easy to break--but on second thought, never mind; I shall take him to task about it myself when all this is over.

Learn Occlumency at once. And don't do anything stupid. If you can help it.

Sincerely,

S._

Harry had just finished reading the letter through for a second time when there was a knock on his door. He hastily slid the parchment under his pillow and stretched out on his bed, then retrieved the letter, folded it so that it wouldn't crackle, and hid it again. He took a deep breath, and reached deep for some kind of inner calm--he felt, for the first time in all the time that he'd been here, entirely awake; entirely *present*. Which was... good, he supposed, but still it wouldn't do to be thrumming with nervous energy when he was supposed to be down with a headache. "Yes?"

Dumbledore entered, sweeping towards him with a look of concern. "Harry--Kingsley said that you have a headache. Are you quite all right? Are you ill?"

"I'm fine." He forced himself to relax into the bed, trying not to look like someone who was trying not to look like they'd been up to something. Dumbledore sat down at his bedside and studied him gravely, so gravely that Harry wasn't at all sure that he'd been successful. "It's just a bit of a headache," Harry continued softly. "Probably too much sun. It'll pass soon."

Dumbledore's scrutiny didn't lessen, and Harry had to force himself to meet the man's gaze with equanimity, feeling something that was almost nostalgia for the times Snape had given him a very similar look and then demanded to know if he was up to something--which he always was at those times, he realised wryly. But Dumbledore didn't know him the way Snape did, and that should help. He hoped.

"Well," Dumbledore said slowly, "perhaps I should just let you rest, then. I hear that you've been working very hard, and making excellent progress, but it won't do to exhaust yourself."

Harry started to shake his head, then stopped. "I won't. I mean, I'm not. I'm fine." He pressed his lips together.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Very well then; I'll come again to check on you before supper, if you're quite certain you're all right--"

Harry nodded. "I am."

It took another five minutes of assurances, agreements and declarations, but finally Harry had his room to himself again. He sat up, heaving a great sigh of relief, and one hand crept under his pillow to touch the letter, rubbing the tips of his fingers back and forth across its smooth surface until the echo of the door that closed behind Dumbledore had entirely faded from his mind.

It was only then that Harry realized that he hadn't said a single word about learning Occlumency. It wasn't all that difficult to figure out why not.

He jumped up from his bed, and suddenly it seemed like he couldn't move fast enough, his thoughts and emotions far outstripping his actions as he rummaged through his trunk for parchment and quill, grabbing his latest book to use as a writing surface and fighting to keep his hand steady as he scribbled:

_This isn't what you think. Really. There's just something I have to do.

Please don't worry--I'll be back soon. And I'll be careful. I promise.

Harry_

***

Continue to part 8

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